In reply to questions from me, he told me more about Mr. Fox's first visit than I had hitherto known. I asked him, in a casual way, about the ward-meetings, and whether the French citizens generally attended them. No, they had been dropping off; they had become envious, perhaps, of him; they had formed a club, with Carron for president, and had voted to act in a body ( en solidarité ).
Then I told Fidèle that I knew no way to help him, and that I feared his dismission was final. He could not understand me, but went away, leaning on his cane, dragging his left foot sidewise behind him, with something of the air of an old faithful officer who has been deprived of his sword.
He had not been gone more than an hour, when the door opened again, and Carron looked in. Seeing that I was alone, he closed the door and walked very slowly toward my desk,—erect, demure, impassive, looking straight forward and not at me, with an air as if he were bearing a candle in high mass, intoning, as he came, a passage from the Psalms: “ Je me ré-jouirai; je partagerai Sichem, et je mesurerai la vallée de Succoth. Galaad sera à moi, Manassé sera à moi.... Moab sera le bassin où je me laverai et je jetterai mon soulier sur Édom.... Qui est-ce qui me conduira dans la ville forte? Qui est-ce qui me conduira jusquen Édom? ” (I will rejoice; I will divide Shechem and mete out the valley of Succoth. Gilead is mine; Ma-nasseh is mine.... Moab is my washpot; over Edom will I cast out my shoe.... Who will bring me into the strong city? Who will lead me into Edom?)
Carron propounded the closing inquiry with great unction; his manner expressed entire confidence that some one would be found to lead him into the strong city, to lead him into Edom.
I had lost something of my interest in Carron since I had heard the story of his Parisian exploits; but I could not help being amused at his manner. It portended something. He made no disclosure, however. Whatever he had to tell, he went away without telling it, contenting himself for the present with intimating by his triumphal manner that great good fortune was in the air.
On Saturday afternoon, as I was about closing my desk,—a little earlier than usual, for it was a most tempting late September day, and the waves of the harbor, which I could just see from my office window, called loudly to me,—Sorel appeared. I held out my hand, but he affected not to see it, and he sat down without a word. He was plainly disturbed and somewhat excited.
Of course I knew that it was his old friend's misfortune which weighed upon him; he was proud and fond of Fidèle.
I seated myself, and waited for him to speak. In a moment he began, with a low, hard laugh: “ Semble que notre bon Fidèle a sa démission: you know,—our Fidèle got bounced!”
Yes, I said, Fidèle had told me so, and I was very sorry to hear it.
“ Evidemment ” (this in a tone of irony) “ il faut un homme plus juste, plus loyale, que le pauvre Fidèle! (You know,—they got to 'ave one more honester man!) Bien! You know who goin' 'ave 'is place?”