Father Boitelle (Antoine) made a specialty of undertaking dirty jobs all
through the countryside. Whenever there was a ditch or a cesspool to
be cleaned out, a dunghill removed, a sewer cleansed, or any dirt hole
whatever, he way always employed to do it.
He would come with the instruments of his trade, his sabots covered with
dirt, and set to work, complaining incessantly about his occupation.
When people asked him then why he did this loathsome work, he would
reply resignedly:
“Faith, 'tis for my children, whom I must support. This brings me in
more than anything else.”
He had, indeed, fourteen children. If any one asked him what had become
of them, he would say with an air of indifference:
“There are only eight of them left in the house. One is out at service
and five are married.”
When the questioner wanted to know whether they were well married, he
replied vivaciously:
“I did not oppose them. I opposed them in nothing. They married just
as they pleased. We shouldn't go against people's likings, it turns
out badly. I am a night scavenger because my parents went against my
likings. But for that I would have become a workman like the others.”
Here is the way his parents had thwarted him in his likings:
He was at the time a soldier stationed at Havre, not more stupid than
another, or sharper either, a rather simple fellow, however. When he was
not on duty, his greatest pleasure was to walk along the quay, where the
bird dealers congregate. Sometimes alone, sometimes with a soldier from
his own part of the country, he would slowly saunter along by cages
containing parrots with green backs and yellow heads from the banks of
the Amazon, or parrots with gray backs and red heads from Senegal, or
enormous macaws, which look like birds reared in hot-houses, with their
flower-like feathers, their plumes and their tufts. Parrots of every
size, who seem painted with minute care by the miniaturist, God
Almighty, and the little birds, all the smaller birds hopped about,
yellow, blue and variegated, mingling their cries with the noise of the
quay; and adding to the din caused by unloading the vessels, as well
as by passengers and vehicles, a violent clamor, loud, shrill and
deafening, as if from some distant forest of monsters.
Boitelle would pause, with wondering eyes, wide-open mouth, laughing and
enraptured, showing his teeth to the captive cockatoos, who kept nodding
their white or yellow topknots toward the glaring red of his breeches
and the copper buckle of his belt. When he found a bird that could talk
he put questions to it, and if it happened at the time to be disposed
to reply and to hold a conversation with him he would carry away enough
amusement to last him till evening. He also found heaps of amusement in
looking at the monkeys, and could conceive no greater luxury for a rich
man than to own these animals as one owns cats and dogs. This kind of
taste for the exotic he had in his blood, as people have a taste for
the chase, or for medicine, or for the priesthood. He could not help
returning to the quay every time the gates of the barracks opened, drawn
toward it by an irresistible longing.
On one occasion, having stopped almost in ecstasy before an enormous
macaw, which was swelling out its plumes, bending forward and bridling
up again as if making the court curtseys of parrot-land, he saw the
door of a little cafe adjoining the bird dealer's shop open, and a young
negress appeared, wearing on her head a red silk handkerchief. She was
sweeping into the street the corks and sand of the establishment.
Boitelle's attention was soon divided between the bird and the woman,
and he really could not tell which of these two beings he contemplated
with the greater astonishment and delight.
The negress, having swept the rubbish into the street, raised her eyes,
and, in her turn, was dazzled by the soldier's uniform. There she stood
facing him with her broom in her hands as if she were bringing him a
rifle, while the macaw continued bowing. But at the end of a few seconds
the soldier began to feel embarrassed at this attention, and he walked
away quietly so as not to look as if he were beating a retreat.
But he came back. Almost every day he passed before the Cafe des
Colonies, and often he could distinguish through the window the figure
of the little black-skinned maid serving “bocks” or glasses of brandy to
the sailors of the port. Frequently, too, she would come out to the door
on seeing him; soon, without even having exchanged a word, they smiled
at one another like acquaintances; and Boitelle felt his heart touched
when he suddenly saw, glittering between the dark lips of the girl, a
shining row of white teeth. At length, one day he ventured to enter, and
was quite surprised to find that she could speak French like every one
else. The bottle of lemonade, of which she was good enough to accept a
glassful, remained in the soldier's recollection memorably delicious,
and it became a custom with him to come and absorb in this little tavern
on the quay all the agreeable drinks which he could afford.
For him it was a treat, a happiness, on which his thoughts dwelt
constantly, to watch the black hand of the little maid pouring something
into his glass while her teeth laughed more than her eyes. At the end
of two months they became fast friends, and Boitelle, after his first
astonishment at discovering that this negress had as good principles as
honest French girls, that she exhibited a regard for economy, industry,
religion and good conduct, loved her more on that account, and was so
charmed with her that he wanted to marry her.
He told her his intentions, which made her dance with joy. She had also
a little money, left her by, a female oyster dealer, who had picked her
up when she had been left on the quay at Havre by an American captain.
