“Yes, father.”
“Well, I kept a girl at Rouen, number 18 Rue de l’Eperlan, the second door on the third floor—I am telling you all this, don’t forget—this young girl has been as nice as nice to me, loving, devoted, a real wife. You understand, my lad?”
“Yes, father.”
“Well, if I am taken, I owe her something, something substantial that will place her out of the reach of want. You understand?”
“Yes, father.”
“I tell you she is good, really good, and but for you and the memory of your mother and also because we three lived here together in this house, I would have brought her here, and then married her, sure enough … listen … listen … my lad, I might have made a will … I have not done so! I did not want to … you must never write things down … not things of that sort … it is bad for the rightful heirs … then it muddles up everything … it ruins everyone. … Look you, never go in for legal documents, never have anything to do with them. If I am rich it is because I have avoided them all my life. You understand, my boy!”
“Yes, father.”
“Now listen. … Listen attentively. … So I have made no will. … I did not want to. … Besides, I know you, you are kindhearted, you are not greedy, not stingy. I said to myself that when I saw the end within sight, I would tell you all about it and would beg you not to forget my darling: Caroline Donet, 18 Rue de l’Eperlan, the second door on the right, don’t forget. Further, go there directly I am gone—and make such arrangements that she will have no reason to complain. You have plenty. … You can spare it.—I am leaving you well provided for. Listen! You won’t find her at home on weekdays. She works at Madame Moreau’s in the Rue Beauvoisine. Go on a Thursday. She always expects me on Thursdays. It has been my day for six years. Poor thing, how she will cry! I tell you all this, my boy, because I know you so well. You cannot tell these things to everybody, either to the notary or to the priest. These things happen, everyone knows that, but no one talks about them except when they are obliged. Then again there must be no outsider in the secret, nobody except the family, because a family is the same as an individual! You understand?”
“Yes, father.”
“You promise?”
“Yes, father.”
“You swear to this?”
“Yes, father.”
“I beg, I pray, do not forget, my boy. It means so much to me.”
“No, father.”
“You will go yourself. I want you to make sure of everything.”
“Yes, father.”
“And then, you will see … you will see what she says. I can’t tell you more about it. You swear?”
“Yes, father.”
“That’s right, my boy. Embrace me. Adieu, I am done for, I know it. Tell the others they may come in.”
The son embraced his father, sobbing as he did so, then, obedient as usual, he opened the door and the priest appeared in a white surplice carrying the holy oils.
But the dying man had closed his eyes and refused to open them again, he would not make any response nor would he make any sign to show that he understood.
The man had talked enough, he could not continue. Besides, he now felt quiet in his mind and wanted to die in peace. He felt no need to confess to the priest when he had just made his confession to his son who at all events belonged to the family.
Surrounded by his friends and servants on their bended knees, he received the last rites, was purified, and was given absolution, no change of expression on his face showing that he still lived.
He died towards midnight after four hours of convulsive movements indicating terrible suffering.
II
He was buried on Tuesday, the shooting season having opened on Sunday. On returning home from the cemetery César Hautot spent the rest of the day weeping. He scarcely slept that night and felt so sad when he awoke that he wondered how he could manage to go on living.
However, until evening he kept on thinking that in accordance with his father’s dying wish he must go to Rouen the following day, and see this girl, Caroline Donet, who lived at 18 Rue de l’Eperlan, the second door on the third story. He went on repeating the name and address under his breath—just as a prayer is repeated—so as not to forget, and he ended by stammering them unceasingly, without thinking about anything, to such a point had his mind become obsessed by the set phrase.
Accordingly, about eight o’clock next day he ordered Graindorge to be harnessed to the tilbury and set out at the long, swinging pace of the heavy Norman horse along the high road from Ainville to Rouen. He was wearing a black frock-coat, a silk hat, and trousers strapped under his shoes. Owing to the circumstances he had not put on his flowing blue blouse, so easily taken off at the journey’s end, over his black clothes to protect them from dust and dirt.
He got to Rouen just as it was striking ten, put up as usual at the Hôtel des Bons Enfants, in the Rue des Trois-Mariés, submitted to being embraced by the landlord, his wife and their five sons, for they had heard the sad news; later on he had to tell them all about the accident, which made him shed tears, repel their offers of service thrust upon him on account of his wealth, and even refuse luncheon, which hurt their feelings.
Having wiped the dust off his hat, brushed his coat and cleaned his boots, he started off to seek the Rue de l’Eperlan without daring to make any inquiries, for fear of being recognised and of arousing suspicion.
At last, unable to find
