XVII

It is eight months since I have written a single line in this diary,--I

have had something else to do and to think of,--and it is exactly three

months since Joseph and I left the Priory, and established ourselves in

the little café at Cherbourg, near the harbor. We are married; business

is good; I like the trade; I am happy. Born by the sea, I have come

back to the sea. I did not miss it, but it gives me pleasure, all the

same, to find it again. Here one does not see the desolate landscapes

of Audierne, the infinite sadness of its coasts, the magnificent horror

of its beaches that howl so mournfully. Here nothing is sad; on the

contrary, everything contributes to gaiety. There is the joyous sound

of a military city, the picturesque movement and varied activity of

a military harbor. Crowds in a hurry to enjoy between two periods

of far-off exile; spectacles incessantly changing and diverting, in

which I inhale that natal odor of coal tar and sea-weed which I love,

although I never found it agreeable in my childhood. I have seen again

the lads of my native province, now serving on State men-of-war. We

have scarcely talked together, and I have not dreamed of asking them

for news of my brother. It is so long ago! To me it is as if he were

dead. Good day!... good evening!... be good. When they are not drunk,

they are too stupid. When they are not stupid, they are too drunk. And

they have heads like those of old fishes. Between them and me there has

been no other emotion, no other effusion. Besides, Joseph does not like

me to be familiar with simple seamen, dirty Bretons who haven't a sou,

and who get drunk on a glass of kill-me-quick.

But I must relate briefly the events that preceded our departure from

the Priory.

It will be remembered that, at the Priory, Joseph slept in the

out-buildings, over the harness-room. Every day, summer and winter, he

rose at five o'clock. Now, on the morning of December 24, just a month

after his return from Cherbourg, he noticed that the kitchen-door was

wide open.

"What!" said he to himself. "Can they have risen already?"

He noticed at the same time that a square of glass had been cut out

of the glass door, with a diamond, near the lock, in such a way as to

admit the introduction of an arm. The lock had been forced by expert

hands. Bits of wood, glass, and twisted iron were strewn along the

stone flagging. Within, all the doors, so carefully bolted at night

under Madame's eyes, were open also. One felt that something frightful

had happened. Greatly impressed,--I tell the story of his discovery

as he told it himself before the magistrates,--Joseph passed through

the kitchen, and then through the passage-way into which opened, at

the right, the fruit-room, the bath-room, and the ante-room; at the

left, the servants' hall, the dining-room, and the little _salon_; and,

at the end, the grand _salon_. The dining-room presented a spectacle

of frightful disorder, of real pillage. The furniture was upset; the

sideboard had been ransacked from top to bottom; its drawers, as well

as those of the two side-tables, were turned upside down on the carpet;

and on the table, among empty boxes and a confused heap of valueless

articles, a candle was burning itself out in a brass candlestick. But

it was in the servants' hall that the spectacle became really imposing.

In the servants' hall--I believe I have already noted the fact--there

was a very deep closet, protected by a very complicated system of

locks, the secret of which was known only to Madame. There slept the

famous and venerable silver service, in three heavy boxes, with steel

corners and cross-pieces. The boxes were screwed to the floor, and held

fast against the wall by solid iron clamps. But now the three boxes,

torn from their mysterious and inviolable tabernacle, lay yawning and

empty, in the middle of the room. At sight of these, Joseph gave the

alarm. With all the strength of his lungs, he shouted up the stairs:

"Madame! Monsieur! Come down right away. We are robbed! we are robbed!"

There was a sudden avalanche, a frightful plunge down the stairs.

Madame, in her chemise, with her shoulders scarcely covered by a light

neckkerchief. Monsieur, in his drawers and shirt. And both of them,

dishevelled, pale, and grimacing, as if they had been awakened in the

middle of a nightmare, shouted:

"What is the matter? What is the matter?"

"We are robbed! we are robbed!"

"We are robbed, what? We are robbed, what?"

In the dining-room, Madame groaned:

"My God! My God!"

While, with distorted mouth, Monsieur continued to scream:

"We are robbed, what? what?"

Guided by Joseph into the servants' hall, Madame, at sight of the three

boxes unsealed, made a great gesture, uttered a great cry:

"My silver service! My God! Is it possible? My silver service!"

