The Complete Works: Short Stories, Novels, Plays, Poetry, Memoirs and more. Guy de MaupassantЧитать онлайн книгу.
the little ‘un.”
They were accustomed to speak of Jean among themselves as the “little one,” though he was much bigger than Pierre.
Suddenly Mme. Roland seemed to wake from a dream, to recall some remote fact, a thing almost forgotten that she had heard long ago, and of which she was not altogether sure. She inquired doubtingly:
“Were you not saying that our poor friend Marechal had left his fortune to my little Jean?”
“Yes, madame.”
And she went on simply:
“I am much pleased to hear it; it proves that he was attached to us.”
Roland had risen.
“And would you wish, my dear sir, that my son should at once sign his acceptance?”
“No — no, M. Roland. Tomorrow, at my office tomorrow, at two o’clock, if that suits you.”
“Yes, to be sure — yes, indeed. I should think so.”
Then Mme. Roland, who had also risen and who was smiling after her tears, went up to the lawyer, and laying her hand on the back of his chair while she looked at him with the pathetic eyes of a grateful mother, she said:
“And now for that cup of tea, Monsieur Lecanu?”
“Now I will accept it with pleasure, madame.”
The maid, on being summoned, brought in first some dry biscuits in deep tin boxes, those crisp, insipid English cakes which seem to have been made for a parrot’s beak, and soldered into metal cases for a voyage round the world. Next she fetched some little gray linen doilies, folded square, those tea-napkins which in thrifty families never get washed. A third time she came in with the sugar-basin and cups; then she departed to heat the water. They sat waiting.
No one could talk; they had too much to think about and nothing to say. Mme. Roland alone attempted a few commonplace remarks. She gave an account of the fishing excursion, and sang the praises of the Pearl and of Mme. Rosemilly.
“Charming, charming!” the lawyer said again and again.
Roland, leaning against the marble mantelshelf as if it were winter and the fire burning, with his hands in his pockets and his lips puckered for a whistle, could not keep still, tortured by the invincible desire to give vent to his delight. The two brothers, in two armchairs that matched, one on each side of the centre-table, stared in front of them, in similar attitudes full of dissimilar expressions.
At last the tea appeared. The lawyer took a cup, sugared it, and drank it, after having crumbled into it a little cake which was too hard to crunch. Then he rose, shook hands, and departed.
“Then it is understood,” repeated Roland. “Tomorrow, at your place, at two?”
“Quite so. Tomorrow, at two.”
Jean had not spoken a word.
When their guest had gone, silence fell again till father Roland clapped his two hands on his younger son’s shoulders, crying:
“Well, you devilish lucky dog! You don’t embrace me!”
Then Jean smiled. He embraced his father, saying:
“It had not struck me as indispensable.”
The old man was beside himself with glee. He walked about the room, strummed on the furniture with his clumsy nails, turned about on his heels, and kept saying:
“What luck! What luck! Now, that is really what I call luck!”
Pierre asked:
“Then you used to know this Marechal well?”
And his father replied:
“I believe! Why, he used to spend every evening at our house. Surely you remember he used to fetch you from school on half-holidays, and often took you back again after dinner. Why, the very day when Jean was born it was he who went for the doctor. He had been breakfasting with us when your mother was taken ill. Of course we knew at once what it meant, and he set off post-haste. In his hurry he took my hat instead of his own. I remember that because we had a good laugh over it afterward. It is very likely that he may have thought of that when he was dying, and as he had no heir he may have said to himself: ‘I remember helping to bring that youngster into the world, so I will leave him my savings.’”
Mme. Roland, sunk in a deep chair, seemed lost in reminiscences once more. She murmured, as though she were thinking aloud:
“Ah, he was a good friend, very devoted, very faithful, a rare soul in these days.”
Jean got up.
“I shall go out for a little walk,” he said.
His father was surprised and tried to keep him; they had much to talk about, plans to be made, decisions to be formed. But the young man insisted, declaring that he had an engagement. Besides, there would be time enough for settling everything before he came into possession of his inheritance. So he went away, for he wished to be alone to reflect. Pierre, on his part, said that he too was going out, and after a few minutes followed his brother.
As soon as he was alone with his wife, father Roland took her in his arms, kissed her a dozen times on each cheek, and, replying to a reproach she had often brought against him, said:
“You see, my dearest, that it would have been no good to stay any longer in Paris and work for the children till I dropped, instead of coming here to recruit my health, since fortune drops on us from the skies.”
She was quite serious.
“It drops from the skies on Jean,” she said. “But Pierre?”
“Pierre? But he is a doctor; he will make plenty of money; besides, his brother will surely do something for him.”
“No, he would not take it. Besides, this legacy is for Jean, only for Jean. Pierre will find himself at a great disadvantage.”
The old fellow seemed perplexed: “Well, then, we will leave him rather more in our will.”
“No; that again would not be quite just.”
“Drat it all!” he exclaimed. “What do you want me to do in the matter? You always hit on a whole heap of disagreeable ideas. You must spoil all my pleasures. Well, I am going to bed. Goodnight. All the same, I call it good luck, jolly good luck!”
And he went off, delighted in spite of everything, and without a word of regret for the friend so generous in his death.
Mme. Roland sat thinking again in front of the lamp which was burning out.
French
II
As soon as he got out, Pierre made his way to the Rue de Paris, the high-street of Havre, brightly lighted up, lively and noisy. The rather sharp air of the seacoast kissed his face, and he walked slowly, his stick under his arm and his hands behind his back. He was ill at ease, oppressed, out of heart, as one is after hearing unpleasant tidings. He was not distressed by any definite thought, and he would have been puzzled to account, on the spur of the moment, for this dejection of spirit and heaviness of limb. He was hurt somewhere, without knowing where; somewhere within him there was a pin-point of pain — one of those almost imperceptible wounds which we cannot lay a finger on, but which incommode us, tire us, depress us, irritate us — a slight and occult pang, as it were a small seed of distress.
When he reached the square in front of the theatre, he was attracted by the lights in the Cafe Tortoni, and slowly bent his steps to the dazzling facade; but just as he was going in he reflected