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October 19, 2023 - February 6, 2024
“Tiens, priests, soldiers, doctors and policemen never retire, my friend,” de Grandin answered with a smile. “They may enter other lines of work, but always, underneath, they cling all tightly to the instincts of their one-time calling.”
De Grandin laughed delightedly. “Morbleu, but prudery dies hard in you Americans, Mademoiselle,” he chuckled, “despite your boasted modernism and emancipation. No matter, you have asked our hospitality, and you shall have it. You did not really think that we would let you go among those—those whatever-they-may-bes, I hope? But no. Here you shall stay till daylight makes your going safe, and when you have eaten and rested you shall tell us all you know of this strange business of the monkey. Yes, of course.”
“Why yes, over in that cabinet you’ll find some Scotch and rye, and some brandy, too, if you prefer.” “Prefer? Mon Dieu,” he looked at her reproachfully, “who would drink whisky when brandy is available, Mademoiselle?”
No, not at all; by no means. I find you distinctly annoying. Your mind is literal as a problem in addition. You believe in something only if you know the cause of it; you have faith in remedies only if you know their application. Smallpox, diphtheria, scarlet fever? Yes, of course, you know them. Dementia præcox, yes, you know it, too. But subtle problems of the mind—a hate, which is malign thought made crystal—hard by concentration—morbleu, you will have none of it! ‘I have not seen it, therefore there is no such thing,’ you say.
“Lieber Himmel!” he exclaimed. “You—you tell us this? With seriousness you say it? Yes? Mein Gott, du bist verrückt! Stay, stay, little man, and rave your crazy ravings. I am going to get drunk!” A smile of almost heavenly delight lit up de Grandin’s face. “Mon cher ami, mon brave collègue,” he exclaimed, “for a week I’ve known you, yet never till this instant have I heard you speak one word of sense! “Wait till I find my seven-times-accursed hat, and I will go with you!”
“Didn’t you ever notice how the average person can be bullied out of sticking to the evidence of his own senses?
A surge of sudden wild, insensate anger swept through me. How or why I did not know, but this picture somehow was responsible for Jules de Grandin’s plight. When I assaulted it he gained a temporary respite, in the momentary pause between my blows he suffered strangulation. I went stark, raving mad. For a wild, exhilarated moment I knew the fury and the joy our Saxon forebears felt when they went berserker and, armor cast aside, leapt bare-breasted into battle.
Also—I realized it with a start of something like surprise—Jules de Grandin was a Frenchman, emotional, mercurial, lovable and loving, but—a Frenchman. Therefore, he was logical as Fate, He lived by sentiment, but of sentimentality he had not a trace.
