ur George was being
conveyed there at a walking pace a little brougham coming from the
opposite direction pulled up at the side of the road. A thickly veiled
woman's head looked out of the window, took in the state of affairs at a
glance, and called out in a firm voice: "Follow my carriage." The
brougham turning round took the lead. Long before this convoy reached
the town another carriage containing four gentlemen (of whom one was
leaning back languidly with his arm in a sling) whisked past and vanished
ahead in a cloud of white, Provencal dust. And this is the last
appearance of Captain Blunt in Monsieur George's narrative. Of course he
was only told of it later. At the time he was not in a condition to
notice things. Its interest in his surroundings remained of a hazy and
nightmarish kind for many days together. From time to time he had the
impression that he was in a room strangely familiar to him, that he had
unsatisfactory visions of Dona Rita, to whom he tried to speak as if
nothing had happened, but that she always put her hand on his mouth to
prevent him and then spoke to him herself in a very strange voice which
sometimes resembled the voice of Rose. The face, too, sometimes
resembled the face of Rose. There were also one or two men's faces which
he seemed to know well enough though he didn't recall their names. He
could have done so with a slight effort, but it would have been too much
trouble. Then came a time when the hallucinations of Dona Rita and the
faithful Rose left him altogether. Next came a period, perhaps a year,
or perhaps an hour, during which he seemed to dream all through his past
life. He felt no apprehension, he didn't try to speculate as to the
future. He felt that all possible conclusions were out of his power, and
therefore he was indifferent to everything. He was like that dream's
disinterested spectator who doesn't know what is going to happen next.
Suddenly for the first time in his life he had the soul-satisfying
consciousness of floating off into deep slumber.

When he woke up after an hour, or a day, or a month, there was dusk in
the room; but he recognized it perfectly. It was his apartment in Dona
Rita's house; those were the familiar surroundings in which he had so
often told himself that he must either die or go mad. But now he felt
perfectly clear-headed and the full sensation of being alive came all
over him, languidly delicious. The greatest beauty of it was