Gascony has been calling to me of late. I see the blue Garonne
winding among the vineyards and the bluer ocean toward which its
waters sweep. I see the old town also, and the bristle of masts
from the side of the long stone quay. My heart hungers for the
breath of my native air and the warm glow of my native sun.
Here in Paris are my friends, my occupations, my pleasures.
There all who have known me are in their grave. And yet the
southwest wind as it rattles on my windows seems always to be the
strong voice of the motherland calling her child back to that
bosom into which I am ready to sink. I have played my part in my
time. The time has passed. I must pass also.
Nay, dear friends, do not look sad, for what can be happier than
a life completed in honour and made beautiful with friendship and
love? And yet it is solemn also when a man approaches the end of
the long road and sees the turning which leads him into the
unknown. But the Emperor and all his Marshals have ridden round
that dark turning and passed into the beyond.
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