Friend Joseph
For a whole winter in Paris they had been great friends and after losing sight of each other, as is usual, on leaving college, they met again in society when they were both old and grey; the one a bachelor, the other a married man.
Monsieur de Méroul spent six months in Paris and six months in his little château at Tourbeville. Having married the daughter of a neighbouring squire, he had lived a quiet peaceful life, indolently, the life of a man who has nothing to do. He was calm, methodical by nature; he had no sudden flashes of intelligence, or fits of independence, he spent his time quietly regretting the past, deploring the habits and institutions of the day, and continually repeating to his wife, who raised her eyes and occasionally her hands in sign of complete agreement: “What a government we’ve got, to be sure!”
Intellectually, Monsieur and Madame de Méroul were as much alike as if they had been brother and sister. She knew, by tradition, that first and foremost, the Pope and the King must be respected. And she loved and respected them from the bottom of her heart—not knowing them—with romantic fervour, hereditary devotion, and the tenderness of a woman of good birth. She was kindness itself. She had no children and never ceased to regret the fact.
When Monsieur de Méroul met his old friend Joseph Mourador at a ball, he was filled with unaffected joy at the meeting, for they had been great friends in their youth. After the first ejaculations of surprise on the changes age had wrought in their appearance, each one wanted to know what kind of life the other had led. Joseph Mourador, a Southerner, was a District Councillor. Frank of aspect, he talked quickly and without reserve, saying exactly what he thought without any consideration for the feelings of others. He was a Republican, one of those good-natured Republicans who make a virtue of being casual, and who stand for that freedom of speech which borders on brutality.
He visited his friend’s house, where, in spite of his advanced ideas, he was very popular on account of his easy cordiality. Madame de Méroul would exclaim: “What a pity! Such a charming man!” Monsieur de Méroul would say to his friend, seriously and confidentially: “You have no idea of the harm you are doing to our country.” Nevertheless he loved him, for nothing is stronger than the ties of childhood renewed in old age. Joseph Mourador bantered the husband and wife and called them “my dear slowcoaches,” and sometimes he would hold forth against old-fashioned people, against prejudice, and against tradition.
When he was engaged in this flow of democratic eloquence the couple, ill at ease, would keep silent out of politeness and good manners; then the husband would try to change the conversation so as to avoid hurting anyone’s feelings. Joseph Mourador never went to formal receptions at the De Mérouls’.
Then summer came, when the Mérouls’ greatest pleasure was to have their friends on a visit to their country-house at Tourbeville. They were actuated by a simple friendly feeling, the pleasure of kindly disposed folk, country landowners. They would go to the nearest station to meet their guests and bring them back in the carriage, on the lookout for compliments about the country, its luxuriant vegetation, the departmental roads, the cleanliness of the peasants’ houses, the size of the cattle to be seen in the fields, in fact everything within sight.
They would call attention to the remarkable speed with which their horse trotted, remarkable for an animal employed in the fields part of the year; and they would anxiously await the newcomer’s opinion on their family estate, sensitive to the least word, and grateful for the slightest kindly appreciation.
Joseph Mourador had received an invitation and had written to announce his arrival.
Husband and wife had gone to meet the train, delighted to welcome him to their home. As soon as he caught sight of them, Joseph Mourador leaped from the carriage with an enthusiasm that increased their pleasure; he shook hands with them, congratulating them, and overwhelming them with compliments.
All the way home he was charming: he was surprised at the height of the trees, the richness of the crops, and the speed of the horse. When he set foot on the threshold of the house, Monsieur de Méroul said with a certain friendly solemnity: “You are at home, now,” and Joseph Mourador replied: “Thanks, my friend, I was expecting to be so. Anyhow I never stand on ceremony with my friends. That’s not my idea of hospitality.”
Then he