And, lifting the empty compartments, and turning the empty cases upside

down, she sank, frightened and horrified, upon the floor. Scarcely had

she strength enough to stammer, in the voice of a child:

"They have taken everything! They have taken everything ... everything

... everything ... everything! Even the Louis XVI cruet."

While Madame was looking at the boxes as if she were looking at a dead

child, Monsieur, scratching his neck, and rolling haggard eyes, moaned

persistently in the far-away voice of a demented person:

"Name of a dog! Ah! name of a dog! Name of a dog of name of a dog!"

And Joseph, too, with atrocious grimaces, was exclaiming:

"The cruet of Louis XVI! The cruet of Louis XVI! Oh! the bandits!"

Then there was a minute of tragic silence, a long minute of

prostration,--that silence of death, that prostration of beings and

things, which follows the fracas of a terrible downfall, the thunder of

a great cataclysm. And the lantern, swinging in Joseph's hands, cast

a red, trembling, sinister gleam over the whole scene, over the dead

faces and the empty boxes.

I had come down, in response to Joseph's call, at the same time as the

masters. In presence of this disaster, and in spite of the prodigious

comicality of these faces, my first feeling was one of compassion. It

seemed to me that this misfortune fell upon me too, and that I was one

of the family, sharing its trials and sorrows. I should have liked to

speak consoling words to Madame, whose dejected attitude it gave me

pain to see. But this impression of solidarity or of servitude quickly

vanished.

In crime there is something violent, solemn, justiciary, religious,

which frightens me, to be sure, but which also leaves in me--how shall

I express it?--a feeling of admiration. No, not of admiration, since

admiration is a moral feeling, a spiritual excitement, whereas that

which I feel influences and excites only my flesh. It is like a brutal

shock throughout my physical being, at once painful and delicious,--a

sorrowful and swooning rape of my sex. It is curious, doubtless it is

peculiar, perhaps it is horrible,--and I cannot explain the real cause

of these strange and powerful sensations,--but in me every crime,

especially murder, has secret relationships with love. Yes, indeed! A

fine crime takes hold of me just as a fine man does.

I must say that further reflection suddenly transformed into a

hilarious gaiety, a childish content, that grave, atrocious, and

powerful enjoyment of crime which succeeded the impulse to pity that at

first so inappropriately startled my heart. I thought:

"Here are two beings who live like moles, like larvæ. Like voluntary

prisoners, they have voluntarily shut themselves up in the jail of

these inhospitable walls. All that constitutes the joy of life, the

smile of a house, they repress as something superfluous. Against

everything that could excuse their wealth, and pardon their human

uselessness, they guard as they would guard against filth. They let

nothing fall from their parsimonious table to satisfy the hunger of

the poor; they let nothing fall from their dry hearts to relieve the

pain of the suffering. They even economize in making provision for

their own happiness. And should I pity them? Oh! no. It is justice

that has overtaken them. In stripping them of a portion of their

goods, in giving air to the buried treasures, the good thieves have

restored equilibrium. What I regret is that they did not leave these

two maleficent beings totally naked and miserable, more destitute than

the vagabond who so often begged at their door in vain, sicker than

the abandoned creature dying by the roadside, within two steps of this

hidden and accursed wealth."

This idea of my masters, with wallets on their backs, having to drag

their lamentable rags and their bleeding feet over the stony highways,

and to stand with outstretched hands at the implacable threshold of

the evil-minded rich, enchanted me, and filled me with gaiety. But my

gaiety became more direct, and more intense, and more hateful, as I

surveyed Madame, stranded beside her empty boxes, deader than if she

had been really dead,--for she was conscious of this death, the most

horrible death conceivable to a being who had never loved anything but

the valuation in money of those invaluable things,--our pleasures, our

caprices, our charities, our love, the divine luxury of the soul. This

shameful sorrow, this crapulous dejection, was also a revenge for the

humiliations and severities that I have undergone, that came to me from

her, in every word that issued from her mouth, in every look that fell

from her eyes. This deliciously grim enjoyment I tasted to the full. I

would have liked to cry out: "Well done! Well done!" And, above all,

I would have liked to know these admirable and sublime thieves, in

order to thank them in the name of all the ragamuffins, and to embrace

them, as brothers. Oh! good thieves, dear figures of justice and pity,

through what a series of intense and delightful sensations you have

made me pass!

