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Updated: June 4, 2025
"No, on the payment of debts!" "Oh, you naughty old man! You ought to be shut up!" M. Flamaran, though somewhat put out of countenance for the moment, was seized with a happy inspiration. He stretched out an arm to show that he was about to speak.
M. Flamaran, somewhat ill at ease, cast inquiring glances on the clearings in the sgrubberies. I thought I heard stifled laughter behind the trees. "You have engaged Chestnut Number Three, gentlemen," said the proprietor. "Up these stairs, please." We ascended a staircase winding around the trunk.
For a long time I used to think that these qualities stood them in lieu of virtues. That was a slander; there are plenty of Parisiennes endowed with every virtue; I even know a few who are angels." At this point, M. Flamaran looked me straight in the eyes, and, as I made no reply, he added: "I know one, at least: Jeanne Charnot. Are you listening?" "Yes, Monsieur Flamaran." "Isn't she a paragon?"
I saw M. Charnot get up, approach him, and hold out his hand. "I did not wish you to say anything else, Monsieur; that is enough for me. Flamaran asked my daughter's hand for your friend only this morning. Flamaran loses no time when charged with a commission. He, too, told me much that was good of your friend. I also questioned Counsellor Boule.
Do you think you're too young to marry?" "No." "Do you fancy, perhaps, that she is still bound by that unfortunate engagement?" "I trust she is not." "I'm quite sure she is not. She is free, I tell you, as free as you. Well, why don't you love her?" "But I do love her, Monsieur Flamaran!" "Why, then, I congratulate you, my boy!" He leaned across the table and gave me a hearty grasp of the hand.
The matter really was a new line, invented by M. Jupille, cast a little further than an ordinary one, and rigged up with a float like a raft, carrying a little clapper. The fish rang their own knell as they took the hook. "It's rattling like mad!" cried Jupille, "and you don't stir! I couldn't have thought it of you, Monsieur Flamaran."
They are greatly in demand at the dinner hour; you dine thirty feet up in the air, and your food is brought up by a rope and pulley. When M. Flamaran appeared on the platform he took off his hat, and leaned with both hands on the railing to give a look around. The attitude suggested a public speaker. His big gray head was conspicuous in the light of the setting sun.
"Jupille!" exclaimed M. Flamaran, "you have shipwrecked us! This is Crusoe's land; and what the dickens do you mean by it?" The old clerk, utterly discomfited, and wearing that hangdog look which he always assumed at the slightest rebuke from Counsellor Boule, pulled a face as long as his arm, went up to M. Flamaran and whispered a word in his ear. "Upon my word!
My friend Flamaran had to tell me that I was to be seen at the last Salon, together with my daughter, sitting on a tree-trunk in the forest of Saint-Germain. Is it true, Monsieur, that you drew me sitting on a trunk?" "Quite true." "That's a trifle too rustic for a man who does not go outside of Paris three times a year. And my daughter you drew in profile a good likeness, I believe."
I owed my introduction to Jeanne to Monsieur Flamaran, who drove me to call on her father; his friend; you courted her for me by painting her portrait; Madame Plumet told her you had done so, and also removed the obstacle in my path. I met her in Italy, thanks entirely to you; and you clinched the proposal which had been begun by Flamaran.
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