The subtle padre bowed gravely to this compliment.
It was when his eyes caught sight of the music that the young man felt again at ease, and his vivacity returned to him. Leaving his chair, he began enthusiastically to examine the tall piles that filled one side of the room. The volumes lay richly everywhere, making a pleasant disorder; and as perfume comes out of a flower, memories of singers and chandeliers rose bright from the printed names. “Norma,” “Tancredi,” “Don Pasquale,” “La Vestale”—dim lights in the fashions of to-day—sparkled upon the exploring Gaston, conjuring the radiant halls of Europe before him. “'The Barber of Seville!'” he presently exclaimed. “And I happened to hear it in Seville.”
But Seville's name brought over the padre a new rush of home thoughts. “Is not Andalusia beautiful?” he said. “Did you see it in April, when the flowers come?”
“Yes,” said Gaston, among the music. “I was at Cordova then.”
“Ah, Cordova!” murmured the padre.
“'Semiramide!'” cried Gaston, lighting upon that opera. “That was a week! I should like to live it over, every day and night of it!”
“Did you reach Malaga from Marseilles or Gibraltar?” said the padre, wistfully.
“From Marseilles. Down from Paris through the Rhone Valley, you know.”
“Then you saw Provence! And did you go, perhaps, from Avignon to Nismes by the Pont du Gard? There is a place I have made here—a little, little place—with olive-trees. And now they have grown, and it looks something like that country, if you stand in a particular position. I will take you there to-morrow. I think you will understand what I mean.”
“Another resemblance!” said the volatile and happy Gaston. “We both seem to have an eye for them. But, believe me, padre, I could never stay here planting olives. I should go back and see the original ones—and then I'd hasten up to Paris.” And, with a volume of Meyerbeer open in his hand, Gaston hummed: “'Robert, Robert, toi que j'aime.' Why, padre, I think that your library contains none of the masses and all of the operas in the world!”