The Ghost of Monsieur Scarron

Eighteen

223 Eighteen Paul made his preparations. they were simple. he bought a chisel on wednesday on his way home from work. on thursday evening he sauntered toward les halles, and outside the charnelhouses of the innocents he found what he wanted, a scribe, to whom he dictated a letter. he mailed the letter that evening, and went to bed feeling confident that all was in order. he avoided Marianne during those two days with greater caution than ever. on Friday morning he began, at his own request , a project which would occupy him uniquely for nearly a week to come. it was a privileged task, involving the designing and gilding of a new volume. he worked, surrounded by the smell of the gluepot, the smell of leather, with the window open upon the courtyard, hearing the quacking of the ducks about their wooden tub, the footsteps of household servants coming and going, the occasional nicker of a horse from the stables. it was a morning of solid peace, and altogether commonplace. he began to whistle, “the rose of your white rose-tree,” but after a few measures the tune faltered and fell into silence. the sense of advancing into danger moment by moment, without moving from the spot where he stood, dominated the whole morning. a little before noon the letter arrived. 224 Janet Lewis Marianne brought it into the bindery and handed it to larcher. “this is for Paul,” he said, and handed it on. Paul looked at it curiously, with apparent surprise. “i recognize the hand,” he said. “at least it is very like that of the curé in auxerre who taught me my latin. i wonder what he would have to write me about.” “why not open it?” said Jean. Paul broke the seal—there was no envelope—and read the letter through. then, without comment, he handed it to his master. “My dear child, i take advantage of this opportunity to send you a few words. a man who leaves auxerre tomorrow for Paris will take this with him, and, if he cannot deliver it to your hand, will post it upon his arrival, which will still save some time. My news is unhappy, but cannot take you by surprise. your father is dying of that old injury which you know of, and which has made life painful for him through these last years. i cannot urge you too strongly to return as quickly as possible, so that you may speak with him once more. he asks for you continually. i cannot doubt but that you are well off in Paris. all that you have written to your mother concerning your master is good. however, for her sake, after your father is gone, we must make plans to keep you near auxerre. She will not have the strength to follow you so far from home. of making many books there is no end, as the Preacher saith; i doubt not but that we shall find you books to bind. and much study is a weariness of the flesh, i could add, but that is for myself, not for you. i urge you, return without delay. you have my constant blessing. hébert. at auxerre, end of august.” “well,” said Jean, “that’s a pity.” 225 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 “it distresses me in more ways than one,” said Paul. he passed a hand over his eyes as if the gesture would help him collect his wits. “What’s the trouble?” said Marianne anxiously. Paul’s distress seemed genuine. Jean said to Paul, “With your permission ,” and handed her the letter. The writing was elegant and clear, and a little shaky, as if the hand that held the pen were old, and, as she read it, her first thought was, “How strange that this letter should come just when Paul really plans to leave.” Halfway through, a remembrance came to her of Nicolas remarking that Paul had no father living, or that Paul had no knowledge of his father—which was it? “But I thought your father— —” she began. Paul dropped his hand from his eyes and looked at her, a brief look, cold and menacing. She stopped short. “Thought what?” said Jean, who had not seen Paul’s face. “Nothing. I was confused...