Three drops from this phial in my hand into that glass of cognac at my elbow, and my ticket is made out. One gulp, and I shall have started on my journey.
Ah! it was not an unpleasant draught— slightly bitter, perhaps. The spirit was strong—a bitter potion, a sweet release.
It is merely a question of time; a few minutes now, and I shall be carried from the here to the hereafter.
How strangely my memory stirs! Am I dreaming? Or am I really growing young again?
It is the evening of a hot August day. The sun has disappeared in a blaze of crimson and gold. The breeze rises, and the broad. Plage at Scheveningen is swept by the refreshing wind scudding across the North Sea. Long, sharp-crested, snowy waves are breaking into hissing spray on the shore, and, chased in by the heavy weather, the picturesque Dutch fishing-smacks fly like gulls to reach the anchorage behind the lighthouse towards Loosduinen.
The Casino is ablaze with light on top of the high dune dominating the villas and hotels that line the beach. There is dancing this evening, for the season is “at its height,” as Le Petit Courrier says.
Men of the haut ton are promenading on the broad terrace, and gazing on the file of fair ladies who are arriving, one after the other, in ball dress. They are mainly Belgians in queer hats, and Parisians in limp cravats, but there are some Dutch and English among them, and these are none the less merry.
Close to me half a dozen loungers are smoking cigars and talking loud enough for me to overhear. A handsome, elderly fop sets the key, and the others laugh in chorus whenever he utters a bon mot.
“I’m open to bet that the lovely Valerie de Noirville will not come,” he says. “Her foster-father has left her to mope alone at the Deutschmann. He is already sitting at the écarté-table, where he stands alone against all comers. I’m afraid, my dear Victor, you’ll not see your incomparable Valerie this evening.”