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A matter of a thousand a year!" "Clear profit?" "Yes." "That's good enough. But in the country, my poor fellow, in the country!" "It would be the death of you, wouldn't it?" "In forty-eight hours." "However did you manage to be born there, Larive? I'm surprised at you." "So am I. I often think about it. Good-by. I must be off." I caught him by the hand which he held out to me.
In the village were some people of our acquaintance who frequently visited my father. My door was closed to them, although I regretted it; but I could not see any one, with patience. Some time, when sure to be free from interruption, I hoped to examine my father's papers. Finally, Larive brought them to me, and untying the package with trembling hand, spread them before me.
The tears of his eyes are sisters of the rose; the leaves of the willow are themselves tears. It is when I look at the sky, the woods and the prairies, that I understand men who seek consolation. Larive had no more desire to console me than to console himself. At the time of my father's death he feared I would sell the property and take him to Paris.
Every one knows Larive, head clerk in Machin's office. He is to be seen everywhere a tall, fair man, with little closetrimmed beard, and moustache carefully twisted. He is always perfectly dressed, always in a tall hat and new gloves, full of all the new stories, which he tells as his own.
When I returned home to dinner I said to Larive: "Who is Madame Pierson?" He looked at me in astonishment. "You have lived here many years," I continued; "you ought to know better than I. What do they say of her here? What do they think of her in the village? What kind of life did she lead before I knew her? Whom did she receive as her friends?"
I had no thoughts; within, all was silence; I had received such a violent blow, and yet one that was so prolonged in its effects, that I remained a purely passive being and there seemed to be no reaction. My servant, Larive by name, had been much attached to my father; he was, after my father himself, probably the best man I had ever known.
My thoughts were so confused that I had no recollection of what had happened. The day passed; toward evening I heard the sound of instruments. It was the Sunday dance and I asked Larive to go and see if Madame Pierson was there. He did not find her; I sent him to her house.
And old Michu added, in a whisper, "You have passed. I told you so. You won't forget old Michu, sir." M. Flamaran conferred my degree with a paternal smile, and a few kind words for "this conscientious study, full of fresh ideas on a difficult subject." I bowed to the examiners. Larive was waiting for me in the courtyard, and seized me by the arm. "Uncle Mouillard will be pleased."
I wish to express my regret that I was charged to communicate a message which appeared so unwelcome." I returned his compliment, supposing he would leave me at once; but he walked along at my side. "Dalens! Dalens!" I repeated, between my teeth, "who will tell me about Dalens?" For Larive had told me nothing except what a valet might learn. From whom had he learned it?
Every one knows Larive, head clerk in Machin's office. He is to be seen everywhere a tall, fair man, with little closetrimmed beard, and moustache carefully twisted. He is always perfectly dressed, always in a tall hat and new gloves, full of all the new stories, which he tells as his own.
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