Madame was not slow in recovering her self-possession. Her combative,

aggressive nature suddenly reawakened in all its violence.

"And what are you doing here?" she said to Monsieur, in a tone of anger

and supreme scorn. "Why are you here? How ridiculous you are, with your

big puffy face, and in your shirt-tail! Do you think that will get us

back our silver service? Come! shake yourself; stir yourself; try to

understand. Go for the police, for the justice of the peace. Ought they

not to have been here long ago? Oh! my God! what a man!"

Monsieur, with bent back, started to go. She interrupted him:

"And how is it that you heard nothing? What! they turn the house upside

down, break in doors, force locks, empty walls and boxes, and you hear

nothing? What are you good for, big blockhead?"

Monsieur ventured to answer:

"But you, too, my pet, you did not hear anything."

"I? It is not the same thing. Is it not a man's business to hear? And

besides, you provoke me. Clear out!"

And, as Monsieur went up-stairs to dress, Madame turned her fury upon

us.

"And you? What are you doing, standing there like so many bundles,

and looking at me? It is all the same to you, I suppose, whether your

masters are plundered or not? And you too heard nothing? What luck! It

is charming to have such servants. You think of nothing but eating and

drinking, pack of brutes that you are!"

Then, addressing Joseph directly, she asked:

"Why didn't the dogs bark? Say, why not?"

This question seemed to embarrass Joseph for a fraction of a second,

but he quickly recovered himself.

"I don't know, Madame," said he, in a most natural tone. "It is true

that the dogs didn't bark. That is curious, indeed!"

"Did you let them loose last night?"

"Certainly I let them loose, as I do every night. That is curious! Yes,

indeed! that is curious! It must be that the robbers knew the house ...

and the dogs."

"Well, Joseph, how is it that you, so devoted and punctual as a rule,

did not hear anything?"

"It is true that I heard nothing. That is another singular thing. For I

do not sleep soundly. If a cat crosses the garden, I hear it. It is not

natural, all the same. And those confounded dogs especially! Indeed,

indeed!"

Madame interrupted Joseph:

"Stop! Leave me in peace. You are brutes, all of you! And Marianne.

Where is Marianne? Why isn't she here? She is sleeping like a chump,

undoubtedly."

And, going out of the servants' hall, she called up the stairs:

"Marianne! Marianne!"

I looked at Joseph, who looked at the boxes. Joseph's face wore a grave

expression. There was a sort of mystery in his eyes.

I will not try to describe this day, with all its varied incidents

and follies. The prosecuting attorney, summoned by dispatch, came in

the afternoon, and began his investigation. Joseph, Marianne, and I

were questioned, one after the other,--the first two for the sake of

form, I with a hostile persistence which was extremely disagreeable

to me. They visited my room, and searched my commode and my trunks.

My correspondence was examined in detail. Thanks to a piece of good

luck that I bless, the manuscript of my diary escaped them. A few days

before the event I had sent it to Cléclé, from whom I had received an

affectionate letter. But for that the magistrates perhaps would have

found in these pages a foundation for a charge against Joseph, or at

least for suspicion of him. I still tremble at the thought of it. It

goes without saying that they also examined the garden paths, the

platbands, the walls, the openings in the hedges, and the little yard

leading to the lane, in the hope of finding foot-prints and traces of

wall-scaling. But the ground was very dry and hard; it was impossible

to discover the slightest imprint, the slightest clue. The fence,

the walls, the openings in the hedges, kept their secret jealously.

Just as in the case of the outrage in the woods, the people of the

neighborhood hurried forward, asking to testify. One had seen a man of

light complexion "whose looks he did not like;" another had seen a man

of dark complexion "who had a funny air." In short, the investigation

proved fruitless. No scent, no suspicion.

"We shall have to wait," declared the prosecuting attorney,

mysteriously, as he left that night. "Perhaps the Paris police will put

us on the track of the guilty."

During this fatiguing day, amid the goings and comings, I had scarcely

the leisure to think of the consequences of this drama, which for the

first time put a little animation and life into this dismal Priory.

Madame did not give us a minute's rest; we had to run hither and

thither,--without reason, moreover, for Madame had lost her head a

little. As for Marianne, she seemed to take no notice of anything,

and to be unaware that anything had happened to upset the house. Like

the sad Eugénie, she followed her own idea, and her own idea was very

far from our preoccupations. When Monsieur appeared in the kitchen,

she became suddenly like one intoxicated, and she looked at him with

ecstatic eyes.

