Paul Morand: The Man in a Hurry

“Chronic pleurisy that has become acute; he has had four attacks in a few days. And to think that this fine man of ancient lineage, gentlemen, and courtesy itself, wanted — and it was his own expression—‘to die without causing any fuss’!”

“May we still take our leave of him?” asked Placide as a matter of form. He was beginning to amuse himself at the sight of Pierre in convulsions.

The maid heard them as she came back into the room:

“Ah, monsieur, it’s as if he were losing his wits. Come and see him as quickly as possible.”

“Right away,” said Pierre, “let’s not waste any time.”

Maître Caius Caressa cast a lengthy glance at the maid and said nothing. He bore the ugliness of several generations with assurance. His height, his heavy black shoes, unique in a region that wore espadrilles, his black suit, his civil service hat that lay on the table, his sclerotic mulatto’s eyes that were a brighter amber than the glue of the fly-paper that hung from the ceiling — everything about him revealed a man who was wily and powerful. He looked like one of those effigies of princes dubbed “the Bad” by their subjects that can be seen on the back of disused coins.

Pierre and Placide, who were only familiar with a few roguish crooks from business consultancies on the Côte d’Azur who tossed words around, remained silent in the presence of this witness to a secret deed that smelt of conspiracy.

“Mademoiselle Hortense informed me. She told me that you would like to buy the Mas Vieux.”

“The sooner the better,” said Pierre.

“When your colleague came to see Monsieur de Boisrosé a month ago, the farm was not for sale. But as soon as my client became aware of the warnings from heaven, he wished to put his affairs in order. The Mas Vieux is a lovely piece of countryside.”

“The price?”

“A very reasonable and moderate price. It’s not on the road, of course, and there’s no pergola, but you will produce ten tons of cork oak a year, enough to supply the whole coastline as far as Bormes with corks, floats and soles. And two earthenware jars of oil a year.”

“And there’s water,” added the maid. “All the frogs throughout the summer are proof of that.”

“The price?” Pierre repeated.

The lawyer was not accustomed to these sudden stops and starts. His eyes flashed and then dimmed.

“You must understand the situation. Monsieur de Boisrosé is sixty-five years old. A former judge in Martinique, for twenty years he has been separated from his wife who lives in Saint-Germain with their three daughters. On the death of their father, they will inherit. However, Monsieur de Boisrosé would like to recognize the loyal service given to him over several years by Mademoiselle Hortense Pastorino. Not being able to bequeath the Mas Vieux to her, he wishes to sell it during his lifetime; as long as he goes on living. He is an indecisive man and it took the arrival of the priest for him to make up his mind.”

“I will pay in cash.”

“The woods are full of amanita, bolete, parasols. Do you eat mushrooms?”

“I only like ceps.”

“There are some here that are as fine as those at Sospel. But they need rain…”

“When are we going to sign?” said Pierre impatiently.

“… can you tell the difference between the poisonous and the edible amanita?”

“And you, Maître Caressa, can you tell the difference between a man who is in a hurry and a local village buyer?”

Pierre turned towards the maid, took her by the arm and led her over to the window.

Maître Caressa smiled at Placide and shrugged his shoulder.

“He’s a lively fellow, your friend.”

If the lawyer, who normally watched his words as carefully as one would watch over someone who was dying, had struck up a new conversation, it was because he wished to do so. He, too, was in a hurry to sign, but for selfish reasons he bided his time, exerting his renowned patience upon others. Out of the corner of his eyes he watched Pierre peering intently at the maid, while she was frowning and looked as though she were about to burst into tears from irritation and emotion. Her gaze was lowered and she was wringing her wrists like a bookbinder shuffling pages. She was actually crying. Then her face lit up.

“Do you like hunting?” the lawyer asked Placide. “There are hares here as big as mastiffs. And foxes. And squirrels. Squirrel is good to eat.”

“I only shoot with a bow,” Placide replied modestly.

Pierre and the maid rejoined them.

“It’s done. We’re in agreement.”

And in the way one says: “Sit down, the soufflé is ready now!” the lawyer added:

“Pleurisy doesn’t wait.”

Here they are now in Monsieur de Boisrosé’s bedroom. He had regained consciousness. His bony face, with its lined features, was sunk into the pillow. Spluttering, the sick man raised himself up as they entered and his head did its best to lift itself above the eiderdown, rather like the head of a Chinese torture victim trying to free himself from the cangue. Short of breath, his nose pinched, his hands wringing the sheet — everything pointed to a human being on his last legs. He recognized Placide, greeted him with old-world courtesy, said hello to Pierre and bid them sit down.

“Monsieur, all that remains is to sign,” said the lawyer.

“I am happy to sell the Mas Vieux while I live to whomsoever would like it,” the sick man, short of breath, whispered with difficulty. “I should nonetheless like to be sure…”

The lawyer, dry as a for sale notice, cut him short.

“To wit,” he began: “a personal property, seven rooms over a cellar, fifteen hectares planted with one hundred and twenty olive trees, one hundred and fifty almond trees and vines, two water tanks…”

“… sure that the money will be immediately…” continued M. de Boisrosé in a feeble voice.

“… sheepfold, chicken run…”

“… It’s very important…”

“… pine grove…”

“… paid to…”

“Don’t interrupt me, Monsieur de Boisrosé… Workshop, wash-house…’’

“My only demand, payment in cash…”

“Agreed,” replied Pierre.

“It’s because I want to recognize above all…”

“You’re talking too much, you’re exhausting yourself, and you’re preventing us from completing.”

“One more wish,” the dying man went on in a suddenly steady voice: “I put in the electricity myself; I need to explain to you, monsieur, how it works.”

“Ah, this electricity! He wore himself out installing it,” the maid groaned.

“We shall never get through everything. It’s getting dark. You oblige me to request that you keep silent, Monsieur de Boisrosé.”

“It’s horrible,” Pierre muttered to Placide.

Then the thought occurred to him that the lawyer must know what he was doing and that this brutality towards the dying was necessary. As the end approaches, one’s thinking must grow confused; instead of becoming simpler, everything probably becomes complicated, and there must be doubts, qualms and alterations that affect everything. Lawyers are used to dramatic situations. This old grafter knows his job, but it’s appalling nonetheless.

“Come on now, sign.”

And Maître Caressa took out his pen.

Pierre admired the waxen hands of the dying man with their slender fingers that seemed to be busy undoing life’s last threaded knot. A gold signet ring bearing a coat of arms slipped down his bony finger and stopped at the last phalanx. Monsieur de Boisrosé traced his name without raising his pen, allowing it to drop on the line three times, not having the strength to lift it up.

“It’s as though there were a fog over my eyes…”