CHAPTER IV


I was up with the birds in the morning; had my breakfast with them--a
very drowsy-eyed Amedee assisting--and made off for the forest to get
the sunrise through the branches, a pack on my back and three sandwiches
for lunch in my pocket. I returned only with the failing light of
evening, cheerfully tired and ready for a fine dinner and an early bed,
both of which the good inn supplied. It was my daily programme; a
healthy life "far from the world," as Amedee said, and I was sorry when
the serpent entered and disturbed it, though he was my own. He is a pet
of mine; has been with me since my childhood. He leaves me when I live
alone, for he loves company, but returns whenever my kind are about me.
There are many names for snakes of his breed, but, to deal charitably
with myself, I call mine Interest-In-Other-People's-Affairs.

One evening I returned to find a big van from Dives, the nearest railway
station, drawn up in the courtyard at the foot of the stairs leading to
the gallery, and all of the people of the inn, from Madame Brossard (who
directed) to Glouglou (who madly attempted the heaviest pieces), busily
installing trunks, bags, and packing-cases in the suite engaged for the
"great man of science" on the second floor of the east wing of the
building. Neither the great man nor his companion was to be seen,
however, both having retired to their rooms immediately upon their
arrival--so Amedee informed me, as he wiped his brow after staggering up
the steps under a load of books wrapped in sacking.

I made my evening ablutions removing a Joseph's coat of dust and paint;