_November 12._
I have said that I would speak of M. Xavier. The memory of this boy
pursues me, runs continually through my head. Among so many faces his
is one of those that come back most frequently to my mind. Sometimes
with regret, sometimes with anger. All the same, he was prettily droll
and prettily vicious, M. Xavier, with his irregular features and his
blonde and brazen face. Ah! the little rascal! Really one may say of
him that he belonged to his epoch.
One day I was engaged as chambermaid by Mme. de Tarves, in the Rue
de Varennes. A nickel-plated establishment, an elegant retinue, and
handsome wages. A hundred francs a month, with washing, and wine,
and everything, included. The morning that I arrived at the house,
in a highly satisfied state of mind, Madame had me shown into her
dressing-room. An astonishing room, hung with cream silk, and Madame,
a tall woman, extremely made up, her skin too white, her lips too
red, her hair too blonde, but nevertheless pretty, rustling,--with an
imposing presence, and style! So much was not to be gainsaid.
I already possessed a very keen eye. Even from rapidly passing through
a Parisian interior, I was able to judge of its habits and morals,
and, although furniture lies as well as faces, I was rarely mistaken.
In spite of the sumptuous and decent appearance of this establishment,
I felt at once the disorganization that prevailed there, the broken
ties, the intrigue, the haste, the feverish life, the private and
hidden filth,--not sufficiently hidden, however, to prevent me from
detecting the odor, always the same! Moreover, in the first looks
exchanged between new and old servants there is a sort of masonic sign,
generally spontaneous and involuntary, which immediately informs you
regarding the general spirit of the establishment. As in all other
professions, servants are very jealous of each other, and they defend
themselves ferociously against new-comers. Even I, who am so easy in my
ways, have suffered from these jealousies and hatreds, especially on
the part of women who were enraged at my beauty. But, for the contrary
reason, men--I must do them this justice--have always welcomed me
cordially.
In the look of the _valet de chambre_ who had opened the door for me at
the house of Mme. de Tarves I had clearly read these words: "This is
a queer box ... with ups and downs ... nothing like security ... but
plenty of fun, all the same. You can come in, my little one." So, in
making my way to the dressing-room, I was prepared, to the extent of
these uncertain and summary impressions, for something peculiar. But I
must confess that I had no idea of that which really awaited me.
Madame was writing letters at a little jewel of a desk. A large skin
of white astrachan served as a carpet for the room. On the cream silk
walls I was astonished to see engravings of the eighteenth century,
more than licentious, almost obscene, not very far from the very old
enamels representing religious scenes. In a glass cabinet a quantity of
old jewels, ivories, miniature snuff-boxes, and gallant little Saxon
porcelains, deliciously fragile. On a table, toilet articles, very
rich, of gold and silver. A little yellow dog, a ball of silky and
shiny hair, was asleep on a long chair, between two mauve silk cushions.
Madame said to me:
"Célestine, is it not? Ah! I do not like that name at all. I will call
you Mary, in English. Mary, you will remember? Mary, yes; that is more
suitable."
That is in the order of things. We servants have not a right even to
a name of our own, because in all the houses there are daughters,
cousins, dogs, and parrots that have the same name that we have.
"Very well, Madame," I answered.
"Do you know English, Mary?" "No, Madame. I have already told Madame
so."
"Ah! to be sure. I regret it. Turn a little, Mary, that I may look at
you."
She examined me from every point of view, front, back, and profile,
murmuring from time to time:
"Well, she is not bad; she is rather good-looking."
And suddenly:
"Tell me, Mary, have you a good figure ... a very good figure?"
This question surprised and disturbed me. I did not grasp the
connection between my service in the house and the shape of my body.
But, without waiting for my reply, Madame said, talking to herself, and
surveying my entire person from head to foot, through her _face-à-main:_
"Yes, she seems to have a good figure enough."
Then, addressing me directly, she exclaimed, with a satisfied smile:
"You see, Mary, I like to have about me only women with good figures.
It is more suitable."
I was not at the end of my surprises. Continuing to examine me
minutely, she cried, suddenly:
"Oh! your hair! I desire you to do your hair otherwise. Your hair is
not done with elegance. You have beautiful hair; you should make the
most of it. A fine head of hair is a very important matter. See, like
that; something in that style."
