The poor woman was sitting in a corner with the child in her arms; she
dared not bring him to me again.
I went to her and kissed the child on the forehead, heaving a profound
sigh. I commended him to the peasants’ care, I gave them money, and I
returned to Paris more depressed than ever.
I found Ernest at my rooms waiting for me. He had been to my former
home, had learned my new address, and had been looking for me everywhere
since the morning, to divert me and comfort me.
“What do people say in society?”
That was my first question when I saw him; for I confess that my
greatest dread was that people should know that my wife had deceived me,
and it was much less on my own account than on hers that I dreaded it.
I did not wish that she should be held guilty in the eyes of society; it
was quite enough that she should be guilty to my knowledge; so I begged
Ernest to conceal nothing from me.
“Your duel is known,” he said, “but it is attributed to the quarrel you
had at the card table. You are generally blamed, and people are sorry
for your adversary. Dulac is not dead; indeed, it is thought that he
will recover; but he is seriously wounded, and he will be in bed for a
long while. I do not know how it happened that Giraud knew of your
change of abode, and that you have moved here without your wife. He
questioned the concierges, no doubt. He has been about everywhere,
telling of it. People are talking; and everyone makes up his own story;
the majority think that you made your wife so unhappy that she was
obliged to leave you.”
“So much the better; let people think that, and let them put all the
blame on me; that is what I want. Only you and your wife know the
truth, my dear Ernest; and I am very sure that you will not betray my
confidence.”
“No, of course not; although it makes me angry to hear people accuse you
and pity your wife. If I were in your place, I am not sure that I should
be so generous.”
“But my children, my friend, my daughter!”
“That is so; I didn’t think of them.”
“What do I care for the blame of society? it will see little of me at
present!”
“I trust, however, that you are not going to become a misanthrope, but
that you will try to amuse yourself, and try to forget a woman who does
not deserve your regrets; to act otherwise would be inexcusable
weakness.”
“I promise to try to follow your advice.”
“To begin with, you must come home to dinner with me.”
I could not refuse Ernest, although solitude was all that I now desired.
I went home with him. His companion overwhelmed me with attentions and
friendliness; their children came to caress and to play with me. During
dinner they did all that they could to divert my thoughts. I was touched
by their friendship, but the sight of their domestic happiness, of that
happy family, was not adapted to alleviate my pain; on the contrary, it
increased it twofold. For I too had a wife and children! Ah! such
pictures were not what I wanted to see; they broke my heart. What I
wanted was a crowd, uproar, noisy amusements; I needed to be bewildered,
not moved.
I left my good friends early. Three days later I received a letter from
Eugénie’s banker; he informed me that she was temporarily at Aubonne,
near Montmorency. So I knew where my daughter was, and that did me good;
it always seems that we are less distant from people when we know where
they are. I remembered that an old kinswoman of Eugénie’s mother lived
at Aubonne; she was probably living with her. I did not know whether she
would remain there, but I determined to write to her at once.
I sat down at my desk. I did not know how to begin, for it was the first
time that I had ever written to Eugénie. We had never been separated. I
did not propose to indulge in any reproaches in regard to her conduct.
What good would it do? One should never complain, except when one is
willing to forgive. I would go straight to the point, without beating
about the bush.
“Madame, you have taken my daughter away; I wish, I insist, that she
should remain with me. Keep your son; you can give him that name; but
ought I too to call him my son? Take that child, and give me back my
daughter. It will be no deprivation to you; besides, I will allow her to
go to see her mother whenever you wish. I trust, madame, that I shall
not be obliged to write to you a second time.”
I signed this letter and sent it at once to the post; I was impatient to
have a reply.
I could no longer attend to business, so I abandoned my profession. I
had enough to live on, now that I no longer proposed to keep house or to
receive company. But what should I do to employ the time, which is so
long when one suffers? I would return to my brushes; yes, I would
cultivate once more that consoling art; I would give myself up to it
entirely, and it would make my time pass happily. That idea pleased me;
it seemed to me like returning to my bachelor life. But for my children,
I would have left France and have travelled for some time; but my
daughter was still too young for me to subject her to changes of climate
which might injure her health.