"Oh! your big phiz! Your big hands! Your big eyes!"

In the evening, after a silent dinner, I had an opportunity to reflect.

The idea had struck me immediately, and now it was fortified within me,

that Joseph was not a stranger to this bold robbery. I even went so far

as to hope that between his Cherbourg trip and the preparation of this

audacious and incomparably executed stroke there had been an evident

connection. And I remembered the answer he made to me, on the eve of

his departure:

"That depends ... on a very important matter."

Although he endeavored to appear natural, I perceived in his movements,

in his attitude, in his silence, an unusual embarrassment, visible only

to me.

I took so much satisfaction in this presentiment that I did not try to

put it aside. On the contrary, I felt an intense joy in contemplating

the idea. Marianne having left us alone a moment in the kitchen,

I approached Joseph, and, in a coaxing, tender voice, moved by an

inexpressible emotion, I asked him:

"Tell me, Joseph, that it was you who outraged the little Claire in the

woods. Tell me that it was you who stole Madame's silver service."

Surprised, stupefied by this question, Joseph looked at me. Then,

suddenly, without answering, he drew me to him, and, making my neck

bend under a kiss that fell like a blow of a club, he said to me:

"Don't talk about that, since you are to come with me to the little

café, and since our two souls are alike."

I remember having seen in a little _salon_ at the Countess Fardin's a

sort of Hindoo idol, horribly and murderously beautiful. At this moment

Joseph resembled it.

Days passed, and months. Naturally the magistrates were unable to

discover anything, and finally they abandoned the investigation. Their

opinion was that the crime was the work of expert burglars from Paris.

Paris has a broad back. Go look for them in the heap!

This negative result made Madame indignant. She railed violently

at the magistracy, which could not recover her silver service. But

nevertheless she did not give up hope of finding "the cruet of Louis

XVI," as Joseph called it. Every day she concocted new and outlandish

schemes, which she sent to the magistrates, who, tiring at last of

all this nonsense, did not even answer her. At last I was reassured

concerning Joseph; for I was always afraid that some catastrophe would

overtake him.

Joseph had again become silent and devoted, the family servant, the

rare pearl. I cannot help puffing with laughter at the recollection

of a conversation which, on the very day of the robbery, I overheard

behind the door of the _salon_, between Madame and the prosecuting

attorney, a dry little man, with thin lips and bilious complexion,

whose profile was as sharp as the edge of a sword.

"You do not suspect anybody among your people?" asked the prosecuting

attorney. "Your coachman?"

"Joseph!" cried Madame, scandalized, "a man who is so devoted to

us, who has been in our service for more than fifteen years! Honesty

itself, Monsieur; a pearl! He would throw himself into the fire for us."

Anxious, with wrinkled brow, she reflected:

"Unless it were this girl, the chambermaid. I do not know her. Perhaps

she has very bad relations in Paris. Several times I have caught her

drinking the table-wine and eating our prunes. A servant who drinks his

master's wine is capable of anything."

And she murmured:

"One should never take servants from Paris. She is singular, indeed."

Just fancy the mean thing!

That is the way with suspicious people. They suspect everybody, save

him who robs them, of course. For I was more and more convinced that

Joseph had been the soul of this affair. For a long time I had watched

him, not from any hostile feeling, as you may know, but from curiosity;

and I was certain that this faithful and devoted servant, this unique

pearl, was foraging in the house for all he was worth. He stole oats,

coal, eggs, all sorts of little things that could be sold without

giving any trace of their origin. And his friend, the sacristan, did

not come to the harness-room in the evening for nothing, and simply

to discuss the benefits of anti-Semitism. Being a circumspect,

patient, prudent, methodical man, Joseph was not unaware that petty

larcenies, committed daily, foot up largely at the end of the year,

and I am persuaded that in this way he tripled and quadrupled his

wages,--a thing never to be disdained. I know very well that there is

a difference between these little thefts and such an audacious pillage

as that of the night of December 24. That proves that he liked also

to work on the grand scale. How do I know that Joseph was not then a

member of a gang? Ah! how I should have liked to know all that, and how

I should like to know it still.

