Pierre and Jean by Guy de Maupassant (reading diary TXT) 📕

pulley to a crossbeam, looked as if he had gone up there bird’s-nesting.

“Will you dine with us without any sort of ceremony, just that we may end the day together?” said Mme. Roland to her friend.

“To be sure I will, with pleasure; I accept equally without ceremony. It would be dismal to go home and be alone this evening.”

Pierre, who had heard, and who was beginning to be restless under the young woman’s indifference, muttered to himself: “Well, the widow is taking root now, it would seem.” For some days past he had spoken of her as “the widow.” The word, harmless in itself, irritated Jean merely by the tone given to it, which to him seemed spiteful and offensive.

The three men spoke not another word till they reached the threshold of their own house. It was a narrow one, consisting of a ground-floor and two floors above, in the Rue Belle-Normande. The maid, Joséphine, a girl of nineteen, a rustic servant-of-all-work at low wages, gifted to excess with the startled animal expression of a peasant, opened the door, went upstairs at her master’s heels to the drawing-room, which was on the first floor, and then said:

“A gentleman called⁠—three times.”

Old Roland, who never spoke to her without shouting and swearing, cried out:

“Who do you say called, in the devil’s name?”

She never winced at her master’s roaring voice, and replied:

“A gentleman from the lawyer’s.”

“What lawyer?”

“Why, M’sieu ’Canu⁠—who else?”

“And what did this gentleman say?”

“That M’sieu ’Canu will call in himself in the course of the evening.”

Maître Lecanu was M. Roland’s lawyer, and in a way his friend, managing his business for him. For him to send word that he would call in the evening, something urgent and important must be in the wind; and the four Rolands looked at each other, disturbed by the announcement as folks of small fortune are wont to be at any intervention of a lawyer, with its suggestions of contracts, inheritance, lawsuits⁠—all sorts of desirable or formidable contingencies. The father, after a few moments of silence, muttered:

“What on earth can it mean?”

Mme. Rosémilly began to laugh.

“Why, a legacy, of course. I am sure of it. I bring good luck.”

But they did not expect the death of anyone who might leave them anything.

Mme. Roland, who had a good memory for relationships, began to think over all their connections on her husband’s side and on her own, to trace up pedigrees and the ramifications of cousin-ship.

Before even taking off her bonnet she said:

“I say, father” (she called her husband “father” at home, and sometimes “Monsieur Roland” before strangers), “tell me, do you remember who it was that Joseph Lebru married for the second time?”

“Yes⁠—a little girl named Dumenil, a stationer’s daughter.”

“Had they any children?”

“I should think so! four or five at least.”

“Not from that quarter, then.”

She was quite eager already in her search; she caught at the hope of some added ease dropping from the sky. But Pierre, who was very fond of his mother, who knew her to be somewhat visionary and feared she might be disappointed, a little grieved, a little saddened if the news were bad instead of good, checked her:

“Do not get excited, mother; there is no rich American uncle. For my part, I should sooner fancy that it is about a marriage for Jean.”

Everyone was surprised at the suggestion, and Jean was a little ruffled by his brother’s having spoken of it before Mme. Rosémilly.

“And why for me rather than for you? The hypothesis is very disputable. You are the elder; you, therefore, would be the first to be thought of. Besides, I do not wish to marry.”

Pierre smiled sneeringly:

“Are you in love, then?”

And the other, much put out, retorted: “Is it necessary that a man should be in love because he does not care to marry yet?”

“Ah, there you are! That ‘yet’ sets it right; you are waiting.”

“Granted that I am waiting, if you will have it so.”

But old Roland, who had been listening and cogitating, suddenly hit upon the most probable solution.

“Bless me! what fools we are to be racking our brains. Maître Lecanu is our very good friend; he knows that Pierre is looking out for a medical partnership and Jean for a lawyer’s office, and he has found something to suit one of you.”

This was so obvious and likely that everyone accepted it.

“Dinner is ready,” said the maid. And they all hurried off to their rooms to wash their hands before sitting down to table.

Ten minutes later they were at dinner in the little dining-room on the ground-floor.

At first they were silent; but presently Roland began again in amazement at this lawyer’s visit.

“For after all, why did he not write? Why should he have sent his clerk three times? Why is he coming himself?”

Pierre thought it quite natural.

“An immediate decision is required, no doubt; and perhaps there are certain confidential conditions which it does not do to put into writing.”

Still, they were all puzzled, and all four a little annoyed at having invited a stranger, who would be in the way of their discussing and deciding on what should be done.

They had just gone upstairs again when the lawyer was announced. Roland flew to meet him.

“Good evening, my dear Maître,” said he, giving his visitor the title which in France is the official prefix to the name of every lawyer.

Mme. Rosémilly rose.

“I am going,” she said. “I am very tired.”

A faint attempt was made to detain her; but she would not consent, and went home without either of the three men offering to escort her, as they always had done.

Mme. Roland did the honours eagerly to their visitor.

“A cup of coffee, monsieur?”

“No, thank you. I have just had dinner.”

“A cup of tea, then?”

“Thank you, I will accept one later. First we must attend to business.”

The deep silence which succeeded this remark was broken only by the regular ticking of the clock, and below stairs the clatter of saucepans which the girl was cleaning⁠—too stupid even to listen at the door.

The lawyer went on:

“Did you, in Paris, know