‘In the parks of Paris it is indeed considered a crime,’ M. Gauche pronounced solemnly. ‘The penalty is ten francs. And if the ladies will permit an old boor to light up his pipe, I will tell you an amusing little story on the subject.’
‘O, ladies, pray do indulge us!’ cried the owlish Indologist Sweetchild, wagging his beard a la Disraeli. ‘M. Gauche is such a wonderful raconteur!’
Everyone turned to look at the pregnant Renate, on whom the decision depended, and she rubbed her temple as a hint. Of course, she did not have the slightest trace of a headache - she was simply savouring the sweetness of the moment. However, she too was curious to hear this ‘little story’, and so she nodded her head with a pained expression and said:
‘Very well, smoke. But then someone must fan me.’
Since bitchy Clarissa, the owner of a luxurious ostrich-feather fan, pretended this remark did not apply to her, the Japanese had to fill the breach. Gintaro Aono seated himself beside Renate and set to work, flapping his bright fan with the butterfly design in front of the long-suffering woman’s nose so zealously that the bright kaleidoscope rapidly make her feel genuinely giddy. The Japanese received a reprimand for his excessive fervour.
Meanwhile the rentier drew on his pipe with relish, puffed out a cloud of aromatic smoke and embarked on his story: ‘Believe it or not as you wish, but this is a true story. There was once a gardener who worked in the Luxembourg Gardens, little papa Picard. For forty years he had watered the flowers and pruned the shrubs, and now he had only three years to go until he retired and drew his pension. Then one morning, when little papa Picard went out with his watering can, he saw a swell dolled up in a white shirt and tails sprawling in the tulip bed. He was stretched out full length, basking in the morning sunshine, obviously straight from his nocturnal revels - after carousing until dawn, he had dozed off on the way home.’
Gauche screwed up his eyes and surveyed his audience with a sly glance. ‘Picard, of course, was furious - his tulips were crushed - and he said: “Get up, monsieur, in our park lying in the flower beds is not allowed! We fine people for it, ten francs.”
The reveller opened one eye and took a gold coin out of his pocket. “There you are, old man,” he said, “now leave me in peace. I haven’t had such a wonderful rest in ages.” Well, the gardener took the coin, but he did not go away. “You have paid the fine, but I have no right to leave you here, monsieur. Be so good as to get up.” At this the gentleman in the tails opened both eyes, but he seemed in no haste to rise. “How much do I have to pay you to get out of my sun? I’ll pay any amount you like if you’ll just stop pestering me and let me doze for an hour.”
Old papa Picard scratched his head and moved his lips while he figured something out. “Well then, sir,” he said eventually, “if you wish to purchase an hour’s rest lying in a flower bed in the Luxembourg Gardens, it will cost you eighty-four thousand francs and not a single sou less.” ‘ Gauche chuckled merrily into his grey moustache and shook his head, as if in admiration of the gardener’s impudence. ‘ “And not a single sou less,” he said, so there! And let me tell you that this tipsy gentleman was no ordinary man, but the banker Laffitte himself, the richest man in the whole of Paris. Laffitte was not in the habit of making idle promises: he had said “any amount” and now he was stuck with it. As a banker it would have been shameful for him to back down and break his word. Of course, he didn’t want to give away that kind of money to the first impudent rogue he met for a mere how-d’ye-do. But what could he do about it?’
Gauche shrugged, mimicking a state of total perplexity. ‘Then suddenly Laffitte ups and says: “Right, you old scoundrel, you’ll get your eighty-four thousand, but only on one condition. You prove to me that lying for an hour in your rotten flower bed is really worth the money. And if you can’t prove it, I’ll get up this very moment and give your sides a good drubbing with my cane, and that act of petty hooliganism will cost me a forty franc administrative fine.” ‘ Crazy Milford-Stokes laughed loudly and ruffled up his ginger mane in approval, but Gauche raised a yellow-stained finger, as if to say: don’t be so hasty with your laughter, it’s not the end yet. ‘And what do you think happened, ladies and gentlemen? Old papa Picard, not put out in the slightest, began drawing up the balance: “In half an hour, at precisely eight o’clock, monsieur le directeur of the park will arrive, see you in the flower bed and start yelling at me to get you out of there. I shall not be able to do that, because you will have paid for a full hour, not half an hour. I shall get into an argument with monsieur le directeur, and he will kick me out of my job with no pension and no severance pay. I still have three years to go before I retire and take the pension due to me, which is set at one thousand two hundred francs a year. I intend to live at my ease for twenty years, so altogether that makes twenty-four thousand francs already. Now for the matter of accommodation.
They will throw me and my lady wife out of our municipal apartment. And then the question is - where are we going to live? We shall have to buy a house. Any modest little house somewhere in the Loire region will run to twenty thousand at least. Now, sir, consider my reputation. Forty years I’ve slaved away loyally in this park and anyone will tell you that old papa Picard is an honest man. Then suddenly an incident like this brings shame on my old grey head. This is bribery, this is graft! I think a thousand francs for each year of irreproachable service would hardly be too much by way of moral compensation. So altogether it comes out at exactly eighty-four thousand.” Laffitte laughed, stretched himself out a bit more comfortably in the flower bed and closed his eyes again. “Come back in an hour, you old monkey,” he said, “and you’ll be paid.” And that is my wonderful little story, ladies and gentlemen.’
‘So a year of faultless conduct went for a thousand f-francs?’ the Russian diplomat said with a laugh. ‘Not so very expensive. Evidently with a discount for wholesale.’
The company began a lively discussion of the story, expressing the most contradictory opinions, but Renate Kleber gazed curiously at M. Gauche as he opened his black file with a self satisfied air and began rustling his papers. He was an intriguing specimen, this old grandpa, no doubt about it. And what secrets was he keeping in there? Why was he shielding the file with his elbow?
That question had been nagging at Renate for a long time.
Once or twice she had tried to exploit her position as a motherto-be by glancing over Gauche’s shoulder as he conjured with that precious file of his, but the mustachioed boor had rather impudently slammed the file shut in the lady’s face and even wagged his finger at her, as much as to say: now that’s not allowed.
Today, however, something rather remarkable happened.
When M. Gauche, as usual, rose from the table ahead of the others, a sheet of paper slid silently out of his mysterious file and glided gently to the floor. Engrossed in some gloomy thoughts of his own, the rentier failed to notice anything and left the saloon. The door had scarcely closed behind him before Renate adroitly raised her body, with its slightly thickened waist, out of her chair. But she was not the only one to have been so observant. The well-brought-up Miss Stamp (such a nimble creature!) was the first to reach the scrap of paper.
‘Ah, I think Mr Gauche has dropped something!’ she exclaimed, deftly grabbing up the scrap and fastening her beady eyes on it. ‘I’ll catch up with him and return it.’
But Mme Kleber was already clutching the edge of the paper in tenacious fingers and had no intention of letting go.
‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘A newspaper clipping? How interesting!’