Fouillade sits down also--the worse for him!--in a corner, his hands
covered by the folds of his greatcoat, his long legs doubled up like
a folding bed. He is dreaming, his eyes closed under their bluish
lids; there is something that he sees again. It is one of those
moments when the country from which he is divided assumes in the
distance the charms of reality--the perfumes and colors of
l'Herault. the streets of Cette. He sees so plainly and so
near that he hears the noise of the shallops in the Canal du Midi,
and the unloading at the docks; and their call to him is distinctly
clear.

Above the road where the scent of thyme and immortelles is so strong
that it is almost a taste in the mouth, in the heart of the sunshine
whose winging shafts stir the air into a warmed and scented breeze,
on Mont St. Clair, blossoms and flourishes the home of his folks. Up
there, one can see with the same glance where the Lake of Thau,
which is green like glass, joins hands with the Mediterranean Sea,
which is azure; and sometimes one can make out as well, in the
depths of the indigo sky, the carven phantoms of the Pyrenees.

There was he born, there he grew up, happy and free. There he
played, on the golden or ruddy ground; played--even--at soldiers.
The eager joy of wielding a wooden saber flushed the cheeks now
sunken and seamed. He opens his eyes, looks about him, shakes his
head, and falls upon regret for the days when glory and war to him
were pure, lofty, and sunny things.

The man puts his hand over his eyes, to retain the vision within.
Nowadays, it is different.