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Updated: May 3, 2025
"I am all right, sir; it's my Junian Latins who are not getting on." "You don't say so. We must look into that. But before we begin I forget where you come from. I like to know where people come from." "From La Chatre. But I spend my vacations at Bourges with my Uncle Mouillard." "Yes, yes, Mouillart with a t, isn't it?" "No, with a d."
My uncle did not return, and I could find no fresh expedient. As I made my way, vexed and unhappy, to the station, I kept asking myself the question that I had been turning over in vain for the last hour: "I have said nothing to Monsieur Mouillard. Had I better say anything now to Monsieur Charnot?"
He has a box full of them; and in the simplicity of his heart Monsieur Mouillard has a lurking respect for this nephew, this modern young anchorite, who spends his days at the National Library, his nights with Gaius, wholly absorbed in the Junian Latins, and indifferent to whatsoever does not concern the Junian Latins in this Paris which my uncle still calls the Modern Babylon.
On his way he flipped a rosebud covered with blight, kicked off a snail which was crawling on the path; then, halfway down the path, he suddenly raised his head and gave a look at his disturber. His bent brows grew smooth, his eyes round with the stress of surprise. "Is it possible? Monsieur Charnot of the Institute!" "The same, Monsieur Mouillard." "And this is Mademoiselle Jeanne?"
Behind us, at some distance in fact, as far off as we could manage the gravel crackled beneath the equal tread of the two elders, and in a murmur we could catch occasional scraps of sentences: "A granddaughter like Jeanne, Monsieur Charnot . . . ." "A grandson like Fabien, Monsieur Mouillard . . . ." PARIS, September 18th. We are married. We are just back from the church.
Anyhow, it's quite off now. But it was no slight shock, I can tell you; and it gave me great pain to witness the poor child's sufferings." "You are so kind-hearted, Monsieur Flamaran!" "It's not that, Mouillard; but I have known Jeanne ever since she was born. I watched her grow up, and I loved her when she was still a little mite; she's as good as my adoptive daughter.
I think not, and I certainly do not confess any such thing to M. Mouillard, who has not yet forgotten what he calls "that freak" of a Degree in Arts. He builds some hopes upon me, and, in return, it is natural that I should build a few upon him. Really, that sums up all my past: two certificates! A third diploma in prospect and an uncle to leave me his money that is my future.
The ash grew longer and longer yet, a lovely white ash, slightly swollen at the tip, dotted with little black specks, and connected with the cigar by a thin red band which alternately glowed and faded as he drew his breath. M. Mouillard was so lost in thought, and the ash was getting so long, that a young student of the age that knows no mercy-was struck by these twin phenomena.
"I am all right, sir; it's my Junian Latins who are not getting on." "You don't say so. We must look into that. But before we begin I forget where you come from. I like to know where people come from." "From La Chatre. But I spend my vacations at Bourges with my Uncle Mouillard." "Yes, yes, Mouillart with a t, isn't it?" "No, with a d."
He had hardly finished dinner when there came a ring at the street door. Some one asked for M. Mouillard, the gentleman with the decoration, I suppose, for Madeleine showed him in, and I could tell by the noise of his chair that my uncle had risen to receive his visitor. They sat down and entered into conversation. An indistinct murmur reached me through the ceiling.
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