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Updated: July 23, 2025
After such a story, I certainly could never again look you in the face, but that I can clear myself by assuring you at once that all this tale was nothing but a mystification, invented as a return for some of his impertinent chaff regarding my uncle Barbassou's will. Louis fell into the trap like any booby. But for him to have drawn you with him, is enough to make me die of shame.
When he reached home, Baia had gone to the baths, the negress seemed to him ugly, the house dismal, and prey to an indefinable melancholy, he went and sat by the fountain and filled his pipe with Barbassou's tobacco. The tobacco had been wrapped in a fragment of paper torn from "The Semaphore" and when he spread it out the name of his home town caught his eye.
Although his great soul refused to credit anything, Barbassou's insinuations had vexed him, and the familiar adjurations and home accent had awakened vague remorse. He found nobody at home, Baya having gone out to the bath. The negress appeared sinister and the dwelling saddening. A prey to inexpressible melancholy, he went and sat down by the fountain to load a pipe with Barbassou's tobacco.
Still, some kind of restrictions are necessary in families, and I have warned her that, if it continues, I shall stop "the late Barbassou's" credit, seeing that he is dead. "You see what a simple matter it is, as my uncle says," I added. But she only laughed again, louder than ever. We have got on no further. Louis, go and hang yourself! I was married yesterday, and you were not there!
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