"Why are you a domestic?" I resumed.
"Because...."
"Why did you leave home?"
"Because...."
"You were not happy?"
She spoke very quickly, in a voice that rushed and rolled the words
out, like pebbles.
"My father whipped me; my mother whipped me; my sisters whipped me;
everybody whipped me; they made me do everything. I brought up my
sisters."
"Why did they whip you?"
"I do not know; just to whip me. In all families there is some one who
is whipped ... because ... well, one does not know."
My questions no longer annoyed her. She was gaining confidence.
"And you?" she said to me, "did not your parents whip you?"
"Oh! yes."
"Of course; that is how things are."
Louise was no longer exploring her nose; her two hands, with their
close-clipped nails, lay flat upon her thighs. Whispering was going on
around us. Laughs, quarrels, and lamentations prevented the others from
hearing our conversation.
"But how did you happen to come to Paris?" I asked, after a silence.
"Last year," answered Louise, "there was a lady from Paris at
Saint-Michel-en-Grève, who was taking the sea-baths with her children.
She had discharged her domestic for stealing, and I offered to go to
work for her. And so she took me with her to Paris, to take care of her
father, an old invalid whose legs were paralyzed."
"And you did not stay in your place? In Paris it is not the same thing."
"No," she exclaimed, energetically. "I could have remained; it was not
that. But I was not treated right."
Her dull eyes lighted up strangely. Something like a gleam of pride
passed over them. And her body straightened up, and became almost
transfigured.
"I was not treated right," she repeated. "The old man made advances to
me."
For a moment I was stunned by this revelation. Was it possible? Then a
desire, even that of a low and nasty old man, had been felt for this
bundle of shapeless flesh, this monstrous irony of nature? A kiss
had wished to place itself upon these decaying teeth and mingle with
this rotten breath? Ah! what filthy things men are! What a frightful
madness, then, is love! I looked at Louise. But the flame had gone out
of her eyes. Once more her pupils looked like dead gray spots.
"That was some time ago?" I asked.
"Three months."
"And since then you have found no place?"
"Nobody wants me. I do not know why. When I enter the bureau, all the
ladies cry out at the sight of me: 'No, no; I don't want _her_.' There
must surely be some spell over me. For, you know, I am not ugly; I am
very strong; I know my work; and my will is good. If I am too small,
it is not my fault. Surely, some one has thrown a spell over me."
"How do you live?"
"In a lodging-house. I do all the chambers, and I mend the linen. They
give me a mattress in the garret, and a meal in the morning."
There were some, then, that were more unfortunate than myself! This
egoistic thought brought back the pity that had vanished from my heart.
"Listen, my little Louise," I said, in a voice which I tried to make
as tender and convincing as possible. "Places in Paris are very hard.
One has to know many things, and the masters are more exacting than
elsewhere. I am much afraid for you. If I were you, I would go home
again."
But Louise became frightened.
"No, no," she exclaimed, "never! I do not want to go home. They would
say that I had not succeeded, that nobody wanted me; they would laugh
at me too much. No, no, it is impossible; I would rather die!"
Just then the door of the ante-room opened. The shrill voice of Mme.
Paulhat-Durand called:
"Mademoiselle Louise Randon!"
"Are they calling me?" asked Louise, frightened and trembling.
"Why, yes, it is you. Go quickly, and try to succeed this time."
She arose, gave me a dig in the ribs with her outstretched elbows,
stepped on my feet, ran against the table, and, rolling along on her
too short legs, disappeared, followed by hoots.
I mounted my stool, and pushed open the casement-window, to watch the
scene that was about to take place. Never did Mme. Paulhat-Durand's
_salon_ seem to me gloomier; yet God knows whether it had frozen my
soul, every time I had entered it. Oh! that furniture upholstered in
blue rep, turned yellow by wear; that huge book of record spread like
the split carcass of a beast, on the table, also covered with blue
rep spotted with ink. And that desk, where M. Louis's elbows had left
bright and shining spots on the dark wood. And the sideboard at the
rear, upon which stood foreign glassware, and table-ware handed down
from ancestors. And on the mantel, between two lamps which had lost
their bronze, between photographs that had lost their color, that
tiresome clock, whose enervating tic-tac made the hours longer. And
that dome-shaped cage in which two homesick canaries swelled their
damaged plumage. And that mahogany case of pigeon-holes, scratched
by greedy nails. But I had not taken my post of observation for the
purpose of taking an inventory of this room, which I knew, alas! too
well,--this lugubrious interior, so tragic, in spite of its _bourgeois_
obscurity, that many times my maddened imagination transformed it into
a gloomy butcher-shop for the sale of human meat. No; I wanted to see
Louise Randon, in the clutches of the slave-traders.
