Oh, heavens! it was broad daylight. The noise
brought my friends hurrying into my apartment, and
we found, sprawling over my improvised bed, the dismayed
valet, who, while bringing me my morning cup of tea,
had tripped over this obstacle in the middle of the
floor and fallen on his stomach, spilling my breakfast
over my face in spite of himself.
The precautions I had taken in closing the shutters
and going to sleep in the middle of the room had only
brought about the practical joke I had been trying
to avoid.
Oh, how they all laughed that day!
“Hello! there’s Milial!” said somebody
near me. I looked at the man who had been pointed
out as I had been wishing for a long time to meet this
Don Juan.
He was no longer young. His gray hair looked
a little like those fur bonnets worn by certain Northern
peoples, and his long beard, which fell down over
his chest, had also somewhat the appearance of fur.
He was talking to a lady, leaning toward her, speaking
in a low voice and looking at her with an expression
full of respect and tenderness.
I knew his life, or at least as much as was known
of it. He had loved madly several times, and
there had been certain tragedies with which his name
had been connected. When I spoke to women who
were the loudest in his praise, and asked them whence
came this power, they always answered, after thinking
for a while: “I don’t know—he
has a certain charm about him.”
He was certainly not handsome. He had none of
the elegance that we ascribe to conquerors of feminine
hearts. I wondered what might be his hid den
charm. Was it mental? I never had heard of
a clever saying of his. In his glance? Perhaps.
Or in his voice? The voices of some beings have
a certain irresistible attraction, almost suggesting
the flavor of things good to eat. One is hungry
for them, and the sound of their words penetrates
us like a dainty morsel. A friend was passing.
I asked him: “Do you know Monsieur Milial?”
“Yes.”
“Introduce us.”
A minute later we were shaking hands and talking in
the doorway. What he said was correct, agreeable
to hear; it contained no irritable thought. The
voice was sweet, soft, caressing, musical; but I had
heard others much more attractive, much more moving.
One listened to him with pleasure, just as one would
look at a pretty little brook. No tension of
the mind was necessary in order to follow him, no hidden
meaning aroused curiosity, no expectation awoke interest.
His conversation was rather restful, but it did not
awaken in one either a desire to answer, to contradict
or to approve, and it was as easy to answer him as
it was to listen to him. The response came to
the lips of its own accord, as soon as he had finished
talking, and phrases turned toward him as if he had
naturally aroused them.
One thought soon struck me. I had known him for
a quarter of an hour, and it seemed as if he were
already one of my old friends, that I had known all
about him for a long time; his face, his gestures,
his voice, his ideas. Suddenly, after a few minutes
of conversation, he seemed already to be installed
in my intimacy. All constraint disappeared between
us, and, had he so desired, I might have confided
in him as one confides only in old friends.
