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THE CONFESSION OF A FOOL 25
delicate features were blotted out, two great eyes only
remained gazing at us fixedly, and presently they too were
swallowed up like the rest. Another moment and only a
fluttering bluish veil, attached to a Japanese hat, was
visible, and a waving white handkerchief ; then only a
white spot, a tiny white dot ; now nothing but the
unwieldy giant, wrapped in grey smoke. . . .
We went ashore at the Pilots and Customs Station, a
popular summer resort. The village was still asleep ; not
a soul was on the landing-stage, and we turned and
watched the steamer altering her course to starboard, and
disappearing behind the rocky island which formed the
last bulwark against the sea.
As the steamer disappeared the Baron leaned against
my shoulder, and I fancied I could hear a sob ; thus we
stood for a while without speaking a word.
Was this excessive grief caused by sleeplessness—by the
exhaustion following a long vigil? Had he a presenti-
ment of misfortune, or was it merely the pain of parting
with his wife? I couldn’t say.
We went to the village, depressed and taciturn, in the
hope of getting some breakfast. But the inn was not yet
astir. We walked through the street and looked at the
closed doors, the drawn blinds. Beyond the village we
came upon an isolated spot with a quiet pool. The water
was clear and transparent, and tempted us to bathe our
eyes. I produced a little case and took from it a clean
handkerchief, a toothbrush, a piece of soap and a bottle
of eau de Cologne. The Baron laughed at my fastidious-
ness, but, nevertheless, availed himself gratefully of the
chance of a hasty toilet, borrowing from me the necessary
implements.
On returning to the village I noticed the smell of coal-
smoke coming from the direction of the alder trees on the
shore. I implied by a gesture that this was a last farewell
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