#amelancholycharm

Haute Pensee

24 December, 1855

My dear Andre,

I am taking advantage of a good neighbour from the country who is going to Paris, to pass this word to you. M. Mick is in the process of obtaining the authorization to construct a windmill for the village of Aboukir. If you can be useful for him by your connections, do so, you will make me happy.  Furthermore, I have given him, some letters for the Ministry of War, which will probably open the doors for him.  M. Mick is bringing with this letter, a small packet containing haik[1] for Jeanne that her aunt Gabrielle called Beatrix has sent, to thank her again for the silence of ten years. With this Arabic haik, Jeanne can make a chale[2], a dress, a cajoule[3], whatever she wants. God only hopes that this meagre testimony will please her. If we had more warning for the visit, we could have sent more and better gifts; that will need to be postponed to another occasion.

You are lucky that Gabrielle is not at home but at the colonies of Ain-Nouilli where she has been killing a sow for Christmas, a sow that we had put to fertilise in the village: because if she hadn’t left this morning, you would not have had this time for my scribbles…, I am always holding a grudge against you. But since, at last, I am telling you why, here:

1. Because in your letters- [which are] rare- you are always crying poverty;

2. Because you are always speaking to me of old debts- expired and re-expired and etc.

3. Because I asked you, a long time ago already, by paying even[4], for your directories of the nobility, of which I have the three first years and you have sent neither the previous issues nor the present/new ones.

Don’t you think that that alone would cause sorrow/grief/pain to the feelings of a brother in exile?

4. Because you ignore the fact that in my exile, I am restricted from books, public papers, brochures, journals, etc. that it would have been very easy for you [to obtain/to send] by your scientific and literary position and would cause me great satisfaction, very cheaply. I want to say, you could send the newspapers, papers and brochures, after reading them, in the post to me. You certainly do not keep all the typographic paperwork which falls in your hand. You had the bad heart/ill will to wipe yourself [with them] conscientiously instead of sending them to me.  This probably in your eyes isn’t even a minor sin, to the eyes of an exile it is an unpardonable crime. I do not pardon you until you have re-purchased your acceptance by conducting yourself better, I want to say, with a more generous habit.

In the circumstance when my neighbour M. Mick will be returning to Mostaganem, and if he has a small space available in his suitcase, I request you for my sake to keep some book or something [I do not know what], if however it is not voluminous, heavy or bothersome for the voyage.

By the way, I am no longer inspector of colonization. I have been demoted for refusing to collaborate with some crooks/cheats, M. the Vicount of Gantes, sous-prefet of Mostaganem and sieur Quesnel, a voïou[5] a marlou[6], arsouille, grinche[7] given the position of the chief of the bureaus of colonization. That is my honour! I am therefore a simple fellah that is to say my only claim is to my property and to just being a simple French writer. Blessed be the Seigneur Apollo, my God! And blessed be Madame Ceres!

I would really like to know how much merit the de Gantes can claim among the nobility of France. Therefore be indulgent and tell me by your heraldic and genealogical science, where exactly are the houses of Carpentras or Vaucluse situated in there, who had for heir, glory of its virtues and its beautiful name, the entertainer and the crook who is the Prefectural administrator here at Mostaganem.

Adieu and conduct yourself better in my regard if you want that I love you and write to you. I embrace Jeanne well.

Your angry brother,

Petrus Borel

Footnotes:

[1] Traditional Berber long piece of clothing for women

[2] shawl

[3] scarf

[4] Not sure what payment is being referred to here

[5] Immoral man, man without any scruples, vagabond, delinquent, arsouille is a synonym as well

[6] Argot: cunning/strong/pimp/smart-aleck

[7] Argot: someone who robs/steals/plunders; a grumpy person, surly

No one could bring themselves to respond immediately. Courfeyrac and Combeferre had been the only ones curious enough to accompany Prouvaire back to his rooms to view the creature following that evening’s meeting. Bahorel had already planned to visit there and, in any case, had already seen the parrot. Presently, he was smiling at the other two, waiting for their reactions, watching as they grappled with both politeness and horror.

In front of them, the parrot sat on its perch, swaying slightly as though it did not have the strength to balance itself. Half of its feathers were missing, and the ones that remained were pale and ragged. One of its eyes was milky white with cataracts. It cocked its head at Prouvaire and let out a raspy squawk.

“My God! It ought to be put out of its misery,” Courfeyrac hissed to Combeferre in an undertone. “Just look at it!”

“How could you say such a thing?” Jean Prouvaire whipped around to face him. “He is perfectly healthy and happy! Demosthenes is merely a bit old, but parrots can live even longer than people. Just think of what he has seen and experienced, and what a pity it is that he cannot share it.”

“If he looks like that, I would rather not share in whatever it is he has experienced,” said Courfeyrac, eyeing the bird with concern. 

“He does look rather ill, Jehan,” Combeferre said gently, before Prouvaire could voice a retort. “It wouldn’t hurt to have someone take a look at him.”

“He’s not ill!” said Prouvaire, as a few more feathers fell from the parrot’s tail. “He’s pining. Pining for the wilds, for the fresh air! I shall take Demosthenes for a walk in the Luxembourg, or perhaps around Père Lachaise, and he will be as good as new. Won’t you, Demosthenes?”

The parrot gave another pitiful squawk before slipping off its perch and landing with a soft thud on the rug below. Utterly shocked, they all watched the bird lay on the floor for a moment, but it soon became clear that it would move no more. Prouvaire gave a wail and dropped to his knees.

“Oh dear,” said Combeferre, as Courfeyrac clapped a hand over his mouth.