just swallowed seemed even more bitter. When one 'dresses up', he thought, one ought at least to be rewarded by the success of whatever it was that made it necessary.
In the dining-room, taking advantage of Mélanie's momentary absence, he said to M. Élie:
'Uncle, I have some bad news for you . .
M. Élie looked up sharply and stared at him, showing his big, pale pupils.
'What's that?'
'There's a new debt on the estate, and when it's paid I'll have only two thousand francs left.'
M. de Coëtquidan breathed again. An odd way to express oneself, typical of the de Coantrés of this world, to speak of bad news to a third party when the news is only bad for oneself.
'Actually,' M. de Coantré went on, 'it isn't certain that we'll have to pay. I must go through my papers. If I happened to find ...'
'Ha! there's Minine,' said M. Élie. 'He wants to come in.'
He had heard a miaow behind the front door. He got up, let the cat in, and gave it a few scraps of meat which he tore off roughly with his fingers like an Arab.
'Yes,' M. de Coantré continued, 'it may be that my having found the letter from M. d'Aumagne, which if it had been couched in terms ...'
'Ah, Minine! You want to go out?'
The cat had gone back to the door and was indeed now miaowing to be let out. The cats of the Arago household had this in common with humans: they always wanted to be somewhere else. So M. de Coëtquidan, a devoted slave to their every wish, was always opening a door somewhere or other, and the phrase 'He wants to come in' or 'He wants to go out' had become a private joke betwéen Mme de Coantré, Léon and Mélanie. It should be noted, in passing, that M. de Coëtquidan addressed cats in the second person plural, which sounds rather grand, instead of saying 'tu' in the normal way. Did they say 'vous ' to cats at the court of Louis XIV? Perhaps they did until the latter part of his reign, when it was felt that the time had come to 'brighten things up a bit.'
M. de Coëtquidan came back. But by now Léon had understood, and said no more about his affairs.
Soon after dinner he went up to his room and wrote three letters. Impulsive as he was, he would have suffered if something had prevented him from writing these letters at once, even though they could not be posted until the next day. One was addressed to the son of the old lady in whose house he had lodged at Chatenay; another to a decayed nobleman, a sort of jack-of-all-trades who dabbled in marriage-making and had done so for him; the third to one of the doctors at his auxiliary hospital. He had had no dealings with these people for twenty, fifteen and ten years respectively, but they were the only names he could think of when, during dinner, he had made this resolution: 'There's no time to lose. It's time I found myself a job.' In these three letters M. de Coantré explained his situation in a few words and asked if he could 'do something'. He emphasized his talents as a male nurse.
When he had written them, he felt he had taken action. Three letters! Proudly he weighed them in his hand. And, no doubt, writing a letter is an action. This impression of having 'taken a step forward' somewhat assuaged his bitter feelings.
(It is amusing to observe that M. de Coantré's handwriting, firm, upright, well-formed, the signature strongly underlined, would have credited him, in the eyes of a graphologist, with all the characteristics — concision, energy, pride, vitality — in which he was most conspicuously lacking.)
That night, he woke up at two o'clock, a thing which never happened to him, and did not go to sleep again.
Next morning he went up to the attic, where there was a packing-case full of letters addressed to his mother, which for the past six months he had not found time to sort because the idea of it was too irksome. There, perhaps, some document lay buried which would enable him to avoid paying the five thousand francs. He took out three packets of letters, and immediately was
In the dining-room, taking advantage of Mélanie's momentary absence, he said to M. Élie:
'Uncle, I have some bad news for you . .
M. Élie looked up sharply and stared at him, showing his big, pale pupils.
'What's that?'
'There's a new debt on the estate, and when it's paid I'll have only two thousand francs left.'
M. de Coëtquidan breathed again. An odd way to express oneself, typical of the de Coantrés of this world, to speak of bad news to a third party when the news is only bad for oneself.
'Actually,' M. de Coantré went on, 'it isn't certain that we'll have to pay. I must go through my papers. If I happened to find ...'
'Ha! there's Minine,' said M. Élie. 'He wants to come in.'
He had heard a miaow behind the front door. He got up, let the cat in, and gave it a few scraps of meat which he tore off roughly with his fingers like an Arab.
'Yes,' M. de Coantré continued, 'it may be that my having found the letter from M. d'Aumagne, which if it had been couched in terms ...'
'Ah, Minine! You want to go out?'
The cat had gone back to the door and was indeed now miaowing to be let out. The cats of the Arago household had this in common with humans: they always wanted to be somewhere else. So M. de Coëtquidan, a devoted slave to their every wish, was always opening a door somewhere or other, and the phrase 'He wants to come in' or 'He wants to go out' had become a private joke betwéen Mme de Coantré, Léon and Mélanie. It should be noted, in passing, that M. de Coëtquidan addressed cats in the second person plural, which sounds rather grand, instead of saying 'tu' in the normal way. Did they say 'vous ' to cats at the court of Louis XIV? Perhaps they did until the latter part of his reign, when it was felt that the time had come to 'brighten things up a bit.'
M. de Coëtquidan came back. But by now Léon had understood, and said no more about his affairs.
Soon after dinner he went up to his room and wrote three letters. Impulsive as he was, he would have suffered if something had prevented him from writing these letters at once, even though they could not be posted until the next day. One was addressed to the son of the old lady in whose house he had lodged at Chatenay; another to a decayed nobleman, a sort of jack-of-all-trades who dabbled in marriage-making and had done so for him; the third to one of the doctors at his auxiliary hospital. He had had no dealings with these people for twenty, fifteen and ten years respectively, but they were the only names he could think of when, during dinner, he had made this resolution: 'There's no time to lose. It's time I found myself a job.' In these three letters M. de Coantré explained his situation in a few words and asked if he could 'do something'. He emphasized his talents as a male nurse.
When he had written them, he felt he had taken action. Three letters! Proudly he weighed them in his hand. And, no doubt, writing a letter is an action. This impression of having 'taken a step forward' somewhat assuaged his bitter feelings.
(It is amusing to observe that M. de Coantré's handwriting, firm, upright, well-formed, the signature strongly underlined, would have credited him, in the eyes of a graphologist, with all the characteristics — concision, energy, pride, vitality — in which he was most conspicuously lacking.)
That night, he woke up at two o'clock, a thing which never happened to him, and did not go to sleep again.
Next morning he went up to the attic, where there was a packing-case full of letters addressed to his mother, which for the past six months he had not found time to sort because the idea of it was too irksome. There, perhaps, some document lay buried which would enable him to avoid paying the five thousand francs. He took out three packets of letters, and immediately was
Similar Books
