I can tell you neither the name of the country, nor the name of the man.
It was a long, long way from here on a fertile and burning shore. We had
been walking since the morning along the coast, with the blue sea bathed
in sunlight on one side of us, and the shore covered with crops on the
other. Flowers were growing quite close to the waves, those light,
gentle, lulling waves. It was very warm, a soft warmth permeated with the
odor of the rich, damp, fertile soil. One fancied one was inhaling germs.

I had been told, that evening, that I should meet with hospitality at the
house of a Frenchman who lived in an orange grove at the end of a
promontory. Who was he? I did not know. He had come there one morning ten
years before, and had bought land which he planted with vines and sowed
with grain. He had worked, this man, with passionate energy, with fury.
Then as he went on from month to month, year to year, enlarging his
boundaries, cultivating incessantly the strong virgin soil, he
accumulated a fortune by his indefatigable labor.

But he kept on working, they said. Rising at daybreak, he would remain in
the fields till evening, superintending everything without ceasing,
tormented by one fixed idea, the insatiable desire for money, which
nothing can quiet, nothing satisfy. He now appeared to be very rich. The
sun was setting as I reached his house. It was situated as described, at
the end of a promontory in the midst of a grove of orange trees. It was a
large square house, quite plain, and overlooked the sea. As I approached,
a man wearing a long beard appeared in the doorway. Having greeted him, I
asked if he would give me shelter for the night. He held out his hand and
said, smiling:

"Come in, monsieur, consider yourself at home."