XVII
“Monsieur le capitaine,” the Marquis Gaspard began, “you are in a position to ask anything of us here, without its being denied you—anything except one thing—but of this we shall speak later. For the moment you have been good enough to question me in reference to Madame de X.... and I should consider myself rude indeed, were I not to answer. The explanation may be longer than you expect, I dare say. That matters little! I am completely at your service; I am ready to satisfy your every desire! Forgive me this preamble, which may seem long extended. And forgive me also if I chance to bore you with a narrative which also may seem irrelevant, but the necessity of which I am sure you will recognize as we proceed.”
He thought a moment. Then he drew his snuff-box, opened it, offered a pinch to the man on his right and another to the man on his left, took one himself, and finally continued:
“Monsieur, I was born very far from here, in a little town in Germany. It was in the year of Our Lord....”
The old man stopped. Count François had leapt from his armchair and extended a broad flat hand before his father as though begging that latter to reveal no more. The Marquis Gaspard fell silent, in fact, for as long as three seconds, in the meantime looking steadily at his son, his lips perked into an expression of indulgent irony.
“I declare!” said he, eventually, in his queer falsetto voice, “that from you, Monsieur François, at your age! Will you never grow up, Sir? Imagine! Do you not suppose that Monsieur le capitaine is already well initiated, too well initiated, into the Secret? What matters it whether he stop where he is now, or go on to learn the rest of it?”
He turned toward me again and repeated:
“Monsieur, I was born in a little town in Germany, as I had the honor of informing you. It was at Eckernfoerde, not far from Schleswig, in the year of Our Lord, One Thousand, Seven Hundred and Thirty Three! 1733! Yes, Monsieur!
“Today is the twenty-second of December, 1908. Figure it up yourself. I am one hundred and seventy-five years old! Don’t be too much surprised, Monsieur. Such is the simple fact, and it will seem simpler still, as I progress with my explanation. If we were more at leisure and your curiosity should extend that far, it would be a great pleasure for me to give you a detailed story of my life; not, of course, of my whole life—that you would find a rambling, disconnected narrative, I am sure—but the more interesting moments, my first fifty years, let us say. That, however, would take us far afield, and the night, though a winter’s one, would scarcely suffice for such a tale. Let us keep to essentials, therefore.