The Ghost of Monsieur Scarron

Four

64 Four Paul Damas, the morning after easter, woke to a timeless moment and did not know where he was. the voice which wakened him was familiar, yet he could not place it. he lay so far beneath the surface of consciousness that, although he heard the voice, he could not reply. the voice evoked another which said, also from a great distance, “Call back the wandering soul,” and this voice he recognized as that of the priest who had taught him to read, had taught him his catechism, and had taught him a smattering of the ancients, an old man in a grease-spotted soutane with a face as brown as a nut, with high cheekbones red as apples. one morning in a sunny garden the priest had explained a notion held by the ancients, that one should waken gradually a sleeping body in order to give the wandering spirit time to return to its carnal habitation. the voice continued to call. it was the voice of an old man, and it was tinged with a remembrance of kindness shown to him, and yet, he now remembered, it could not be that of the priest, for the priest had been dead a good ten years. with a great effort he opened his eyes and saw bending over him a countenance familiar, but not the face of his preceptor. it was wax-colored with fatigue, and rough with grizzled, unshaven beard. From beneath the black ringlets of 65 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 a periwig a few grey locks straggled about the hollow temples, and the eyes were anguished. “your morning is here, my friend,” said the lantern lighter. “your morning and my night, and i need my bed.” From the vast enchantment of sleep the memory of Paul Damas was suddenly delivered into the cold dim light of day. he sat up in bed and looked at his host with concern. “you are tired,” he said. “i was comfortable, thanks to you. i slept like the dead. But you? was it a bad night?” “Do the dead sleep so well?” said the old man. “it was no worse a night than many. with me, it’s age, not the weather. it flows through the veins and chills the flesh, little by little. when i lean over, my head whirls. help me off with my shoes.” “you’re not so very old,” said Damas. “what you need is food. we will find you a breakfast.” But the lantern lighter shook his head. “For nothing in the world would i climb those stairs again today. help me into bed. all that i need is to lie down.” without his hat, without his wig, without his laced and padded coat, the old man appeared very small, like a plucked fowl. Damas helped him into bed, tied the cotton nightcap under the lean chin, pushed the covers down about the bony shoulders. the old man’s eyes, full of misery and gratitude, looked up at him. “i’ll bring you some coffee.” “no coffee,” said the old man firmly. “it’s a foreign drug. the King never drinks coffee.” “Brandy?” “nothing at all. i shall sleep. there’s nothing to equal sleep, for nourishment. if you come back . . . ” he paused, closed his eyes, and then resumed, rather indistinctly, “if you come back tonight, i’ll be at the Place des victoires at 66 Janet Lewis sundown, on the King’s business.” the eyes opened briefly, flashing a quick look up at the young man. “Come back,” he said imperiously. “you’ll see. i’ll be there. i’m tough. tough as an old rat.” he closed his eyes again, and a grin made its way slowly through the bristling growth about his lips. “very well,” said Damas, “and meantime, many thanks for the night’s lodging.” with eyes still closed, and the least possible motion of the lips, the lantern lighter replied, “it was nothing. a small favor from a tough old rat.” then the eyes flashed open once more. “will you come back?” he demanded. “Certainly,” said Paul. it was a promise. what else could he have said? But it was pleasant to think that the day, however it went, would have a meeting at its end. it was also...