The House by Henry Bordeaux

ALL these events, still so fresh in my imagination, grew dim and were temporarily lost in the current of the days which, during the long vacation upon which we were entering, began to flow by like a beautiful stream, full to the brim.

As a general thing our father took his vacation at the same time with us, and made the most of it for getting nearer to us. We saw him much less often this year, and became somewhat weaned from those stories of heroism with which he used to enliven our walks, kindling and stirring us up with fierce desire to fight battles and win victories. When we heard him tell them we used to toss our heads, our eyes would sparkle, we would walk faster, and our steps fell into cadence. But to meet the new expenses which he had assumed he had given up his annual rest. Once in a while he would snatch an afternoon, and make a hasty attempt to re-establish the old nearness to us. But his patients came to seek him at all hours of the day, or lay in wait for him as he passed along. Everything conspired to deprive us of him.

Yet it was evident that his authority was everywhere in exercise. When cracks had appeared in the front of the house iron supports were placed underneath before it was repainted. The rooms were repapered -- mine with pleasant pictures of cats and dogs -- and the floors were mended where the boards had shrunken apart. Even the kitchen, where for years Mariette had been obstinately insisting on repairs, without producing any effect upon grandfather, who would invariably answer her with the old proverb, "One wastes one's suds in washing a negro's head" -- even the kitchen was thoroughly repaired and paved with wonderful red bricks. The entrance gate which would not close had been repaired, and even provided with a key, a key which really turned in the lock! The linden was trimmed, permitting the sun-dial once more to mark the hours. The break in the wall, by which the mole-crickets used to penetrate, by which, one memorable evening, I had seen our enemies introducing themselves into the place, was closed by a balustrade, set into the trunk of the chestnut tree. And now too was seen what had never before been seen: the three labourers at their post, and -- still more marvellous sight -- all three working at once!

Little by little the garden -- my old garden that used to be a perfect forest of weeds, in which there was never an end to discovering new trees or plants -- so well were they hidden -- was transformed and reduced to order. The alleys were cleaned out and sanded, the beds remade and the rose bushes trimmed. The trees, reduced to their proper proportions, cast a well defined shade. A useless field became an orchard. A fountain, set in the heart of a grass plot, sent up a shaft of water to fall in a fine musical rain into its basin. There were flowers and fruits to gather for banquets and desserts. But we no longer dared to feel of the pears and peaches -- still less to give to their stems that slight see-saw motion which made them fall. In the wide newly-opened space our larceny would have been discovered. And I vainly sought to lay low with my sword the underbrush that used to grow thick on the edge of the chestnut grove. Tem Bossette refused to whittle me out the smallest wooden sword, and watched over the stakes as if he had paid for them himself.

These changes were not made all at once, and no doubt I have their chronology mixed. We hardly noticed them during their slow and gradual progress, and when they were all made we ceased to remember how things were before. Indeed they were not accomplished without many perturbations. Tem wiped his brow unceasingly and sweated out all his wine. Mimi Pachoux stole away no longer but made a great noise to attest the certainty of his presence; and The Hanged bent his dantesque countenance over obscure and useful tasks. The community of their fate had by no means brought about their reconciliation. They were always observing, spying upon one another, but all three observed and watched the house still more closely. What did they fear to see emerging from it?

I discovered one day. My father, who had become their master, drew near with rapid step. He spoke to each with kindly encouragement, but he examined their work as one who knew.

"All the same, he knows what he is about," Mimi admiringly confessed.

I learned from Tem that after having severely admonished them he had raised their wages. But he insisted upon good work. In a word, he drew, them back to himself whenever they demurred at a task, or soured upon it. But without doubt he upset all the old habits of a region where people love to drift along, taking life as easily as they drink its new wine. This is why Tem Bossette, more than any of them, sighed for the ancient reign of the Sluggard Kings, when he had lived tranquil and forgotten among his vines.

Once he tried in my presence to move grandfather to pity for his sad fate.

"Friend," was the answer, "I am nobody here; go to some one else."

Never had grandfather seemed so full of spirits as since his abdication. No, certainly he did not regret his lost authority, but he made a point of knowing nothing of the acts of the new régime. Did he travel over the kingdom? He seemed never to perceive that its very pebbles were blossoming. But one day, when he was taking the air in the garden, I saw him combing his beard and rubbing his eyebrows -- a sure token that he was dissatisfied; he spat, as a sign of contempt, and the little impertinent laugh accompanied words which were incomprehensible to me.

"Oho! everything is being put to rights -- what they need is a geometrician rather than a gardener."

What was he finding fault with? The garden beds, the trees, obedient to the hand of man, made a richly disposed picture. My little ideas of life had here grouped themselves and taken form with unwonted pleasure. I was provoked with grandfather's lack of enthusiasm.