WHEREIN WE ARE PERMITTED TO OBSERVE THE ADMIRABLE CHARACTER
OF BOUCHOTTE, WHO RESISTS VIOLENCE BUT YIELDS TO LOVE. AFTER
THAT LET NO ONE CALL THE AUTHOR A MISOGYNIST
On coming away from the Baron Everdingen's, Prince Istar went to have a
few oysters and a bottle of white wine at an eating-house in the Market.
Then, being prudent as well as powerful, he paid a visit to his friend,
Théophile Belais, for his pockets were full of bombs, and he wanted to
secrete them in the musician's cupboard. The composer of _Aline, Queen
of Golconda_ was not at home. However, the Kerûb found Bouchotte busily
working up the rôle of Zigouille; for the young artiste was booked to
play the principal part in _Les Apaches_, an operetta that was then
being rehearsed in one of the big music halls. The part in question was
that of a street-walker who by her obscene gestures lures a passer-by
into a trap, and then, while her victim is being gagged and bound,
repeats with fiendish cruelty the lascivious motions by which he had
been led astray. The part required that she should appear both as mime
and singer, and she was in a state of high enthusiasm about it.
The accompanist had just left. Prince Istar seated himself at the piano,
and Bouchotte resumed her task. Her movements were unseemly and
delicious. Her tawny hair was flying in all directions in wild
disordered curls; her skin was moist, it exhaled a scent of violets and
alkaline salts which made the nostrils throb; even she herself felt the
intoxication. Suddenly, inebriated with her intoxicating presence,
Prince Istar arose, and with never a word or a look, caught her into his
arms and drew her on to the couch, the little couch with the flowered
tapestry which Théophile had procured at one of the big shops by
promising to pay ten francs a month for a long term of years. Now Istar
might have solicited Bouchotte's favours; he might have invited her to a
rapid, and, withal, a mutual embrace, and, despite her preoccupation and
excitement, she would not have refused him. But Bouchotte was a girl of
spirit. The merest hint of coercion awoke all her untamable pride. She
would consent of her own accord, yes; but be mastered, never! She would
readily yield to love, curiosity, pity, to less than that even, but she
would die rather than yield to force. Her surprise immediately gave
place to fury. She fought her aggressor with all her heart and soul.
With nails, to which fury lent an added edge, she tore at the cheeks and
eyelids of the Kerûb, and, though he held her as in a vice, she arched
herself so stiffly and made such excellent play with knee and elbow,
that the human-headed bull, blinded with blood and rage, was sent
crashing into the piano which gave forth a prolonged groan, while the
bombs, tumbling out of his pockets, fell on the floor with a noise like
thunder. And Bouchotte, with dishevelled locks, and one breast bare,
beautiful and terrible, stood brandishing the poker over the prostrate
giant, crying:
"Be off with you, or I'll put your eyes out!"
Prince Istar went to wash himself in the kitchen, and plunged his gory
visage into a basin where some haricot beans lay soaking; then he
withdrew without anger or resentment, for he had a noble soul.
Scarcely had he gone when the door-bell rang. Bouchotte, calling upon
the absent maid in vain, slipped on a dressing-gown and opened the door
herself. A young man, very correct in appearance and rather
good-looking, bowed politely, and apologising for having to introduce
himself, gave his name. It was Maurice d'Esparvieu.
Maurice was still seeking his guardian angel. Upheld by a desperate
hope, he sought him in the queerest places. He enquired for him at the
houses of sorcerers, magicians, and thaumaturgists, who in filthy hovels
lay bare the ineffable secrets of the future, and who, though masters
of all the treasures of the earth, wear trousers without any seats to
them, and eat pigs' brains. That very day, having been to a back street
in Montmartre to consult a priest of Satan, who practised black magic by
piercing waxen images, Maurice had gone on to Bouchotte's, having been
sent by Madame de la Verdelière, who, being about to give a fête in aid
of the fund for the Preservation of Country Churches, was anxious to
secure Bouchotte's services, since she had suddenly become--no one knew
why--a fashionable artiste.
