“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.”

A FAMILY

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.

For years we had scarcely been separated; we had lived, travelled, thought and dreamed together; had liked the same things, had admired the same books, understood the same authors, trembled with the same sensations, and very often laughed at the same individuals, whom we understood completely by merely exchanging a glance.