"Twenty-four?"
"Yes, twenty-four."
"Have you billiards at home, M. Mauperin?"
"No, I haven't. My son doesn't play."
"Are you looking for the chalk?"
"Thanks. And as my wife doesn't think it a suitable game for girls----"
"It's your turn."
"Oh! I'm quite out of practice--I always was a duffer at it though."
"Well, but you are not giving me the game at all. There, it's all up
with my play--I was used to that cue," and M. Bourjot gave vent to his
feelings in an oath. "These rascals of workmen--they haven't any
conscience at all. There's no getting anything well made in these days.
Well, you _are_ scoring: three, I'll mark it. The fact is we are at
their service. The other day, now, I wanted some chandeliers put up.
Well, would you believe it, M. Mauperin, I couldn't get a man? It was a
holiday--I forget what holiday it was--and they would not come--they are
the lords of creation, nowadays. Do you imagine that they ever bring us
anything of what they shoot or fish? Oh, no, when they get anything
dainty they eat it themselves. I know what it is in Paris--four? Oh,
come now! Every penny they earn is spent at the wine-shop. On Sundays
they spend at least a sovereign. The locksmith here has a Lefaucheux gun
and takes out a shooting license. Ah, two for me at last! And the money
they ask now for their work! Why, they want four shillings a day for
mowing! I have vineyards in Burgundy, and they proposed to see to them
for me for three years, and then the third year they would be their own.
This is what we are coming to! Luckily for me I'm an old man, so that it
won't be in my time; but in a hundred years from now there will be no
such thing as being waited on--there'll be no servants. I often say to
my wife and daughter: 'You'll see--the day will come when you will have
to make your own beds. Five?--six?--- you _do_ know how to play. The
Revolution has done for us, you know." And M. Bourjot began to hum:
"'Et zonzon, zonzon, zonzon,
Zonzon, zonzon---- '"
"These were not exactly your ideas some thirty years ago, when we met
for the first time; do you remember?" said M. Mauperin with a smile.
"That's true. I had some fine ideas in those days--too fine!" replied M.
Bourjot, resting his left hand on his cue. "Ah, we were young--I should
just think I do remember. It was at Lallemand's funeral.--By Jove! that
was the best blow I ever gave in my life--a regular knock-you-down. I
can see the nails in that police inspector's boots now, when I had
landed him on the ground so that I could cross the boulevards. At the
corner of the Rue Poissonnière I came upon a patrol--they set about me
with a vengeance. I was with Caminade--you knew Caminade, didn't you? He
was a lively one. He was the man who used to go and smoke his pipe at
the mission service belonging to the Church of the Petits-Pères. He went
with his meerschaum pipe that cost nearly sixty pounds, and he took a
girl from the Palais-Royal. He was lucky, for he managed to escape, but
they took me to the police station, belabouring me with the butt-end of
their guns. Fortunately Dulaurens caught sight of me----"
"Ah--Dulaurens!" said M. Mauperin. "We were in the same Carbonari
society. He had a shawl shop, it seems to me."
"Yes, and do you know what became of him?"
"No. I lost sight of him."
"Well, one fine day--it was after all this business--his partner went
off to Belgium, taking with him eight thousand pounds. They put the
police on his track, but they could hear nothing of him. Our friend
Dulaurens goes into a church and makes a vow to get converted if he
finds his money again. They find his money for him and now his piety is
simply sickening. I never see him now; but in the old days he was a
lively one, I can tell you. Well, when I saw him I gave him a look and
he understood. You see, I had twenty-five guns in my house and five
hundred cartridges. When the police went there to search he had cleared
them away. All the same I was kept three months shut up in the new
building, and two or three times was fetched up in the night to be
cross-examined, and I always went with a vague idea in my mind that I
was going to be shot. You've gone through it all, and you know what it
is.--And all that was for the sake of Socialism! And yet I heard a few
words that ought to have enlightened me. When I was free again one of my
prison friends came to see me at Sedan. 'Why, what's this,' he said,
'that I am told at the hotel? It seems that your father has land and
money, and yet you have joined us! Why, I thought you hadn't anything!'
Just fancy now, M. Mauperin--and when I think that even that did not
open my eyes! You see I was convinced in those days that all those with
whom I was in league wanted simply what I wanted: laws for rich and poor
alike, the abolition of privileges, the end of the Revolution of '89
against the nobility--I thought we should stop there--eleven? Did I mark
your last? I don't think I did--let us say twelve. But, good heavens!
when I saw my republic I was disgusted with it, when I heard two men,
who had just come down from the barricades in February, say, 'We ought
not to have left them until we had made sure of two hundred a year!' And
then the system of taxes according to the income; it's an iniquity--the
hypocrisy of communism. But with taxes regulated by the income,"
continued M. Bourjot, eloquently breaking off in the midst of his own
phrase, "I challenge them to find any one who will care to take the
trouble of making a large fortune--thirteen, fourteen, fifteen--very
good! Oh, you are too strong a player. All that has made me turn
round--you understand?"
"Perfectly," replied M. Mauperin.
"Where's my ball--there? Yes, it has made me turn completely round; it
has positively made a Legitimist of me. There--a bad cue again! But----"
"But what?"
"Well, there is one thing--Oh, on that subject, now, I have the same
opinions still. I don't mind telling you. Anything approaching a
parson--eighteen?--Oh, come, I'm done for! We invite the one here in
this place--he's a very decent fellow; but as to priests--when you've
known one as I have, who broke his leg getting over the college wall at
night--they are a pack of Jesuits, you know, M. Mauperin!
"'Hommes noirs, d'où sortez-vous?
Nous sortons de dessous, terre.'"
"Ah, that's my man! The god of simple folks!
"'Mes amis, parlons plus bas:
Je vois Judas, je vois Judas!'"
"Twenty-one! You've only three more. Now, at the place where my
iron-works are, there's a bishop who is very easy-going. Well, all the
bigots detest him. Now, if he pretended to be a bigot, if he were a
hypocrite and spent all his time at church----"
* * * * *
"I never saw Mme. Bourjot so amiable," remarked Mme. Mauperin, when she
and her family were all back in the carriage.
"An odd chap, that Bourjot," observed M. Mauperin. "It isn't much good
having a billiard-table of his own either--I could have given him a
start of twelve."
"I think Noémi is very strange," said Renée. "Did you see, Henri, how
she wanted to get out of acting?"
Henri did not answer.