She dishevelled a little the hair on my forehead, repeating:
"Something in that style. She is charming. See, Mary, you are charming.
It is more suitable."
And, while she was patting my hair, I asked myself if Madame was not a
little off.
When she had finished, being satisfied with my hair, she asked:
"Is that your prettiest gown?"
"Yes, Madame."
"It is not much, your prettiest gown. I will give you some of mine
which you can make over. And your underwear?"
She raised my skirt, and turned it up slightly.
"Yes, I see," said she; "that will not do at all. And your linen, is it
suitable?"
Vexed by this invasive inspection, I answered, in a dry voice:
"I do not know what Madame means by suitable."
"Show me your linen; go and get me your linen. And walk a little ...
again ... come back ... turn round ... she walks well, she has style."
As soon as she saw my linen, she made a face:
"Oh, this cotton cloth, these stockings, these chemises,--horrible!
And this corset! I do not wish to see that in my house. I do not wish
you to wear that in my house. Wait, Mary; help me."
She opened a pink lacker wardrobe, pulled out a large drawer full of
fragrant garments, and emptied its contents, pell-mell, on the carpet.
"Take that, Mary; take it all. You will see there are some stitches to
be taken, some repairs to be made, some little places to be mended.
You will attend to that. Take it all; there is a little of everything;
there is enough there to fit you out with a pretty wardrobe, a suitable
_trousseau_. Take it all."
Indeed, there was everything,--silk corsets, silk stockings, silk and
fine linen chemises, loves of drawers, delicious ruffs, and ornamented
petticoats. A strong odor, an odor of _peau d'Espagne_, of jasmine,
of well-groomed woman, in short, an odor of love, rose from these
piled-up garments whose soft, faded, or violent colors glistened on
the carpet like a basket of flowers in a garden. I could not get over
it; I stood thoroughly stupefied, contented and embarrassed at once,
before this pile of pink, mauve, yellow, and red stuffs, in which there
still were ribbons of brighter shades and delicate bits of lace. And
Madame stirred up these old things that were still so pretty, these
undergarments that were scarcely worn, showed them to me, selected for
me, and advised me, indicating her preferences.
"I like the women in my service to be coquettish, elegant; I like to
have them smell good. You are a brunette; here is a red skirt that will
become you marvelously. Moreover, all these things will become you very
well. Take them all."
I was in a state of profound stupefaction. I knew not what to do; I
knew not what to say. Mechanically, I repeated:
"Thank you, Madame. How good Madame is! Thank you, Madame."
But Madame did not leave me time to get a clear idea of my own
thoughts. She talked and talked, by turns familiar, shameless,
maternal, pandering, and so strange!
"It is like cleanliness, Mary, care of the body, private toilets.
Oh! I insist upon that, above all things. On this point I am
exacting,--exacting to the point of mania."
She entered into intimate details, insisting always on this word
"suitable," that came back continually to her lips apropos of things
that were scarcely so,--at least, to my thinking. As we finished our
sorting of the garments, she said to me:
"A woman, no matter what woman, should always be well kept. For
the rest, Mary, you will do as I do; this is a point of capital
importance. You-will take a bath to-morrow. I will show you."
Then Madame took me to her room, showed me her closets, her hangings,
the place for everything, familiarized me with the service, all the
time making remarks that seemed to me queer and not natural.
"Now," said she, "let us go to M. Xavier's room. That, too, will be in
your charge. M. Xavier is my son, Mary."
"Very well, Madame."
M. Xavier's room was situated at the other end of the vast apartment.
A coquettish room, hung in blue cloth with yellow trimmings. On the
walls colored English engravings representing hunting and racing
scenes, teams, châteaux. A cane-holder stood in front of a panel,--a
real panoply of canes, with a hunting-horn in the middle, flanked by
two mail-coach trumpets crossed. On the mantel, among many bibelots,
cigar-boxes, and pipes, a photograph of a pretty boy, very young and
still beardless, with the insolent face of a precocious dude and the
uncertain grace of a girl,--the whole producing an effect that pleased
me.
"That is M. Xavier," said Madame.