Short Stories, vol 9 | Page 8

aid.
It was then ten o'clock in the morning, and I at once decided to go back
to Gisors for breakfast.
As I was walking along I said to myself:
"Gisors, Gisors--why, I know someone there!
"Who is it? Gisors? Let me see, I have a friend in this town." A name
suddenly came to my mind, "Albert Marambot." He was an old school
friend whom I had not seen for at least twelve years, and who was
practicing medicine in Gisors. He had often written, inviting me to
come and see him, and I had always promised to do so, without
keeping my word. But at last I would take advantage of this
opportunity.
I asked the first passer-by:
"Do you know where Dr. Marambot lives?"
He replied, without hesitation, and with the drawling accent of the
Normans:
"Rue Dauphine."
I presently saw, on the door of the house he pointed out, a large brass
plate on which was engraved the name of my old chum. I rang the bell,
but the servant, a yellow-haired girl who moved slowly, said with a
Stupid air:
"He isn't here, he isn't here."
I heard a sound of forks and of glasses and I cried:
"Hallo, Marambot!"
A door opened and a large man, with whiskers and a cross look on his
face, appeared, carrying a dinner napkin in his hand.
I certainly should not have recognized him. One would have said he

was forty-five at least, and, in a second, all the provincial life which
makes one grow heavy, dull and old came before me. In a single flash
of thought, quicker than the act of extending my hand to him, I could
see his life, his manner of existence, his line of thought and his theories
of things in general. I guessed at the prolonged meals that had rounded
out his stomach, his after-dinner naps from the torpor of a slow
indigestion aided by cognac, and his vague glances cast on the patient
while he thought of the chicken that was roasting before the fire. His
conversations about cooking, about cider, brandy and wine, the way of
preparing certain dishes and of blending certain sauces were revealed to
me at sight of his puffy red cheeks, his heavy lips and his lustreless
eyes.
"You do not recognize me. I am Raoul Aubertin," I said.
He opened his arms and gave me such a hug that I thought he would
choke me.
"You have not breakfasted, have you?"
"No."
"How fortunate! I was just sitting down to table and I have an excellent
trout."
Five minutes later I was sitting opposite him at breakfast. I said:
"Are you a bachelor?"
"Yes, indeed."
"And do you like it here?"
"Time does not hang heavy; I am busy. I have patients and friends. I eat
well, have good health, enjoy laughing and shooting. I get along."
"Is not life very monotonous in this little town?"
"No, my dear boy, not when one knows how to fill in the time. A little
town, in fact, is like a large one. The incidents and amusements are less
varied, but one makes more of them; one has fewer acquaintances, but
one meets them more frequently. When you know all the windows in a
street, each one of them interests you and puzzles you more than a
whole street in Paris.
"A little town is very amusing, you know, very amusing, very amusing.
Why, take Gisors. I know it at the tips of my fingers, from its beginning
up to the present time. You have no idea what queer history it has."
"Do you belong to Gisors?"
"I? No. I come from Gournay, its neighbor and rival. Gournay is to

Gisors what Lucullus was to Cicero. Here, everything is for glory; they
say 'the proud people of Gisors.' At Gournay, everything is for the
stomach; they say 'the chewers of Gournay.' Gisors despises Gournay,
but Gournay laughs at Gisors. It is a very comical country, this."
I perceived that I was eating something very delicious, hard-boiled eggs
wrapped in a covering of meat jelly flavored with herbs and put on ice
for a few moments. I said as I smacked my lips to compliment
Marambot:
"That is good."
He smiled.
"Two things are necessary, good jelly, which is hard to get, and good
eggs. Oh, how rare good eggs are, with the yolks slightly reddish, and
with a good flavor! I have two poultry yards, one for eggs and the other
for chickens. I feed my laying hens in a special manner. I have my own
ideas on the subject. In an egg, as in the meat of a chicken, in beef, or
in mutton, in milk, in everything, one perceives, and ought to taste, the
juice, the quintessence