She had no remembrance of my name, or the Seraskiers'—I asked, with a beating heart. We had left no trace. Twelve short years had effaced all memory of us! But she told me that a gentleman, décoré, mais tombé en enfance, lived at a maison de santé in the Chaussée de la Muette, close by, and that his name was le Major Duquesnois; and thither I went, after rewarding and warmly thanking her.
I inquired for le Major Duquesnois, and I was told he was out for a walk, and I soon found him, much aged and bent, and leaning on the arm of a Sister of Charity. I was so touched that I had to pass him two or three times before I could speak. He was so small—so pathetically small!
[Illustration: M. LE MAJOR.]
It was a long time before I could give him an idea of who I was—Gogo
Pasquier!
Then after a while he seemed to recall the past a little.
"Ha, ha! Gogo—gentil petit Gogo!—oui—oui—l'exercice? Portez … arrrmes! arrmes … bras? Et Mimsé? bonne petite Mimsé! toujours mal à la tête?"
He could just remember Madame Seraskier; and repeated her name several times and said, "Ah! elle était bien belle, Madame Seraskier!"
In the old days of fairy-tale telling, when he used to get tired and I still wanted him to go on, he had arranged that if, in the course of the story, he suddenly brought in the word "Cric," and I failed to immediately answer "Crac," the story would be put off till our next walk (to be continued in our next!) and he was so ingenious in the way he brought in the terrible word that I often fell into the trap, and had to forego my delight for that afternoon.
I suddenly thought of saying "Cric!" and he immediately said "Crac!" and laughed in a touching, senile way—"Cric!—Crac! c'est bien ça!" and then he became quite serious and said—
"Et la suite au prochain numéro!"