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Updated: June 19, 2025
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 been expecting what she said; my resolution was soon taken, and I decided to go away. I arose, my heart bleeding but firm. I looked at the house, at her window; I opened the garden-gate and placed my lips on the lock as I passed out. When I reached home I told Larive to make what preparations were necessary, as I would set out in the morning.
Even I, who can not entirely share this optimism, feel that I incline to the side of hope. When I reached home, the porter handed me two cards from Larive. On the first I read: CH. LARIVE, Managing Clerk. The second, on glazed cardboard, announced, likewise in initials, another piece of news: CH. LARIVE, Formerly Managing Clerk.
When he was about ten yards off he turned, and making a speaking-trumpet of his hands, he shouted through them: "She's perfection!" Larive is decidedly an ass. His jokes strike you as funny at first; but there's nothing in him, he's a mere hawker of stale puns; there's nothing but selfishness under his jesting exterior. I have no belief in him.
When Larive entered the room to serve me, he saw it; he hesitated, looked at the portrait and then at me; in his eyes there shone a melancholy joy that I could not fail to understand. It seemed to say: "What happiness! We are to suffer here in peace!" I gave him my hand, which he covered with tears and kisses. He looked upon my grief as the mistress of his own.
When Larive entered the room to serve me, he saw it; he hesitated, looked at the portrait, and then at me, in his eyes there shone a melancholy joy that I could not fail to understand. It seemed to say: "What happiness! We are to suffer here in peace!" I gave him my hand which he covered with tears and kisses. He looked upon my grief as the mistress of his own.
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.
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.
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."
In the village were some people of our acquaintance who frequently visited us. 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.
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