Thus it happens that the old clerk Jupille and I have been thrown together.  I enjoy his talk.  He is a simplehearted, honorable man, with a philosophy that I am sure can not be in the least German, because I can understand it.  I have gradually told him all my secrets.  I felt the need of a confidant, for I was stifling, metaphorically as well as literally.  Now, when he hands me a deed, instead of saying “All right,” as I used to, I say, “Take a chair, Monsieur Jupille”; I shut the door, and we talk.  The clerks think we’re talking law, but the clerks are mistaken.

Yesterday, for instance, he whispered to me: 

“I have come down the Rue de l’Universite.  They will soon be back.”

“How did you learn that?”

“I saw a man carrying coals into the house, and asked for whom they were, that’s all.”

Again, we had a talk, just now, which shows what progress I have made in the old clerk’s heart.  He had just submitted a draft to me.  I had read it through and grunted my approval, yet M. Jupille did not go.

“Anything further, Monsieur Jupille?”

“Something to ask of you—­to do me a kindness, or, rather, an honor.”

“Let’s hear what it is.”

“This weather, Monsieur Mouillard, is very good for fishing, though rather warm.”

“Rather warm, Monsieur Jupille!”

“It is not too warm.  It was much hotter than this in 1844, yet the fish bit, I can tell you!  Will you join us next Sunday in a fishing expedition?  I say ‘us,’ because one of your friends is coming, a great amateur of the rod who honors me with his friendship, too.”

“Who is he?”

“A secret, Monsieur Mouillard, a little secret.  You will be surprised.  It is settled then—­next Sunday?”

“Where shall I meet you?”

“Hush, the office-boy is listening.  That boy is too sharp; I’ll tell you some other time.”

“As you please, Monsieur Jupille; I accept the invitation unconditionally.”

“I am so glad you will come, Monsieur Mouillard.  I only wish we could have a little storm between this and then.”

He spoke the truth; his satisfaction was manifest, for I never have seen him rub the tip of his nose with the feathers of his quill pen so often as he did that afternoon, which was with him the sign of exuberant joy, all his gestures having subdued themselves long since to the limits of his desk.

July 20th.

I have seen Lampron once more.  He bears his sorrow bravely.  We spoke for a few moments of his mother.  I spoke some praise of that humble soul for the good she had done me, which led him to enlarge upon her virtues.

“Ah,” he said, “if you had only seen more of her!  My dear fellow, if I am an honest man; if I have passed without failing through the trials of my life and my profession; if I have placed my ideal beyond worldly success; in a word, if I am worth anything in heart or brain, it is to her I owe it.  We never had been parted before; this is our first separation, and it is the final one.  I was not prepared for it.”