yourself at the difficulties of the task. Monseigneur wishes to prove you.
I am acquainted with the parish. The Radicals have no influence there. One
of them the other day took it into his head to die _civilly_ and, in spite
of the protestations of some low scoundrels, he has been buried in the
early morning without drum or trumpet in the criminals' hole. Two primary
schools are in our hands, and with a little skill we shall have the third.
--How?
--By taking away all the means of work from the workmen who send their
children there. It is a task, Monsieur le Curé, which is incumbent upon
you.
--And so, said Marcel bitterly, I must try to take away their bread from
the fathers.
--I suppose, said Ridoux severely, that when the interest of religion is in
question, there is no reason to hesitate. Madame la Comtesse, pardon this
young priest, he comes out from his village and he is still imbued with
certain prejudices.
--Which we will root out, said the old lady smiling; that shall be the task
for us women.
LXXXVIII.
THE FAIR ONE.
"Pretty to paint! as graceful as an
ear of corn, slender and yet robust,
never was seen a morsel of flesh so
delicate, or better rounded. Her hair,
a wonderful fleece, smelt as sweet and
fresh as the grass, and shone red like
the sun."
LÉON CLADEL (_L'Homme de la Croix-aux-Boeufs_).
It was with a great feeling of relief that, in the evening, after supper,
Marcel retired to the room which, in spite of his protests, the Countess
had caused to be made ready for him.
He had need to be alone. Events had hurried on in such an astounding and
rapid manner, and he had had no time to think about them.
His resolution was fully taken. He would refuse the new core. The odious
part which he was called upon to play there, decided him. He was about to
shatter his future. It meant a disagreement with his uncle, the hatred of
this influential woman, the formidable persecution of the Bishop; but what
was all that? He saw Suzanne again, amiable, gracious, smiling, looking at
him with her soft, dark eyes; Suzanne approving of his conduct and saying
to him: "You are a man of courage. Let us go away together; cast your frock
into the ditch."
And he wrote three letters: one to his uncle, the other to the Comtesse,
and the third to the Bishop, entreating them to excuse him, and telling
them that he did not feel qualified to perform his ministry in a large
town. He implored Monseigneur to leave him at Althausen and to think no
more about him.
But the night brings counsel. And when he woke up the next morning and saw
his three letters on the table, he thought that he could not do a more
awkward thing.
He threw them in the fire, dressed and went out. The idea came to him of
going to see the parish which was destined for him. He followed the
streets, drawn in a straight line, of that too regular city, and when he
arrived at the corner of the _Rue des Carmes_, he heard his name
pronounced. Be turned round and saw the landlord of the inn where he was
accustomed to stay, when he came to Nancy.
--What, you are passing before my door without coming in, Monsieur le Curé;
I was expecting you, however. I had prepared your room.
--You were expecting me, Monsieur Patin? And who told you that I was here?
--Who told me that? It was a young person who is very pretty, upon my word.
She came to ask for you yesterday evening, and we expected you up to ten
o'clock.
--Dark? said Marcel much disturbed.
--No, fair, the prettiest fair complexion which I have ever seen.
Marcel remembered immediately the little mountebank, whom he had altogether
forgotten, and to whom he had given the address of Monsieur Patin's hotel,
where he had expected to stay.
--It is a young girl who is recommended to me, he said; I regret that I did
not see her.
--You are not coming in?
--No, for perhaps I am going to set out again for Althausen.
--For Althausen. That is impossible to-day. I have just seen the
_diligence_ go by. Come, you will sleep once more at my house, Monsieur
Marcel; your room is quite ready, and my wife, who has a fancy for you,
will not let you go away. Stay, here she comes; she has recognized your
voice.
The little Madame Patin, plump, brown, active and pretty, hastened up,
indeed, and compelled Marcel to come in, almost in spite of himself.
--You shall remain, you shall remain! she said to him, relieving him of his
hat.
--No, he answered smiling, I shall not remain, and I will tell you the
reason. I came with my uncle, and I have my room at Madame de
Montluisant's.
Before that declaration Monsieur and Madame Patin bowed.
--Ah, that is not right, said Madame Patin; Madame de Montluisant is
opposing us, she is drawing our clients to her house.... My dear, have you
told Monsieur Marcel that a young person has come?...
--Your husband has told me, Madame, and that proves to you that I certainly
had the intention of staying with you, since I showed her your address. It
had escaped my memory, otherwise I should have called to ask you to send
the young person to Madame de Montluisant's.
