As soon as they got on shore a kind of servant dressed
in black came up to him and said something in a low
tone. He seemed to reflect, hesitate, and then
replied:
“No, to-morrow.”
The following day they set out again. This time
M, d’Arnelles frequently missed his aim, although
the birds were close by. His friends teased him,
asked him if he were in love, if some secret sorrow
was troubling his mind and heart. At length he
confessed.
“Yes, indeed, I have to leave soon, and that
annoys me.”
“What, you must leave? And why?”
“Oh, I have some business that calls me back.
I cannot stay any longer.”
They then talked of other matters.
As soon as breakfast was over the valet in black appeared.
M. d’Arnelles ordered his carriage, and the
man was leaving the room when the three sportsmen
interfered, insisting, begging, and praying their friend
to stay. One of them at last said:
“Come now, this cannot be a matter of such importance,
for you have already waited two days.”
M. d’Arnelles, altogether perplexed, began to
think, evidently baffled, divided between pleasure
and duty, unhappy and disturbed.
After reflecting for some time he stammered:
“The fact is—the fact is—I
am not alone here. I have my son-in-law.”
There were exclamations and shouts of “Your
son-in-law! Where is he?”
He suddenly appeared confused and his face grew red.
“What! do you not know? Why—why—he
is in the coach house. He is dead.”
They were all silent in amazement.
M. d’Arnelles continued, more and more disturbed:
“I had the misfortune to lose him; and as I
was taking the body to my house, in Briseville, I
came round this way so as not to miss our appointment.
But you can see that I cannot wait any longer.”
Then one of the sportsmen, bolder than the rest said:
“Well, but—since he is dead—it
seems to me that he can wait a day longer.”
The others chimed in:
“That cannot be denied.”
M. d’Arnelles appeared to be relieved of a great
weight, but a little uneasy, nevertheless, he asked:
“But, frankly—do you think—”
The three others, as one man, replied:
“Parbleu! my dear boy, two days more or less
can make no difference in his present condition.”
And, perfectly calmly, the father-in-law turned to
the undertaker’s assistant, and said:
“Well, then, my friend, it will be the day after
tomorrow.”
I was to see my old friend, Simon Radevin, of whom
I had lost sight for fifteen years. At one time
he was my most intimate friend, the friend who knows
one’s thoughts, with whom one passes long, quiet,
happy evenings, to whom one tells one’s secret
love affairs, and who seems to draw out those rare,
ingenious, delicate thoughts born of that sympathy
that gives a sense of repose.
