really beginning to be amused by so much misery and bad temper reduced to such minute proportions. By this impotent, squashable ringworm.
“I bet,” said Narcense, “I can guess what your profession is.”
“Let’s bet! Ten francs you don’t guess!”
“Ten francs I do guess!”
“‘Cross my heart and hope to die,’ as my very dear friend, the Countess of Rut’s farmer, used to say. What is my profession?”
“Well, adventurer.”
“Let’s say you’ve won five francs,” said the dwarf, and took them out of a greasy wallet.
Narcense was enjoying himself.
“I’m glad I met you,” he said, pocketing the five francs. “You’re taking my mind off things.”
“Is that what you needed?”
“That any of your business?”
The cow-pat deigned to smile.
“And to what do I owe these five francs?” Narcense went on.
“Oh yes. Well,” (he lowered his voice) “I’m a parasite.”
“Ha ha.”
Parasite, just look at it, that mite, that micron, that molecule, that neutron—a parasite!
“And I operate—through fear.”
Fear, just look at it, that crumb, that shaving, that scraping, he operates through fear!
“Yes, I frighten old women and children. Sometimes adults, even. I live on other people’s cowardice. Stupid, isn’t it, eh, to be afraid? Just imagine what sort of a shithouse the person’s soul must be. Don’t you think, Meussieu? Meussieu?”
“Narcense.”
“Nice name, and you’re ... ?”
“A musician.”
“Delighful.”
“Jobless and penniless.”
“Like me. Just think, I was on to a gold mine, and then ... But it’d take too long to tell you all that. Here’s the K. tunnel. I get out at the next station.”
“I’m going as far as Torny,” said Narcense.
“Tell me. You don’t happen to know of a house where they’d put me up, do you? It’s for in a few months.”
“No.”
“Never mind.”
Suddenly, just like that, it occurs to Narcense:
“Just a minute. I know a house. Rue Moche. In Obonne. Half built. There’s a child. A father. And a ... Yes, that’s it. A horrible brat.”
The tiny tot wrote the address down in a notebook.
“Do you always succeed in frightening people?”
“Yes. When I want to. Even you, I can make you ... ”
“You don’t say?” laughed Narcense.
The train braked. The dwarf was already in the corridor, suitcase in hand.
“One day I’ll do the dirty on you, you’ll see, I’ll play such a dirty trick on you, it’ll knock the bottom out of your life.”
He disappeared.
Narcense smiled. Poor, miserable, blighted creature, unjustly reduced by nature to the proportions of a louse. And he’s going to knock the bottom out of your life. As if he had any need of that. Poor sap.
—oooooo—oooooo—
Marcheville, some thirty miles from Torny, the industrial center, is more like a large village than a small town; a peasant population, a few bourgeois, among whom are the lawyer and his dog. The lawyer’s dog is a white poodle, answering to the name of Jupiter. Jupiter is highly intelligent; if his master had had the time, he would have taught him arithmetic, perhaps even the elements of formal logic, fallacies and all. But his various pursuits have obliged him to neglect Jupiter’s schooling, and he only knows how to say woof woof from time to time and sit on his behind to get a lump of sugar. However, though there may be some doubt as to the extent of his learning, there can be nothing but admiration for the care he takes of his person. Shorn like a lion, he swaggers about within a radius of fifteen yards of the notarial house. At any greater distance, enormous beasts, jealous of his elegance, menace him with their vulgar, ill-bred fangs.
On this particular morning, Jupiter’s habits are upset; so are those of the lawyer and his family. Everyone is restless, and dressed in black. Forsaken, Jupiter goes to sleep in the hall. A person with a small suitcase in his hand comes in; woof woof, says the poodle
“I bet,” said Narcense, “I can guess what your profession is.”
“Let’s bet! Ten francs you don’t guess!”
“Ten francs I do guess!”
“‘Cross my heart and hope to die,’ as my very dear friend, the Countess of Rut’s farmer, used to say. What is my profession?”
“Well, adventurer.”
“Let’s say you’ve won five francs,” said the dwarf, and took them out of a greasy wallet.
Narcense was enjoying himself.
“I’m glad I met you,” he said, pocketing the five francs. “You’re taking my mind off things.”
“Is that what you needed?”
“That any of your business?”
The cow-pat deigned to smile.
“And to what do I owe these five francs?” Narcense went on.
“Oh yes. Well,” (he lowered his voice) “I’m a parasite.”
“Ha ha.”
Parasite, just look at it, that mite, that micron, that molecule, that neutron—a parasite!
“And I operate—through fear.”
Fear, just look at it, that crumb, that shaving, that scraping, he operates through fear!
“Yes, I frighten old women and children. Sometimes adults, even. I live on other people’s cowardice. Stupid, isn’t it, eh, to be afraid? Just imagine what sort of a shithouse the person’s soul must be. Don’t you think, Meussieu? Meussieu?”
“Narcense.”
“Nice name, and you’re ... ?”
“A musician.”
“Delighful.”
“Jobless and penniless.”
“Like me. Just think, I was on to a gold mine, and then ... But it’d take too long to tell you all that. Here’s the K. tunnel. I get out at the next station.”
“I’m going as far as Torny,” said Narcense.
“Tell me. You don’t happen to know of a house where they’d put me up, do you? It’s for in a few months.”
“No.”
“Never mind.”
Suddenly, just like that, it occurs to Narcense:
“Just a minute. I know a house. Rue Moche. In Obonne. Half built. There’s a child. A father. And a ... Yes, that’s it. A horrible brat.”
The tiny tot wrote the address down in a notebook.
“Do you always succeed in frightening people?”
“Yes. When I want to. Even you, I can make you ... ”
“You don’t say?” laughed Narcense.
The train braked. The dwarf was already in the corridor, suitcase in hand.
“One day I’ll do the dirty on you, you’ll see, I’ll play such a dirty trick on you, it’ll knock the bottom out of your life.”
He disappeared.
Narcense smiled. Poor, miserable, blighted creature, unjustly reduced by nature to the proportions of a louse. And he’s going to knock the bottom out of your life. As if he had any need of that. Poor sap.
—oooooo—oooooo—
Marcheville, some thirty miles from Torny, the industrial center, is more like a large village than a small town; a peasant population, a few bourgeois, among whom are the lawyer and his dog. The lawyer’s dog is a white poodle, answering to the name of Jupiter. Jupiter is highly intelligent; if his master had had the time, he would have taught him arithmetic, perhaps even the elements of formal logic, fallacies and all. But his various pursuits have obliged him to neglect Jupiter’s schooling, and he only knows how to say woof woof from time to time and sit on his behind to get a lump of sugar. However, though there may be some doubt as to the extent of his learning, there can be nothing but admiration for the care he takes of his person. Shorn like a lion, he swaggers about within a radius of fifteen yards of the notarial house. At any greater distance, enormous beasts, jealous of his elegance, menace him with their vulgar, ill-bred fangs.
On this particular morning, Jupiter’s habits are upset; so are those of the lawyer and his family. Everyone is restless, and dressed in black. Forsaken, Jupiter goes to sleep in the hall. A person with a small suitcase in his hand comes in; woof woof, says the poodle
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