The Postmaster,
too, had originally been a photographer, whose funereal aspect had
sealed his failure in that line. His customers could never smile and
look pleasant. The postman, again, was a baron in disguise--in private
life he had a castle and retainers; and even Gygi, the gendarme, was a
make-believe official who behind the scenes was a _vigneron_ and
farmer in a very humble way. Daddy, too, seemed sometimes but a tinsel
author dressed up for the occasion, and absurdly busy over books that
no one ever saw on railway bookstalls. While Mademoiselle Lemaire was
not in fact and verity a suffering, patient, bed-ridden lady, but a
princess who escaped from her disguise at night into glory and great
beneficent splendour.
Mother alone was more real than the other players. There was no make-
believe about Mother. She thundered across the stage and stood before
the footlights, interrupting many a performance with her stubborn
common-sense and her grip upon difficult grave issues. 'This
performance will finish at such and such an hour,' was her cry. 'Get
your wraps ready. It will be cold when you go out. And see that you
have money handy for your 'bus fares home!' Yes, Mother was real. She
knew some facts of life at least. She knitted the children's stockings
and did the family mending.
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