The Clock of the Centuries by Albert Robida

Author:Albert Robida [Robida, Albert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Black Coat Press
Published: 2011-10-27T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER VIII

Backwards: The Journal of True Progress

Grandfather Laforcade smiled and clapped the poet on the shoulder. “This young man, at least, has the measure of his epoch!” he said. “Since my return, my dear sir, you’re the only person I’ve met with reasonable ideas. Perhaps you can give me some advice. Tell me, are you in industry, or commerce? My son introduced us the other day, but my memory is still a little vague…”

“I am a jeweler of sonorous epithets,” Palluel declared. “An enameller in partitioned stanzas enriched with brilliant rhymes!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“A poet. Let it be said simply, without wishing to humiliate you.”

“See, grandfather—that was perfectly obvious,” said Robert, laughing.

“And what can I do for you, my dear sir, by way of advice?” Palluel went on, seriously.

“I don’t know if I should take the risk. Well, on the off chance, can you advise me about sugar and oil?”

“Sugar? Oil?” said Palluel, slightly taken aback. “Is it for coffee or salad?”

“Am I mistaken? Are you no more serious that the others? I’m talking about oil, sugar, cotton, leather, iron… Where’s the best place to make money? Flour, perhaps?”

“Why ask me?”

“My dear sir, you’re a member of the family. Aren’t you the son of my second cousin Palluel, my comrade of 1825? I can talk frankly in front of you, then. Well, I have an urgent need to get back into business, as soon as possible—its very urgent! Here’s my grandson Robert, whose financial situation isn’t brilliant, you know. I can see that it’s getting worse every day, with their stupid electrical devices and their frightful steam engines, without taking into account the fact that he’ll be an adolescent before long, and the responsibility of his parents…and children are expensive! Now here’s my son Edouard, who wasn’t outstandingly successful in his time; he gives me cause for anxiety too. He has a little manufacturing business that’s not very brilliant….”

“I beg your pardon, father,” said Edouard Laforcade, “it’s me who put the family back in its feet, remember—I did everything I could when you were ruined!”

“Your crinoline factory? That’s nothing remarkable. Didn’t that collapse too.”

“What do you expect? Changes in fashion…”

“Anyway, I’d like to find something; I’m twiddling my thumbs here, idly, when I feel that it would be no bad thing to get back to active life as soon as possible! Business, that’s the thing! Myself, I was a post-master,15 you know, but there’ll be nothing to do in that regard for years and years.”

“It’s too soon,” said Palluel, smiling irreverently.

“So you understand why I have to find something else. Oil? Sugar? Leather? Iron?”

“That’s the one thing about which I don’t have an opinion!” exclaimed Palluel. “I have to admit that you’re barking up the wrong tree. I have fixed opinions on many things, and I’d advise you not to contradict me on some of them, but on leather and oil my brain is an infertile desert! Would you like some advice anyway? You were a post-master—well, be patient until

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