--She will certainly come back again, for she seemed very desirous of
seeing you. Must I send her to you at that lady's?
--No, but tell her to come again this evening late. I have a thousand
things to do, and I can scarcely see any moment but that when I shall be
free.
That evening at eight o'clock, he was at Monsieur Patin's, where he found a
good fire in a small sitting-room well closed, with the newspapers and a
cup of coffee. The young girl had called again during the day, and would
return. Marcel installed himself comfortably in an arm-chair and waited for
her.
He had seen the Bishop again, who had flashed before his eyes a future,
full of golden rays. The visit of Ridoux and the Comtesse had preceded his
own, and in the sudden change of manner of the prelate towards him, he
recognized the good offices of his new friend.
A good dinner had completed the happy day, and life appeared to him, after
all, to have some sweetness.
LXXXIX.
LOVE AGAIN.
"Oh Folly, which we call love, what
dost thou make of us? Out of free-men
thou dost make us slaves; thou
dost breathe into us all the vices. It
is thou who dost supply the altars of
disloyalty and fear! It is thou who
dost extract from thought the rhetorician's
art, and from enthusiasm a vile
profession. How many young people
have you blighted! all the fairest. Ah,
siren, thy voice is sweet. Thou speakest
to us the language of the gods, but
thou are only an impure beast."
JEAN LAROQUE (_Niobe_).
A kind of emotion seized him. He was almost ashamed of it, and tried to
give an account of it to himself. It seemed to him that he was affected as
if at the approach of sin. He restrained his feelings and enquired of
himself what this young girl could want with him.
Perhaps she was but a common courtesan who, attracted by the handsome
appearance and tender look of the priest, counted on speculating profitably
in a clandestine intrigue.
Nevertheless, he was not terrified at the prospect, and he recalled
complacently the scene in the open air in the market-place at Althausen.
With his eyes closed, he saw her again playing the castanets, rounding her
hips and shooting forward her little foot, in order to make the enraptured
rustics admire the sculptural beauty of her leg. He saw again that bosom,
free from all covering, which had plunged him into such confusion.
Ah, if instead of his love for Suzanne, so full of fever and danger, he had
picked up on his way some pretty girl like this Bohemian, who, while
calming his feelings, would have left his heart in peace.
With a common peasant girl, vigorous and sensual, like this dancer at the
fair, he would have gratified the only low permissible to a priest; for it
was the most unpardonable folly, he recognized now, to surrender his heart.
The Curé of St. Nicholas was a thousand times right! Let the priest make
use of woman, nothing is more proper, as an instrument, as a pastime,
hygienic and aperient; but let him stop there.
At certain periods, when the brain is heavy, the digestion is inactive, and
the bowels are confined, when dizziness occurs, when the blood becoming too
plentiful, grows thick and congested in the veins and rises to the head,
then it is that nature needs to accomplish her work. Then one seeks for a
woman, one throws oneself on her who happens to be there, and is willing to
lend herself to this hygienic and benevolent part. Servant or mistress,
girl or wife, lady or work-girl, young or old, courtesan from a
drawing-room or the pavement, one takes her, has one's pleasure of her, and
goes away.
But to love long, to make of the woman the aim of our life, the spring of
our actions, the ideal of our existence; to believe in happiness together,
to put faith in these fragile, vain and ignorant dolls!... What trickery!
To believe in happiness through love! Dream of the school-boy! It is
permissible to the neophyte who puts on for the first time the white
surplice and the golden chasuble with so much joy and pride. The sweet
young girls, the youthful wives, the grave matrons regard you with softened
eyes. Then you have faith, you have confidence, you see the future
illumined by angels with virgin bodies who murmur mysterious words in your
ear, which melt your heart. You dare hardly lift your eyes, and you say to
yourself: "Which one shall I love in this legion of seraphims? Oh, I will
love them all, all!" Presumptuous youth which doubts of nothing!
But when you have loved one, two, three of them ... afterwards, afterwards?
After having experienced the nothingness of all these trifles, of all these
follies of the heart, of all these caprices of the imagination, of all
these abortions of the thought, of all these voids of the soul, of all
these impurities of the body, of all the uncleanness of the woman with whom
you are satiated, and whose couch you are leaving, then go and speak of
eternal love.
Oh, how right Diogenes was to call love a short epilepsy.
