You could never manage to come; but that
doesn't matter now, if I may think of you there when the place is
yours. Of course I may hang on in this weary vale for years, but I
hope not, because (as I've mentioned more than once) even if I
haven't outstayed my welcome, I'm getting more than a little tired
of the entertainment provided by that "host who murders all his
guests"--the World.
If I should drop off suddenly, you will find my will in the hands
of Signor Antonio Nicolini, via Roma, Ventimiglia. He's a nice
little Italian lawyer whom I've made my man of business lately. He
has all my affairs in charge. It will be the greatest favour and
kindness you can do me, if you will take this house I loved but
never lived in. This I hope you will do for my sake--the sake of a
friend. You know you promised that day at the Rochers Rouges to
grant me a favour, and I hold you to your word. Another request I
venture to make, you must grant only if you don't find the idea
repugnant. It oughtn't to matter much to me one way or the other,
and it shall be as you choose, but I should like when my body's
cremated (that is to be done in any case) to have my ashes lie at
the south end of the garden, where some steps are cut in the rock
coming out at a wonderful viewpoint. If after death one can see
what goes on in this world, it would console me for much to know of
your coming sometimes to the Chateau Lontana, and perhaps sitting
on that old stone seat on the rock-platform at the bottom of those
steps.
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