Old Mongilet
In the office old Mongilet was looked upon as an eccentric. He was an old employee, a good-natured creature, who had never been outside Paris but once in his life.
It was the end of July, and each of us, every Sunday, went to roll in the grass, or bathe in the river in the country near by. Asnières, Argenteuil, Chatou, Bougival, Maisons, Poissy, had their habitués and their ardent admirers. We argued about the merits and advantages of all these places, celebrated and delightful to all employees in Paris.
Old Mongilet would say:
“You are like a lot of sheep! A nice place, this country you talk of!”
And we would ask:
“Well, how about you, Mongilet? Don’t you ever go on an excursion?”
“Yes, indeed. I go in an omnibus. When I have had a good luncheon, without any hurry, at the wine shop below, I look up my route with a plan of Paris, and the timetable of the lines and connections. And then I climb up on top of the bus, open my umbrella and off we go. Oh, I see lots of things, more than you, I bet! I change my surroundings. It is as though I were taking a journey across the world, the people are so different in one street and another. I know my Paris better than anyone. And then, there is nothing more amusing than the entresols. You would not believe what one sees in there at a glance. One can guess a domestic scene simply at the sight of the face of a man who is roaring; one is amused on passing by a barber’s shop, to see the barber leave his customer whose face is covered with lather to look out in the street. One exchanges heartfelt glances with the milliners just for fun, as one has no time to alight. Ah, how many things one sees!
“It is the drama, the real, the true, the drama of nature, seen as the horses trot by. Heavens! I would not give my excursions in the omnibus for all your stupid excursions in the woods.”
“Come and try it, Mongilet, come to the country once just to see.”
“I was there once,” he replied, “twenty years ago, and you will never catch me there again.”
“Tell us about it, Mongilet.”
“If you wish to hear it. This is how it was: You knew Boivin, the old clerk, whom we called Boileau?”
“Yes, perfectly.”
“He was my office chum. The rascal had a house at Colombes and always invited me to spend Sunday with him. He would say:
“ ‘Come along, Maculotte (he called me Maculotte for fun). You will see what a nice walk we shall take.’
“I let myself be entrapped like an animal, and set out, one morning by the 8 o’clock train. I arrived at a kind of town, a country town where there is nothing to see, and I at length found my way to an old wooden door with an iron bell, at the end of an alley between two walls.
“I rang, and waited a long time, and at last the door was opened. What was it that opened it? I could not tell at the first glance. A woman or an ape? The creature was old, ugly, covered with old clothes that looked dirty and wicked. It had chickens’ feathers in its hair and looked as though it would devour me.
“ ‘What do you want?’ she said.
“ ‘M. Boivin.’
“ ‘What do you want of him, of M. Boivin?’
“I felt ill at ease on being questioned by this fury. I stammered: ‘Why—he expects me.’
“ ‘Ah, it is you who are coming to lunch?’
“ ‘Yes,’ I stammered, trembling.
“Then, turning toward the house, she cried in an angry tone:
“ ‘Bovin, here is your man!’
“It was my friend’s wife. Little Boivin appeared immediately on the threshold of a sort of barrack of plaster covered with zinc, that looked like a foot-warmer. He wore white duck trousers covered with stains and a dirty Panama hat.
“After shaking my hands warmly, he took me into what he called his garden. It was at the end of another alleyway enclosed by high walls and was a little square the size of a pocket-handkerchief, surrounded by houses that were so high that the sun could reach it only two or three hours in the day. Pansies, pinks, wallflowers and a few rose bushes were languishing in this well without air, and hot as an oven from the refraction of heat from the roofs.
“ ‘I have no trees,’ said Boivin, ‘but the neighbours’ walls take their place. I have as much shade as in a wood.’
“Then he took hold of a button of my coat and said in a low tone:
“ ‘You can do me a service. You saw the wife. She is not agreeable, eh? Today, as I had invited you, she gave me clean clothes; but if I spot them all is lost. I counted on you to water my plants.’
“I agreed. I took off my coat, rolled up my sleeves, and began to work the handle of a kind of pump that wheezed, puffed and rattled like a consumptive as it emitted a thread of water like a Wallace drinking fountain. It took me ten minutes to fill the watering-pot, and I was in a bath of perspiration. Boivin directed me:
“ ‘Here—this plant—a little more; enough—now this one.’
“The watering-pot leaked and my feet got more water than the flowers. The bottoms