How right that Imperial sophist of the Decline to call it a convulsion! and
the first Bonaparte, an affair of the sopha.
Thus Marcel moralized, like an old prelate, coming out from a closed room
when some filthy scene has been enacted.
The fact is, that for some time he had been the hero of a comedy and of a
drama; the grotesque comedy which he had unrolled with his servant, the
terrible drama in which he saw himself involved with Suzanne Durand. And he
was wearied and satiated. The satisfaction of his senses left him by way of
retaliation, shame, trouble and fear.
Daniel Defoe has written in his admirable book:
"From how many mysterious sources, opposed one to the other, do not
different circumstances cause our passions to proceed? We hate in the
evening what we cherished in the morning; we avoid to-day what we sought
for yesterday; we desire an object passionately, and a few moments after,
we shall not know how to endure the idea of it."
Thus Marcel was cursing love, when Zulma came and knocked at his door.
XC.
LE CYGNE DE LA CROIX.
"As soon as she comes
The Hostess looks hard:
--My beauty no ceremony,
The supper is ready;
Come in, come in, my beauty
Come in, and no more noise
With three gallant captains
You shall spend the night."
(_Popular Songs of France_).
Madame Connard, a widow, and the landlady of the Cygne de la Croix, a godly
and right-thinking person, made a significant grimace when she saw a young
girl, quietly dressed, entering her house, with no other luggage than an
old band-box.
But when she handed her the card of Monsieur Tibulle, judge of the Court at
Vic, president of the Society of St. Vincent de Paul, and member of the
Committee for the protection of poor Young Girls, her grimace changed into
a gracious smile.
She soon gave her a room and asked her what she wanted to eat, informing
her, however, that it was a fast-day and that, consequently, she had not
much choice.
--Whatever you like, said the dancer; I am convalescent; I have a good
appetite, and I accommodate myself to everything: don't give then the best
which you have, but the cheapest.
--The little thing is sharp, thought Madame Connard; and she added aloud: A
young lady, recommended by Monsieur Tibulle, need not fear that she will
want for anything. Consider what you would like, my little dear, and don't
disturb yourself about the rest. And since you are ill, the Church allows
us to give you meat to eat.
She went out in the meantime, and an hour afterwards she herself served a
dinner which would have made the most greedy of curates envious, and washed
down with that light wine, acrid but heady, which the slopes of the Meurthe
produce.
The dancer, like a true child of Bohemia, dined heartily, and without
needing to be asked. She was at her coffee, when she heard a whispering in
the corridor, and a little cracked voice, which said:
--I am a little late, dear Madame, but I have been kept by Monseigneur. Has
the little one behaved well?
--Like an angel, Monsieur Tibulle, and a demon for beauty.
--Yes, yes. This will be a fine acquisition for the Church. A soul snatched
from Satan, dear Madame, snatched from Satan. We shall make something of
her.
--Ah, how happy you gentlemen are to snatch in this way pretty little souls
from hell. We, poor women, have not that power.
--But you prepare the ways. You open them, dear Madame Connard; everything
has its purpose, its purpose, its purpose.
--Well, Monsieur Tibulle, proceed to yours. It is number 10. I leave you.
And she quietly half-opened the door of No. 10, into which Monsieur glided
like a shadow, saying in his tremulous voice:
--Eh! Eh! it is I, I, I, my little dear. How happy I am to see you again,
to find you here, comfortably installed like a little queen. Eh, eh.
Madame Connard put her head in for an instant, smiled, and cautiously
closed the door; "He is still pretty young for his age," she said to
herself. "Ah, these men! these men! that goes on to the very end."
XCI.
THE CALVES.
"Non formosus erat sed erat facundus Ulixes."
OVID.
Zulma had run forward to meet him. He took hold of both her hands and made
her sit down close beside him on the sofa.
--Well, what is the news? How have they received you here? Are you
satisfied? Have you had a good dinner?
--Too good, replied Zulma: I am afraid I have spent a deal of money.
--A deal of money! Eh, eh! the good little girl! But you have nothing to
pay here, my little puss. Nothing at all to pay, nothing at all. All the
expense is my concern, and the more you spend, the better pleased I shall
be. Have they not told you that, told you that, told you that?
--You are too kind, Monsieur; but I, what shall I do then for you?
