The Baron built himself a bungalow on a small hill overlooking a
pretty lake which dried up in summer and smelled evilly. Also, he
spent money in planting out a vineyard and orchard, and in making a
garden. What he did not know about ranching in Southern California
would have filled an encyclopaedia, but what he did know about nearly
everything else filled us and our neighbours with an ever-increasing
amazement and curiosity.
Why did such a man bury himself in the brush hills of San Lorenzo
County?
More, he was past middle-age: sixty-five at least, not a sportsman,
nor a naturalist, but obviously a _gentilhomme_, with the manners
of one accustomed to the best society.
Of society, however, he spoke mordant words--
"Soziety in Europe, to-day," he said to me, shortly after his arrival,
"ees a big monkey-house, and all ze monkeys are pulling each ozer's
tails. I pull no tails, _moi_, and I allow no liberties to be
taken wiz my person."
About a month later the Baron was dining with us, and I reminded him
of what he had said. He laughed, shrugging his shoulders.
"_Mon cher_, ze monkeys in your backwoods are more--
_diable!_--moch more aggr-r-ressive zan ze monkeys in ze old
world.
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