“When it was time for Gommecourt to marry, he was much embarrassed how to break away from his charming but expensive friend. He took up a pen and wrote a long and very tender letter, recalling his past happiness, his regret at the decision of his family,—a very, very moving, affectionate, temperamental and tragic letter, and at the end he wrote, ‘I shall never forget, and I send you an order for one hundred thousand francs.’”
“Very handsome,” I said mechanically, not yet seeing daylight.
“A little too handsome—as Gommecourt decided, after a very brief struggle. He wrote a second letter, a very tender letter, too, but a little modified in its transports of passion, and ended by announcing a gift of fifty thousand francs.”
“Very prudent.”
“Wasn’t it? You see, Gommecourt was of good, thrifty stock. The more he considered it, the more absurd it seemed to him to give way to his impulses. And then, suppose she had not been faithful? He wrote a third letter, quite formal this time, and cut the sum to twenty thousand francs.”
By this time the conversation at the other two tables had ceased, and every one was listening, quite frankly amused at De Saint Omer’s vivacious account.
“So, Gommecourt, quite delighted with his two transactions by which he had saved himself eighty thousand francs, arose to send off letter number three. But, halfway to the bell, suddenly he stopped, struck his forehead and exclaimed, ‘But, after all, it’s simpler than that!’ And, returning to the table, he wrote a final letter, thus,—‘I have discovered all. Adieu.’”
“Bravo!” I cried loudly, above the ripple of laughter which greeted the ending. “And he was right.”
“You like the anecdote?”