There was talk of a relapse. The party was called off. Palafox rolled over and bared his white belly. He would be buried with the others, at the edge of the garden, beneath the tree. Maureen handled everything immediately, found a box, when, all of a sudden, he dove back in and made two revolutions around his coral branch. Operations ground to a halt. He floated lifeless to the surface. In the wardrobe, Maureen found the box. Palafox opened his mouth, there was talk he was saved, and then he closed it. The box already had shoes inside. Once again the alternation of hope and despair. The second box contained letters, the third buttons, the fourth candy. Palafox shuttled between life and death, and vice versa, between death and life effortlessly. Algernon took it upon himself to delay the transfer to the coffin. However the fifth was empty, would have been entirely acceptable, seemed made for the task. A rectangular cardboard box, with a cardboard cover and silk-paper shroud.
Gumball, suggested Maureen. Palafox was chosen eventually, in memory of Palafox, duke of Saragossa, born in Saragossa, who distinguished himself in his heroic defense of Saragossa in 1809. The name was chosen unanimously, as follows. They first arrived at the number 111 by adding the ages of everyone present, Algernon, his daughter and Chancelade, upon which they opened the historical atlas to page 111. The article in question concerned the Treaty of Utrecht, 1579, without belaboring things here with the details, which brought into being the Netherlands. On page 1579, therefore, of the illustrated Dictionary were seven names composed of seven letters like Buffoon: Palacky, the Czech historian and advertising executive, Paladru, a village in the Isère, Palafox, a gentleman of Aragon, Palamas, theologian of the Greek church, Palamás, a Greek writer, Palatin, a mountain, and Palermo, an Italian port. The village, Paladru, the mountain, Palatin, and the port, Palermo, were rejected out of hand. Palamas and Palamás were rejected immediately in all fairness or fear of confusion. That left Palacky and Palafox. Chance decided, tails Palacky, heads Palafox: Chance adds spice to life. Heads. Palafox. He will be introduced to society at the opportunity provided by the reception Algernon gives each summer in la Gloriette. The Swanscombes had already RSVPed yes. The Franc-Nohains would try to make it. Which leaves us only three months to train Palafox. Why hide the fact that he disappoints. Such aggressiveness, such savagery. Two weeks ago he was dead, and now this violence. Algernon will be responsible for his education. Our friend is precisely the author, other than of a Guide to Collecting Ancient Pottery, the bible of collectors the world over warranting its own serious study which, alas, we will not be able to saddle up having already in the reins Palafox to whip on, of a work entitled, Advice to my Daughter: Choosing Friends, First Steps, Hygiene and Beauty, Be an Angel, Art of Conversation, Perilous Wit.
Two weeks ago Palafox was dying, it was only an attempt. He recuperated quickly. One morning at dawn, he made his cry heard, which is to say, a sort of chirping, or more of a meowing, or more of a barking, or more of a lowing, well that’s almost it, a roar, or more exactly a trumpeting, yes, that’s the word, a sort of chirping. Then he bit Chancelade, drawing blood from the hand that was giving him crumbs to peck at. Such were the first signs of his recovery. Two days later, his condition was no longer a matter of concern. Palafox leapt from his fishbowl, nestled between Maureen’s feet, scaled her back, bit her ear. She alone, by the way, could get near him. Despite his experience with diplomacy and rosebushes, Algernon himself had to retreat. Palafox devoured a sofa. It wasn’t a valuable piece of furniture, but our friend was attached to it for sentimental reasons, keeping it as an act of charity, in gratitude for services rendered. Even with his back to the wall, he wouldn’t have swallowed a single mouthful, the littlest morsel. A declaration of war was signed over the sofa. It was soft. It knew how to be firm. Women knew they could count on it, always available when they needed it to faint on, it was waiting. But nothing now is left, only the glimmer in our memories. A painting by father Buffoon, hobbyist, shows it still solidly settled on dachshundly hams, green against a scarlet background, shrewdly emphasized by the big bouquets of feathers, the baskets of flowers and fruits arranged around it, and by the naked courtesan, perhaps a bit overweight, lounging with complete abandon, thinking herself alone. Palafox next attacked a Louis XV sideboard attributed to the workshop of Charles Topino. Algernon had every reason to believe it was. Naturally, the left panel dated from much later. But the workmanship, the finish, the particular care given over to details, all of it seemed to indicate a work by the famous cabinetmaker.
You get them when they’re little, they’re adorable, so affectionate, you grow attached to their clumsiness, they grow up fast, their instincts awaken, then they become dangerous, Palafox constituted a permanent menace to everyone’s health and possessions. He broke the Chinese vase, or so-called. He refused to get into his cage, slept in a ball on a rug, fed on furniture, books or paintings, and to drink? Algernon’s multifaceted liqueurs. Maureen put herself in the fray, redoubled her efforts, she did not succeed at making him go back into the bowl. She tried her best to cajole him with caresses, sweets, she wanted him to be attached. He bared his belly to her palm but rejected every treat but his leash.
What about a strong sedative? Chancelade didn’t relish the thought either, it was just a suggestion. Zoologists called in to consult could doubtless explain Palafox’s behavior. Perhaps he was doing no more or less than obeying species-specific imperatives. Perhaps he was being little more than faithful to his nature. But before passing judgment, they would want to observe him in his habitat. They needed to be done with it. Algernon, Chancelade and Maureen approached the animal carefully, Chancelade in the center a bit behind the other two, all three backs bent over, all six hands extended, a recommended formation when trapping a goose in a pen, someone makes a move and wrings its neck, plucks it, guts it, trusses it, puts it on a spit, feasts upon it, whereas Palafox slipped through their fingers. Because Palafox is, recall, miniscule. With a flea-like leap he hid in the flowerbox. Amidst plants — philodendra, lilies, dauphinelles, aspidistras, dwarf palms — his frail frame, cylindrical, greenish, foliaceous paws lightly downy, blended in. Palafox was outsmarting them, there was no time to lose. They brought out the big guns. Fire. As if they were going to roast the goose now. Fire, there was the answer. Fires drive fauna from flora, would you lay eggs in a burning oak? Algernon struck a match.
When man discovered it, stumbled over it in his wanderings, fire turned all red and began to dance a jig. A strange reaction which it still maintains today, after thousands of years of complicity and pyromania. The flowerbox burst into flame, a young philodendron shoot tore itself away from the inferno screaming, falling into Algernon’s hands. Palafox was put into the box of matches, without the matches. Maureen punched ten, and then another five, little holes, fifteen in all. Upon which Chancelade took a deep breath and left for the front.
2
No need to cite all their books, those by professors Zeiger, Cambrelin, Pierpont, Baruglio, as if any of them required an introduction. It took them a great deal of study and effort to get them where they are, they had read a great deal, traveled, waited forever in blinds, tricked hunger with thirst, thirst with cold, cold with fear, fear with boredom and boredom, finally, with hunger. Henceforth bald, their precious knowledge under glass, they have little left to learn.