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But I used to tell myself: All these grand speeches, all these histories, taken from the books of the ancient Romans, are going to put my lad's head in a fever, and he will never know the truth of things. I was right, my dear Monsieur Garneret; it is school learning, look you, has made him fall in love with a tragedy actress " Jean Servien raised himself up in bed. "Is that you, Garneret?
I never lost heart; it is not in the nature of things that a father should despair of his son's life; still, you know, Monsieur Garneret, he has been very ill. "The neighbours have been very good to us; but it was a hard job nursing him in this cursed cellar. Just think, Monsieur Garneret, for twenty days we had to keep his head in ice." "You know that is the treatment for meningitis."
The bookbinder came up confidentially to Garneret. He scratched his ear, rubbed his forehead, stroked his chin in great embarrassment. "My poor lad," he got started at last, "is in love, passionately in love. I have found it out from the things he said when he was delirious.
You have been our saviour, Monsieur Garneret." And the bookbinder turned his head away to wipe his eyes, walked across to the window, lifted the curtain and looked out into the sunlit street. "The fine weather will quite set him up again. But we have had six terrible weeks.
Wheeling round, he saw a quaint figure a huge nose like a pothook, high, massive shoulders, enormous, well-shaped hands, a general impression of uncouthness combined with vigour and geniality. He thought for a moment where this strange monster could have come from; then he shouted: "Garneret!"
Garneret gave his views on women. He had a judicial mind, had Garneret, and could account for everything in the relations of the sexes; but he could not tell Jean why one face glimpsed among a thousand gives joy and grief more than life itself seemed able to contain. Still, he tried to explain the problem, for he was of an eminently ratiocinative temper. "The thing is quite simple," he declared.
Antiquity called him the Virgin. The name well befits his Muse, and we should picture her as a Mnemosyne pondering over the works of men and the causes of things!" Meanwhile Garneret, with a more concentrated attention and his finger on the lines, was marshalling his ideas.
I am very glad to see you." Then, after listening a moment: "Why, what is that noise?" he asked. Garneret told him it was Mont Valérien firing on the fortifications. The Commune was in full swing. "Vive la Commune!" cried Jean Servien, and he dropped his head back on the pillow with a smile. He was recovered and, with a book in his hand, was talking a quiet walk in the Luxembourg gardens.
"Has the little lad come home?" asked Aunt Servien, still sucking at her biscuit. Old Servien, in his working jacket, stepped up to the bed; then, creeping away again on tip-toe: "He is asleep, Monsieur Garneret, he is asleep. The doctor tells us he is saved. He is a very good doctor! You know that yourself, for he is your friend, and it was you brought him here.
"Ah, well!" sighed Jean Servien, "I told you just now I loved her. It is not true. I hate her! I hate her for all the torments she has made me suffer, I hate her because she is adorable and men love her. And I hate all women, because they all love someone, and that someone is not I!" Garneret burst out laughing. "Candidly," he grinned, "they are not so far wrong.
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