Part 11 (1/2)

vour ... ed ... him.... Then I appeared.... The actual arrival of the lions in the room could not have caused more panic. It was a moment of pure theatre! The tot screamed, the book fell, the canaries and flies bestirred themselves, the clock chimed, and the old man sat up, startled. I was a little fl.u.s.tered myself, and froze at the doorsill, shouting as loud as I could:

--h.e.l.lo, folks! I'm Maurice's friend.

Well! You should have seen the poor old soul come with open-arms to hug me, and shake my hand, and pace wildly round the room, going:

--My G.o.d! My G.o.d!...

His wrinkled face broke into deep creases of laughter. He flushed and stuttered:

--Oh, monsieur... Oh, monsieur!...

Then he went to the back of the room and called out for:

--Mamette!

A door opened; a mouse-like scurrying was heard in the pa.s.sage ... and there she stood, Mamette, as pretty as a picture in her sh.e.l.l-like bonnet, her nun-like habit, and her embroidered hanky, which she held in the respectful, old-fas.h.i.+oned way.... It was so touching; they looked completely alike. With his hair done up and yellow sh.e.l.ls, he could have been another Mamette, except that the real one must have cried a lot in her life, as she was even more wrinkled than he. She, too, had a girl carer from the orphanage, a little nurse, dressed in a blue cape, who never left her side. To see these old folks, cared for by the orphans, was unimaginably moving.

Mamette began by addressing me rather too formerly, but the old fellow cut her off mid-stream:

--He's Maurice's friend....

The effect was immediate; she stood there, trembling, crying, and blus.h.i.+ng even more than he was. That's old people for you! Only a drop of blood in their veins, but at the least emotion, it leaps to their faces....

--Quick, get a chair, said the old woman to her little companion.

--Open the blinds, cried the old man to his.

The couple took a hand each, and trotted me over to the window, which they opened wide to get a better look at me. Once they got back into their armchairs, I sat down between them on a folding stool, and with the little blues stationed behind us, the grand interrogation began:

--How is he? What is he doing with himself? Why doesn't he come? Is he settled in?...

And so on and so forth--for hours on end.

I was answering all their questions as best I could, filling in the details that I knew, shamelessly inventing those I didn't, without ever admitting that I hadn't noticed if his windows were well-fitting, or the colour of his bedroom wallpaper.

--The bedroom wallpaper!... It's blue, madame, pale blue, with a floral pattern on it....

--Really? went the old lady fondly, and added turning to her husband: ”He's such a fine boy!”

--Oh yes, he's such a fine boy! he echoed enthusiastically.

All the time I was speaking, they shook their heads at one another, and chuckled, and gave knowing winks and nods to each other, then the old fellow drew close to me:

--Speak louder!... She's a bit hard of hearing.

And she said:

--Speak up, please!... He can't hear very well....