The Ghost of Monsieur Scarron

One

1 One Jean larcher, bookbinder, was at supper with his wife and son. the day was easter Sunday, which in that year of Grace, 1694, the fifty-first year of the reign of Louis XIV, fell upon the eleventh of April. They sat about a table spread with white linen in one of the four rooms which he rented in an old building in the rue des Lions, in Paris, a building which was old even then. The room served as kitchen, living room, and salesroom, and it was very small. It had a certain elegance, however, in spite of the stone floor and huge old-fashioned hearth, the elegance of the past generation. The proportions were good. Beyond the window, still unshuttered, the spring twilight held the air, fading slowly from the cloudy sky. in the kitchen the air darkened imperceptibly, while the larcher family broke their bread and ate their soup. Jean, laying down his spoon at last by his empty bowl, leaned back in his chair and observed with surprise that the faces of his companions, although near to him, had grown indistinct. the corners of the kitchen were dark. even the glow of coals on the hearth had faded to a dull red. But through the barred, unshuttered window he could see the street still luminous in comparison with the interior and, being so reminded of the lengthening of the days, felt a sense of reassurance. Spring had returned; winter lay behind them. 2 Janet Lewis it had been a winter more difficult than most, with deprivations and disasters far beyond the ordinary. the Seine had frozen, the cold had been so great. the city, provisioned largely by the river traffic, had been for days as if in a state of siege, and this extreme deprivation, coming at a time when there had already been for long a lack of grain and bread, had caused great suffering for the general populace. when the cold relaxed and the ice began to break up, boats and barges were flung together, or forced by the rush of water against the piers of the bridges, and so were broken and sunk. Jean larcher had seen this havoc. the rue des lions was near the river. the streets had been full of the homeless, the sick and the hungry, all winter long. there had been violence in the markets where bread was sold; and though the rich seemed to live as well as ever, marrying their daughters with feasting and display, business such as his own had not been good. the King economized, and it had become the fashion to economize, if not in weddings, at least in the collection of well-bound books. nevertheless, the winter was over, and the larcher family had survived. they had even survived with a small profit. they had “made their easter,” as the saying went. they had been shriven, and had taken communion, and further, in honor of the day, they had eaten well. there was a white cloth on the table, and there had also been white bread, and a boiled fowl and leeks, and for dessert, walnuts and raisins. he was a devout man, this Jean larcher. he made his springtime penitence soberly and thoroughly, as he audited his business, and feeling that all was in order, he took his hour of contentment quietly, and still in the fear of God. Physically , he was well built, broad-shouldered, with a face more square than round, with blunt but pleasant features, his hair 3 T H E G H O S T O F M O N S I E U R S C A R R O N grey about the temples, a few deep lines about the mouth. he filled his chair completely. as for the small profit from the business, it was in the form of two pistoles, in one of the pockets of his long vest. he reassured himself from time to time of its existence with the tip of a forefinger. his wife, seated across from him, had laid both arms on the table, and her head, in its white linen coif, drooped toward them. She clasped both elbows in her hands for warmth, and for warmth also leaned her bosom against her arms. the deep ruffles of her Sunday blouse fell over her hands like a muff, and all this whiteness of her cap and...