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Louis always referred to this time as the happiest period of his life, and in a letter to his old friend in California, Jules Simoneau, he says: "Now I am in clover, only my health a mere ruined temple; the ivy grows along its shattered front, otherwise I have no wish that is not fulfilled; a beautiful large garden, a fine view of plain, sea, and mountain; a wife that suits me down to the ground, and a barrel of good Beaujolais."
I didn't fancy him overmuch; he was a puny sort of a man, a poor, fretful fellow, and he hadn't a penny to bless himself with. No, candidly, he wasn't the kind of husband for a young and healthy wife, whereas Monsieur Simoneau is rich, you know, and as strong as a Turk." "Oh yes!" interrupted Dede. "I saw him once when he was washing his door was open. His arms are so hairy!"
It has always seemed to me that in the oft-told story of the friendship between Jules Simoneau and Robert Louis Stevenson but scant justice has been done to that uncommonly fine woman Doña Martina, who, no doubt, had her part in caring for the writer when he lay so ill in Monterey.
Simoneau now spoke; he had probably just entered the room. "They are below," he whispered. "Well, it ain't any too soon," answered Mme Gabin, also lowering her voice. "Tell them to come up and get it over." "But I dread the despair of the poor little wife." The old woman seemed to reflect and presently resumed: "Listen to me, Monsieur Simoneau. You must take her off to my room.
Through the open window I heard the rising clamor of the Rue Dauphine. By and by a slight ringing of the brass candlestick on the marble-topped table made me think that a fresh candle had been lighted. At last Simoneau returned. "Well?" whispered the old woman. "It is all settled," he answered; "the funeral is ordered for tomorrow at eleven.
The clicking of the scissors was the only noise in the room, so I concluded that Marguerite had been overcome by fatigue and was dozing. Twice Simoneau rose, and the torturing thought flashed through me that he might be taking advantage of her slumbers to touch her hair with his lips. I hardly knew the man and yet felt sure that he loved my wife.
I myself had already been asleep for some twenty-five hours; if I awoke at ten I should still be in time. I endeavored to ascertain who was in the room and what was going on there. Dede must have been playing on the landing, for once when the door opened I heard her shrill childish laughter outside. Simoneau must have retired, for nothing indicated his presence.
A mob, composed of men and women of the adjacent villages, assembling at the sound of the tocsin, marched upon the city one market-day, preceded by drums, armed with guns and pitchforks, in order to carry off the grain by force from the proprietors, divide it amongst themselves, and to exterminate, as they declared, the monopolists, amongst whom sinister voices mingled in low tones the name of Simoneau.
No doubt a few persons followed the bier, some of the inhabitants of the lodginghouse, perhaps Simoneau and others, for instance for faint whisperings reached my ear.
I could not tell, but I fancied that he had only carelessly bent over me. "Shall I bring the lamp so that you may see better?" asked Simoneau obligingly. "No it is not necessary," quietly answered the doctor. Not necessary! That man held my life in his hands, and he did not think it worth while to proceed to a careful examination! I was not dead! I wanted to cry out that I was not dead!
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