This captain had found her, when she was only about six years old,
lying on bales of cotton in the hold of his ship, some hours after his
departure from New York. On his arrival in Havre he abandoned to the
care of this compassionate oyster dealer the little black creature, who
had been hidden on board his vessel, he knew not why or by whom.
The oyster woman having died, the young negress became a servant at the
Colonial Tavern.
Antoine Boitelle added: “This will be all right if my parents don't
oppose it. I will never go against them, you understand, never! I'm
going to say a word or two to them the first time I go back to the
country.”
On the following week, in fact, having obtained twenty-four hours'
leave, he went to see his family, who cultivated a little farm at
Tourteville, near Yvetot.
He waited till the meal was finished, the hour when the coffee baptized
with brandy makes people more open-hearted, before informing his parents
that he had found a girl who satisfied his tastes, all his tastes, so
completely that there could not exist any other in all the world so
perfectly suited to him.
The old people, on hearing this, immediately assumed a cautious manner
and wanted explanations. He had concealed nothing from them except the
color of her skin.
She was a servant, without much means, but strong, thrifty, clean,
well-conducted and sensible. All these things were better than money
would be in the hands of a bad housewife. Moreover, she had a few sous,
left her by a woman who had reared her, a good number of sous, almost
a little dowry, fifteen hundred francs in the savings bank. The old
people, persuaded by his talk, and relying also on their own judgment,
were gradually weakening, when he came to the delicate point. Laughing
in rather a constrained fashion, he said:
“There's only one thing you may not like. She is not a white slip.”
They did not understand, and he had to explain at some length and very
cautiously, to avoid shocking them, that she belonged to the dusky race
of which they had only seen samples in pictures at Epinal. Then they
became restless, perplexed, alarmed, as if he had proposed a union with
the devil.
The mother said: “Black? How much of her is black? Is the whole of her?”
He replied: “Certainly. Everywhere, just as you are white everywhere.”
The father interposed: “Black? Is it as black as the pot?”
The son answered: “Perhaps a little less than that. She is black, but
not disgustingly black. The cure's cassock is black, but it is not
uglier than a surplice which is white.”
The father said: “Are there more black people besides her in her
country?”
And the son, with an air of conviction, exclaimed: “Certainly!”
But the old man shook his head.
“That must be unpleasant.”
And the son:
“It isn't more disagreeable than anything else when you get accustomed
to it.”
The mother asked:
“It doesn't soil the underwear more than other skins, this black skin?”
“Not more than your own, as it is her proper color.”
Then, after many other questions, it was agreed that the parents should
see this girl before coming; to any decision, and that the young fellow,
whose term of military service would be over in a month, should bring
her to the house in order that they might examine her and decide by
talking the matter over whether or not she was too dark to enter the
Boitelle family.
Antoine accordingly announced that on Sunday, the 22d of May, the day of
his discharge, he would start for Tourteville with his sweetheart.
She had put on, for this journey to the house of her lover's parents,
her most beautiful and most gaudy clothes, in which yellow, red and blue
were the prevailing colors, so that she looked as if she were adorned
for a national festival.
At the terminus, as they were leaving Havre, people stared at her, and
Boitelle was proud of giving his arm to a person who commanded so much
attention. Then, in the third-class carriage, in which she took a seat
by his side, she aroused so much astonishment among the country folks
that the people in the adjoining compartments stood up on their benches
to look at her over the wooden partition which divides the compartments.
A child, at sight of her, began to cry with terror, another concealed
his face in his mother's apron. Everything went off well, however, up
to their arrival at their destination. But when the train slackened its
rate of motion as they drew near Yvetot, Antoine felt: ill at ease, as
he would have done at a review when; he did not know his drill practice.
Then, as he; leaned his head out, he recognized in the distance: his
father, holding the bridle of the horse harnessed to a carryall, and his
mother, who had come forward to the grating, behind which stood those
who were expecting friends.
He alighted first, gave his hand to his sweetheart, and holding himself
erect, as if he were escorting a general, he went to meet his family.
The mother, on seeing this black lady in variegated costume in her son's
company, remained so stupefied that she could not open her mouth; and
the father found it hard to hold the horse, which the engine or the
negress caused to rear continuously. But Antoine, suddenly filled with
unmixed joy at seeing once more the old people, rushed forward with open
arms, embraced his mother, embraced his father, in spite of the nag's
fright, and then turning toward his companion, at whom the passengers on
the platform stopped to stare with amazement, he proceeded to explain:
“Here she is! I told you that, at first sight, she is not attractive;
but as soon as you know her, I can assure you there's not a better sort
in the whole world. Say good-morning to her so that she may not feel
badly.”
Thereupon Mere Boitelle, almost frightened out of her wits, made a sort
of curtsy, while the father took off his cap, murmuring:
“I wish you good luck!”
Then, without further delay, they climbed into the carryall, the two
women at the back, on seats which made them jump up and down as the
vehicle went jolting along the road, and the two men in front on the
front seat.
