rounded with all these strange and shining 
trees whose names I have forgotten; an intoxi-
cating, indefinable perfume in the air; a power-
ful scent of rose and of musk in the house, and 
further, behind our little estate, tall masts 
swinging on the swell; around us, at the end of 
the room lighted by a rosy light filtered by 
blinds, decorated with fresh mats and heady 
flowers, with seats here and there in Portu-
guese rococo style of a heavy dark wood, 
where she would rest herself, so calm, so well 
at ease, smoking tobacco slightly flavoured 
with opium; beyond the compound, the noise 
of light-intoxicated birds, and the chattering of 
little negresses, and at night, to accompany 
my dreams, the plaintive song of musical 
trees, the melancholy filaos; yes, indeed, there 
is the surrounding which I looked for; what do 
I want with a palace?” 
And further, going down a broad avenue, he 
saw a tidy little inn, where, from a window 
made cheerful by curtains of many-coloured 
calico, two laughing heads leaned out. At once 
he said to himself, “My thought must indeed be 
a vagabond to go so far to look for what is so 
near me. Pleasure and happiness live in the 
first inn one comes to; in the chance inn; is not 
chance the great mother of pleasures? A big 
fire, gaudy porcelain, a passable supper, rough