"

"What is it that I am to do?"

"Just this: dictate to me, in a slow, clear voice, the various quotations from the papers which I am to transfer into the Ledger. Mind what you are about! Speak emphatically, and breathe deeply. There must be no errors—one erasure and I am dismissed. "

There were no further preliminaries, and the work began.

Quinsonnas was a young man of thirty who by dint of his serious expression might pass for forty. Yet attentive scrutiny might ultimately discern, beneath that ominous gravity, a good deal of secret joviality and a dash of diabolic wit. Michel, after three days, began to notice something of the kind.

Yet the bookkeeper's reputation for simplicity, not to say stupidity, was celebrated throughout the offices; stories were told about him that would have made the Calinos[16] of the period turn pale! Nonetheless, his splendid calligraphy and his exactitude were indisputable virtues; it was on account of the latter, thanks to his proverbial obtuseness, that he had escaped the two tasks so burdensome for a clerk: jury duty and National Guard service (these two great institutions were still functioning in the year of grace 1960).

Here are the circumstances in which Quinsonnas was removed from the lists of the former and the roll books of the latter. About a year earlier, fate had placed his name in the jury pool; the case was an extremely serious one in the Assize Court and particularly long as well; it had already lasted some eight days, and only now was there some hope of bringing it to an end; the last witnesses were being questioned, but Quinsonnas had not been taken into consideration. In the middle of the session, he stood up and asked the presiding magistrate if the defendant might be asked one question. Permission was granted, the question was asked, and the defendant provided an answer.

"In that case, " said Quinsonnas, very loudly, "it is plain that the defendant is not guilty. " The effect can be imagined! It is forbidden for any member of the jury to express an opinion during the course of the interrogation, on pain of mistrial! Quinsonnas's blunder thus extended the case to yet another session! And everything had to be started all over again; and since the incorrigible juror, involuntarily or else naively repeated the error, no verdict could be reached!

What could anyone say to the unfortunate Quinsonnas? He was evidently speaking out despite himself, in the heat of the interrogation; his thoughts got the best of him. It was an infirmity, but finally, since Justice had to proceed on its course, he was permanently excused from the jury lists.

The National Guard was another matter. The first time Quinsonnas was assigned to sentry duty at the gates of his municipal district, he took his duties seriously; he stood at attention before his box, his rifle loaded, his finger on the trigger, ready to fire as if the enemy was about to appear around the corner. Naturally some people stared at this zealous sentry—more than a few, in fact; several innocent bystanders smiled. This was not to the fierce National Guardsman's liking. He arrested one, then two, then three of these idlers; at the end of his two hours on duty, he had filled the post. His actions nearly caused a riot.

What could be said? Quinsonnas was quite within his rights; he claimed to have been insulted while under arms! The religion of the flag was on his side, and the incident was inevitably repeated during his next session on duty, and since neither his zeal nor his susceptibility, both quite honorable, after all, could be moderated, he was removed from the military roles.

Quinsonnas may well have passed for an imbecile, yet in this fashion he had managed to avoid both jury duty and National Guard service. Released from these two social burdens, Quinsonnas became a model bookkeeper.

For a month, Michel dictated according to the regulations. His work was easy enough, but it left him not a moment's freedom; Quinsonnas wrote, sometimes shooting a remarkably sharp glance at young Dufrénoy when the latter began declaiming the Ledger's articles in emotional accents.

"What an odd chap, " he mused; "yet he seems born for better things! I wonder why he's been put here, being Boutardin's nephew and all? Could it be to take my place? Impossible—he writes like the cook's cat! Maybe he's really just the simpleton he seems. I must get to the bottom of this!"

For his part, Michel indulged in identical reflections: "This Quinsonnas must be playing a double game. Obviously he's born for better things than making those F's or those M's. There are times when I can actually hear him laughing to himself! What's he thinking about?"

Thus these two comrades of the Ledger observed each other; they did so with a clear, frank gaze on either side, thereby generating a communicative spark. Such a situation could not continue without some consequence. Quinsonnas was dying to ask questions, and Michel to answer them, and one fine day, without knowing why, in an expansive mood, Michel was led to tell his life story; he did so excitedly, his words full of feelings that had been repressed too long. Quinsonnas was very likely moved, for he squeezed his young companion's hand. "But your father?" he asked.

"Was a musician. "

"A musician—was he that Dufrénoy whose last works are among the finest things in modern music?"

"That was certainly my father. "

"A man of genius!" Quinsonnas exclaimed, "a poor man and little known, my dear boy, yet he was my own master!"

"Your master!" Michel gaped.

"Yes, mine!" exclaimed Quinsonnas, brandishing his pen, "to the devil with scruples! Io son pittore! I am a musician!"

"You're an artist!"

"Yes, but not so loud! I'll get myself thanked for it, " Quinsonnas whispered, quelling the young man's gestures of surprise and delight.

"But..."

"Here I'm a bookkeeper; the copyist feeds the musician, until..." Here he broke off, staring hard at Michel.

"Until..."

"Until the moment I've discovered some practical notion!"

"In industry!" Michel replied, disappointed.

"No, my boy, " Quinsonnas replied in a fatherly tone, "in music. "

"In music?"

"Silence! Don't question me, it's a secret. I'm going to astound the age. Don't laugh! Laughter is punishable by death these days; our contemporaries are serious to the end of time."

"Astound the age, " the young man repeated quite mechanically.

"That's my motto, " Quinsonnas answered. "Astound, since I can no longer beguile. Like you, I was born a century too late; and you must do as I do, work! Earn your bread, since all of us must achieve that ignoble thing: digestion! I'll teach you something about life, if you're willing to learn; for fifteen years I've been feeding my poor self quite meagerly, and it's taken strong teeth to chew what fate has put in my mouth! But finally, with a strong pair of jaws, you can get the best of fate! Luckily I fell into a job, of sorts; I have a good hand, as they say. Lord! If I were to lose an arm, what would I do? No piano—no Ledger either! Bah, in time I could learn to play with my feet! I've thought about it.