We were soon through the place, and the carriage turned into a rather pretentious garden, masquerading as a park, and stopped in front of a turreted house that did its best to be taken for a country mansion.
“This is my poor little place,” said Simon, fishing for a compliment.
“It’s delightful,” I replied.
On the front steps appeared a lady, attired for the visitor, with hair dressed for the visitor, and phrases prepared for the visitor. She was no longer the fair-haired, colourless girl whom I had seen at the church fifteen years before, but a stout, overdressed lady, one of those ladies with no age, no character, no elegance, no wit, nor any of the attributes that constitute a woman. She was merely a mother, a fat, commonplace mother, the breeder, the human broodmare, the procreating machine made of flesh, with no interests but her children and her cookery-book.
She bade me welcome, and I stepped into the hall, where three children stood arrayed in order according to their height, looking as though they were placed there for a review, like firemen before a mayor.
“Ah ha! so these are the others?” said I.
Simon, radiant, gave me their names: “Jean, Sophie and Gontran.”
The drawing room door was open. I went in, and saw in an armchair something that trembled, a man, an old paralysed man.
Madame Radevin came forward:
“That is my grandfather. He is eighty-seven.”
She shouted into the palsied old man’s ear:
“A friend of Simon’s, Grandpapa.”
Her ancestor made an effort to say good evening to me, and mumbled: “Wa, wa, wa,” waving his hand. “You are too kind, sir,” I replied, and sank into a chair.
Simon had just come in.
“Ah ha!” he laughed; “so you’ve made the acquaintance of Grandpa? He’s a treasure; he keeps the children constantly amused. He’s so greedy that every meal is nearly the death of him; you can’t imagine what he would eat if he were left to himself. But you’ll see for yourself. He leers at sweet things as if they were girls. You’ve never come across anything so funny; you’ll see presently.”
Then I was shown my room, to wash and dress, for it was nearly dinnertime. On the stairs I heard a great noise of footsteps, and turned round. All the children were following me in a procession, behind their father, doubtless to do me honour.
My room looked out over the plain, an endless, bare expanse, a sea of grass, wheat and oats, without a single clump of trees or the suspicion of a hill. It was a sad and striking image of life as it must be lived in that house.
A bell rang. It was for dinner. I went down.
Mme. Radevin took my arm with a ceremonial air and we went into the dining room. A servant was pushing up the old man’s armchair, and as soon as it was in position by his plate, he threw a greedy and inquisitive look towards the pudding, with difficulty turning his shaking head from one dish to the other.
Simon rubbed his hands. “You will be amused,” he said, and all the children, realising that I was to be regaled with the spectacle of greedy Grandpa, burst into a chorus of laughter, while their mother merely smiled and shrugged her shoulders.
Radevin made a megaphone with his hands and bawled at the old man:
“Sweet rice mould this evening.”
The ancient’s wrinkled face lit up and he trembled more violently from head to foot, to indicate that he had understood and was pleased.
Dinner was begun.
“Look,” murmured Simon. Grandpapa did not like the soup, and refused to eat it. He was forced to do so, for the sake of his health; the servant forcibly thrust a spoonful into his mouth, while he blew violently to keep from swallowing the broth; it spurted out like a fountain, all over the table and over those sitting nearest him.
The children shrieked with laughter, while their father, highly pleased, repeated: “Funny old man, isn’t he?”
Throughout the meal he monopolised the attention of the whole family. His eyes devoured the dishes on the table, and his frantically trembling hands tried to snatch them and pull them to him. Sometimes they were placed almost in his reach, so that the company might see his desperate efforts, his palsied clutches, the heartbroken appeal manifested in his whole body, his eyes, his mouth, his sensitive nose. His mouth watered so that he dribbled all over his napkin, uttering inarticulate whines. And the entire family was delighted by this odious and grotesque mode of torture.
Then a very small piece would be put on his plate, and he would eat it with feverish voracity, so that he might the sooner have something else.
When the sweet rice came, he almost had a fit. He moaned with longing.
“You have eaten too much; you shan’t have any,” shouted Gontran, and they made as though he were not to be given any.
Then he began to cry. And as he wept he trembled still more violently, while all the children roared with laughter.
At last his portion, a very small one, was given him; and, as he ate the first mouthful of the sweet, he made a comically gluttonous noise in his throat, and a movement of the neck like that of a duck swallowing too large a morsel of food.
When he had finished, he began to stamp his feet for more.
Seized with pity at the heartrending spectacle of the tortures inflicted on this ridiculous Tantalus, I implored my friend on his behalf:
“Do give him a little more rice.”
“Oh! no, my dear chap,” replied Simon; “if he ate too much at his age, it might be bad for him.”
I was silent, musing on this speech. O Morality, O Logic, O Wisdom! At his age! So, they deprived him of the only pleasure he could still enjoy, out of care for his health! His health! What was that inert and palsied wreck to do with his health if he had it? Were they husbanding