Two days had not passed when I received a letter from Aubonne; it was
Eugénie’s reply. I trembled as I opened it.
“Monsieur, you are mistaken when you think that it would not be a
great deprivation to me not to have my daughter with me; I love her
just as dearly as you can possibly love her. As for your son, he is
yours in fact, monsieur. You know my frankness, so you can believe
what I tell you. Things will remain as they are; my daughter shall
not leave me. Appeal to the law if you wish; nothing will change my
determination.
“EUGÉNIE.”
I could hardly endure to read that letter. I was angry, furious. She had
dishonored me, she had made me unhappy, and she refused to give me back
my daughter! Ah! that woman had no pity, no delicacy of feeling! She
loved her daughter, she said; yes, as she had loved me; she defied me,
she told me to appeal to the law! Ah! if I could do it! if I had proofs
of her crime to produce! But no; even if I could, she knew very well
that I would not; that I did not propose that the courts should ring
with my complaints, that my name should never be mentioned in society
without being the subject of a jest. Yes, she knew me, and that is why
she had no fear. She declared that her son was mine and she expected me
to believe her word! No! I would never see that child again, I wanted
never to hear his name. But my daughter--ah! I neither could nor wished
to forget her.
For several days I was in a state of most intense excitement; I did not
know what to do, nor what course to adopt. Sometimes I determined to go
away, to leave France forever; but the thought of Henriette detained me;
sometimes I determined to go back into society, to have mistresses, to
pass my time with them, and to do my best to forget the past.
A profound prostration succeeded to that feverish excitement of my
senses. I avoided society, I did not even go to Ernest’s, although he
had come several times to beg me to do so. Everything bored and tired
me; I cared for nothing except to be alone, to think of my daughter. I
hated and cursed her mother. Yes, I would go away, I would leave the
country. What detained me there? I had no idea.
Several weeks passed, and I do not now know how I lived. I went out
early in order to avoid even Ernest’s visits, for I became more
misanthropical, more morose every day. I walked in solitary places, I
returned early, and always ordered my concierge to say that I was not at
home. My concierge was my servant also now; he took care of my
apartment, which was wretchedly kept.
The house in which I was living suited me in many respects; it was
gloomy and dark, like most of the old houses in the Marais, and
contained but few tenants, I thought, for I never met anybody on the
stairs. I had one neighbor, however, with whom I would gladly have
dispensed; it was a man who lived in the attic rooms above my apartment,
the house having only three floors in all.
That neighbor of mine was in the habit of beginning to sing as soon as
he got home, which was ordinarily between ten and eleven o’clock at
night; and I was forced to listen to his jovial refrains and drinking
songs until he was in bed and asleep. It annoyed me; not because it
prevented me from sleeping, for sleep never visited my eyes so early;
but it disturbed me in my thoughts, in my reflections. I was inclined
sometimes to complain to the concierge. But because I was unhappy, must
I prevent others from being light-hearted?
For some days that music had become more unendurable than ever, because
my neighbor had taken to returning much earlier, and his songs often
began at eight o’clock. Although I never talked with my concierge, I
decided to ask him who the man was who was always singing.
“Monsieur,” the concierge replied, “he’s a poor German, a tailor. I
don’t understand how he has the courage to sing, for he hasn’t a sou,
and apparently he never finds any work. That doesn’t surprise me, for he
is a drunkard and he works very badly. I gave him a pair of trousers, to
make a coat for my son; and it was very badly made, without fit or
style, and the patches all in front! I took my custom away from him.
However, he won’t trouble you long; as he doesn’t pay his rent, the
landlord has decided to give him notice.”
I informed the concierge that I did not wish the man to be sent away;
but it seemed that the landlord cared for nothing but his rent. That
evening, about eight o’clock, I heard the tailor singing with all his
lungs; he executed trills and flourishes. Who would ever have believed
that the man had not a sou?
