“Bé! yes; my father and my sister. We have done as you advised.”
Roumestan looked distressed and embarrassed, as he always did when called upon to redeem notes like this or fulfil a promise, lightly given in order to make himself agreeable, but with little idea of future acceptance. Dear me, he was only too glad to be of use to Valmajour! He would consider it and see what he could do. But this evening he was very much hurried—exceptional circumstances—the invitation of the President. But as the peasant made no sign of going: “Come in here,” said he, and they went into the study.
As Numa sat at his desk reading over and signing several papers Valmajour glanced about the handsome room, richly furnished and carpeted, with book-shelves covering all the walls, surmounted by bronzes, busts and works of art, reminiscences each one of glorious causes—a portrait of the king signed by his own royal hand. And he was much impressed by the solemnity of it all—the stiffness of the carved chairs, the rows of books, above all the presence of the servant, correct in his severe black costume, coming and going and arranging quickly on chairs his master’s evening clothes and immaculate linen. But over there in the light of the lamps the big kind face and familiar profile of Roumestan that he knew so well reassured him. His letters finished, Roumestan began to dress, and while the servant drew off his master’s trousers and shoes he asked Valmajour questions and learned to his dismay that before leaving home they had sold everything that they owned in the world—mulberry-trees, vineyards, farm, everything!
“You sold your farm, foolish fellow?”
“Well, my sister was somewhat afraid, but my father and I insisted upon it. I said to them, ‘What risk is it when we are going to Numa and when he is getting us to come?’”
It needed all the taborist’s naïveté to dare talk in that free and easy way before a Minister. It was not Valmajour’s simplicity that struck Numa most; it was the thought of the great crowd of enemies that he had made for himself by this incorrigible mania for promises. Now I ask you—what need was there to go and disturb the quiet life of these poor people? and he went over in his memory all the details of his visit to Mount Cordova, the scruples of the peasant girl and the pains that he took to overcome them. What for? what devil tempted him? He, this peasant, was dreadful. And as to his talent, he did not remember much about it, concerned as he was at having this whole family on his shoulders. He knew beforehand how his wife would reproach him—remembered her cold look as she said: “Still, words must mean something!” And now, in his new position at the source and spring of favors, what a lot of trouble he was going to create for himself as a result of his own fatal benevolence!
But the gladsome thought that he was a Minister and the consciousness of his power restored his spirits almost at once. On such pinnacles as his, why should such small things worry him? Master of all the fine arts, with all the theatres and places of amusement under his thumb, it would be a trifle to make the fortune of these luckless people. Restored to his own self-complacency, he changed his tone and in order to keep the peasant in his place told him solemnly and from a lofty place to what important distinction he had been that day appointed. Unhappily he was at that moment only half dressed, his feet in silk stockings rested on the floor and his portly form was arrayed in white flannel underclothes trimmed with pink ribbons. Valmajour could not connect the word “Minister” in his mind with a fat man in his shirt-sleeves, so he continued to call him Moussu Numa, to talk to him about his own “music” and the new songs that he had learned. Ah, he feared no tabor-player in all Paris now!
“Listen, I will show you.”
He flew toward the next room to get his tabor but Roumestan stopped him.
“I tell you I am in a great hurry, deuce take you!”