But the woman was not so simple as I had imagined, and one or two
questions she put to me led me to tell her that Villiers's genius only
appeared in streaks, like gold in quartz.
"The comparison is an old one, but there is no better one to explain
Villiers, for when he is not inspired his writing is very like
quartz."
"His great name----"
"His name is part of his genius. He chose it, and it has influenced
his writings. Have I not heard him say, 'Car je porte en moi les
richesses steriles d'un grand nombre de rois oublies.'"
"But is he a legitimate descendant?"
"Legitimate in the sense that he desired the name more than any of
those who ever bore it legitimately."
At that moment Villiers passed by me, and I introduced him to her, and
very soon he began to tell us that his _Eve_ had just been
published, and the success of it was great.
"On m'a dit hier de passer a la caisse ... l'edition etait epuisee,
vous voyez--il parait, la fortune est venue ... meme a moi."
But Villiers was often tiresomely talkative about trifles, and as soon
as I got the chance I asked him if he were going to tell us one of his
stories, reminding him of one I had heard he had been telling lately
in the _brasseries_ about a man in quest of a quiet village where
he could get rest, a tired composer, something of that kind.
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