Nobody spoke. Antoine, ill at ease, whistled a barrack-room air; his
father whipped the nag; and his mother, from where she sat in the
corner, kept casting sly glances at the negress, whose forehead and
cheekbones shone in the sunlight like well-polished shoes.
Wishing to break the ice, Antoine turned round.
“Well,” said he, “we don't seem inclined to talk.”
“We must have time,” replied the old woman.
He went on:
“Come! Tell us the little story about that hen of yours that laid eight
eggs.”
It was a funny anecdote of long standing in the family. But, as his
mother still remained silent, paralyzed by her emotion, he undertook
himself to tell the story, laughing as he did so at the memorable
incident. The father, who knew it by heart brightened at the opening
words of the narrative; his wife soon followed his example; and the
negress herself, when he reached the drollest part of it, suddenly
gave vent to a laugh, such a loud, rolling torrent of laughter that the
horse, becoming excited, broke into a gallop for a while.
This served to cement their acquaintance. They all began to chat.
They had scarcely reached the house and had all alighted, when Antoine
conducted his sweetheart to a room, so that she might take off her
dress, to avoid staining it, as she was going to prepare a nice dish,
intended to win the old people's affections through their stomachs. He
drew his parents outside the house, and, with beating heart, asked:
“Well, what do you say now?”
The father said nothing. The mother, less timid, exclaimed:
“She is too black. No, indeed, this is too much for me. It turns my
blood.”
“You will get used to it,” said Antoine.
“Perhaps so, but not at first.”
They went into the house, where the good woman was somewhat affected at
the spectacle of the negress engaged in cooking. She at once proceeded
to assist her, with petticoats tucked up, active in spite of her age.
The meal was an excellent one, very long, very enjoyable. When they were
taking a turn after dinner, Antoine took his father aside.
“Well, dad, what do you say about it?”
The peasant took care never to compromise himself.
“I have no opinion about it. Ask your mother.”
So Antoine went back to his mother, and, detaining her behind the rest,
said:
“Well, mother, what do you think of her?”
“My poor lad, she is really too black. If she were only a little less
black, I would not go against you, but this is too much. One would think
it was Satan!”
He did not press her, knowing how obstinate the old woman had always
been, but he felt a tempest of disappointment sweeping over his heart.
He was turning over in his mind what he ought to do, what plan he could
devise, surprised, moreover, that she had not conquered them already as
she had captivated himself. And they, all four, walked along through
the wheat fields, having gradually relapsed into silence. Whenever they
passed a fence they saw a countryman sitting on the stile, and a group
of brats climbed up to stare at them, and every one rushed out into the
road to see the “black” whore young Boitelle had brought home with him.
At a distance they noticed people scampering across the fields just as
when the drum beats to draw public attention to some living phenomenon.
Pere and Mere Boitelle, alarmed at this curiosity, which was exhibited
everywhere through the country at their approach, quickened their
pace, walking side by side, and leaving their son far behind. His dark
companion asked what his parents thought of her.
He hesitatingly replied that they had not yet made up their minds.
But on the village green people rushed out of all the houses in a
flutter of excitement; and, at the sight of the gathering crowd, old
Boitelle took to his heels, and regained his abode, while Antoine;
swelling with rage, his sweetheart on his arm, advanced majestically
under the staring eyes, which opened wide in amazement.
He understood that it was at an end, and there was no hope for him, that
he could not marry his negress. She also understood it; and as they drew
near the farmhouse they both began to weep. As soon as they had got back
to the house, she once more took off her dress to aid the mother in
the household duties, and followed her everywhere, to the dairy, to
the stable, to the hen house, taking on herself the hardest part of the
work, repeating always: “Let me do it, Madame Boitelle,” so that, when
night came on, the old woman, touched but inexorable, said to her son:
“She is a good girl, all the same. It's a pity she is so black; but
indeed she is too black. I could not get used to it. She must go back
again. She is too, too black!”
And young Boitelle said to his sweetheart:
“She will not consent. She thinks you are too black. You must go back
again. I will go with you to the train. No matter--don't fret. I am
going to talk to them after you have started.”
He then took her to the railway station, still cheering her with hope,
and, when he had kissed her, he put her into the train, which he watched
as it passed out of sight, his eyes swollen with tears.
In vain did he appeal to the old people. They would never give their
consent.
And when he had told this story, which was known all over the country,
Antoine Boitelle would always add:
“From that time forward I have had no heart for anything--for anything
at all. No trade suited me any longer, and so I became what I am--a
night scavenger.”
People would say to him:
“Yet you got married.”
“Yes, and I can't say that my wife didn't please me, seeing that I have
fourteen children; but she is not the other one, oh, no--certainly not!
The other one, mark you, my negress, she had only to give me one glance,
and I felt as if I were in Heaven.”