The Ghost of Monsieur Scarron

Nineteen

238 Nineteen the wind which had driven the rain ended by clearing the sky. the gutters ran with water for a while, and water dripped from the eaves. at dusk the streets filled with the usual evening mist. after supper in the rue des lions, Marianne said to Jean: “what are you looking for?” “My pipe and my tobacco.” he ran his hand along the mantel as if he might find by touch what he failed to see. the tinderbox, the iron candlesticks , the copper tube for blowing the coals to life were all there. the pipe and tobacco should have been there too. “they’re upstairs.” “i thought i brought them down,” he said. “i’m sure i saw them in the bedroom.” “that’s strange,” he said. “what’s strange about it? you put them there every night of your life when you take off your coat.” She sat near the window, sewing a button on a shirt. Jean, turning from his search of the mantelpiece, saw her plunge her needle downward, pull the thread through the stuff, take several small quick stitches, and bend her head to bite the thread. a memory solicited his consciousness and was refused. “it’s strange that i forget what i do,” he answered slowly. “it must be the years.” 239 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 “you did not forget anything. you thought you had done today something that you did yesterday, and the day before that.” She did not offer to fetch his pipe and tobacco for him. She folded the shirt and said: “you’ll never wear this again. you’re too broad in the shoulders. it’s fine linen. we could sell it.” “Save it for nicolas,” he said. he left the kitchen and she delayed until she knew he would be at the top of the stairs. then she ran after him, overtaking him in the bedroom. “Give me the key to the chest so that i can put this away.” the key turned smoothly in the lock. She pushed the tapestry aside and put up the lid. Before her lay the striped taffeta skirt. She laid the shirt on top of it, and then plunged one hand down into the corner. But Jean was not staying to observe what she did. he had possessed himself of his twist of tobacco and his clay pipe and was already in the next room, doubtless on his way to the harrow. he must stay in order to witness that his money was all there, safe, when she closed the chest. “Jean,” she called in panic. he was at the door in an instant. “what is it?” “where’s the green rouleau—the long one?” “But where i left it, with the others,” he replied, coming behind her. She made a great scramble in the chest, thrusting the green roll out of sight, bringing up the others, one by one, and placing them on the white shirt. “the blue; the other blue; the short one with the pistoles— it’s heavy; the white canvas. But the green one, i don’t find it. Did you put it someplace else?” 240 Janet Lewis “where else would i put it?” said Jean reasonably. “it must be in there. what’s come over you?” “i thought i’d put it on top, where you could lay your hand on it easily tomorrow. you’ll want it tomorrow, had you forgotten? the bailiff comes tomorrow. now i can’t find it. But you must be right. it must be here.” “look again,” said Jean. She had his entire attention now. She slid her hand along the bottom of the chest and came up with the green rouleau. “now how could it have gotten there?” she asked with a nervous laugh. “Could i have put it there myself? it’s like your tobacco.” he watched her while she put them away again, the harvest of his life, his hard grain in small sacks, well hidden in the center of the chest; all save one, the green rouleau, which remained near the top, under the shirt. “now we both know where they are,” she said, and handed him back the key. She faced him, smiling and apologetic. “it gave me a scare. i’ll come...