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Updated: June 17, 2025
"Presently," said the mother testily. "Don't bother." The girl stood listening to the two women with the precocious shrewdness of a child born and reared amid the streets of Paris. "When all is said and done," explained Mme Gabin, "the dear departed did not come up to Monsieur Simoneau.
Alex Simoneau came back after a night of the hospitality of M. Lontane, and soon was joyous again, telling his wondrous epic of the main to the beach-combers in the parc de Bougainville or in the Paris saloon, where the brown and white toilers of land and sea make merry.
We breakfasted at Simoneau's, in the inner room, with its frescos done in beer and shoeblacking by a brace of hungry Bohemians, who used to frequent the place and thus settle their bill. Five of us sat at that uninviting board and awaited our turn, while Simoneau hovered over a stove that was by no means equal to the occasion.
But Simoneau silenced the old woman; he did not want to have the widow worried; he was going to the municipal office and to the undertaker's. When silence reigned once more I wondered if my nightmare would last much longer. I was certainly alive, for I was conscious of passing incidents, and I began to realize my condition. I must have fallen into one of those cataleptic states that I had read of.
There is nothing for you to do, and you needn't talk of these things before the poor lady." Nevertheless, Mme Gabin remarked: "The doctor of the dead hasn't come yet." Simoneau took a seat beside Marguerite and after a few words of encouragement remained silent. The funeral was to take place at eleven! Those words rang in my brain like a passing bell.
On the previous evening he had come in to make inquiries, and I had much disliked seeing him at Marguerite's side; she had looked so fair and pretty, and he had gazed so intently into her face when she smilingly thanked him for his kindness. "Ah, here is Monsieur Simoneau," said Mme Gabin, introducing him.
During the last days of Jules Simoneau, of Monterey, a statement appeared in the papers to the effect that he was being permitted to suffer and die in want, and although it was perfectly well known to her friends and many other persons that she had supported him in comfort for years, she would not make any contradiction in the public press.
The insurance was doubtless long since paid on her, and masses said for the repose of the soul of Alex Simoneau. The world would not know of their being saved, or her owners of the manner of her sinking, until these three arrived in San Francisco, or until a few days before, when the steamship wireless might inform them.
He lodged with a doctor and his wife, and took his meals at the little restaurant kept by Jules Simoneau, "a most pleasant old boy," with whom he played chess and discussed the universe daily. About the middle of December he pushed on to San Francisco, and prepared to settle down and work for an indefinite time.
Alex Simoneau, being of French descent, and speaking the Gallic tongue, was not to be found at the Tiare. He was at the Paris, or other cafe, surrounded by gaping Frenchmen, who pressed upon him Pernoud, rum, and the delicate wines of France. So great was his absorption in his new friends, and so unbounded their hospitality, that M. Lontane laid him by the heels to rest him.
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