After the evening when he gave me the kiss that to me was equivalent

to a confession of the crime, when his confidence went out to me in

a moment of passion, Joseph steadily denied. In vain did I turn him

this way and that, set traps for him, and wheedle him with soft words

and caresses; he would not contradict himself. And he entered into

the madness of Madame's hopes. He too concocted schemes, and tried to

imagine the robbery in all its details; and he beat the dogs that did

not bark, and he threatened with his fist the unknown thieves, the

chimerical thieves, as if he saw them running at the horizon. I did

not know what to think about this impenetrable man. One day I believed

him guilty; another day I believed him innocent. And it was horribly

provoking.

We met again in the harness-room in the evening, as before.

"Well, Joseph?"

"Ah! it is you, Célestine!"

"Why don't you speak to me any more? You seem to shun me."

"Shun you? I? Oh! heavens!"

"Yes, since that famous morning."

"Don't talk of that, Célestine; you have too bad ideas."

And he sadly wagged his head.

"Come, Joseph, you know that I do that for fun. Would I love you, if

you had committed such a crime? My little Joseph...."

"Yes, yes. You are trying to wheedle me. It is not well."

"And when are we to start? I cannot live here any longer."

"Not directly. We must wait awhile."

"But why?"

"Because ... that cannot be done at once."

A little piqued, I said in a tone of slight anger:

"It is not nice of you. You evidently are in no hurry for me."

"I?" cried Joseph, with ardent grimaces. "Why, I am crazy over you."

"Well, then, let us start."

But he was obstinate, refusing to explain further.

"No, no; that cannot be done yet."

Very naturally I reflected:

"He is right, after all. If he has stolen the silver service, he cannot

go away now, or set up in business. Perhaps it would awaken suspicion.

Some time must be allowed to pass, so that this mysterious affair may

be forgotten."

Another evening I proposed:

"Listen, my little Joseph; I know a way of leaving here. We could get

up a quarrel with Madame, and force her to discharge us both."

But he protested sharply.

"No, no," he exclaimed. "None of that, Célestine. No, indeed! For my

part, I love my masters. They are good masters. We must part with them

on good terms. We must go away from here like worthy people, like

serious people. The masters must be sorry to have us leave; they must

weep to see us go."

With a sad gravity, in which I perceived no trace of irony, he declared:

"I, you know, shall be greatly grieved at leaving here. I have been

here for fifteen years. One gets attached to a house in that time. And

you, Célestine, will it give you no pain?"

"Oh! no," I shouted, laughing.

"It is not well; it is not well. One should love one's masters.

Masters are masters. And let me give you some advice. Be very nice,

very gentle, very devoted; do your work well; don't talk back. In

short, Célestine, we must leave on good terms with them,--with Madame,

especially."

I followed Joseph's advice, and, during the months that we had to

remain at the Priory, I promised myself that I would be a model

chambermaid,--that I would be a pearl, too. I lavished upon them all

my intelligence, all my willingness, all my delicacy. Madame became

human with me; little by little, she became really my friend. I do

not think it was my care alone that brought about this change in

Madame's character. Madame's pride, and even her reasons for living,

had received a blow. As after some great sorrow, after the overwhelming

loss of some cherished darling, she no longer struggled, but gently

and plaintively abandoned herself to the dejection of her conquered

nerves and her humiliated pride, seeming to seek from those about her

only consolation, pity, and confidence. The hell of the Priory was

transformed for everybody into a real paradise.

It was in the height of this family peace, of this domestic calm, that

I announced one morning to Madame that I was under the necessity of

leaving her. I invented a romantic story; I was to return to my native

province, there to marry a worthy fellow who had long been waiting

for me. In words of tenderness I expressed my pain, my regrets, my

appreciation of Madame's kindness, etc. Madame was overwhelmed. She

tried to keep me by appealing to my sentiments and to my interest. She

offered to increase my wages, and to give me a fine room on the second

floor. But, finding me determined, she had to be resigned.

"I have become so accustomed to you now," she sighed. "Ah! I have no

luck."

But it was much worse when, a week later, Joseph came, in his turn, to

explain that, being too old and tired, he could no longer continue his

service, and must seek the rest that he needed.

"You, Joseph?" cried Madame. "You, too? It is not possible. A curse

must have fallen on the Priory. Everybody abandons me; everything

abandons me."

