Original Short Stories – Volume 09

“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 editorial 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 excursion we will 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 chicken’s feathers in its hair and looked as though it would devour me.

“‘What do you want?’ she said.

“‘Mr. Boivin.’

“‘What do you want of him, of Mr. Boivin?’

“I felt ill at ease on being questioned by this fury. I stammered: ‘Why-he expects me.’

“‘Ah, it is you who have come to luncheon?’

“‘Yes,’ I stammered, trembling.

“Then, turning toward the house, she cried in an angry tone:

“‘Boivin, 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 stove. 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 neighbors’ 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? To-day, 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 water it 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 of my trousers were soaking and covered with mud. And twenty times running I kept it up, soaking my feet afresh each time, and perspiring anew as I worked the handle of the pump. And when I was tired out and wanted to stop, Boivin, in a tone of entreaty, said as he put his hand on my arm:

“Just one more watering pot full – just one, and that will be all.’

“To thank me he gave me a rose, a big rose, but hardly had it touched my button-hole than it fell to pieces, leaving only a hard little green knot as a decoration. I was surprised, but said nothing.

“Mme. Boivin’s voice was heard in the distance:

“‘Are you ever coming? When you know that luncheon is ready!’

“We went toward the foot stove. If the garden was in the shade, the house, on the other hand, was in the blazing sun, and the sweating room in the Turkish bath is not as hot as was my friend’s dining room.

“Three plates at the side of which were some half-washed forks, were placed on a table of yellow wood in the middle of which stood an earthenware dish containing boiled beef and potatoes. We began to eat.

“A large water bottle full of water lightly colored with wine attracted my attention. Boivin, embarrassed, said to his wife:

“‘See here, my dear, just on a special occasion, are you not going to give us some plain wine?’

“She looked at him furiously.

“‘So that you may both get tipsy, is that it, and stay here gabbing all day? A fig for your special occasion!’

“He said no more. After the stew she brought in another dish of potatoes cooked with bacon. When this dish was finished, still in silence, she announced:

“‘That is all! Now get out!’

“Boivin looked at her in astonishment.

“‘But the pigeon – the pigeon you plucked this morning?’

“She put her hands on her hips:

“‘Perhaps you have not had enough? Because you bring people here is no reason why we should devour all that there is in the house. What is there for me to eat this evening?’

“We rose. Solvin whispered

“‘Wait for me a second, and we will skip.’

“He went into the kitchen where his wife had gone, and I overheard him say:

“‘Give me twenty sous, my dear.’

“‘What do you want with twenty sons?’

“‘Why, one does not know what may happen. It is always better to have some money.’

“She yelled so that I should hear:

“‘No, I will not give it to you! As the man has had luncheon here, the least he can do is to pay your expenses for the day.’