Muted chorus of consternation and dismay.
‘No, I have made up my mind. I have decided to leave all my fortune…. to…. to whichever niece I am not staying with at the time of my death. So, for example, if I’m staying with you when I die, Irma, then all the money goes to Constance. And if I peg out at Constance’s, Irma gets all the lolly. And so on, vice versa.’
It was a terrible dilemma in which the two families found themselves. Should they be pleased by this new arrangement? Or should they, on the other hand, be horrified by the whole idea? After vacillating a little while between horror and pleasure, they decided eventually to welcome the idea, each family having convinced itself that with a bit of luck and a lot of care it could easily win the uncle who laid the golden egg.
The said uncle was staying with Constance at the time, it being mid-summer and he being anxious to enjoy life in the country. And the way he was looked after, following that eventful Sunday lunch, would have made the average goose being stuffed for pâté de foie gras feel underprivileged. He had never been so pampered in all his life. Nor, come to that, had he ever chuckled to himself so much. But what he most enjoyed, curiously enough, was seeing his stomach grow round and contented. All his life he had poured scorn on the guzzlers and gourmands, on those who ate for sheer pleasure, but now he took a great sensual delight in the idea of having a nice little paunch of his own, with a gold chain and lots of trinkets to hang over it.
Then at last the summer ended. The rain returned, the air grew cold and it was time to take up winter quarters with Irma. But when he came to town and settled down in her house, he found there were other delights to make up for past rural pleasures. Women! Sliding into a new pattern of life, Théophile began to be late for meals. Sometimes he was not only late for meals, he missed them altogether. Once or twice, if the truth be known, he stayed out all night.
Not unnaturally, Irma began to get worried about her uncle’s welfare and endurance. However, as she was amply endowed with that admirable intuition that God has seen fit to bestow on woman alone, she had the very good sense to deal with Uncle Théophile’s problem by introducing into the household a new young maid, who was not only personally attractive but far from prudish in her outlook.
A splendid idea.
Not foolproof unfortunately, though.
Because within three months Théophile got married to the attractive and far from prudish maid, and changed his will accordingly.
SPEED READING
Although I have been on the board of directors of the Compagnie des Chemins de Fer de l’Ouest since 1863, this month’s meeting was the most interesting I have attended in all that time. And as we took several decisions which will alter the entire future of railway travel, I think you should be the first to hear about them.
One, reached after hours of passionate and heated argument, was to extend to Italian-speaking travellers the same facilities we laid on for English travellers a few months ago. I’m sure you know that when the Great Exhibition opened at that time, we made a radical alteration to the telegraph office at the Gare St. Lazare. Hitherto, the only indication of the nature of its business had been a large sign reading ‘Télégraphe’, but so as not to leave our cross-Channel visitors in any doubt whatsoever we took the big decision to add another sign reading ‘Telegraph’.* Well, if we can do as much for the English it is only right and proper we do the same for the Italians, so very soon you will see a third sign, unmistakably saying ‘Telegrafo’.
It is by little touches like these that the essential big-heartedness of a large railway company is known.
*
In passing, let me draw the attention of the Exhibition staff to the courtesy invariably shown by the officials of our railway company. They would never sink to the depths plumbed by one parasite of the Great Exhibition whom I encountered recently. I was walking across the Place de la Concorde when this street ticket-seller came up and shouted in my ear (there must be many Parisians who have gone deaf since the Exhibition started):
‘Exhibition tickets, only eleven sous! Tickets eleven sous each! Get your tickets now!’
As I showed no interest in his clumsy advances he assumed I must be English, moved to my other ear and roared:
‘Sixpence! Tickets, sixpence!’
So I turned to him and said severely:
‘You rogue! Sixpence is nearly twenty sous. Why do you charge your fellow Frenchmen eleven sous, and foreigners almost twice that?’
‘Ah, well, you see,’ he said with engaging honesty, ‘that’s because I don’t know the English for eleven sous.’
*
But back to railways, and to our big policy decision.
For some years now the railway lines of France have been lined with vast hoardings leased out by the rail companies to various manufacturers, who have promptly taken advantage of these empty spaces to make shameless claims for their own products. This unattractive orgy of publicity has irritated many travellers, so much so that some of them would now rather stay at home than face the sight. Result: a drop in railway revenue and a loss of public sympathy.
So at last we have decided to do something about it.
In future, instead of those dreary advertising messages, we shall install one long continuous stretch of fencing on which we shall print highly entertaining and absorbing novels which can be read by train passengers as they speed past. At last the expression ‘to race through a book’ will become living reality. Everything will be done to ensure complete satisfaction; the books will be chosen by a panel of experts, the text will be printed in large legible type, the illustrations will be by leading painters of the day and so on.
They may be only one-line novels, but a line such as Gutenberg never dreamt of, stretching from Paris to the remotest railway terminus.
A few timid shareholders may object to the expense of the scheme. If so, they have nothing to fear. The novels we choose will be so enthralling that many travellers coming from, for instance, Marseille to Paris, will travel on to Le Havre far out of their way simply to find out if beautiful Blanche finally marries the handsome Vicomte, or if the wicked marquis meets with the fate he so richly deserves.