--She is heavenly, eh, eh! But I want nothing, darling, nothing, nothing
... except to see your pretty eyes. When we see them once, we have only one
wish, and that is to see them again, again, again. I am well paid for the
little I have done for you, since I have that pleasure. Yes, yes, yes. We
are only too happy for what we can do for a charming little face like
yours, and when we have obliged it, we say thank you! That is what I do, my
little duck; thank-you, thank-you, thank-you.
--I am very grateful to you....
--That is what I was thinking. I want to kiss you for that kind word. Alas,
we come across so many ungrateful people in the world.... What a fine and
velvety skin; how soft it is under the lips ... again, again.... I could
eat it ... again.... Ah, you do not want to again. What are you afraid of?
I might be your father.... Come, another little kiss for poor papa.
Zulma let him kiss her again.
[PLATE V: THE CALVES. "I want to see them again, again, again."
--Well, there they are, but do not touch.
--Oh, oh, you are cheating. That is only half, I want to see them all ...
up to the knees.]
[Illustration]
--Ah, what a pretty girl! Look how strong and well made she is! continued
the old President passing his trembling hand over the young girl's waist:
have not these breasts grown a little thin? Yes, I believe, a little, a
little, but how firm they are! like a rock, like a rock; hard as a rock,
heavenly girl.... Eh, eh! you are drawing back, you are afraid of me ... of
me who might be your papa.
--And perhaps my grandpapa, said Zulma.
--Grandpapa! Ah, the little girl is not flattering. Grandfather! you think
then that I am quite old? I am going to pinch her calves for that naughty
word, those big calves which I saw at Vic, and which have turned my head.
Have they grown smaller too? Let us see, let us see.
Zulma held back the too presumptuous hand.
--What, said the worthy man astonished, you will not show your calves?
--What is the good, since you have seen them at Vic?
--I want to see them again, again, again.
--Well, there they are, but do not touch.
--Oh, oh, you are cheating. That is only half, I want to see them all ...
up to the knees; at the least what I saw in the market-place.
--No, sir.
--Ah, you must not say _no_ to me.... I do not like _no_. Let me help you,
my pretty. Women always have a lot of strings under their petticoats and
sometimes there are knots, knots, knots. I know that, so let me do it.
--But I don't want to, I tell you.
--Nevertheless, just to show me your calves, your fine big calves.
--You have seen them enough.
--What, cried Monsieur Tibulle, indignant at length at such obstinacy, you
refuse to show to me what you exhibit in public, to everybody, in the
market-places, in the streets, to the first who comes along; you refuse me
when I am all alone, in this little room where nobody sees us. Ah, it is
very wrong, wrong, wrong. I intend to punish you for that naughty act.
--In public, that is my profession, and besides I have a costume.
--She is nice enough to eat! A costume! If you only want that, it is very
easy to find. I know of a little costume, very nice and not dear; and if
you like, we will both of us put it on.
--What is it?
--That which God gave us. It is the best of all, and besides it is that
which will become you the best. Ah, my little dear, nothing is equal to the
gifts of God, and all the fripperies of women will never serve them as well
as the simple attire of our first mother. We are going then to try the
costume of Adam and Eve. Does that suit you, little one? You will no longer
be afraid then of showing your calves. Come, come, Sophie, my dear, enough
of these affectations.
--My name is not Sophie.
--Your name is Zulma, and also Aspasia, and Phryne, and again it is Eve.
For it is long since you ate of the forbidden fruit, is it not, you little
rogue?
--Let me alone, I ask you.
--Leave you alone! you would think I was very silly. Come, heavenly Eve, be
quick into the costume of your part; I will play Adam and you shall see
what a fine apple we will eat.
--Sir, a man of your age!
--Old men are always more amorous than the young ones, you will see, you
will see.
--I don't want to see anything, let me go.
--Go! and where do you want to go to? A man does not let a little duck like
you go away when he has hold of her, for I have you, you little rogue, yes,
yes, I have you. Listen. We will go away to-morrow morning, each our own
way, neither seen, nor known. And I assure you that you will be satisfied.
My wife does not expect me till to-morrow.
--Your wife? What, you are married?...
--Does that surprise you? My wife is an old she-goat who is good for
nothing more. Therefore I make no more use of her. Come, let us be quick;
into the costume of Eve, and if you absolutely keep to it, I will fasten a
fig-leaf on to you.
But Zulma was not the girl to allow herself to be forced in this way; and
the worthy old man, who wanted to add deeds to words, received a vigorous
slap on the face.
He stopped, quite confused, and rubbed his cheek.
