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General Lariviere fell into dreams. "When public clamor has split my ears," he said to his neighbor, "I shall go to live at Tours. I shall cultivate flowers." He flattered himself on being a good gardener; his name had been given to a rose. This pleased him highly. Schmoll asked again if they knew the parable of the three rings. The Princess rallied the Deputy.
Next, Augustus found more horseshoes than his papers called for. "That man gif me der stomach pain efry day," wailed Schmoll to Sergeant Casey. "I tell him, 'Lieutenant, dose horseshoes is expendable. We don't acgount for efry shoe like they was men's shoes, und oder dings dot is issued. 'I prefer to cake them cop! says Baby Bismarck. Und he smile mit his two beaver teeth."
In veiled words he announced catastrophes. His timorous phrases came through the flowers, and irritated M. Schmoll, who began to grumble and to prophesy. He explained that Christian nations were incapable, alone and by themselves, of throwing off barbarism, and that without the Jews and the Arabs Europe would be to-day, as in the time of the Crusades, sunk in ignorance, misery, and cruelty.
When he had gone, the Countess Martin asked ingenuously of Paul Vence if he knew why that good Madame Marmet had looked at M. Schmoll with such marked though silent anger. He was surprised that she did not know. "I never know anything," she said. "But the quarrel between Schmoll and Marmet is famous. It ceased only at the death of Marmet. "The day that poor Marmet was buried, snow was falling.
He was not decorated enough, not provided with sinecures enough, nor well fed enough by the State he, Madame Schmoll, and their five daughters. His lamentations had some grandeur. Something of the soul of Ezekiel and of Jeremiah was in them. Unfortunately, turning his golden-spectacled eyes toward the table, he discovered Vivian Bell's book. "Oh, 'Yseult La Blonde'," he exclaimed, bitterly.
He was not decorated enough, not provided with sinecures enough, nor well fed enough by the State he, Madame Schmoll, and their five daughters. His lamentations had some grandeur. Something of the soul of Ezekiel and of Jeremiah was in them. Unfortunately, turning his golden-spectacled eyes toward the table, he discovered Vivian Bell's book. "Oh, 'Yseult La Blonde'," he exclaimed, bitterly.
Perhaps it was a letter to Madame Schmoll, who was not a friend of Madame Marmet, but immediately he realized that this idea was foolish. All was clear. She had a lover. She was writing to him. Perhaps she was saying to him: "I saw Dechartre to-day; the poor fellow is deeply in love with me." But whether she wrote that or something else, she had a lover. He had not thought of that.
Madame Garain, her chin softly dropped on her chest, slept in the peace of her housewifely mind, and dreamed of her vegetable garden on the banks of the Loire, where singing-societies came to serenade her. Joseph Schmoll and General Lariviere came out of the smoking-room. The General took a seat between Princess Seniavine and Madame Martin.
Opposite him, on the other side of the table, Countess Martin, having by her side General Lariviere and M. Schmoll, member of the Academie des Inscriptions, caressed with her fan her smooth white shoulders.
We were wet and frozen to the bones. At the grave, in the wind, in the mud, Schmoll read under his umbrella a speech full of jovial cruelty and triumphant pity, which he took afterward to the newspapers in a mourning carriage. An indiscreet friend let Madame Marmet hear of it, and she fainted. Is it possible, Madame, that you have not heard of this learned and ferocious quarrel?
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