There she was, near the window, in a false light, standing motionless,
with hanging arms. A hard shadow, like a thick veil, added confusion to
the ugliness of her face, and made still more of a heap of the short
and massive deformity of her body. A hard light illuminated the lower
locks of her hair, enhanced the shapelessness of her arms and breast,
and lost itself in the dark folds of her deplorable skirt. An old lady
was examining her. She was sitting in a chair with her back toward
me,--a hostile back, a ferocious neck. Of this old lady I saw nothing
but her black cap, with its ridiculous plumes, her black cape, whose
lining turned up at the bottom in grey fur, and her black gown, which
made rings upon the carpet. I saw especially, lying upon one of her
knees, her hand gloved with black floss-silk, a knotty and gouty hand
that moved slowly about, the fingers stretching out and drawing back,
clutching the material of her dress, as talons fasten upon living prey.
Standing near the table, very erect and dignified, Mme. Paulhat-Durand
was waiting.
It seems a small matter, does it not? the meeting of these three
commonplace beings, in this commonplace setting. In this very ordinary
fact there was nothing to cause one to stop, nothing to move one.
Nevertheless it seemed to me an enormous drama, these three persons,
silently gazing at one another. I felt that I was witnessing a social
tragedy, terrible, agonizing, worse than a murder! My throat was dry.
My heart beat violently.
"I do not get a good view of you, my little one," said the old lady,
suddenly. "Do not stay there; I do not get a good view of you. Go to
the rear of the room, that I may see you better."
And she cried, in an astonished voice:
"My God! how little you are!"
In saying these words, she had moved her chair, and now I had a sight
of her profile. I expected to see a hooked nose, long teeth protruding
from the mouth, and the round and yellow eye of a hawk. Not at all;
her face was calm, rather amiable. In truth, there was no expression
at all in her eyes, either kind or unkind. She must have been an old
shop-keeper, retired from business. Merchants have this faculty of
acquiring a special physiognomy, revealing nothing of their inner
nature. In proportion as they grow hardened in their business, and
as the habit of unjust and rapid gains develops low instincts and
ferocious ambitions, the expression of their face softens, or, rather,
becomes neutralized. That in them which is bad, that which might
inspire distrust in their customers, hides itself in the privacies of
their being, or takes refuge on corporeal surfaces that are ordinarily
destitute of any expression whatever. In this old lady the hardness of
her soul, invisible in her eyes, in her mouth, in her forehead, in all
the relaxed muscles of her flabby face, was exhibited prominently in
her neck. Her neck was her real face, and this face was terrible.
Louise, obeying the old lady's command, had gone to the rear of the
room. The desire to please gave her a really monstrous look and a
discouraging attitude. Scarcely had she placed herself in the light,
when the lady cried:
"Oh! how ugly you are, my little one!"
And calling Mme. Paulhat-Durand to witness:
"Can there really be creatures on earth as ugly as this little one?"
Ever solemn and dignified, Mme. Paulhat-Durand answered:
"Undoubtedly she is not a beauty, but Mademoiselle is very honest."
"Possibly," replied the lady. "But she is too ugly. Such ugliness is in
the last degree disagreeable. What? What did you say?"
Louise had not uttered a word. She had simply blushed a little, and
lowered her head. Her dull eyes were surrounded with a red streak. I
thought she was going to cry.
"Well, let us look into this," resumed the lady, whose fingers at this
moment, furiously agitated, were tearing the material of her gown,
with the movements of a cruel beast.
She questioned Louise regarding her family, her previous places,
and her capacities for cooking, sewing, and doing housework. Louise
answered, "Yes, indeed," or "No, indeed," hoarsely and spasmodically.
