Night was falling, so I could walk about in the more frequented places
without being fearful of awkward recognitions. I was obliged to throw
away my cigar--it made me feel sick. My promenade lasted two or three
hours, and painful hours they were. There is something peculiarly
poignant in feeling oneself attacked, in the midst of the brilliance and
plenty of civilization, by the scourge of savage life--hunger. It
brings you near to madness. It's a tiger springing at your throat in
the middle of the boulevards.
I made some original reflections. Hunger, after all, is not an empty
word. There actually is a complaint of that name, and there are human
beings who endure nearly every day what through a mere accident I am
suffering for once in my life. And how many have their misery embittered
by troubles which I am spared! I know that the one being in the world
whom I love is sheltered from such sufferings as mine. But how many
cannot suffer alone; how many must hear the heart-rending cry of nature
repeated on beloved lips that ask for food; how many for whom pale women
and unsmiling children are waiting in bare cold rooms! Poor creatures!
Blessed be holy charity!
After these thoughts I dared not complain; they gave me courage to bear
my trial to the end. As a matter of fact I could have shortened it.
There are two or three restaurants where I am known, and where, when I
was rich, I had often gone in without hesitation, though I had forgotten
to bring my purse. I might have made some such pretext. Nor would it
have been difficult for me to borrow a franc or two in Paris. But I
recoiled from such expedients. They suggested poverty too plainly, and
they came too near to trickery. That descent is swift and slippery for
the poor, and I believe I would rather lose honesty itself than the
delicacy which gives distinction to the commonplace virtue. I have seen
too often with what facility this exquisite sentiment of honesty loses
its bloom, even in the finest natures, not merely under the breath of
misery, but at the slightest contact with privation. So I shall keep
strict watch over myself. I shall be on my guard henceforth against
even the most innocent compromise with conscience. When bad times come,
do not accustom your soul to suppleness; it is only too prone to yield.
Fatigue and cold drove me back about nine o'clock. The door of the
_hotel_ was open. Treading as lightly as a ghost, I had reached the
staircase when the sound of a lively conversation came from the
concierge's room. They were talking about me, for at this very moment
the tyrant of the house pronounced my name with unmistakable contempt.
"Be good enough, Mme. Vauberger," said the concierge, "not to trouble me
with your Maxime. Did I ruin your Maxime? Then what are you talking to
me about? If he kills himself, they'll bury him, won't they?"
"I tell you, Vauberger," his wife answered, "it would have made your
heart bleed to see him drain his water-bottle. And if I believed you
meant what you say in that offhand manner--just like an actor--'If he
kills himself, they'll bury him!' I would---- But I know you don't,
because you're a good sort, although you don't like being upset. Fancy
being without fire or bread! And that after being fed on dainties all
your life, and wrapped up in furs like a little pet cat. It's a shame
and a disgrace. A nice sort of government yours is to allow such
things!"
"But it has nothing to do with the government," said M. Vauberger,
reasonably enough. "And I'm sure you're wrong; it's not so bad as all
that. He can't be wanting bread; it's impossible."
"All right, Vauberger. I've more to tell you. I've followed him. I've
watched him, and made Edouard watch him, too. Yes, I have. I'm certain
he had no dinner yesterday, and no breakfast to-day; and as I've
searched his pockets and all the drawers, and not found so much as a red
cent, you may be sure he hasn't had any dinner to-day, for he's much too
high and mighty to go and beg one."
"Oh, is he? So much the worse for him. Poor people shouldn't be proud,"
said the worthy concierge, true to the sentiments of his calling.
I had had enough of this dialogue, and put an end to it abruptly by
opening the door and asking M. Vauberger for a light. I could not have
astounded him more if I had asked for his head. Though I particularly
wished not to give way before these people, I could not help stumbling
once or twice as I went up the stairs. My head was swimming. Usually
my room was as cold as ice. Imagine my surprise at finding a bright,
cheerful fire, which sent a pleasant warmth through the room. I wasn't
stoic enough to put it out, and I blessed the kind hearts there are in
the world. I stretched myself out in an old arm-chair of Utrecht
velvet, which, like myself, had been brought by reverses from the first
floor to the garret. I tried to sleep. For half an hour I had been
dreaming in a kind of torpor of sumptuous banquets and merry junketings,
when the noise of the door opening made me jump up with a start. I
thought I was dreaming still when Mme. Vauberger came in, carrying a big
tray with two or three savoury dishes steaming on it. Before I could
shake off my lethargy she had put the tray down and had begun to lay the
cloth. At last I started up hastily.
"Well," I said, "what does this mean? What are you doing?"
Mme. Vauberger pretended to be greatly surprised.
"I thought you ordered dinner, sir?"
"Oh, no."
"Edouard told me that----"
"Edouard made a mistake; it's for one of the other tenants; you had
better see."
"But there's no other tenant on this floor, sir ... I can't make out..."
"Well, it was not for me. What does all this mean? Oh, you annoy me!
Take it away."
The poor woman began to fold the cloth, looking at me reproachfully,
like a favourite dog who has been beaten.
"I suppose you've had dinner already, sir," she said, timidly.
"No doubt."
"That is a pity, because this dinner is quite ready, and now it will be
wasted, and the boy'll get a scolding from his father. If you hadn't
had your dinner already, sir, you would have very much obliged me
if----"