"Est-ce que monsieur est indisposé? Cette chaleur! Monsieur ne parle pas
le Français, peut-être?"
When I found my tongue I explained to her that I had once lived there in
a modest house overlooking the street, but which had been replaced by
this much more palatial abode.
"O, oui, monsieur--on a balayé tout ça!" she replied.
"Balayé!" What an expression for _me_ to hear!
And she explained how the changes had taken place, and how valuable the
property had become. She showed me a small plot of garden, a fragment of
my old garden, that still remained, and where the old apple-tree might
still have been, but that it had been sawed away. I saw the stump; that
did duty for a rustic table.
Presently, looking over a new wall, I saw another small garden,
and in it the ruins of the old shed where I had found the toy
wheelbarrow--soon to disappear, as they were building there too.
I asked after all the people I could think of, beginning with those of
least interest--the butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker.
Some were dead; some had retired and had left their "commerce" to their
children and children-in-law. Three different school-masters had kept
the school since I had left. Thank Heaven, there was still the
school--much altered, it is true. I had forgotten to look for it.
[Illustration: THE OLD APPLE-TREE.]
She had no remembrance of my name, or the Seraskiers'--I asked, with a
beating heart. We had left no trace. Twelve short years had effaced all
memory of us! But she told me that a gentleman, _décoré, mais tombé en
enfance_, lived at a _maison de santé_ in the Chaussée de la Muette,
close by, and that his name was le Major Duquesnois; and thither I
went, after rewarding and warmly thanking her.
I inquired for le Major Duquesnois, and I was told he was out for a
walk, and I soon found him, much aged and bent, and leaning on the arm
of a Sister of Charity. I was so touched that I had to pass him two or
three times before I could speak. He was so small--so pathetically small!
[Illustration: M. LE MAJOR.]
It was a long time before I could give him an idea of who I was--Gogo
Pasquier!
Then after a while he seemed to recall the past a little.
"Ha, ha! Gogo--gentil petit Gogo!--oui--oui--l'exercice? Portez ...
arrrmes! arrmes ... bras? Et Mimsé? bonne petite Mimsé! toujours mal
à la tête?"
He could just remember Madame Seraskier; and repeated her name several
times and said, "Ah! elle était bien belle, Madame Seraskier!"
In the old days of fairy-tale telling, when he used to get tired and I
still wanted him to go on, he had arranged that if, in the course of the
story, he suddenly brought in the word "Cric," and I failed to
immediately answer "Crac," the story would be put off till our next walk
(to be continued in our next!) and he was so ingenious in the way he
brought in the terrible word that I often fell into the trap, and had to
forego my delight for that afternoon.
I suddenly thought of saying "Cric!" and he immediately said "Crac!" and
laughed in a touching, senile way--"Cric!--Crac! c'est bien ça!" and
then he became quite serious and said--
"Et la suite au prochain numéro!"