The examination, fastidious, unkind, criminal, lasted twenty minutes.
"Well, my little one," concluded the old lady, "the clearest thing
about you is that you do not know how to do anything. I shall have to
teach you everything. For four or five months you will be of no use to
me. And besides, such ugliness is not prepossessing. That gash in your
nose? Have you received a blow?"
"No, Madame, it has always been there."
"Well, it is not very attractive. What pay do you expect?"
"Thirty francs, washing, and wine," declared Louise, resolutely.
The old woman started.
"Thirty francs! Have you never, then, looked at yourself? It is
senseless! What? Nobody wants you; nobody will ever want you. If I
take you, it is because I am kind, it is because I really pity you.
And you ask me thirty francs! Well, you have audacity, my little one.
Undoubtedly your comrades have been giving you bad advice. You do wrong
to listen to them."
"Surely," said Mme. Paulhat-Durand, approvingly. "When they get
together, they get very big ideas."
"Well," offered the old lady, in a tone of conciliation, "I will give
you fifteen francs. And you will pay for your wine. It is too much. But
I do not wish to take advantage of your ugliness and distress."
She softened. Her voice became almost caressing.
"You see, my little one, this is a unique opportunity, such as you
will not find again. I am not like the others; I am alone, I have no
family, I have no one. My servant is my family. And what do I ask of
my servant? To love me a little, that is all. My servant lives with
me, eats with me ... apart from the wine. Oh! I am indulgent to her.
And then, when I die,--for I am very old and often sick,--when I die,
surely I shall not forget the girl who has been devoted to me, served
me well, and taken care of me. You are ugly, very ugly, too ugly. Well,
I shall get used to your ugliness, to your face. There are some pretty
women who are very ill-disposed, and who rob you beyond question.
Ugliness is sometimes a guarantee of morality in the house. Of course,
you will bring no men to my house? You see, I know how to do you
justice. Under these conditions, and as kind as I am, what I offer you,
my little one,--why, it is a fortune; better than a fortune, it is a
family!"
Louise was shaken. Certainly, the old lady's words caused unknown hopes
to sing in her head. With her peasant's rapacity, she had visions of
strong-boxes filled with gold, and fabulous wills. And life in common,
with this good mistress, the table shared, frequent trips to the
squares and the suburban woods,--these things seemed marvelous to her.
And they frightened her also, for doubts, an unconquerable and native
mistrust, dimmed the brilliancy of these promises. She knew not what
to say or do; she knew not what course to take. I felt a desire to cry
out to her: "Do not accept." For I could see this hermit-like life, the
exhausting tasks, the bitter reproaches, the disputed food, and the
stripped bones and spoiled meat thrown to her hunger, and the eternal,
patient, torturing exploitation of a poor, defenceless being. "No, do
not listen to her; go away!" But I repressed this cry, which was on my
lips.
"Come a little nearer, my little one," ordered the old lady. "One would
think that you were afraid of me. Come, do not be afraid of me; come
nearer. How curious it is! Already you seem less ugly. Already I am
getting used to your face."
Louise approached slowly, with stiffened members, trying hard not
to run against the chairs and furniture, endeavoring to walk with
elegance, the poor creature! But she had scarcely placed herself beside
the old lady, when the latter repulsed her with a grimace.
"My God!" she cried, "what is the matter with you? Why do you smell so
bad? Is your body rotten? It is frightful! It is incredible! Never did
any one smell as you smell. Have you, then, a cancer in your nose, or
perhaps in your stomach?"
Mme. Paulhat-Durand made a noble gesture.
"I had warned you, Madame," she said. "That is her great fault. It is
that which keeps her from finding a place."
The old lady continued to groan.
"My God! My God! is it possible? Why, you will taint the whole house;
you cannot stay near me. This changes the case entirely. And when I
was beginning to feel sympathy for you! No, no; in spite of all my
kindness, it is not possible, it is no longer possible!"
She had pulled out her handkerchief, and was trying to dissipate the
putrid air, as she repeated:
"No, really, it is no longer possible!"
