There were little shady summer-houses
where one could sit and dream, and watch the blue sky and the palms and
the feathery pepper trees drooping with their coral berries, and the
golden orange-trees and the wisteria and the great gorgeous splash of
purple bougainvillea above the Moorish arches of the hotel. There were
mild little walks in the eucalyptus woods behind, where one went through
acanthus and wild absinthe, and here and there as the path wound, the
great blue bay came into view, and far away the snow-capped peaks of the
Atlas. There were warmth and sunshine, and the unexciting prattle of
the retired Colonels and maiden ladies. There was a hotel library filled
with archaic fiction. I took out Ainsworth's "Tower of London," and
passed a happy morning in the sun renewing the thrills of my childhood.
I began to forget the outer world in my enchanted garden, like a knight
in the Forest of Broceliande.
Then came the letter from Tlemcen. The Lieutenant-Colonel commanding
the 3rd Regiment of Chasseurs d'Afrique had received my honoured
communication but regretted to say that he, together with all the
officers of the regiment, had severed their connection with Captain
Vauvenarde, and that they were ignorant of his present address.
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