I, Paul Marylski, outcast and rolling stone, am sitting in my old arm-chair on this accursed English day of yours, the year of little grace 189-. Forty years have I rolled, and have gathered no moss. Body and soul am I like unto the battered old friend I sit in. In sooth, I think as I crouch here over my fire, that I am but as the dead, man without hope, without desire, without a future, without a present--can he live? Yes; for he is sitting here to-night like an old dog, with the same folds in the cheeks, and the same yearning in the eyes. A thousand curses on the Congo and its deathly fever!--but for that might I still be man with future before me, but who can stand against this devil’s gnawing that never ceases?--not I, for one. I have some friends, a sweet country family, such as you have in England; they interest themselves in me, in _me_. I am grateful. The ‘mother’ tells me--‘Cheer up; this life is but a stage; it will soon pass--then, think of the future, the glorious after-life.’ She believes in this firmly--why not? Temperament, dear lady, all temperament! I can no more believe it than I can still this clawing at my vitals. Why do I live? _Pardieu_, I know not, having had my day--and what a day! Do they not say, ‘Every dog must have his day’? _Tiens_, this dog has had his, and it is that, and that alone, which keeps him alive. Even now, as I sit watching the dying embers, what pictures can I not see through the smoke that wreathes from my cigarette. Hark! What’s that? ‘Carmen!’ as I live, a battered hulk; ‘Carmen,’ and on a barrel-organ! Ah, ha! Good, for your dingy London streets--they help the picture for once. * * * * * I see a room, warm and light; the green blinds are drawn, the polished floor reflects the softly-shaded lights; in the centre a table loaded with things loved of the soul, and--is it the same thing, perhaps?--the palate; empty bottles--ay, even an _empty_ bottle was lovely then--betoken the end of a feast. Round the table, men, only men; but look well--ay, and look again, ye callow youths, and livers of the life of every day--not one but has his _future_ or his _past_--most have both. Look at him well who rises, glass in hand, to address the company. Did ye ever see such a born leader of men, a giant, slim and tall, with eye that flashes, and drooping black moustache? He waves his hand to the waiters to leave the room, and speaks:--‘_Messieurs_,’ he says--in French, for is he not Christophe de Barsac, first smuggler in Marseille (or out of it, for that matter)?--‘_Messieurs, le jeu est fait_,’ and he drains his glass to the dregs, everyone following suit. ‘It now only remains, _Messieurs_, to reckon the cost,’ and he sits down. A groan goes up from around the table. There rises a tall, fat--ah! fat--man, with the invincible smile of a Russian of the Russians. As such, I, the Pole, sitting opposite, hate him--but also, you know, I love him as a brother.