Short Fiction

you buy them also?”

The merchant bowed: “Certainly, sir.”

One of the clerks retired, unable to contain his laughter. Another blew his nose violently.

Lantin, impassive, blushing and serious, replied: “I will bring them to you.”

He took a cab to go and fetch the jewels. An hour later, when he returned to the shop, he had not yet breakfasted. They began to examine each item separately, estimating the value of every one. Almost all of them had been bought there. Lantin now began to argue about the valuations, lost his temper, and insisted upon seeing the records of the sales. He became more domineering as the figures increased.

The large diamond earrings were worth twenty thousand francs; the bracelets, thirty-five thousand; the rings, brooches and medallions, sixteen thousand; a set of emeralds and sapphires, fourteen thousand; a gold chain with solitaire pendant, in the form of a necklace, forty thousand⁠—making a total sum of one hundred and ninety-six thousand francs.

The jeweler remarked jokingly:

“These come from someone who invested all her savings in precious stones.”

M. Lantin replied, seriously:

“It is as good a way as any other of investing one’s money.”

And he went off after having arranged with the purchaser to have another expert’s opinion the next day.

When he got to the street he looked at the Colonne Vendôme and felt tempted to climb it, as if it were a greasy pole. He felt so happy he could have played leapfrog with the statue of the Emperor, perched up there in the sky.

He lunched at Voisin’s and drank wine at twenty francs a bottle. Then he hired a carriage and drove around the Bois, and as he scanned the various turnouts with a contemptuous air he could hardly refrain from crying out to the passersby:

“I, too, am rich!⁠—I am worth two hundred thousand francs.”

Suddenly he thought of the Ministry. He drove up to the office, and deliberately entered the office of his chief, saying:

“Sir, I have come to resign my position. I have just inherited three hundred thousand francs.”

He shook hands with his former colleagues and confided to them some of his projects for his new life; then he went off to dine at the Café Anglais.

Finding himself beside a gentleman of aristocratic bearing, he could not resist the desire to inform him, with some pride, that he had just inherited a fortune of four hundred thousand francs.

For the first time in his life he was not bored at the theatre, and spent the rest of the night with some women.

Six months afterwards he married again. His second wife was a very virtuous woman, but very cantankerous. She made him suffer a great deal.

Saint Anthony

He was called Saint Anthony, because his name was Anthony, and also, perhaps, because he was a good fellow, jovial, a lover of practical jokes, a tremendous eater and a heavy drinker and a great man for the servant girls, although he was sixty years old.

He was a big peasant of the district of Caux, with a red face, large chest and stomach, and perched on two long legs that seemed too slight for the bulk of his body.

He was a widower and lived alone with his two menservants and a maid on his farm, which he ran with shrewd economy. He was careful of his own interests, understood business and the raising of cattle, and farming. His two sons and his three daughters, who had married well, were living in the neighbourhood and came to dine with their father once a month. His vigour of body was famous in all the countryside. “He is as strong as Saint Anthony,” had become a kind of proverb.

At the time of the Prussian invasion Saint Anthony, at the wine shop, promised to eat an army, for he was a braggart, like a true Norman, and a bit of a coward and a blusterer. He banged his fist on the wooden table, making the cups and the brandy glasses dance, and cried with the exaggerated truculence of the good fellow, his face flushed and a sly look in his eye: “I shall have to eat some of them, nom de Dieu!” He reckoned that the Prussians would not come as far as Tanneville, but when he heard they were at Rautôt he never went out of the house, and constantly watched the road from the little window of his kitchen, expecting at any moment to see the bayonets go by.

One morning, as he was eating his midday meal with the servants, the door opened and the mayor of the commune, Maître Chicot, appeared, followed by a soldier wearing a black helmet with a copper spike. Saint Anthony bounded to his feet and all his household looked at him, expecting to see him slash the Prussian. But he merely shook hands with the mayor, who said:

“Here is one for you, Saint Anthony. They came last night. Don’t do anything foolish, above all things, for they talk of shooting and burning everything if there is the slightest unpleasantness. I have given you warning. Give him something to eat; he looks like a good fellow. Good day. I am going to call on the rest. There are enough for all.” And he went out.

Old Anthony, who had turned pale, looked at the Prussian. He was a big, young fellow, plump and fair-skinned, with blue eyes, fair hair, and hair on his face to his cheek bones, who looked stupid, timid and good humoured. The shrewd Norman read him at once, and, reassured, he made him a sign to sit down. Then he said: “Will you have some soup?”

The stranger did not understand. Anthony then became bolder, and pushing a plateful of soup right under his nose, he said: “Here, swallow that, you big pig!”

The soldier answered “Ya,” and began to eat greedily, while the farmer, triumphant, feeling he had regained his reputation, winked his eye at the servants, who were making strange grimaces, what with their terror and their desire