These arguments have occurred to me so forcibly that I have departed from my first intention, which was to reserve this delicate matter for our next meeting. I find mvself wondering whether I should post this letter, after scribbling down conclusions which may seem hasty to your way of thinking, although I am sure that a full discussion of the matter will show them to be well-founded. My dear Honore, Helene and the children join me in sending affectionate messages to you and your family. Above all, be very careful in repeating what I have said to vou about General Boulanger. It is better not to commit oneself too soon to a course which is not yet altogether clearly defined — even Yaltier seems to be still hesitating. If vou should be writing, be sure and give me news of poor Alesselon.
Your affectionate brother,
Ferdinand.
Ferdinand re-read his letter only once. Delighted with the smoothness of its development and the persuasive firmness of his argument, he sealed it without further hesitation, put on his bowler hat and went out. As he walked down the street he repeated passages to himself, charmed by the happiness of his phrasing. People he encountered noted that he was almost smiling, and a rumour went round that he had come into money. Nevertheless, after he had dropped the letter into the box a wave of misgiving passed through him at the thought of the momentous secret he had confided to the post. However he quickly recovered, rebuking himself for his lack of faith.
The letter was postmarked during the afternoon, spent the night at the Saint-Alargelon Post Office and the next morning went by train to Valbuisson, arriving there at eight-thirty and reaching the Post Office at nine o’clock. The clerk, after stamping it again, placed it with a pile of letters, and the Claquebue postman took charge of it. .
That morning Deodat had fifteen letters and three items of printed matter. He left Valbuisson a little before ten to cover the six miles to Claquebue. The letters were tidily bestowed in the leather wallet which he carried slung over his shoulder, and off he went, walking at a good, steady pace, not too fast, just the speed that was called for. And he thought of his letters, reciting the names of the recipients in the order in which he would bring them out of his wallet, and not making a single mistake, which shows that he knew his job.
At the foot of the Montee-Rouge, Deodat remarked to himself, “When I’ve reached the top of the slope I shall be that much nearer.” And he laughed because it was true: when he had reached the top of the slope he would be that much nearer. He walked steadily like a steady man, a quiet man; in fact, a sensible man who knows what he’s about, a good postman. He was hot under the glaring sun. But this was also because his uniform was of good, solid material, a thing which he would be the last man to complain of. Decidedly.
Deodat climbed the slope reflecting that he was the postman. It was a good situation. If he hadn’t deserved it, he wouldn’t have got it. In order to be a good postman (there are postmen and postmen, like in everything else) you have to have a head on your shoulders; you have to know things; above all, you have to know how to walk. Not everyone knows how to walk, whatever they may think.
Now to take an example: suppose you were to go bustling off at top speed to Valbuisson to collect the Claquebue mail, what would happen? You’d be all the slower coming back, you’d be exhausted, and even if you managed to finish the journey what do you suppose you’d be like when it came to delivering the letters? If you’re a postman you have to think about being civil to the customers, and nobody can be civil with a blistered foot. And then next time you went to Valbuisson you’d have to have your foot in bandages! In short, there would be no end to it. What you have to do is to walk steadily, like a steady man, and watch where you’re going and see you don’t tread in cow-pats. There’d be no end to the new boots you’d have to buy if you didn’t watch out.
Deodat reached the crest of the Montee-Rouge. He said aloud, “There’s Claquebue!” We all have our habits. When he reached the crest of the Montee-Rouge he always said, “There’s Claquebue!” And he was always right. There it was, the first house on the right, the second house on the left. He went down into the village reflecting that he was the postman. It was a good job, a good calling. You can say what you like about being a postman — when you come right down to it, there isn’t very much to say — but it’s a good job. You have to take care of your uniform, of course; but if you do take care of it it’s a good uniform. When anyone meets a postman they know at once what he is.
The first house opened its shutters and said to Deodat:
“Are you doing your round?”
“That’s it,” said Deodat. “I’m doing my round.”
The second house said nothing. This was because there was no one there. At the third house Deodat thrust his hand into his wallet and called as he entered the courtyard:
“Widow Domine!”
The widow Domine must be in the garden. He might have left the letter on the window-ledge with a stone on top, but he waited. The old woman had heard him and came shuffling in her clogs round the corner of the house.
“Good morning, Deodat, are you finding it hot on your round?”
“Good morning to you, Justine. Gardening must be hot work too.”
The courtesies being accomplished, he held out the letter saying in his official voice:
“Widow Domine.”
The old woman gazed mistrustfully at it without taking it, then tapped the pockets of her apron in search of her spectacles. But spectacles are not much use when one cannot read.
“It’s from my Angele. Will you tell me what she’s written?”
Deodat read her the letter, without being puffed up about it. He just thought how useful it was to be educated. When he had finished the old woman drew nearer to him and asked:
“Well, what does she say?”
She had understood nothing of the letter. When one reads what has been written down it is not the same as speech. Deodat explained that Angele was well, and that she had been offered a situation where she would get ninety francs a year and her clogs.
“And at the end she says, ‘Dear mother, I hope you are feeling better and will go on the same.’ It’s to be kind, you see. She wants you to take care of yourself.”
The widow Domine wagged her head in astonishment. She would never have believed it.
Deodat then walked more than another half-mile while he distributed three letters. They were not great correspondents in Claquebue. He would have liked to have a wallet stuffed with mail, so that the work done might bear some relation to the energy expended. He would have liked to have a letter for every house. But since there were not so many one had to make the best of what one had. After all, he delivered all there were. He walked down the middle of the road, steadily, as becomes an upright man who knows where he’s going. If a cart should come along he would keep to the right — a cart, a flock of sheep, a procession or whatever it might be. When you are a postman you have to be ready for anything. He walked between a bright hedge and a clump of acacia. They are pretty to see, dog-roses in the hedge, the big acacias. But he saw nothing of them; he had no need to think about them. He passed by tranquilly, carrying on his shoulders the big, round head which was so useful to him in his calling. In fact, he would scarcely be able to do without it, being a postman. If he had no head, where would he put his cap?
Before reaching the turn of the road Deodat moved over to the right because he heard a noise. He did not yet know what it might be. “I’ve time to piss,” he reflected. When one has done six miles on foot this is something to be reckoned with, and time must be allowed for it. There are people who piss casually, not thinking what they’re doing. But a true postman cannot behave like that: he must consider everything in relation to his job. Having finished, Deodat bent his knees slightlv to make room for himself inside his trousers and walked on. The noise grew louder, and as he passed the turn of the road he understood: it was the children squabbling on their way home from school. Deodat knew them all, because that was his business, to know everyone in Claquebue. There were the two voungest Haudouins, Gustave and Clotilde, the three Messelons, Tintin Maloret, Narcisse Rugnon, Aline Dur and some others — a dozen of them straggling all across the road and shouting at one another as though they were grown-ups.