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Updated: June 3, 2025
My Uncle Mouillard, most devoted and faithful citizen of Bourges, naturally lives in one of these old streets, the Rue du Four, within the shadow of the cathedral, beneath the swing of its chimes. Within fifteen minutes after my arrival at Bourges I was pulling the deer's foot which hangs, depilated with long use, beside his door.
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?"
Little Madame Plumet soon called again, tricked out from head to foot in the latest fashion. She was a little flurried on entering a room full of jocular clerks. Escorted by Massinot, both of them with their eyes fixed on the ground, she reached my office. I closed the door after her. She recognized me. "Monsieur Mouillard! What a pleasant surprise!"
Are you fond of fishing?" "It's a passion with me. One must keep one or two for one's old age, young man." "You've been having sport, I hear." "Well, this morning, between eight and nine, there were a few nibbles; but since then the sport has been very poor. However, I'm very glad to see you again, Mouillard. That essay of yours was extremely good."
For I can not deny it. I am looking out for an opportunity to repair my clumsy mistake and show myself in a less unfavorable light than I did at that ill-starred visit. And she is the reason why I haunt his path! Ever since M. Mouillard threatened me with Mademoiselle Berthe Lorinet, the graceful outlines of Mademoiselle Jeanne have haunted me with a persistence to which I have no objection.
The marriage had taken place at St. Galmier. "Yes, my dear Mouillard," he added, as if pointing a moral, "thirty years ago last May I became a happy man; when do you think of following my example?" At this point, Jupille suddenly found himself one too many, and vanished down the corkscrew stair. "We once spoke of an heiress at Bourges," M. Flamaran went on. "Apparently that's all off?"
M. Mouillard talked only on indifferent subjects during our brief walk from the Rue Soufflot to catch the omnibus at the Odeon. There he shook me by the hand and sprang nimbly into the first bus.
Yes, my dear uncle, you were employed, according to the formula, "in virtue of these and subsequent engagements," and among the "subsequent engagements" you are kind enough to reckon one between Mademoiselle Berthe Lorinet, spinster, of no occupation, and M. Fabien Mouillard, lawyer. "Fabien Mouillard, lawyer" that I may perhaps endure, but "Fabien Mouillard, son-in-law of Lorinet," never!
And old Michu added, in a whisper, "You have passed. I told you so. You won't forget old Michu, sir." M. Flamaran conferred my degree with a paternal smile, and a few kind words for "this conscientious study, full of fresh ideas on a difficult subject." I bowed to the examiners. Larive was waiting for me in the courtyard, and seized me by the arm. "Uncle Mouillard will be pleased."
"Yes, sir; the day before yesterday. He was going off for a fortnight or three weeks into the country to paint a portrait of some priest a bishop, I think." July 15th. "Midi, roi des etes." I know by heart that poem by "Monsieur le Comte de l'Isle," as my Uncle Mouillard calls him. Its lines chime in my ears every day when I return from luncheon to the office I have left an hour before.
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