“Berthe,” said the mother, “tell Monsieur Vabre of the remedy you copied for him out of that book. Oh! it is a sovereign cure for headaches!”
And, having started the affair, she left them standing beside a window.
“By Jove! they are going in for chemistry!” murmured Trublot.
In the parlour, Monsieur Josserand, desirous of pleasing his wife, had remained seated before Monsieur Vabre, feeling very embarrassed, for the old gentleman was asleep, and he did not dare awake him to do the amiable. But, when the music ceased, Monsieur Vabre raised his eye-lids. Short and stout, and completely bald, save for two tufts of white hair over his ears, he had a ruddy face, with thick lips, and round eyes almost at the top of his head. Monsieur Josserand having politely inquired after his health, the conversation began. The retired notary, whose four or five ideas always followed the same order, commenced by making an observation about Versailles, where he had practiced during forty years; then, he talked of his sons, once more regretting that neither the one nor the other had shown himself capable of carrying on the practice, so that he had decided to sell it and inhabit Paris; after which, he came to the history of his house, the building of which was the romance of his life.
“I have buried three hundred thousand francs in it, sir. A superb speculation, my architect said. But to-day I have great difficulty in getting the value of my money; more especially as all my children have come to live here, with the idea of not paying me, and I should never have a quarter’s rent, if I did not apply for it myself on the fifteenth. Fortunately, I have work to console me.”
“Do you still work much?” asked Monsieur Josserand.
“Always, always, sir!” replied the old gentleman with the energy of despair. “Work is life to me.”
And he explained his great task. For ten years past, he had every year waded through the official catalogue of the exhibition of paintings, writing on tickets each painter’s name, and the paintings exhibited. He spoke of it with an air of weariness and anguish; the whole year scarcely gave him sufficient time, the task was often so arduous, that it sometimes proved too much for him; for instance, when a lady artist married, and then exhibited under her husband’s name, how was he to see his way clearly?
“My work will never be complete, it is that which is killing me,” murmured he.
“You take a great interest in art, do you not?” resumed Monsieur Josserand, to flatter him.