the

forgetfulness of

Monsieur Meunier

by Peter Abbott

Jean-Paul Meunier was a charming man in his mid-forties, whose appearance was young for his age if the lights were properly adjusted. And in his little flat in the Rue des Saints-Pères the lights were properly adjusted. The gloom of Notre-Dame de Paris was not more emphatic and was far less depressing than that which shrouded his sitting room during the long summer afternoons. The morning sun was allowed to sweep through the open doors which gave upon a little balcony of wrought iron, but at half-past eleven those doors were closed and the long and heavy satin curtains all but completely drawn. Until seven o'clock the sitting room presented some of the less engaging aspects of a carefully-furnished tomb, and anyone so gauche as to pay M. Meunier an afternoon call found some difficulty in avoiding the furniture; it was very easy to pour one's tea into the cream jug.

M. Meunier did not have many afternoon callers, and his fairly extensive and delicately-selected acquaintance knew that this gentleman did not exist in the morning hours. Dawn broke at ten o'clock when M. Meunier's automatic teapot chimed in a rather tentative fashion as if it hoped he would not really awaken. But he always did, and there was the matter of looking through whatever letters Mlle. Crozat had slipped beneath the bedroom door. Sometimes there were large envelopes which she had to stand against the outer jamb because they were too thick to be slipped beneath the door.

There was a certain amount of bathing to be done, and a number of little pots and tubes upon the dressing-table to be consulted. But by half-past ten M. Meunier was in a position to open his door and make his way to the little dining room where breakfast would be waiting for him.

On the way to the breakfast table, M. Meunier would stop at a small cupboard whose door was flush with the wall into which it was fitted. He did not always do so, but he usually did, especially if he had received some of the large

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