"Come, Madame," intervened Mme. Paulhat-Durand, "make an effort. I am
sure that this unhappy girl will always be grateful to you."
"Grateful? That is all well enough. But gratitude will not cure her of
this frightful infirmity. Well, so be it! But I can give her only ten
francs. Ten francs, no more! She can take it or leave it."
Louise, who had so far kept back her tears, was choking.
"No ... I will not ... I will not ... I will not."
"Listen, Mademoiselle," said Mme. Paulhat-Durand, dryly. "You will
accept this place. If you don't, I will not undertake to get another
for you. You can go and ask for places at the other bureaus. I have had
enough. And you are doing injury to my house."
"It is evident," insisted the old lady. "And you ought to thank me for
these ten francs. It is out of pity, out of charity, that I offer them
to you. How is it that you do not see that I am doing a good work, of
which no doubt I shall repent, as I have repented of others?"
Then, addressing Mme. Paulhat-Durand, she added:
"What do you expect? I am so constituted. I cannot bear to see people
suffer. In the presence of misfortune I become utterly stupid. And at
my age one does not change, you know. Come, my little one, I take you
with me."
Just then a sudden cramp forced me to descend from my post of
observation. I never saw Louise again.
The next day but one Mme. Paulhat-Durand had me ceremoniously
ushered into the bureau, and, after having examined me in rather an
embarrassing fashion, she said to me:
"Mademoiselle Célestine, I have a good place for you, a very good
place. Only you have to go into the country,--oh! not very far."
"Into the country? I do not go there, you know."
She insisted.
"You do not know the country. There are excellent places in the
country."
"Oh! excellent places! What a humbug!" I said. "In the first place,
there are no good places anywhere."
Mme. Paulhat-Durand smiled amiably and affectedly. Never had I seen
such a smile on her face.
"I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle Célestine, there are no bad places."
"Indeed, I know it well. There are only bad masters."
"No, only bad servants. See, I offer you all the best houses; it is not
my fault, if you do not stay in them."
She looked at me in a way that was almost friendly.
"Especially as you are very intelligent. You have a pretty face, a
pretty figure, charming hands not at all ruined by work, and eyes that
are not in your pockets. Good fortune might easily come to you. One
does not know what good fortune could come to you ... with conduct."
"With misconduct, you mean."
"That depends on how you look at it. For my part, I call it conduct."
She was melting. Little by little, her mask of dignity fell. I
was now confronted simply with the former chambermaid, expert at
all rascalities. Now she had the piggish eye, the fat and flabby
movements, the sort of ritual lapping of the mouth characteristic of
the procuress, and which I had observed on the lips of "Madame Rebecca
Ranvet, Millinery." She repeated:
"For my part, I call it conduct."
"It! What?" I exclaimed.
"Come, Mademoiselle, you are not a beginner, and you are acquainted
with life. One can talk with you. It is a question of a single
gentleman, already old, not extremely far from Paris, and very
rich,--yes, in fact, rich enough. You will keep his house,--something
like a governess, do you understand? Such places are very delicate,
much in demand, and highly profitable. This one offers a certain future
for a woman like you, as intelligent as you are, as pretty as you
are,--especially, I repeat, with conduct."
This was my ambition. Many times I had built marvelous futures on
an old man's fancy, and now this paradise that I had dreamed of was
before me, smiling, calling me. By an inexplicable irony of life, by
an imbecile contradiction, the cause of which I cannot understand,
I squarely refused this good fortune which I had wished for so many
times, and which at last presented itself.
"An old rake! Oh! no! Besides, men are too disgusting to me,--the old,
the young, all of them."
For a few seconds Mme. Paulhat-Durand stood in amazement. She had not
expected this sally. Resuming her severe and dignified air, which
placed so great a distance between the correct _bourgeoise_ that she
wished to be and the bohemian girl that I am, she said:
"Ah! Mademoiselle, what do you think, then? What do you take me for?
What are you imagining?"
"I imagine nothing. Only I repeat that I have had enough of men."
"Do you really know of whom you are speaking? This gentleman,
Mademoiselle, is a very respectable man. He is a member of the Society
of Saint-Vincent-de-Paul. He has been a royalist deputy."