IV
EARLY one morning, before my father had risen, Mocquet walked into his room, and planted himself at the foot of the bed, stiff and upright as a sign-post.
“Well, Mocquet,” said my father, “what’s the matter now? what gives me the pleasure of seeing you here at this early hour?”
“The matter is, General,” replied Mocquet with the utmost gravity, “the matter is that I am nightmared.”
Mocquet had, quite unawares to himself, enriched the language with a double verb, both active and passive.
“You are nightmared?” responded my father, raising himself on his elbow. “Dear, dear, that’s a serious matter, my poor Mocquet.”
“You are right there, General.”
And Mocquet took his pipe out of his mouth, a thing he did rarely, and only on the most important occasions.
“And how long have you been nightmared?” continued my father compassionately.
“For a whole week, General.”