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Updated: May 3, 2025
I had to find something to fill up the somewhat long interval which separated me from that happy moment. I wrote a letter to my Uncle Mouillard, taking seven minutes over the address alone. I had not shown such penmanship since I was nine years old. When the last flourish was completed I looked for a paper; they were all engaged. The directory was free. I took it, and opened it at Ch.
Yet I followed my old and faithful friend's advice, for I knew that she had the peace of the household as much at heart as I; but I felt that I should seek long and vainly before I could discover what this latest trouble was, and what part I had in it. BOURGES, August 5th. I woke up at seven; my first thought was for M. Mouillard. Where could he be? I listened, but could hear no sound.
On Sundays, on the quays by the Seine, I pick him out from the crowd intent upon the capture of tittlebats, because he is seated upon his handkerchief. I go up to him and we have a talk. "Fish biting, Monsieur Jupille?" "Hardly at all." "Sport is not what it used to be?" "Ah! Monsieur Mouillard, if you could have seen it thirty years ago!" This date is always cropping up with him.
I had to find something to fill up the somewhat long interval which separated me from that happy moment. I wrote a letter to my Uncle Mouillard, taking seven minutes over the address alone. I had not shown such penmanship since I was nine years old. When the last flourish was completed I looked for a paper; they were all engaged. The directory was free. I took it, and opened it at Ch.
As a child I was brought up to worship the Mouillard practice, with the fixed idea that this profession alone could suit me; heir apparent to a lawyer's stool born to it, brought up to it, without any idea, at any rate for a long time, that I could possibly free myself from the traditions of the law's sacred jargon. I have quite got over that now.
"And cataloguing books, Monsieur Mouillard, looking through them, preserving them as far as possible from worms and readers. Don't you think that's an enviable lot?" "Yes, more so than mine has been, or my successor's will be." "By the way, uncle, you haven't told us who your successor is to be." "Haven't I, really? Why, you know him; it's your friend Larive." "Oh! That explains a great deal."
"It needed your presence, Monsieur Mouillard," said she, "to drag him from his work." "Saint Sylvester's day, too. It is fearful! Love for his art has changed your son's nature, Madame Lampron." She gave him a tender look, as on entering the room he bent over the fire and shook out his half-smoked pipe against the bars, a thing he never failed to do the moment he entered his mother's room.
It was near eleven o'clock. A ray from the rising moon shone between the trees in the garden. A big black cat crept across the lawn, shaking its wet paws. In the darkness it looked like a tiger. In my mind's eye I saw Madeleine sitting with her eyes fixed on her dead hearth, telling her beads, her thoughts running with mine: "It is years since Monsieur Mouillard was up at such an hour."
"Something to ask of you to do me a kindness, or, rather, an honor." "Let's hear what it is." "This weather, Monsieur Mouillard, is very good for fishing, though rather warm." "Rather warm, Monsieur Jupille!" "It is not too warm. It was much hotter than this in 1844, yet the fish bit, I can tell you! Will you join us next Sunday in a fishing expedition?
The eminent professor had risen, displaying a face still red from his having slept with his head on his chest, but beaming with good-will. He grasped my hand with heartiness and vigor. "Here's rod and line for you, Monsieur Mouillard, all ready baited," broke in Jupille. "If you'll come with me I'll show you a good place."
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