Madame wept. Joseph wept. Monsieur wept. Marianne wept.

"You take with you all our regrets, Joseph."

Alas! he took not only regrets; he took also the silver service.

Once away, I was much perplexed. I had no scruple about enjoying

Joseph's money, the stolen money,--no, it was not that,--where is

the money that is not stolen?--but I feared lest my feeling might

prove only a fleeting curiosity. Joseph had acquired over me, over my

mind as well as my flesh, an ascendency that perhaps would not last.

And perhaps it was only a momentary perversion of my senses. There

were moments, too, when I asked myself if it was not my imagination,

carried to the heights of exceptional dreams, which had created Joseph

as I saw him; if really he was anything more than a simple brute, a

peasant, incapable even of a fine act of violence, of a fine crime.

The consequences of this act frightened me. And then, is it not really

inexplicable? This idea that I was no longer to be in the service of

others caused me some regret. Formerly I thought that I should welcome

the news of my liberty with great joy. Well, no! Through being a

domestic, one gets it into his blood. Suppose I should suddenly miss

the spectacle of _bourgeois_ luxury? I foresaw my own little interior,

severe and cold, like a workman's interior, my mediocre life, deprived

of all these pretty things, of all these pretty stuffs so soft to the

touch, of all these pretty vices which it was my pleasure to serve, to

dress, to adorn, to plunge into, as into a perfumed bath. But it was

too late to draw back.

Ah! who could have told me, on the gray, sad, and rainy day on which I

arrived at the Priory, that I would end with this strange, silent, and

crusty man, who looked at me with such disdain?

Now we are in the little café. Joseph has grown young again. He is no

longer bent and clumsy. And he walks from one table to another, and he

runs from one room to the other, with supple leg and elastic spine.

His shoulders, which so frightened me, have taken on good nature; his

neck, sometimes so terrible, has something about it that is fraternal

and restful. Always freshly shaven, with skin as dark and shining as

mahogany, with a skull cap on his head, and wearing a blue and very

clean woollen shirt, he has the air of an old sailor, of an old sea-dog

who has seen extraordinary things and passed through extravagant

countries. What I admire in him is his moral tranquillity. There is

no longer any anxiety in his look. One sees that his life rests on

solid foundations. More violently than ever, he is for the family, for

property, for religion, for the navy, for the army, for the country. He

astonishes me!

When we married, Joseph gave me a marriage portion of ten thousand

francs. The other day the maritime commissary knocked down to him at

fifteen thousand francs a lot of wreckage, for which he paid cash, and

which he has sold again at a big profit. He also does a little banking

business,--that is, he lends money to fishermen. And already he is

thinking of branching out, by taking the next house. Perhaps we shall

start a music-hall there.

It puzzles me that he has so much money. And how much is his fortune?

I do not know. He does not like me to talk to him about that. He does

not like me to talk to him about the time that we were servants. One

would say that he has forgotten everything, and that his life really

began only on the day when he took possession of the little café. When

I ask him a question that torments me, he seems not to understand what

I say. And then terrible gleams flash through his eyes, as they used

to do. Never shall I know anything of Joseph; never shall I know the

mystery of his life. And perhaps it is this mystery which so attaches

me to him.

Joseph looks out for everything in the house, and there is no

hitch anywhere. We have three waiters to serve the customers, a

maid-of-all-work for the kitchen and the household, and everything goes

as to the beat of a magic wand. It is true that in three months we have

changed our servant four times. How exacting these Cherbourg servants

are! how thieving, and how shameless! No, it is incredible, and it is

disgusting.

As for me, I superintend the cash, enthroned behind the bar, amid a

forest of colored bottles. I am there also on show, and to chat. Joseph

wishes me to be finely arrayed; he never refuses me anything for the

adornment of my person, and he likes me to show my skin in the evening,

in a tantalizing dress, somewhat low in the neck. It is necessary

to excite the customer, to keep him in a state of constant joy, of

constant desire. There are already two or three fat quartermasters,

two or three engineers of the squadron, very well fixed, who pay me

assiduous court. Naturally, to please me, they spend a good deal.