And the railway will be profitable again.
* Absolutely true historical fact.
POST OFFICE LOVE
When I got out of the train at Baisemoy-en-Cort the first thing I saw was the dog-cart belonging to my old friend Lenfileur, who had invited me down for the week.
And the first thing I asked him to do was take me to the local post office, because while in the train I had suddenly remembered something I had faithfully promised I would do before I left Paris and which shamefully, very shamefully, I had not done. Never mind what.
Baisemoy-en-Cort Post Office turned out to be notable chiefly for an air of austerity which could easily have tumbled any moment over the brink into penury. The only tools at hand for writing my telegram were a prehistoric pen and a pot of mildewed, virtually colourless ink the consistency of mud. With these I managed to scratch out the few words of abject apology that passed for my telegram and handed them over to a rather plain lady at the counter (let’s be honest, to an incredibly ugly lady at the counter) who took it ungratefully, counted the words and snapped out a demand for money which I tossed back at her through the grille.
And I was about to retire from the premises in the healthy glow of a clear conscience when I suddenly stopped dead in my tracks; I had just noticed another employee of the Post Office sitting behind her, a young woman tapping away at a Morse transmitter with her back to me.
She was obviously young. She was even more obviously red-haired. And there was a good chance that she was pretty.
She had on a plain black dress which contrived to outline an attractively ample figure with nothing missing.
Her flowing hair was piled in coils on top of her head leaving the nape of her neck bare, and an angelic neck it was too, light golden brown with a little fleece of delicate down coming running down it and fading
almost ethereally away into nothing.
Ah, if our souls ever grow hair, it will be hair like that!
Till suddenly I had an irrational, mad urge to plunge my lips into the pale golden hair of that telegraph operator.
In the hope that the young lady might turn round sooner or later, I came back to the counter and engaged the old harridan in a long conversation about various Post Office services.
But the beautiful neck went on tapping out Morse, remorselessly.
And my friend Lenfileur began to get impatient.
So I left.
Anyone who knows me well will have guessed already that when the Post Office opened its doors for business next morning I was there waiting on the doorstep.
This time the beautiful redhead was on her own, which gave her no option but to show me her face. I had no complaints. It was well up to the standard set by her neck.
And what big dark eyes!
(Have you noticed what stunning dark eyes redheads sometimes have?)
I bought lots of stamps, sent lots of telegrams, asked after all the various local collection times and generally spent a good quarter of an hour giving a convincing imitation of an infatuated idiot.
She answered all my questions sweetly and reasonably, just like a sensible, well brought-up young girl.
After which I came back every day, and sometimes twice a day, because I soon found out exactly when she was on duty and took good care never to miss our little rendezvous, even if it was, sadly, only a rendezmoi.
To make these frequent visits seem plausible I had to write letters to all my friends and then, when I had run out of friends, to people I knew but didn’t like.
After a while I found myself sending urgent telegrams to people I hardly knew and who must have thought I had gone out of my mind.
I cannot remember ever having embarked on such an orgy of correspondence.
And every time I turned up, I told myself: ‘Right. This is it. This time you will declare your great passion.’
But each time I quailed before her businesslike air and instead of announcing straightforwardly: ‘Mademoiselle, I love you!’ all I could stammer was: ‘Another three centime stamp, please, Mademoiselle.’
*
It couldn’t go on like this indefinitely.
Quite apart from anything else, I was due to go back to Paris very soon. So I decided to burn my boats and stake everything on one last final throw.
I arrived at the Post Office one morning and sent the following telegram to one of my friends:
Coquelin Cadet, 17, Boulevard Haussmann, Paris.
I have fallen desperately in love with the little red-haired telegraph operator at Baisemoy-en-Cort Post Office. Please advise.
I thought it might at the very least bring a faint blush to the unforgettable white cheeks of my loved one.
Not a bit of it.
With all the sang-froid in the world, she simply said:
‘That will be ninety-five centimes, please, sir.’
Totally deflated by her majestic lack of interest, I summoned up just enough energy to delve in my pockets for the necessary. As it happened, I was completely out of small change. All I had on me was a 1,000-franc note.*
She took it from me, examined it carefully, felt it with her fingers …
Obviously she was satisfied with her inspection because the prettiest smile imaginable suddenly spread across her features, revealing the most mouth-watering dimples in creation.
And then she slipped into the most common, not to say vulgar, of Parisian accents and said:
‘Will you be needing your change back, sir?’
* Don’t look so surprised.
COMFORT
I don’t know about you, but I adore England. London, especially. Maybe it’s because I’m a Parisian, but I love London town. I love its pubs, its music halls, its drunk old women in feathered hats. And the one thing which alone makes the journey worth the fare: the English concept of ‘comfort’.
I would like to meet whoever it was who first circulated rumours of the Englishman’s love of comfort. He must have a world-class sense of humour. The English love of comfort indeed! (Excuse me a moment, while I laugh up my sleeve.)
