Little Poems in Prose

rounded with all these strange and shining trees whose names I have forgotten; an intoxi- cating, indefinable perfume in the air; a power- ful scent of rose and of musk in the house, and further, behind our little estate, tall masts swinging on the swell; around us, at the end of the room lighted by a rosy light filtered by blinds, decorated with fresh mats and heady flowers, with seats here and there in Portu- guese rococo style of a heavy dark wood, where she would rest herself, so calm, so well at ease, smoking tobacco slightly flavoured with opium; beyond the compound, the noise of light-intoxicated birds, and the chattering of little negresses, and at night, to accompany my dreams, the plaintive song of musical trees, the melancholy filaos; yes, indeed, there is the surrounding which I looked for; what do I want with a palace?” And further, going down a broad avenue, he saw a tidy little inn, where, from a window made cheerful by curtains of many-coloured calico, two laughing heads leaned out. At once he said to himself, “My thought must indeed be a vagabond to go so far to look for what is so near me. Pleasure and happiness live in the first inn one comes to; in the chance inn; is not chance the great mother of pleasures? A big fire, gaudy porcelain, a passable supper, rough