That was indeed a barbarous idea—leaving me at home. “Charité bien ordonnée commence par soi-même,” as we used to say at Paris. My gentleman’s gone out a-courting, and I may just sit and grumble in these confounded lodgings! He hasn’t the smallest grain of feeling. Why couldn’t he remember that while he’s busy making love to his silly cousin, and flattering his cracked old aunt,—that is, making fools of both of them,—I might, in the meanwhile, very appropriately amuse myself with the maid!
Pretty little thing, that Sophie! Just a little bit bête, still—but that will come all right in time—I’ll educate her fast enough. We haven’t been to Paris for nothing. I had views on her already, when we were here eighteen months ago. She was then a mere child, and I had not yet seen Notre Dame and the Pont-Neuf. In point of fact, come to think of it, I was still very young, and not au fait about life. I can clearly remember getting quite confused when the postman’s flaxen-haired daughter scolded me for ... come, Frans, let those things rest ... she’s at rest herself.... How could I help it, if the girl was so gone on me? Why didn’t her father take better care of her? What is a father for, if not to look after his daughter?
What a difference, when I think of those days! Confused! ashamed!—why, I don’t know the meaning of the words. The only thing I’m ashamed of now, is that I ever had the faiblesse to be ashamed of anything. And now that, thanks to my education in the guinguettes, I have become quite a jeune homme accompli,—now that I might have begun a nice diversion with the suivante of my master’s intended, ... now I’m got rid off with a gruff, “Frans, stay and look after the room!”
He’ll talk in a different tune when he finds he needs me again to get him out of some scrape or other. Then it is, “Frans, dear Frans, save me; I don’t know what I’m to do!” Frans is good enough for that. But besides this, au fond, it’s unjust to leave me here indoors. A man is a man, and has reason and freewill. Jonker Van Bergen goes out courting. So we see that beings with reason and freewill do go courting. But I too am a man; I have freewill and reason—therefore I ought to go out courting too. That is clear and undeniable.
Glorious logic! Precious philosophy! Invaluable gift of Heaven, which is scattered with generous hand at Paris. Beloved nurse of all that ... that....
And with all that I’m sitting here indoors, like Job, on his ancient sofa. It is annoying; it’s very annoying! It’s the most annoying thing in the world! It could not possibly be worse; it’s ennuyant, étouffant, embêtant!
[Jumps up angrily, and walks backwards and forwards, smoking.]
I’m curious to know whether he’ll get through with his business, and succeed better than last year. The devil grant he may! Otherwise it’s all up with him—all up—and he’s ruined! If he hasn’t made his lady-cousin his own, with all that belongs to her [goes through the gestures of counting money], within a month, he’s a dead man! Physically dead, financially dead, civilly dead,—dead in every possible way! Dead to chambertin, baronfayol, and champagne; dead to the bouillotte table; dead pour tout ce qui porte un jupon ... enfin—burst up!
This wouldn’t really matter so much if these gentlemen hadn’t the disagreeable habit of dragging down every one about them in their fall. [Makes a wry face.] The cheques! the cheques!
I am anything but à monaise, as we used to say at Paris. We have only a month before us. Before that time we must have money to pay up, or the whole thing will go smash. And then he’s quite capable of saying that it was I who forged the cheques. Then come examinations and cross-examinations, witnesses à charge and à décharge; reply, duplicate, triplicate, or whatever they call it; and the end of it is that the President puts on the black cap—grim fashion that!—and has a sentence read out, in which poor Frans is very badly used on the score of ... complicity!