To Leon Chapron.
Marambot opened the letter which his servant Denis gave him and smiled.
For twenty years Denis has been a servant in this house. He was a short,
stout, jovial man, who was known throughout the countryside as a model
servant. He asked:
“Is monsieur pleased? Has monsieur received good news?”
M. Marambot was not rich. He was an old village druggist, a bachelor,
who lived on an income acquired with difficulty by selling drugs to the
farmers. He answered:
“Yes, my boy. Old man Malois is afraid of the law-suit with which I am
threatening him. I shall get my money to-morrow. Five thousand francs
are not liable to harm the account of an old bachelor.”
M. Marambot rubbed his hands with satisfaction. He was a man of quiet
temperament, more sad than gay, incapable of any prolonged effort,
careless in business.
He could undoubtedly have amassed a greater income had he taken
advantage of the deaths of colleagues established in more important
centers, by taking their places and carrying on their business. But the
trouble of moving and the thought of all the preparations had always
stopped him. After thinking the matter over for a few days, he would be
satisfied to say:
“Bah! I'll wait until the next time. I'll not lose anything by the
delay. I may even find something better.”
Denis, on the contrary, was always urging his master to new enterprises.
Of an energetic temperament, he would continually repeat:
“Oh! If I had only had the capital to start out with, I could have made
a fortune! One thousand francs would do me.”
M. Marambot would smile without answering and would go out in his little
garden, where, his hands behind his back, he would walk about dreaming.
All day long, Denis sang the joyful refrains of the folk-songs of the
district. He even showed an unusual activity, for he cleaned all the
windows of the house, energetically rubbing the glass, and singing at
the top of his voice.