His rooms are all--what do you call
it?--er--er--_en suite_. Very well; just suppose, now, that he opens his
room door or the door of his study; presto! all the other doors fly
open of themselves by a patent contrivance; and then he can go from
one end of the house to the other and not find a single door shut;
which is all very nice and pleasant and convenient for us great folk!
But, on my word, it cost us a lot of money! And, after all, M.
Porriquet, he said to me at last:
"'Jonathan, you will look after me as if I were a baby in long
clothes,' Yes, sir, 'long clothes!' those were his very words. 'You
will think of all my requirements for me.' I am the master, so to
speak, and he is the servant, you understand? The reason of it? Ah, my
word, that is just what nobody on earth knows but himself and God
Almighty. It is quite _inconciliable_!"
"He is writing a poem!" exclaimed the old professor.
"You think he is writing a poem, sir? It's a very absorbing affair,
then! But, you know, I don't think he is. He often tells me that he
wants to live like a _vergetation_; he wants to _vergetate_. Only
yesterday he was looking at a tulip while he was dressing, and he said
to me:
"'There is my own life--I am _vergetating_, my poor Jonathan.
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