Not that I give a damn one way or the other about personal comfort. When you have been raised by a Spartan father, as I was, not to mention a Macedonian mother, you can do without it very well. If there are no napkins at table, I am quite happy to use the table-cloth. If I am given sheets on my bed no larger than a pocket handkerchief, no matter – I blow my nose on one, turn lightly on my heel and return the way I came, whistling a popular tune.
So much for comfort. And I have never had cause to complain.
Yet, once …..
(A warning to young, female, English readers: the following story is a little bit shocking …)
And yet, once, I confess, I would have liked to see a few more comforts laid on in London. That is, a few more conveniences. Because, as you probably know, London is most unlike Paris as far as the provision of public monuments for public relief is concerned. The monuments of Paris have given the word bas-relief to the world. In London there is no relief at all, however low.
And that evening I needed it badly. I had drunk a lot of ale, imbibed quite a bit of stout, and washed it all down with some porter. I was on my way back to my lodgings, about five or six o’clock, and as I walked down the Tottenham Court Road I suddenly became very nostalgic for the – well, the Boulevard Montmartre, for example. Because the Boulevard Montmartre is well lined with magazine kiosks, colonnes Morris and, above all, those comforting refuges which every Parisian is so used to having nearby.
The Tottenham Court Road may be a fine thoroughfare, but it completely lacks any such trappings of civilization. Well, why not go into a building and ask for the concierge’s help, do I hear you ask? Ah, wishful thinkers! There are no concierges in England. (Another example of their love of comfort.)
What could I do?
My ale, stout and porter had treacherously joined forces against me to plan a mass escape, and I felt I could not resist their efforts for long. But could I hold them off as far as Leicester Square? ‘That was the question’.
I lengthened my stride. Acute agony brought me to a swift halt, and nailed me to the spot.
And then necessity became the mother of genius.
My eyes fell on a grand shop on which was blazoned, in letters of gold, these words: ALBERT FOX, Chemist and Druggist.
I don’t know about you, but I adore English chemists’ shops. I love the incredible variety of things they sell, the little sponges, the ties, the big sponges, the garters, the medium-sized sponges, etc., etc…..
So in I went resolutely.
‘Good evening, sir,’ said Albert Fox.
‘Good evening,’ I said, in Shakespeare’s language, though not Shakespeare’s words. ‘I think I may have contracted diabetes.’
‘Ah,’ said the chemist (also in English).
‘So I would like to make sure one way or the other.’
‘That’s quite simple, sir. All I need to do is analyse a sample of your …. do you follow me?’
‘Of course.’
And I did, into a little laboratory at the back, where he left me with a glass flask which had a funnel fixed at the top (for comfort, you understand). In no time at all, the flask had turned a bright amber colour in my hands. In fact – please don’t get the idea that I am trying to show off, because I find the whole thing as revolting as you do – in fact the flask was not really big enough for the job and I was forced to add some more amber liquid to a dark potion bubbling away on a nearby burner.
When I reappeared, the chemist promised me faithfully to have the analysis scrupulously carried out by the same time the next day, so I left him with a cheery farewell and good night. But at that very same time the very next day you could have seen, on the steamer Pétrel bound full speed for Calais, the reclining, distinguished figure of a tall fair-haired young man ki
lling himself with laughter over some private joke.
Well, if I ever do become a diabetic, I shall know that the god of English chemists has had his revenge.
AN UNLIKELY STORY
I have just written to the editor of the Journal Des Débats to tell him that I have no option but to cancel my subscription. My reason for such an extreme action? Nothing less than the publication in his serious evening organ of a story so ludicrous that I myself would hesitate to put my name to it. Yet they have had the nerve to print it as coolly as if it were an everyday event. Well, when I buy the Journal Des Débats, I expect to get something serious to read for my money. You do too, don’t you? Of course you do.
But when serious people like the staff of the Journal Des Débats decide to let their hair down, they don’t do it by halves. And this time they have gone too far.
Anyway, judge for yourselves.
Here is the offending report, more or less word for word:–
‘The distinguished Norwegian naturalist, Henrik Dahl of Talesund, a Darwinian scientist, recently decided to follow a living organism through all the stages of evolution.
‘Accordingly, he bought a herring which had been caught alive in a Norwegian fjord and put it in an aquarium tank full of sea water. He renewed the water every day, but always replaced it with a slightly smaller quantity of liquid. As might be expected, this seemed to disturb the herring to begin with; eventually, though, he readjusted to the gradual loss of his maritime environment and began bit by bit to get used to an amphibious existence, living partly in air and partly in water.
‘So M. Dahl took the experiment a stage further. He emptied all the water out of the tank. This naturally caused the herring some discomfort for a while, but he eventually recovered, adapted to his new dry surroundings, started breathing like a land animal and consequently found himself one rung higher on the ladder of evolution. As a reward, M. Dahl took him out of his glass prison and let him live on dry land, taking care to teach him to behave as befitted his new, dignified status. The herring, who turned out to be unusually intelligent, affectionate and adaptable, did all that was asked of him. He grew to like food that no fish had ever eaten before, he ate from his master’s hand and at length became so fond of him that he was visibly depressed every time the latter had to go away on business.
The World of Alphonse Allais Page 18