Decorum

It was not until decades later that he was able to determine that what had seemed like a blink of an eye in the frozen caves had actually been a century and a half. His long trek through the Siberian wastes towards civilization had taken several decades as well, as he stopped for whiles at villages that would have him, in no hurry to move on when contented. He had headed west, fearing to see his homeland and people he knew in his new state. And many times, then, and thereafter, he would suddenly find himself living in forests and woodlands like an animal or a barbarian or, he thought as he looked at the slim cigar he had just lit, like one of those Red Indians on the American continents from whence came this excellent tobacco. Months, years or decades might pass while he was in such a state, with no recall at all of how he got into such a position and why. After returning to civilized lands, first in Western Russia, and later traversing most parts of Europe and the Mediterranean, he learned to amass and hide away small fortunes to facilitate reintegration after such incidents. With much time on one's hands, it was easy to learn to manipulate economic situations in his favor, and make wise investments yielding long term gains that his "son" or "cousin" might be bequeathed with upon his "death". It was a long life, and often an easy one, but putting down any roots was impossible, and he was always on the edge of having to move on to areas unfamiliar. He had lost count of how many names and identities he had adopted, and remembered even less of various peoples he had encountered. Faces blurred together over the long centuries, if for no other reason than sheer volume.

The name he was wearing at this time was Etienne Bernaux. When he bothered to reveal, he claimed to be an Austrian merchant of French parents. He often appeared prosperous, but never overly so, a modestly well-off merchant but not a superior one. Enough to have a few conveniences, but not enough to draw undue attention. His exotic good looks often drew women to him, but he turned away their advances for the most part. There were families to consider, and he did not like disappointing people, but nor did he wish his secrets discovered. He fulfilled his physical desires with the usual detached fallen women, knowing there would be no ties, or chance of discovery. Some times, in moments of weakness, he had revealed his secrets to the occasional friend or lover (and that blasted poet, Coleridge, who had sworn to never reveal the secrets, and had no doubt begun his illustrious poem the moment he had departed! At least he had not been mentioned, but it taught him to be more careful, even in more sophisticated times.). For the most part, he had been considered to be a teller of tales, or someone good, just addled in this specific area. He was relieved in retrospect when he was disbelieved, and more than once had to flee when he was taken at his word.