--She has a strong wrist, he said. Who would suspect that such a little
hand could hit so hard? But the ice is broken now, and you are going to pay
me for it.
XCII.
THE SCAPULAR
"And the old bearded fellow rubbed
away, pushed with his hips, embracing
her in front: clasped with his arms
embracing her behind; stuffing at the
chancellery, throwing her gently and
collecting his strength, labouring with
his chest, and even tripping her up:
he made use of all."
LÉON CLADEL (_Ompdrailles_).
--I shall scream, said Zulma, who was defending herself valiantly; I shall
scream if you do not loose me.
--Scream as much as you will, said the holy man as he recovered breath:
here the walls are deaf, and you will have to deal with me.
--I just laugh at you. You old Punch!
--Old Punch! Punch!
--You ought to be ashamed.
--You insult me; take care.
--Let me go directly, or I shall know whom to complain to.
--Ah, you assume that tone! You want to make a complaint do you? And to
whom, you little wretch?
--To whom it may concern.
--Ah, what a fine expression you have learnt by heart. Who is _whom it may
concern_? I do not know him. Whoever he may be, _whom it may concern_ will
laugh in your face. You, a daughter of the streets, a rope-dancer, a clown,
a ragged slut, you would lodge a complaint against me! Surely you do not
know who I am. I am an honourable man; known everywhere, respected
everywhere. Come, you see clearly that you are talking nonsense; be more
reasonable again. What! it pleases me to cast my eyes upon you, to want to
pass a little while with you agreeably; I honour you by stooping myself to
a girl of your kind, and you refuse, and are fastidious. Has one ever seen
such a thing? It is enough to make God laugh. Come, come now, not so many
affectations: for the lost time, how much do you want? A hundred francs?
--You horrify me. Let me go away.
He cast a fearful look upon her, and said, with a laugh which chilled her
blood:
--Oh, you want to go away. Well, how about the money I have spent on you,
and on your journey?
--Your money! I did not ask you for it. But I will let you have it back
again, be assured; when I have worked and earned it.
--And you believe that I shall be satisfied with this fine promise? You
will let me have my money back immediately, or I shall certainly accuse you
of being a thief ... an adventuress.
--I will say what happened. It was you who compelled me to take the money
for the coach-fare.
--I make you a present of that, but you will have to pay all that you have
spent here; if not, you will be put in prison, you understand, little
good-for-nothing? Do you think people are going to keep you and let you
enjoy yourself for nothing?
--And who has told you that I shall not pay, replied Zulma, struck by the
logic of this objection.
--Then you will pay immediately, said the worthy man, for I have been
answerable for you, and it is on my recommendation that they have received
a trollop like you into this respectable house. Madame Connard, he cried at
the door, dear Madame Connard, will you bring up the bill, the little bill?
Madame Connard appeared at once:
--What, Mademoiselle is going away, is she not sleeping here?
--No, Mademoiselle is going to try her fortune elsewhere.
Madame Connard handed the bill to Monsieur Tibulle.
--No, no. It is Mademoiselle who is going to settle it; this young lady.
Zulma glanced at it and grew pale. She had hardly 10 francs, and the bill
amounted to 19 francs, 75 centimes.
--And besides, it is so little because it is you. Everything is so dear
here, and one does not know what to do for a living.
The poor girl remained silent; she looked at the bill without seeing it,
for her eyes were full of tears.
--Well, said Monsieur Tibulle in a wheedling tone. Is there some little
hindrance to your settling that?
--Madame, said Zulma, I have not enough money with me; no, I do not believe
I have enough money ... but I can find it, I know where to find it ... and
in an hour or two....
--Oh, oh, cried Madame Connard, in an hour or two, that is a very fine
tale. But I know it, my girl, and people don't tell me that sort of thing.
--Well, dear Madame, I leave you, said Monsieur Tibulle, making her a
knowing sign; I am going to see if my horse is put to, for I am setting off
directly. Good-bye, little one, good-bye. No malice.
--Well, Mademoiselle, said Madame Connard, what do you decide?
--I have told you, Madame, I can give you five or six francs, and, although
it is a downright robbery, I will find you the rest.
-What! a robbery? you little thief, you little hussy, you dare to call me a
thief, you little street-walker. You are going to pay me immediately, or I
will hand you over to the police.
--Very well, call the police, if you wish; I ask for nothing better; I will
relate what has occurred.
She considered no doubt that she was wrong, for she cried: