"Why, Madame has been interrupting me all day."
"I have been interrupting you, I? In the first place, I forbid you
to answer me. I want no remarks, do you understand? I know what I am
talking about."
And she goes away, slamming the door, and grumbling as if she would
never stop. In the corridors, in the kitchen, in the garden, her shrill
voice can be heard for hours. Oh! how tiresome she is!
Really one knows not how to take her. What can she have in her body
that keeps her always in such a state of irritation? And how quickly I
would drop her, if I were sure of finding a place directly!
Just now I was suffering even more than usual. I felt so sharp a pain
that it seemed as if a beast were tearing the interior of my body with
its teeth and claws. Already, in the morning, on rising, I had fainted
because of loss of blood. How have I had the courage to keep up, and
drag myself about, and do my work? I do not know. Occasionally, on the
stairs, I was obliged to stop, and cling to the banister, in order to
get my breath and keep from falling. I was green, with cold sweats that
wet my hair. It was enough to make one scream, but I am good at bearing
pain, and it is a matter of pride with me never to complain in presence
of my masters. Madame surprised me at a moment when I thought that I
was about to faint. Everything was revolving about me,--the banister,
the stairs, and the walls.
"What is the matter with you?" she said to me, rudely.
"Nothing."
And I tried to straighten up.
"If there is nothing the matter with you," rejoined Madame, "why
these manners? I do not like to see funereal faces. You have a very
disagreeable way of doing your work."
In spite of my pain, I could have boxed her ears.
Amid these trials, I am always thinking of my former places. To-day it
is my place in the Rue Lincoln that I most regret. There I was second
chambermaid, and had, so to speak, nothing to do. We passed the day in
the linen-room, a magnificent linen-room, with a red felt carpet, and
lined from ceiling to floor with great mahogany cupboards, with gilded
locks. And we laughed, and we amused ourselves in talking nonsense,
in reading, in mimicking Madame's receptions, all under the eye of
an English governess, who made tea for us,--the good tea that Madame
bought in England for her little morning breakfasts. Sometimes, from
the servants' hall, the butler--one who was up to date--brought us
cakes, caviare on toast, slices of ham, and a heap of good things.
I remember that one afternoon they obliged me to put on a very swell
costume belonging to Monsieur,--to Coco, as we called him among
ourselves. Naturally we played at all sorts of _risqués_ games; we even
went very far in our fun-making.
Ah! that was a place!
I am beginning to know Monsieur well. They were right in saying that he
is an excellent and generous man, for, if he were not, there would not
be in the world a worse rascal, a more perfect sharper. The need, the
passion that he feels for being charitable, impel him to do things that
are not very admirable. His intention is praiseworthy, but the result
upon others is often disastrous, all the same. It must be confessed
that his kindness has been the cause of dirty little tricks, like the
following:
Last Tuesday a very simple old man, father Pantois, brought some
sweet-briers that Monsieur had ordered,--of course without Madame's
knowledge. It was toward the end of the day. I had come down for some
hot water for a belated bath. Madame, who had gone to town, had not
yet returned. And I was chattering in the kitchen with Marianne, when
Monsieur, cordial, joyous, unreserved, and noisy, brought in father
Pantois. He immediately had him served with bread, cheese, and cider.
And then he began to talk with him.
The good man excited my pity, so worn, thin, and dirtily clad was he.
His pantaloons were in rags; his cap was a mass of filth. And his open
shirt revealed a part of his bare breast, chapped, crimped, seasoned
like old leather. He ate greedily.
"Well, father Pantois," cried Monsieur, rubbing his hands, "that goes
better, eh?"
The old man, with his mouth full, thanked him.
"You are very good, Monsieur Lanlaire. Because, you see, since this
morning, at four o'clock, when I left home, I have put nothing in my
stomach,--nothing at all."
"Well, eat away, father Pantois. Regale yourself, while you are about
it."
"You are very good, Monsieur Lanlaire. Pray excuse me."
The old man cut off enormous pieces of bread, which he was a long time
in chewing, for he had no teeth left. When he was partially satisfied,
Monsieur asked him:
"And the sweet-briers, father Pantois? They are fine this year, eh?"
"There are some that are fine; there are some that are not so fine;
there are almost all sorts, Monsieur Lanlaire. Indeed, one can scarcely
choose. And they are hard to pull up, you can believe. And besides,
Monsieur Porcellet will not let us take them from his woods any more.
We have to go a long way now to find them, a very long way. If I were
to tell you that I come from the forest of Raillon,--more than three
leagues from here? Yes, indeed, Monsieur Lanlaire."
While the good man was talking, Monsieur had taken a seat at the table
beside him. Gay, almost uproarious, he slapped him on the shoulder, and
exclaimed:
"Five leagues! you are a jolly good one, father Pantois. Always strong,
always young."
"Not so much as that, Monsieur Lanlaire; not so much as that."
"Nonsense!" insisted Monsieur, "strong as an old Turk,--and
good-humored, yes, indeed! They don't make any more like you these
days, father Pantois. You are of the old school, you are."
The old man shook his head, his gaunt head, of the color of old wood,
and repeated:
"Not so much as that. My legs are weakening, Monsieur Lanlaire; my
arms are getting soft. And then my back. Oh! my confounded back! My
strength is almost gone. And then the wife, who is sick, and who never
leaves her bed,--what a bill for medicines! One has little luck, one
has little luck. If at least one did not grow old? That, you see,
Monsieur Lanlaire, that is the worst of the matter."
Monsieur sighed, made a vague gesture, and then, summing up the
question philosophically, said:
"Oh! yes, but what do you expect, father Pantois? Such is life. One
cannot be and have been. That's the way it is."
"To be sure; one must be reasonable."
"That's it."
"We live while we can, isn't it so, Monsieur Lanlaire?"
"Indeed it is."
And, after a pause, he added in a voice that had become melancholy:
"Besides, everybody has his sorrows, father Pantois."
"No doubt of it."
There was a silence. Marianne was cutting up herbs. It was growing
dark in the garden. The two big sunflowers, which could be seen in the
perspective of the open door, were losing their color and disappearing
in the shade. And father Pantois kept on eating. His glass had
remained empty. Monsieur filled it, and then, suddenly abandoning his
metaphysical heights, he asked:
"And what are sweet-briers worth this year?"
"Sweet-briers, Monsieur Lanlaire? Well, this year, taking them as they
come, sweet-briers are worth twenty-two francs a hundred. It is a
little dear, I know; but I cannot get them for less; really I cannot."
Like a generous man, who despises considerations of money, Monsieur
interrupted the old man, who was getting ready to justify himself by
explanations.
"It is all right, father Pantois. It is agreed. Do I ever haggle with
you? In fact, instead of twenty-two francs, I will pay you twenty-five
for your sweet-briers."
"Ah! Monsieur Lanlaire, you are too good!"
"No, no; I am just. I am for the people, I am; for labor, don't you
know?"
And, with a blow on the table, he went higher still.
"No, not twenty-five,--thirty, father Pantois. I will pay you thirty
francs, do you hear that?"
The good man lifted his poor eyes to Monsieur, in astonishment and
gratitude, and stammered:
"I hear very well. It is a pleasure to work for you, Monsieur Lanlaire.
You know what work is, you do."
Monsieur put an end to these effusions.
"And I will go to pay you,--let us see; to-day is Tuesday,--I will go
to pay you on Sunday. Does that suit you? And at the same time I will
take my gun. Is it agreed?"
The gleam of gratitude which had been shining in the eyes of father
Pantois faded out. He was embarrassed, troubled; he stopped eating.
"You see," said he, timidly,--"well, in short, if you could pay it
to-night, that would oblige me greatly, Monsieur Lanlaire. Twenty-two
francs, that's all; pray excuse me."
"You are joking, father Pantois," replied Monsieur, with superb
assurance; "certainly; I will pay you that directly. I proposed that
only for the purpose of making a little trip and paying you a little
visit."
He fumbled in the pockets of his pantaloons, then in those of his vest
and waistcoat, and, assuming an air of surprise, he cried:
"Well, there! here I am again without change! I have nothing but
confounded thousand-franc bills."
With a forced and really sinister laugh, he asked:
"I will bet that you have not change for a thousand francs, father
Pantois?"
Seeing Monsieur laugh, father Pantois thought that it was proper for
him to laugh too, and he answered, jovially:
"Ha! ha! ha! I have never even seen these confounded bills."
"Well, on Sunday then," concluded Monsieur.
Monsieur had poured out a glass of cider for himself, and was drinking
with father Pantois, when Madame, whom they had not heard coming,
suddenly entered the kitchen, like a gust of wind.
Ah! her eye, when she saw that! when she saw Monsieur sitting at table
beside the poor old man, and drinking with him!
"What's this?" she exclaimed, her lips all white.
Monsieur stammered, and hemmed and hawed.
"It is some sweet-briers; you know very well, my pet; some
sweet-briers. Father Pantois has brought me some sweet-briers. All the
rose-bushes were frozen this winter."
"I have ordered no sweet-briers. We need no sweet-briers here."
This was said in a cutting tone. Then she made a half-circuit of the
room, and went out, slamming the door and showering insults. In her
anger she had not noticed me.
Monsieur and the poor old puller of sweet-briers had risen.
Embarrassed, they looked at the door through which Madame had just
disappeared. Then they looked at each other, without daring to say a
word. Monsieur was the first to break this painful silence.
"Well, then, on Sunday, father Pantois."
"On Sunday, Monsieur Lanlaire."
"And take good care of yourself, father Pantois."
"You also, Monsieur Lanlaire."
"And thirty francs, mind you. I do not take back what I said."
"You are very good."
And the old man, trembling on his legs, and with back bent, went away,
and disappeared in the darkness.
Poor Monsieur! he must have received his lecture! And, as for father
Pantois, if ever he gets his thirty francs,--well, he will be lucky.
I do not wish to justify Madame, but I think that Monsieur is wrong in
talking familiarly with people that are too far beneath him. It is not
dignified.
I know very well that he doesn't lead a gay life, to be sure, and that
he takes such opportunities as offer. That is not always convenient.
When he comes back late from a hunt, dirty and wet, and singing to keep
up his courage, Madame gives him a warm reception.
"Ah! it is very nice of you to leave me alone all day!"
"But you know very well, my pet...."
"Be still."
She sulks for hours and hours, her forehead stern, her mouth ugly. He
follows her about everywhere, trembling and stammering excuses.
"But, my pet, you know very well...."
"Let me alone; you make me tired."
The next day, naturally, Monsieur does not go out, and Madame exclaims:
"Why do you wander about thus in the house, like a soul in torment?"
"But, my pet...."
"You would do much better to go out, to go hunting, the devil knows
where! You annoy me; you unnerve me. Go away."
So that he never knows what to do, whether to go or stay, to be here or
elsewhere. A difficult problem. But, as in either case Madame scolds,
Monsieur has taken the course of going away as often as possible. In
that way he does not hear her scold.
Ah! it is really pitiful.
The other morning, as I was going to spread a little linen on the
hedge, I saw him in the garden. Monsieur was gardening. The wind having
blown down some dahlias during the night, he was refastening them to
their props.
Very often, when he does not go out before lunch, Monsieur works in the
garden; at least, he pretends to be occupying himself with something
or other in his platbands. It is always time gained from the ennui of
the household. During these moments there are no scenes. Away from
Madame, he is no longer the same man. His face lightens up, his eyes
shine. Naturally gay, his gaiety comes to the surface. Really, he is
not disagreeable. In the house, indeed, he rarely speaks to me now,
and, though still bent on his idea, seems to pay no attention to me.
But outside he never fails to address me a pleasant little word, after
making sure, however, that Madame cannot be spying him. When he does
not dare to speak to me, he looks at me, and his look is more eloquent
than his words. Moreover, I amuse myself in exciting him in all ways,
although I have taken no resolution concerning him.
In passing by him, in the path where he was working, bent over his
dahlias, with bits of string between his teeth, I said to him, without
slackening my pace:
"Oh! how hard Monsieur is working this morning!"
"Yes, indeed," he answered; "these confounded dahlias! You see...."
He invited me to stop a minute.
"Well, Célestine, I hope you are getting accustomed to the place, now?"
Always his mania! Always the same difficulty in engaging in
conversation! To please him, I replied with a smile:
"Why, yes, Monsieur, certainly; I am getting accustomed here."
"I am glad to hear it. It is not bad here; really, it is not bad."
He quite straightened up, gave me a very tender look, and repeated: "It
is not bad," thus giving himself time to think of something ingenious
to say to me.
He took from his teeth the bits of string, tied them at the top of the
prop, and, with legs spread apart, and his two palms resting on his
hips, with a knowing look, and frankly obscene eyes, he cried:
"I'll bet, Célestine, that you led a gay life in Paris? Say, now,
didn't you?"
I was not expecting this. And I had a great desire to laugh. But I
lowered my eyes modestly, with an offended air, and, trying to blush,
as was proper under the circumstances, I exclaimed, in a tone of
reproach:
"Oh! Monsieur!"
"Well, what?" he insisted; "a pretty girl like you,--with such eyes!
Oh! yes, you must have had a gay time. And so much the better. For my
part, I am for amusement; yes, I am for love."
Monsieur was becoming strangely animated. And, on his robust, muscular
person I recognized the most evident signs of amorous exaltation. He
was on fire; desire was flaming in his eyes. I deemed it my duty to
pour a good shower of cold water on this fire. In a very dry tone, and
at the same time very loftily, I said:
"Monsieur is mistaken. Monsieur thinks that he is speaking to his other
chambermaids. Monsieur must know, however, that I am a good girl."
And with great dignity, to show exactly to what extent this outrage had
offended me, I added:
"It will serve Monsieur right, if I go to complain to Madame directly."
And I made a pretence of starting. Monsieur quickly grasped me by the
arm.
"No, no," he stammered.
How did I ever say all that without bursting? How did I ever succeed in
burying in my throat the laugh that was ringing there? Really, I don't
know.
Monsieur was prodigiously ridiculous. Livid now, with mouth wide open,
his whole person bearing a two-fold expression of annoyance and fear,
he remained silent, digging into his neck with his nails.
Near us an old pear tree twisted its pyramid of branches, eaten by
lichens and mosses. A few pears hung within reach of his hand. A magpie
was chattering ironically at the top of a neighboring chestnut tree.
Crouching behind the border of box, the cat was pawing at a bumble-bee.
The silence was becoming more and more painful for Monsieur. At
last, after efforts that were almost sorrowful,--efforts that brought
grotesque grimaces to his lips,--Monsieur asked:
"Do you like pears, Célestine?"
"Yes, Monsieur."