"There is a good Turkish merchant who subscribes to all the interesting magazines of the two continents. He sends them on by Rhadamès to a destination which he little suspects. Ah, here are the French ones."
M. Le Mesge ran feverishly over, the tables of contents.
"Internal politics: articles by Francis Charmes, Anatole
Leroy-Beaulieu, d'Haussonville on the Czar's trip to Paris. Look, a study by Avenel of wages in the Middle Ages. And verse, verses of the young poets, Fernand Gregh, Edmond Haraucourt. Ah, the resumé of a book by Henry de Castries on Islam. That may be interesting.... Take what you please."
Joy makes people amiable and M. Le Mesge was really delirious with it.
A puff of breeze came from the window. I went to the balustrade and, resting my elbows on it, began to run through a number of the Revue des Deux Mondes.
I did not read, but flipped over the pages, my eyes now on the lines of swarming little black characters, now on the rocky basin which lay shivering, pale pink, under the declining sun.
Suddenly my attention became fixed. There was a strange coincidence between the text and the landscape.
"In the sky overhead were only light shreds of cloud, like bits of white ash floating up from burnt-out logs. The sun fell over a circle of rocky peaks, silhouetting their severe lines against the azure sky. From on high, a great sadness and gentleness poured down into the lonely enclosure, like a magic drink into a deep cup...."[[17]]
I turned the pages feverishly. My mind seemed to be clearing.