“And cataloguing books, Monsieur Mouillard, looking through them, preserving them as far as possible from worms and readers. Don’t you think that’s an enviable lot?” “Yes, more so than mine has been, or my successor’s will be.” “By the way, uncle, you haven’t told us who your successor is to be.” “Haven’t I, really? Why, you know him; it’s your friend Larive.” “Oh! That explains a great deal.” “He is a young man who takes life seriously.” “Very seriously, uncle. Isn’t he about to be married?” “Why, yes; to a rich wife.” “To whom?” “My dear boy, he is picking up all your leavings; he is going to marry Mademoiselle Lorinet.” “He was always enterprising! But, uncle, it wasn’t with him you were engaged yesterday evening?” “Why not, pray?” “You told Madeleine to admit a gentleman with a decoration.” “He has one.” “Good heavens! What is it?” “The Nicham Iftikar, if it please you.” [A Tunisian order, which can be obtained for a very moderate sum.] “It doesn’t displease me, uncle, and surprises me still less. Larive will die with his breast more thickly plastered with decorations than an Odd Fellow’s; he will be a member of all the learned societies in the department, respected and respectable, the more thoroughly provincial for having been outrageously Parisian. Mothers will confide their anxieties to him, and fathers their interests; but when his old acquaintances pass this way they will take the liberty of smiling in his face.” “What, jealous? Are you jealous of his bit of ribbon?” “No, uncle, I regret nothing; not even Larive’s good fortune.” M. Mouillard fixed his eyes on the cloth, and began again, after a moment’s silence: “I, Fabien, do regret some things. It will be mournful at times, growing old alone here. Yet, after all, it will be some consolation to me to think that you others are satisfied with life, to welcome you here for your holidays.” “You can do better than that,” said M. Charnot. “Come and grow old among us. Your years will be the lighter to bear, Monsieur Mouillard. Doubtless we must always bear them, and they weigh upon us and bend our backs. But youth, which carries its own burden so lightly, can always give us a little help in bearing ours.” I looked to hear my uncle break out with loud objections. “It is a fine night,” he said, simply; “let us go into the garden, and do you decide whether I can leave roses like mine.” M. Mouillard took us into the garden, pleased with himself, with me, with Jeanne, with everybody, and with the weather. It was too dark to see the roses, but we could smell them as we passed. I had taken Jeanne’s arm in mine, and we went on in front, in the cool dusk, choosing all the little winding paths. The birds were all asleep. But the grasshoppers, crickets, and all manner of creeping things hidden in the grass, or in the moss on the trees, were singing and chattering in their stead.