I remembered the fable of the cobbler and the banker; suppose I should
go to my neighbor and give him money to keep silent? But perhaps that
would make him sing all the louder; for one could find few cobblers like
the one in the fable. However, I yielded to the idea of going to my
neighbor. If he was an obliging person, perhaps he would consent to
sing not quite so loud. But I had little hope of it, for the Germans are
obstinate and they are fond of music. Never mind, I would go to see the
tailor none the less.
I ascended the stairs which separated me from the attic. My neighbor’s
voice guided me to his door. The key was on the outside, but for all
that I knocked before opening the door.
He continued to sing a passage from _Der Freischütz_, and did not reply;
thereupon I opened the door.
I entered a room in which there was a mattress with a wretched coverlid
thrown over it, in one corner. A rickety chair, a few broken jars and a
long board which served doubtless as a table, but which was then
standing against the wall--that was all the furniture. Leaning on the
sill of the window, which was open, was a man, still young, whose
good-humored, bloated face was not unfamiliar to me. He was in his shirt
sleeves, and was seated after the manner of tailors, with his knees
outside the window, a position which made him likely to fall into the
courtyard at the slightest forward movement.
On my arrival he stopped in the middle of a trill and exclaimed:
“Hello! I thought it was the concierge to ask for money again. I should
have said to him: ‘prout, prout!’ Sit you down, monsieur.”
I sat down, for my neighbor seemed quite unceremonious; he had not
risen. I do not know whether he thought that I had come to hear him
sing; but he seemed inclined to resume his performance. I stopped him at
once.
“Monsieur, I am your neighbor.”
“Indeed! you are my neighbor, are you? Beside me or below?”
“Below.”
“Oh, yes! it’s a fact that on this floor there’s nobody but the cooks of
the house, all old women, unluckily. They don’t sing, they don’t make
love, they don’t know how to make anything but sauces,--reduced
consommés, as the one from the first floor says. For my part, I would
give all her consommés for a bottle of beaune. Ah! how delicious beaune
is! If I had any, I would give you some; but it is three days now that I
haven’t drunk anything but water. Prout, prout! I must make the best of
it.”
While the tailor was talking, I examined him, because I was confident
that I had seen him somewhere before, but I could not remember where.
“Have you come to order trousers or a coat?” continued my neighbor. “It
is just, the right time, for I have nothing to do, and I will make ‘em
up for you at once, and in the latest style, although that miserable
concierge presumed to complain of my skill. The idiot! he wanted me to
make a new coat for his son out of an old pair of breeches that had
already been turned three times.”
“I have not come for a coat or a waistcoat, but to make a request of
you.”
“A request?”
“You sing a great deal, monsieur.”
“Parbleu! I have nothing else to do.”
“You sing very well, certainly.”
“Yes, I have some voice; we Germans are all musicians; it is born in
us.”
“I know it; but do you think that for a person who works with his brain,
who is obliged to think, to reflect, it is very pleasant to hear someone
singing all the time?”
“What has all that got to do with me?”
“Look you, monsieur, I will come to the point; your singing
inconveniences and annoys me; and if you would be obliging enough to
sing less, or not so loud, I would beg you to take this as a slight
token of my gratitude.”
I had taken my purse from my pocket and I was looking about for
something to put it on, which was hard to find, unless I should put it
on the floor, when the tailor, who had abruptly left the window and
begun to dance about the room, strode toward me with a frown.
“I say, monsieur from below, who don’t like music, do I look to you like
a man who asks alms? Who gave you leave to come to my room and insult
me? Has Pettermann ever been called a beggar?”
“Pettermann!” I said, looking at him more carefully; “is your name
Pettermann?”
“Schnick Pettermann, journeyman tailor from the age of fifteen. I have
never succeeded in getting to be a master tailor. It isn’t my fault.
Well, when will you finish staring me out of countenance?”
“Yes, I know now; you used to live on Rue Meslay.”
“I think so, but I have moved so often that I can hardly remember all
the rooms that I have occupied!”
“Don’t you remember that little room that you used to climb into so
often through the window in the roof, after breaking the glass, because
you had lost your key?”
