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Just as formerly, when he would hesitate about taking some larger place of business, he could not make up his mind to any decision. "There is always time," he would say to himself. Denis continued to show himself an admirable servant. M. Marambot was well. He kept him. One morning, just as he was finishing breakfast, he suddenly heard a great noise in the kitchen. He hastened in there.
His reputation as a drunkard became so well known and spread so far that even at Evreux they talked of Mme. Husson's "Rosier," and the sots of the countryside have been given that nickname. A good deed is never lost. Dr. Marambot rubbed his hands as he finished his story. I asked: "Did you know the 'Rosier'?" "Yes. I had the honor of closing his eyes." "What did he die of?"
He then handed his servant four letters for the mail. One of them was addressed to M. Malois; it was undoubtedly a receipt for the money. Denis asked his master no questions; he appeared to be as sad and gloomy that day as he had seemed joyful the day before. Night came. M. Marambot went to bed as usual and slept. He was awakened by a strange noise. He sat up in his bed and listened.
I perceived that I was eating something very delicious, hard-boiled eggs wrapped in a covering of meat jelly flavored with herbs and put on ice for a few moments. I said as I smacked my lips to compliment Marambot: "That is good." He smiled. "Two things are necessary, good jelly, which is hard to get, and good eggs.
Just read those on my desk." With a final effort, he reached for his matches and lit the candle. He was covered with blood. His sheets, his curtains, and even the walls, were spattered with red. Denis, standing in the middle of the room, was also bloody from head to foot. When he saw the blood, M. Marambot thought himself dead, and fell unconscious. At break of day he revived.
He spent days and nights without sleep, never leaving the sick room, preparing drugs, broths, potions, feeling his pulse, anxiously counting the beats, attending him with the skill of a trained nurse and the devotion of a son. He continually asked: "Well, monsieur, how do you feel?" M. Marambot would answer in a weak voice: "A little better, my boy, thank you."
He was none the less dangerous." Marambot, wiping his eyes, answered: "Well, your honor, what can you expect? Nowadays it's so hard to find good servants I could never have found a better one." Denis was acquitted and put in a sanatorium at his master's expense. It had been a stag dinner. These men still came together once in a while without their wives as they had done when they were bachelors.
For twenty years Denis has been a servant in this house. He was a short, stout, jovial man, who was known throughout the countryside as a model servant. He asked: "Is monsieur pleased? Has monsieur received good news?" M. Marambot was not rich. He was an old village druggist, a bachelor, who lived on an income acquired with difficulty by selling drugs to the farmers. He answered: "Yes, my boy.
His reputation as a drunkard became so well known and spread so far that even at Evreux they talked of Mme. Husson's "Rosier," and the sots of the countryside have been given that nickname. A good deed is never lost. Dr. Marambot rubbed his hands as he finished his story. I asked: "Did you know the 'Rosier'?" "Yes. I had the honor of closing his eyes." "What did he die of?"
M. Marambot, bewildered and distressed at being suspected, lifted his hand: "I swear to you before the Lord, my boy that I did not tell on you. I haven't the slightest idea how the police could have found out about your attack on me." The officer started: "You say that he attacked you, M. Marambot?"
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