Bouchotte invited the visitor to sit down on the little flowered couch;
at his request she seated herself beside him, and our young man of
fashion explained to the singer what Madame de la Verdelière desired of
her. The lady wished Bouchotte to sing one of those _apache_ songs which
were giving such delight in the fashionable world. Unfortunately Madame
de la Verdelière could only offer a very modest fee, one out of all
proportion to the merits of the artiste, but then it was for a good
cause.
Bouchotte agreed to take part, and accepted the reduced fee with the
accustomed liberality of the poor towards the rich and of artists
towards society people. Bouchotte was not a selfish girl; the work for
the preservation of country churches interested her. She remembered with
sobs and tears her first communion, and she still retained her faith.
When she passed by a church she wanted to enter it, especially in the
evening. And so she did not love the Republic which had done its utmost
to destroy both the Church and the Army. Her heart rejoiced to see the
re-birth of national sentiment. France was lifting up her head. What was
most applauded in the music halls were songs about the soldiers and the
kind nuns. Meanwhile Maurice inhaled the odour of her tawny hair, the
subtle bitter perfume of her body, all the odours of her person, and
desire grew in him. He felt her near him on the little couch, very warm
and very soft. He complimented the artiste on her great talent. She
asked him what he liked best in all her repertory. He knew nothing about
it, still he made replies that satisfied her. She had dictated them
herself without knowing it. The vain creature spoke of her talent, of
her success, as she wished others to speak of them. She never ceased
talking of her triumphs, yet withal she was candour itself. Maurice in
all sincerity praised Bouchotte's beauty, her fresh skin, her purity of
line. She attributed this advantage to the fact that she never made up
and never "put messes on her face." As to her figure, she admitted that
there was enough everywhere and none too much, and to illustrate this
assertion she passed her hand over all the contours of her charming
body, rising lightly to follow the delightful curves on which she
reposed.
Maurice was quite moved by it. It began to grow dark; she offered to
light up. He begged her to do nothing of the sort.
Their talk, at first gay and full of laughter, grew more intimate and
very sweet, with a certain languor in its tone. It seemed to Bouchotte
that she had known Monsieur Maurice d'Esparvieu for a long time, and
holding him for a man of delicacy, she gave him her confidence. She told
him that she was by nature a good woman, but that she had had a grasping
and unscrupulous mother. Maurice recalled her to the consideration of
her own beauty, and exalted by subtle flattery the excellent opinion she
had of herself. Patient and calculating, in spite of the burning desire
growing in him, he aroused and increased in the desired one the longing
to be still further admired. The dressing-gown opened and slipped down
of its own accord, the living satin of her shoulders gleamed in the
mysterious light of evening. He--so prudent, so clever, so adroit,--let
her sink in his arms, ardent and half swooning before she had even
perceived she had granted anything at all. Their breath and their
murmurs intermingled. And the little flowery couch sighed in sympathy
with them.
When they recovered the power to express their feelings in words, she
whispered in his ear that his cheek was even softer than her own.
He answered, holding her embraced:
"It is charming to hold you like this. One would think you had no
bones."
She replied, closing her eyes:
"It is because I love you. Love seems to dissolve my bones; it makes me
as soft and melting as a pig's foot _à la Ste. Menebould_."
Hereupon Théophile came in, and Bouchotte called upon him to thank
Monsieur Maurice d'Esparvieu, who had been amiable enough to be the
bearer of a handsome offer from Madame la Comtesse de la Verdelière.
The musician was happy, feeling the quiet and peace of the house after a
day of fruitless applications, of colourless lessons, of failure and
humiliation. Three new collaborators had been thrust upon him who would
add their signatures to his on his operetta, and receive their share of
the author's rights, and he had been told to introduce the tango into
the Court of Golconda. He pressed young d'Esparvieu's hand and dropped
wearily on to the little couch, which, being now at the end of its
strength, gave way at the four legs and suddenly collapsed.
And the angel, precipitated to the ground, rolled terror-struck on to
the watch, match-box and cigarette-case that had fallen from Maurice's
pocket, and on to the bombs Prince Istar had left behind him.