“Ah! I remember now, there was a broad gutter; it was very convenient, I
used to walk on it.”
“And that young neighbor of yours in whose room you used to light your
candle?”
“Little Marguerite--ah, yes! I recognize you now. You were my neighbor’s
lover.”
“Oh, no! I was only her friend; but I used to go there often, and we
used to hear you come in. Ah! how happy I was in those days!”
“You were happy when I broke the window? Did that amuse you?”
“It seems that I must always happen on something to remind me of that
time, although I try to avoid it. However, I am glad to see you.”
“You are very good, monsieur. That must be at least five years ago, more
than five years, in fact, and I wasn’t married then.”
“Ah! have you been married since?”
“Mon Dieu! don’t mention it! I don’t know what crazy idea came into my
head, I who never gave a thought to love, when one day--prout,
prout!--it took me like a longing to sneeze; I fancied that I was in
love with a young cook who had sometimes asked me the time, then for a
light; in short, trifling things which indicated a purpose to scrape an
acquaintance. Suzanne was very pretty; yes, she was a superb creature,
well put together; I will do justice to her physical charms. She had
saved twelve hundred francs by cheating her employers a little in
vegetables and butter. I said to myself: ‘That will be enough to set up
a nice little tailor’s shop, after the style of the Palais-Royal.’ I
offered my hand which she accepted, and we were married; I hired a shop
on Boulevard du Pont-aux-Choux, all went well for----”
“For several months?”
“Prout! you are very polite! For a few days, a week at most. After that
my wife complained that I was slow, that I talked too much, that I
drank. For my part, I claimed that she ought to do nothing but make
buttonholes. She refused to take hold of the buttonholes, and that made
me mad; I persisted, she was obstinate, and to make a long story short,
we fought! oh! we fought like prize fighters! and once we had got into
the habit of it, it was all over, we never missed a single day. Prout!
prout! morning and night! you should have seen how we hammered each
other!”
“Wouldn’t it have been better to leave your wife?”
“To be sure it would, and that is what I said to myself; one night when
my wife had almost torn off my left ear, I packed up my clothes and I
left her.”
“Have you seen her since?”
“I’m not such a fool. I have no desire to see her again, and for her
part I fancy that she isn’t anxious to see me. It’s all over now! To the
devil with love! Whether my wife dies or not, it’s all one to me; I
shall never marry again.”
“You have no children?”
“What do you suppose? As if we had time for that when we were always
fighting! And faith, I am glad that we hadn’t any; they would have been
left on my hands and I should have had to support the brats; and that
would be hard for a man who cannot feed himself every day.”
“But your wife was faithful to you, at all events?”
“Faithful? the devil! as if I paid any attention to that! In fact we
only lived together four months, and that didn’t make me rich! For some
time past I haven’t had any work at all, and a man’s fingers get stiff
doing nothing. But for all that, there’s no reason why you should come
here with your purse in your hand!”
“Look you, Monsieur Pettermann, I have not made myself understood; I had
no intention of insulting you.”
“I am not insulted, but----”
“I was told that you were without work, and I simply proposed to give
you my custom.”
“Oh! that makes a difference! your custom, that’s all right.”
“I can’t show you to-night what I want you to do; but I thought that
there would be no harm in offering you a little money in advance on what
you do for me. We have lived under the same roof before, and we know
each other; I should be very sorry to fall out with you.”
“Monsieur, if you offer me that in advance for the clothes I may make
for you, that’s a very different thing. Give me what you choose; I will
take it and I will not charge you any more on account of it.”
“All right; here is forty francs; we will settle up later.”
“Forty francs; I will make you a nice coat and waistcoat and trousers
for that. And as for singing, if it disturbs you----”
“No, sing on, Pettermann, sing on; now that I know that it’s you, it
won’t annoy me any more; I shall imagine that I am still living in my
old apartment.”
I left the tailor, who could not make up his mind which pocket to put
his forty francs in, and I returned to my room. But neither that night,
nor during the next week, did I hear Pettermann sing, because he did not
come home until midnight, and because he was always drunk and went to
sleep as soon as he was in bed.