Joseph spoils them especially, for they are terrible drinkers. We

have also taken four boarders. They eat with us, and every evening

pay for wine and cordials, which all hands drink. They are very

gallant with me, and I do my best to excite them. But I am careful not

to let my manners go farther than the encouragement of commonplace

ogling, equivocal smiles, and illusory promises. Moreover, I have no

intentions. Joseph is enough for me, and I really think I should suffer

by the change, even if I had the opportunity to deceive him with the

admiral. It is really funny; ugly as he is, nobody is as handsome as

my Joseph. Oh! the old monster! What a hold he has taken on me! And to

think that he has always lived in the country, and has been all his

life a peasant!

But where Joseph especially triumphs is in politics. Thanks to him, the

little café, whose sign, "To the French Army," shines over the whole

neighborhood, in big letters of gold by day, in big letters of fire by

night, is now the official rendezvous of the conspicuous anti-Semites

and the noisiest patriots of the town. These come here to fraternize,

in heroic sprees, with sub-officers of the army and non-commissioned

officers of the navy. There have already been some bloody fights, and

several times, apropos of nothing, the sub-officers have drawn their

swords, threatening to kill imaginary traitors. The night that Dreyfus

landed in France I thought that the little café would tumble down under

the cries of "Long Live the Army!" and "Death to the Jews!" That night

Joseph, who is already popular in the town, had a mad success. He

mounted a table, and shouted:

"If the traitor is guilty, let him be sent back. If he is innocent, let

him be shot."

On every hand they shouted:

"Yes, yes! Let him be shot! Long live the army!"

This proposition had carried the enthusiasm to the height of paroxysm.

Above the shouting, in the café, could be heard only the clashing of

swords and the pounding of fists on the marble tables. Some one, having

ventured to say nobody knows what, was hooted, and Joseph, rushing upon

him, smashed his mouth with a blow of his fist, and broke five teeth

for him. Struck repeatedly with the flat of a sword, torn, covered with

blood, and half dead, the unfortunate man was cast, like so much filth,

into the street, always to the cries of "Long Live the Army! Death to

the Jews!"

There are moments when I am afraid in this atmosphere of debauchery,

among all these bestial faces, heavy with alcohol and murder. But

Joseph, reassures me.

"That's nothing," he says. "That is good for business."

Yesterday, coming back from the market, Joseph announced, gaily rubbing

his hands:

"Bad news. There is talk of a war with England."

"Oh! my God!" I cried. "Suppose Cherbourg should be bombarded?"

"Pooh! Pooh!" sneered Joseph. "Only I have thought of something; I have

thought of a stroke, a rich stroke."

In spite of myself I shuddered. He must be contemplating some immense

rascality.

"The more I look at you," he said, "the more I say to myself that you

have not the head of a Breton. Oh! no, you have not the head of a

Breton. You have rather an Alsatian head. Hey? That would make a fine

show behind the bar."

I was disappointed. I thought that Joseph was going to propose some

terrible thing. I was proud already at the thought of being admitted

to partnership in a bold undertaking. Whenever I see him in reflective

mood, my ideas are immediately inflamed. I imagine tragedies,

nocturnal wallscalings, robberies, drawn knives, people in the agony

of death on the forest heath. And it was nothing but a petty and vulgar

piece of advertising.

With his hands in his pockets, and his blue skull-cap on his head, he

swayed to and fro, in a droll fashion.

"Do you understand?" he insisted. "At the outbreak of a war a very

pretty Alsatian, finely dressed, would inflame hearts and excite

patriotism. And there is nothing like patriotism to get people drunk.

What do you think of it? I would put you in the newspapers, and perhaps

even on posters."

"I prefer to remain in the costume of a lady," I answered, a little

dryly.

Thereupon we began to quarrel. And for the first time we came to

violent words.

"You did not put on so many airs when you were intimate with

everybody," cried Joseph.

"And you?... When you ... Oh! you had better let me alone, because I

could say too much."

"Strumpet!"

"Thief!"

A customer came in. The discussion ceased. And at night there was a

reconciliation, with kisses.

I am going to have a pretty Alsatian costume made for me, of silk and

velvet. Really I am powerless against Joseph's will. In spite of this

little fit of revolt, Joseph holds me, possesses me, like a demon. And

I am happy in being his. I feel that I shall do whatever he wishes me

to do, and that I shall go wherever he tells me to go ... even to crime!

_March, 1900._