Part 1 (2/2)
The man shrugged his shoulders, and, instead of answering my query, said: ”I should recommend monsieur to refuse to pay Jean Bouchon again--that is, supposing monsieur intends revisiting this cafe.”
”I most a.s.suredly will not pay such a noodle,” I said; ”and it pa.s.ses my comprehension how you can keep such a fellow on your staff.”
I revisited the library next day, and then walked by the Loire, that rolls in winter such a full and turbid stream, and in summer, with a reduced flood, exposes gravel and sand-banks. I wandered around the town, and endeavoured vainly to picture it, enclosed by walls and drums of towers, when on April 29th, 1429, Jeanne threw herself into the town and forced the English to retire, discomfited and perplexed.
In the evening I revisited the cafe and made my wants known as before.
Then I looked at my notes, and began to arrange them.
Whilst thus engaged I observed the waiter, named Jean Bouchon, standing near the table in an expectant att.i.tude as before. I now looked him full in the face and observed his countenance. He had puffy white cheeks, small black eyes, thick dark mutton-chop whiskers, and a broken nose. He was decidedly an ugly man, but not a man with a repulsive expression of face.
”No,” said I, ”I will give you nothing. I will not pay you. Send another _garcon_ to me.”
As I looked at him to see how he took this refusal, he seemed to fall back out of my range, or, to be more exact, the lines of his form and features became confused. It was much as though I had been gazing on a reflection in still water; that something had ruffled the surface, and all was broken up and obliterated. I could see him no more. I was puzzled and a bit startled, and I rapped my coffee-cup with the spoon to call the attention of a waiter. One sprang to me immediately.
”See!” said I, ”Jean Bouchon has been here again; I told him that I would not pay him one sou, and he has vanished in a most perplexing manner. I do not see him in the room.”
”No, he is not in the room.”
”When he comes in again, send him to me. I want to have a word with him.”
The waiter looked confused, and replied: ”I do not think that Jean will return.”
”How long has he been on your staff?”
”Oh! he has not been on our staff for some years.”
”Then why does he come here and ask for payment for coffee and what else one may order?”
”He never takes payment for anything that has been consumed. He takes only the tips.”
”But why do you permit him to do that?”
”We cannot help ourselves.”
”He should not be allowed to enter the cafe.”
”No one can keep him out.”
”This is surpa.s.sing strange. He has no right to the tips. You should communicate with the police.”
The waiter shook his head. ”They can do nothing. Jean Bouchon died in 1869.”
”Died in 1869!” I repeated.
”It is so. But he still comes here. He never pesters the old customers, the inhabitants of the town--only visitors, strangers.”
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