to the wives of their friends—not to the husbands—so he left his last remembrance to me rather than to you. It is as simple as that.”
She was so calm, so natural, that Serbois hesitated. Then: “Still, it would make a very bad impression. Everyone would believe the other thing. We cannot accept.”
“Then we won’t accept. It will be a million less in our pockets, that’s all.”
He began to talk the way one thinks aloud, without addressing his wife directly. “Yes, a million—impossible—our reputations would be ruined—too bad—he should have left half to me … that would have taken care of everything.” And he sat down, crossed his legs and played with his whiskers—always his behavior at moments of deep meditation.
Mme. Serbois opened her work basket, took out a bit of embroidery and began to sew. “I don’t in the least insist on accepting. It is up to you to think about it.”
For a long time he did not answer; then, hesitantly: “Look—there would be one way, perhaps. You could sign half over to me, by deed of gift. We have no children: it would be perfectly legal. In that way nobody could talk.”
She said, seriously: “I don’t quite see how that would keep them from talking.”
He lost his temper: “You must be stupid. We’ll tell everyone that he left each of us half: and it will be true. No need to explain that the will was in your name.”
Once again she gave him a piercing look. “As you like. I am willing.”
Then he rose and resumed his pacing. He appeared to hesitate again, although by now his face was radiant. “No—perhaps it would be better to renounce it altogether—more dignified—still—in this way nothing could be said. … Even the most scrupulous could find nothing to object to. … Yes—that solves everything. …”
He stood close to his wife. “So, if you like, my darling, I’ll go back alone to Maître Lemaneur and consult him and explain. I will tell him that you prefer this arrangement, that it is more fitting, that it will stop gossip. My accepting half shows that I am on sure ground, perfectly acquainted with the whole situation, that I know everything to be honorable and clear. It is as though I said to you, ‘Accept, my dear: why shouldn’t you, since I do?’ Otherwise it would really be undignified.”
“As you wish,” said Mme. Serbois, simply.
He went on, speaking fluently now: “Yes, by dividing the legacy everything is made crystal clear. We inherit from a friend who wanted to make no difference between us, who didn’t want to seem to be saying, ‘I prefer one of you to the other after my death, just as I did during my life.’ And you may be sure that if he had reflected a little, that is what he would have done. He didn’t think, he didn’t foresee the consequences. As you rightly said, it was to you that he always gave presents. It was to you that he wanted to offer a last remembrance.”
She stopped, a shade impatiently. “All right, I understand. You don’t have to do so much explaining. Now go to the notary.”
He stammered, blushing, suddenly confused. “You’re right. I’m going.”
He took his hat, and approaching her he held out his lips for a kiss, murmuring, “I’ll be back soon, my darling.”
She held up her forehead and he gave her a big kiss, his thick whiskers tickling her cheeks.
Then he went out, beaming happily.
And Madame Serbois let her embroidery fall and began to weep.
The Keeper
After dinner we were recounting shooting adventures and accidents.
An old friend of ours, Monsieur Boniface, a great slayer of beasts and drinker of wine, a strong and debonair fellow, full of wit, sense, and a philosophy at once ironical and resigned, which revealed itself in biting humour and never in melancholy, spoke abruptly:
“I know a shooting story, or rather a shooting drama, that’s queer enough. It’s not in the least like the usual tale of the kind, and I’ve never told it before; I didn’t suppose that anyone would be interested in it.
“It’s not very pleasant, if you know what I mean. I mean to say that it does not possess the kind of interest which affects, or charms, or agreeably excites.
“Anyhow, here it is.
“In those days I was about thirty-five, and mad on shooting. At that time I owned a very lovely piece of land on the outskirts of Jumièges, surrounded by forests and excellent for hares and rabbits. I used only to spend four or five days there a year, by myself, the limited accommodation not permitting of my bringing a friend.
“I had installed there as keeper an old retired policeman, a good man, hot-tempered and very conscientious in the performance of his duties, a terror to poachers, and afraid of nothing. He lived by himself, some way out of the village, in a little house, or rather a hovel, consisting of two ground-floor rooms, a kitchen and a small storeroom, and of two more rooms on the first floor. One of these, a sort of box just large enough for a bed, a chest of drawers, and a chair, was reserved for me.
“Old Cavalier occupied the other. In saying that he was alone in this cottage, I expressed myself badly. He had taken with him his nephew, a hobbledehoy of fourteen, who fetched the provisions from the village two miles off, and helped the old man in his daily duties.
“This youth was tall, thin, and somewhat stooping; his hair was so pale a yellow that it looked like the down on a plucked hen, and so thin that he appeared to be bald. He had enormous feet and colossal hands, the hands of a giant.
“He squinted a little and never looked anyone straight in the face. He gave one the impression that he occupied in the human race the place that the musk-secreting beasts hold in the animal kingdom. He was a polecat or a fox, was that boy.
“He slept
