“She loves you, Monsieur Piquedent, and I believe her to be a decent
girl. It is not right to lead her on and then abandon her.”
He replied in a firm tone:
“I hope I, too, am a decent man, my friend.”
I confess I had at the time no plan. I was playing a practical joke a
schoolboy joke, nothing more. I had been aware of the simplicity of
the old usher, his innocence and his weakness. I amused myself without
asking myself how it would turn out. I was eighteen, and I had been for
a long time looked upon at the lycee as a sly practical joker.
So it was agreed that Pere Piquedent and I should set out in a hack for
the ferry of Queue de Vache, that we should there pick up Angele, and
that I should take them into my boat, for in those days I was fond of
boating. I would then bring them to the Ile des Fleurs, where the three
of us would dine. I had inflicted myself on them, the better to enjoy
my triumph, and the usher, consenting to my arrangement, proved clearly
that he was losing his head by thus risking the loss of his position.
When we arrived at the ferry, where my boat had been moored since
morning, I saw in the grass, or rather above the tall weeds of the bank,
an enormous red parasol, resembling a monstrous wild poppy. Beneath the
parasol was the little laundress in her Sunday clothes. I was surprised.
She was really pretty, though pale; and graceful, though with a rather
suburban grace.
Pere Piquedent raised his hat and bowed. She put out her hand toward
him, and they stared at one another without uttering a word. Then they
stepped into my boat, and I took the oars. They were seated side by side
near the stern.
The usher was the first to speak.
“This is nice weather for a row in a boat.”
She murmured:
“Oh! yes.”
She dipped her hand into the water, skimming the surface, making a thin,
transparent film like a sheet of glass, which made a soft plashing along
the side of the boat.
When they were in the restaurant, she took it on herself to speak, and
ordered dinner, fried fish, a chicken, and salad; then she led us on
toward the isle, which she knew perfectly.
After this, she was gay, romping, and even rather tantalizing.
Until dessert, no question of love arose. I had treated them to
champagne, and Pere Piquedent was tipsy. Herself slightly the worse, she
called out to him:
“Monsieur Piquenez.”
He said abruptly:
“Mademoiselle, Monsieur Raoul has communicated my sentiments to you.”
She became as serious as a judge.
“Yes, monsieur.”
“What is your reply?”
“We never reply to these questions!”
He puffed with emotion, and went on:
“Well, will the day ever come that you will like me?”
She smiled.
“You big stupid! You are very nice.”
“In short, mademoiselle, do you think that, later on, we might--”
She hesitated a second; then in a trembling voice she said:
“Do you mean to marry me when you say that? For on no other condition,
you know.”
“Yes, mademoiselle!”
“Well, that's all right, Monsieur Piquedent!”
It was thus that these two silly creatures promised marriage to each
other through the trick of a young scamp. But I did not believe that it
was serious, nor, indeed, did they, perhaps.
“You know, I have nothing, not four sous,” she said.
He stammered, for he was as drunk as Silenus:
“I have saved five thousand francs.”
She exclaimed triumphantly:
“Then we can set up in business?”
He became restless.
“In what business?”
“What do I know? We shall see. With five thousand francs we could do
many things. You don't want me to go and live in your boarding school,
do you?”
He had not looked forward so far as this, and he stammered in great
perplexity:
“What business could we set up in? That would not do, for all I know is
Latin!”
She reflected in her turn, passing in review all her business ambitions.
“You could not be a doctor?”
“No, I have no diploma.”
“Or a chemist?”
“No more than the other.”
She uttered a cry of joy. She had discovered it.
“Then we'll buy a grocer's shop! Oh! what luck! we'll buy a grocer's
shop. Not on a big scale, of course; with five thousand francs one does
not go far.”
He was shocked at the suggestion.
“No, I can't be a grocer. I am--I am--too well known: I only know Latin,
that is all I know.”
But she poured a glass of champagne down his throat. He drank it and was
silent.
We got back into the boat. The night was dark, very dark. I saw clearly,
however, that he had caught her by the waist, and that they were hugging
each other again and again.
It was a frightful catastrophe. Our escapade was discovered, with the
result that Pere Piquedent was dismissed. And my father, in a fit of
anger, sent me to finish my course of philosophy at Ribaudet's school.
Six months later I took my degree of Bachelor of Arts. Then I went to
study law in Paris, and did not return to my native town till two years
later.
At the corner of the Rue de Serpent a shop caught my eye. Over the door
were the words: “Colonial Products--Piquedent;” then underneath, so as
to enlighten the most ignorant: “Grocery.”