Well, a letter was brought in while we were at table. Papa opened it, read it, then looked at mamma and said: “Your brother is on the point of death.” Mamma turned pale. My uncle’s name was hardly even spoken in the house. I did not know the whole story. I only knew that common gossip had it that he had led and was leading a wild life. After wasting his fortune in the company of an incredible number of women, he had kept for himself only two mistresses, with whom he lived in a small apartment in the Rue des Martyrs.
An old peer of France and an old cavalry colonel, he believed, they say, neither in God nor the devil. Doubting the existence of a future life, he had misused this one in every conceivable way; and he had become the gnawing canker of mamma’s heart.
“Give me the letter, Paul,” said she.
When she had finished reading it, I asked for it too. This is what it said:
“Monsieur le comte, I think it’s only right to tell you your brother-in-law the Marquis de Fumerol is dying. Perhaps you’ll be wanting to see about the will, and don’t forget it was me warned you.
Papa murmured: “We must act prudently. In my position, I ought to keep an eye on your brother’s last moments.”
Mamma answered: “I will send for Father Poivron, and ask his advice. Then I, the abbé, and Roger will go to see my brother. You stay here, Paul. You must not be compromised. A woman can and must do these things. But it’s quite another matter for a political man in your position. An enemy would like nothing better than to turn against you your most praiseworthy actions.”
“You are right,” said my father. “Do what you think best, my dear.”
A quarter of an hour later, Father Poivron entered the drawing room and the situation was set out, analysed and discussed in all its phases.
If the Marquis de Fumerol, one of the great names of France, died without the offices of religion, the blow would assuredly be a terrible one for the nobility in general and the Comte de Tourneville in particular. The freethinkers would triumph. The gutter press would rejoice over the victory for six months; my mother’s name would be dragged in the mud and the columns of socialist rags; and my father’s name covered with infamy. Such a thing could not be allowed to happen.
So it was at once agreed to make a crusade, with Father Poivron as leader; he was a neat plump little priest, faintly perfumed, a typical vicar of a big church in a rich and aristocratic quarter.
A landau was made ready and the three of us set out, mamma, the priest and I, to administer the last sacraments to my uncle.
It had been decided that we should see first the writer of the letter, Mme. Mélanie, who was doubtless the janitress or my uncle’s servant.
I got out at a seven-storied house to reconnoitre the position and I walked into a dark passage where I had the greatest difficulty in finding the porter’s obscure den. The man eyed me contemptuously.
“Can I see Mme. Mélanie?” I asked.
“Don’t know her.”
“But I’ve had a letter from her.”
“Very likely, but I don’t know her. Is it some wench or other you’re wanting?”
“No, a servant probably. She wrote to me about a place.”
“A servant? … a servant? … Maybe it’s her the Marquis has. Go and see, fifth floor on the left.”
As soon as he knew I was not looking for a woman of the town, he had become more friendly and he stepped out into the passage. He was a tall thin fellow with drooping, white whiskers; his gestures were magnificent and he had the air of a verger.
I ran up a long greasy spiral staircase, not daring to touch the rail, and I gave three discreet knocks on the door of the fifth floor left.
It opened immediately; and a slovenly massive woman stood in front of me, barring the entrance with open arms stretched across the doorway.
“What d’you want?” she growled.
“You are Madame Mélanie?”
“Yes.”
“I am the Vicomte de Tourneville.”
“Good. Come in.”
“Well—er … mamma is downstairs with a priest.”
“Good. Go and fetch them. But mind the porter.”
I went down and came back again with mamma, followed by the abbé. I thought I heard other footsteps behind us.
As soon as we were in the kitchen, Mélanie drew out chairs and we all four sat down to consider the situation.
“Is he very low?” mama asked.
“Oh, yes, Madame, he is not long for this world.”
“Does he seem disposed to receive the attention of a priest?”
“Oh … I don’t think so.”
“Can I see him?”
“Well … yes … Madame … but … but … there’s those young women with him.”
“What young women?”
“Well—er … his friends.”
“Ah.”
Mamma had blushed crimson.
Father Poivron lowered his eyes.
I was beginning to find it amusing and I said:
“Suppose I were to go in first. I should see how he received me and I could perhaps prepare his heart.”
My malice was lost on mamma, who answered:
“Yes, do, my child.”
But a door opened somewhere and a voice, a woman’s voice, called:
“Mélanie.”
The clumsy servant jumped up and answered:
“What is it you want, Mamzelle Claire?”
“The omelette, at once.”
“In a minute, Mamzelle.”
And turning to us, she explained this request.
“They ordered me to make a cheese omelette at two o’clock for lunch.”
Whereupon she broke the eggs into a salad bowl and began to beat them vigorously.
I went out on to the staircase and rang the bell by way of an official announcement of my arrival.
Mélanie opened the door, gave me a seat in an anteroom, went to tell my uncle I was there, then returned and asked me to come in.
The abbé hid himself behind the door, ready to make an appearance at the first sign.
The first sight of my uncle certainly surprised me. He was very handsome, very majestic, very elegant, the old rake.
Sitting, almost reclining
