She respected the gentleman, the educated man who was often mentioned in the papers. She cherished, in the old bachelor who never examined his accounts, and left her mistress of the house, an assured source of comfort for her old age. Finally, this solid and robust creature protected the man, feeble in body and so simplet, as she said, that a child ten years old might have cheated him.
Such words mortified her pride at the same time that the sudden change of humor of the philosopher rendered their residence together uncomfortable. From genuine affection she became anxious because her master did not eat or sleep. She saw that he was sad, anxious, and ill, but she could do nothing to make him cheerful, nor even guess the cause of his melancholy and agitation.
What did she think when, one afternoon in the month of March, M. Sixte came in about five o’clock, after having had his breakfast outside, and said to her: “Is the valise in good order, Mariette?”
“I do not know, monsieur. Monsieur has not used it since I came into the house.”
“Go and get it,” said the philosopher. Mariette obeyed. She brought from a loft which served as lumber-room and woodhouse together a small, dusty leather trunk, with rusty locks and keys entirely lacking.
“Very well,” said M. Sixte, “you may go and buy a little one like that, immediately, and you may put into it whatever is necessary for a journey.”
“Is monsieur going away?” asked Mariette.
“Yes,” said the philosopher, “for a few days.”
“But monsieur has nothing that he needs,” insisted the old servant, “monsieur cannot go away like that, without any traveling rugs, without——”
“Procure what is needed,” interrupted the philosopher, “and hasten—I take the train at nine o’clock.”