“Certainly, I have an interest in him,” I answered. “I meant to ask M’sieur Morgan about him this afternoon, but I forgot.”
“Ah—oui,” said Godin again, and no more. There was a note of importance in his tone, and I rose to it.
“Well, what is it, then? Why isn’t he here? Where is he?” I threw over my shoulder.
Godin cleared his throat for heavy conversation. “Zoëtique est à New York,” he announced.
My flies came slapping against the boat. I certainly was surprised. “In New York?” I repeated.
“Ah, oui, m’sieur,” said Godin again. “The m’sieur who was here last year, the strange m’sieur who wished that he should go to New York to whistle—that m’sieur sent again to search for him in the springtime, and Zoëtique was content to go.”
“But I thought he was so decided about not going. I thought he was to be married, and was satisfied to stay here. I thought he didn’t care about making money—I thought—” and I stopped.
“It is the truth, m’sieur. All that was quite true—last year,” said Godin. “But one changes. Things arrive, and one’s life changes, and so it happens that one changes. It was like that with Zoëtique. It was that he had a quarrel with his girl—with his fiancée. It was that which altered the opinion of Zoëtique. I know all about that affair—me—for it is I that am the cousin of that girl, and she has talked to me. She has explained to me about what happened, comme il faut. I am sorry for her and sorry also for Zoëtique—both the two. It is most unhappy. But”—Godin shrugged his shoulders with the philosophy which most of us can feel in another’s tragedy. “But—what can one do? It is malheur—too bad—but it is life.”
“Can you tell me about it, Godin?” I asked.
“But yes, m’sieur—most certainly. Yet it is a long story—m’sieur may be ennuyé. I will recount to m’sieur all the things which are of importance—is it not?”