Madame's receptions, all under the eye of an English governess, who made tea for us—the good tea that Madame bought in England for her little morning breakfasts. Sometimes, from the servants' hall, the butler—one who was up to date—brought us cakes, caviare on toast, slices of ham, and a heap of good things.
I remember that one afternoon they obliged me to put on a very swell costume belonging to Monsieur—to Coco, as we called him among ourselves. Naturally we played at all sorts of risqués games; we even went very far in our fun-making.
Ah! that was a place!
I am beginning to know Monsieur well. They were right in saying that he is an excellent and generous man, for, if he were not, there would not be in the world a worse rascal, a more perfect sharper. The need, the passion that he feels for being charitable, impel him to do things that are not very admirable. His intention is praiseworthy, but the result upon others is often disastrous, all the same. It must be confessed that his kindness has been the cause of dirty little tricks, like the following:
Last Tuesday a very simple old man, father Pantois, brought some sweet-briers that Monsieur had ordered—of course without Madame's knowledge. It was toward the end of the day. I had come down for some hot water for a belated bath. Madame, who had gone to town, had not yet returned. And I was chattering in the kitchen with Marianne, when Monsieur, cordial, joyous, unreserved, and noisy, brought in father Pantois. He immediately had him served with bread, cheese, and cider. And then he began to talk with him.
The good man excited my pity, so worn, thin, and dirtily clad was he. His pantaloons were in rags; his cap was a mass of filth. And his open shirt revealed a part of his bare breast, chapped, crimped, seasoned like old leather. He ate greedily.
"Well, father Pantois," cried Monsieur, rubbing his hands, "that goes better, eh?"
The old man, with his mouth full, thanked him.
"You are very good, Monsieur Lanlaire. Because, you see, since this morning, at four o'clock, when I left home, I have put nothing in my stomach—nothing at all."
"Well, eat away, father Pantois. Regale yourself, while you are about it."
"You are very good, Monsieur Lanlaire. Pray excuse me."
The old man cut off enormous pieces of bread, which he was a long time in chewing, for he had no teeth left. When he was partially satisfied, Monsieur asked him:
"And the sweet-briers, father Pantois? They are fine this year, eh?"
"There are some that are fine; there are some that are not so fine; there are almost all sorts, Monsieur Lanlaire. Indeed, one can scarcely choose. And they are hard to pull up, you can believe. And besides, Monsieur Porcellet will not let us take them from his woods any more. We have to go a long way now to find them, a very long way. If I were to tell you that I come from the forest of Raillon—more than three leagues from here? Yes, indeed, Monsieur Lanlaire."
While the good man was talking, Monsieur had taken a seat at the table beside him. Gay, almost uproarious, he slapped him on the shoulder, and exclaimed:
"Five leagues! you are a jolly good one, father Pantois. Always strong, always young."
"Not so much as that, Monsieur Lanlaire; not so much as that."
"Nonsense!" insisted Monsieur, "strong as an old Turk—and good-humored, yes, indeed! They don't make any more like you these days, father Pantois. You are of the old school, you are."
The old man shook his head, his gaunt head, of the color of old wood, and repeated:
"Not so much as that. My legs are weakening, Monsieur Lanlaire; my arms are getting soft. And then my back. Oh! my confounded back! My strength is almost gone. And then the wife, who is sick, and who never leaves her bed—what a bill for medicines! One has little luck, one has little luck. If at least one did not grow old? That, you see, Monsieur Lanlaire, that is the worst of the matter."
Monsieur sighed, made a vague gesture, and then, summing up the question philosophically, said:
"Oh! yes, but what do you expect, father Pantois? Such is life. One cannot be and have been. That's the way it is."
"To be sure; one must be reasonable."
"That's it."
"We live while we can, isn't it so, Monsieur Lanlaire?"
"Indeed it is."
And, after a pause, he added in a voice that had become melancholy:
"Besides, everybody has his sorrows, father Pantois."
"No doubt of it."
There was a silence. Marianne was cutting up herbs. It was growing dark in the garden. The two big sunflowers, which could be seen in the perspective of the open door, were losing their color and disappearing in the shade. And father Pantois kept on eating. His glass had remained empty. Monsieur filled it, and then, suddenly abandoning his metaphysical heights, he asked:
"And what are sweet-briers worth this year?"
"Sweet-briers, Monsieur Lanlaire? Well, this year, taking them as they come, sweet-briers are worth twenty-two francs a hundred. It is a little dear, I know; but I cannot get them for less; really I cannot."
Like a generous man, who despises considerations of money, Monsieur interrupted the old man, who was getting ready to justify himself by explanations.
"It is all right, father Pantois. It is agreed. Do I ever haggle with you? In fact, instead of twenty-two francs, I will pay you twenty-five for your sweet-briers."
"Ah! Monsieur Lanlaire, you are too good!"
"No, no; I am just. I am for the people, I am; for labor, don't you know?"
And, with a blow on the table, he went higher still.
"No, not twenty-five—thirty, father Pantois. I will pay you thirty francs, do you hear that?"
The good man lifted his poor eyes to Monsieur, in astonishment and gratitude, and stammered:
"I hear very well. It is a pleasure to work for you, Monsieur Lanlaire. You know what work is, you do."
Monsieur put an end to these effusions.
"And I will go to pay you—let us see; to-day is Tuesday—I will go to pay you on Sunday. Does that suit you? And at the same time I will take my gun. Is it agreed?"
The gleam of gratitude which had been shining in the eyes of father Pantois faded out. He was embarrassed, troubled; he stopped eating.
"You see," said he, timidly—"well, in short, if you could pay it to-night, that would oblige me greatly, Monsieur Lanlaire. Twenty-two francs, that's all; pray excuse me."
"You are joking, father Pantois," replied Monsieur, with superb assurance; "certainly; I will pay you that directly. I proposed that only for the purpose of making a little trip and paying you a little visit."
He fumbled in the pockets of his pantaloons, then in those of his vest and waistcoat, and, assuming an air of surprise, he cried:
"Well, there! here I am again without change! I have nothing but confounded thousand-franc bills."
With a forced and really sinister laugh, he asked:
"I will bet that you have not change for a thousand francs, father Pantois?"
Seeing Monsieur laugh, father Pantois thought that it was proper for him to laugh too, and he answered, jovially:
"Ha! ha! ha! I have never even seen these confounded bills."
"Well, on Sunday then," concluded Monsieur.
Monsieur had poured out a glass of cider for himself, and was drinking with father Pantois, when Madame, whom they had not heard coming, suddenly entered the kitchen, like a gust of wind.
Ah! her eye, when she saw that! when she saw Monsieur sitting