One morning that Berthe happened to be at her mother’s, Adèle came and
said with a scared look that Monsieur Saturnin was there with a man.
Doctor Chassagne, the director of the Asile des Moulineaux, had already
warned the parents several times that he would he unable to keep their
son, for he did not consider him sufficiently mad. And, hearing of the
signature which Berthe had obtained from her brother for the three
thousand francs, dreading being compromised in the matter, he suddenly
sent him home to his family.
It created quite a scare. Madame Josserand, who was afraid of being
strangled, wished to argue with the man. But all she could get out of
him was:
“The director told me to inform you that when one is sufficiently
sensible to give money to one’s parents, one is sensible enough to live
with them.”
“But he is mad, sir! he will murder us.”
“Anyhow, he is not too mad to sign his name!” answered the man, going
off.
However, Saturnin came home very quietly, with his hands in his
pockets, just as though he had returned from a stroll in the Tuileries
gardens. He did not even allude to where he had been staying. He
embraced his father, who was crying, and likewise heartily kissed his
mother and his sister Hortense, whilst they both trembled tremendously.
Then, when he caught sight of Berthe, he was indeed delighted, and
caressed her with all the pretty ways of a little boy. She at once took
advantage of his affected and confused condition to inform him of her
marriage. He displayed no anger, not appearing at first to understand,
as though he had forgotten his former fits of passion. But when she
wished to return to her home down-stairs, he began to howl; he did not
mind whether she was married or not, so long as she remained where she
was, always with him and close to him. Then, seeing her mother’s
frightened looks as she ran and locked herself in another room, it
occurred to Berthe to take Saturnin to live with her. They would be
able to find him something to do in the basement of the warehouse,
though it were only to tie up parcels.
That same evening, Auguste, in spite of his evident repugnance, acceded
to Berthe’s desire. They had scarcely been married three months and a
secret disunion was already cropping up between them; it was the
collision of two different constitutions and educations, a surly,
fastidious and passionless husband, and a lively woman who had been
reared in the hot-house of false Parisian luxury, who played fast and
loose with existence, so as to enjoy it all alone like a spoiled and
selfish child.
The husband’s main revolts were on account of these too glaring
costumes, the usefulness of which he was unable to see. Why dress
himself thus above one’s means and position in life? What need was
there to spend in such a manner the money that was so necessary for his
business? He generally said that when one sold silks to other women,
one should wear woolens oneself.
As a result of matrimony, Berthe was gradually acquiring her mother’s
build. She was growing fatter, and resembled her more than she had ever
done before. She was no longer the girl who did not seem to care about
anything and who quietly submitted to the maternal cuffs; she had grown
into a woman, who was rapidly becoming more obstinate every day, and
who had formed the intention of making everything bow to her pleasure.
Auguste looked at her at times, astounded at such a sudden change. At
first, she had felt a vain joy in throning herself at the cashier’s
desk, in a studied costume of elegant simplicity. Then she had soon
wearied of trade, suffering from constant want of exercise, threatening
to fall ill, yet resigning herself to it all the same, but with the
attitude of a victim who sacrifices her life to the prosperity of her
home. And, from that moment, a struggle at every hour of the day had
commenced between her and her husband. She shrugged her shoulders
behind his back, the same as her mother did behind her father’s; she
went again through all the family quarrels which had disturbed her
youth, treating her husband as the gentleman who had simply got to pay,
overwhelming him with that contempt for the male sex which was, so to
say, the basis of her education.
“Ah! mamma was right!” she would exclaim after each of their quarrels.
Yet, in the early days, Auguste had tried to please her. He liked
peace, he longed for a quiet little home, he already had his whims like
an old man, and had got thoroughly into the habits of his chaste and
economical bachelor life. His old lodging on the “entresol” no longer
sufficing, he had taken the suite of apartments on the second floor,
overlooking the courtyard, and thought himself sufficiently insane in
spending five thousand francs on furniture. Berthe, at first delighted
with her room upholstered in thuja and blue silk, had shown the
greatest contempt for it after visiting a friend who had just married a
banker. Then quarrels arose with respect to the servants. The young
woman, used to the waiting of poor semi-idiotic girls, who had their
bread even cut for them, insisted on their doing things which set them
crying in their kitchens for afternoons together. Auguste, not
particularly tender-hearted as a rule, having imprudently gone and
consoled one, had to turn her out of the place an hour later on account
of madame’s tears, and her request that he should, choose between her
and that creature.
Afterward a wench had come who appeared to have made up her mind to
stop. Her name was Rachel, and she was probably a Jewess, but she
denied it, and let no one know whence she had sprung. She was about
twenty-five years old, with harsh features, a large nose, and very
black hair. At first, Berthe declared that she would not allow her to
stop two days; then, in presence of her dumb obedience, her air of
understanding and saying nothing, she had little by little allowed
herself to be satisfied, as though she had yielded in her turn, and was
keeping her for her good qualities, and also through an unavowed fear.
Rachel, who submitted without a murmur to the hardest tasks,
accompanied by dry bread, took possession of the establishment, with
her eyes open and her mouth shut, like a servant of foresight biding
the fatal and foreseen hour when her mistress would be able to refuse
her nothing.
Meanwhile, from the ground floor of the house to the servants’ story, a
great calm had succeeded to the emotions caused by Monsieur Vabre’s
sudden death. The staircase had again become as peaceful as a church;
not a breath issued from behind the mahogany doors, which were forever
closed upon the profound respectability of the various homes. There was
a rumor that Duveyrier had become reconciled with his wife. As for
Valérie and Théophile, they spoke to no one, but passed by stiff and
dignified. Never before had the house exhaled a more strict severity of
principles. Monsieur Gourd, in his cap and slippers, wandered about it
with the air of a solemn beadle.
One evening, toward eleven o’clock, Auguste continued going to the door
of the warehouse, stretching his head out, and glancing up and down the
street. An impatience which had increased little by little was
agitating him. Berthe, whom her mother and sister had fetched away
during dinner, without even giving her time to finish her dessert, had
not returned home after an absence of more than three hours, and in
spite of her distinct promise to be back by closing time.
“Ah! good heavens! good heavens!” he ended by saying, clasping his
hands together, and making his fingers crack.
And he stood still before Octave, who was ticketing some remnants of
silk on a counter. At that late hour of the evening, no customer ever
appeared in that out-of-the-way end of the Rue de Choiseul. The shop
was merely kept open to put things straight.
“Surely you know where the ladies have gone?” inquired Auguste of the
young man.
The latter raised his eyes with an innocent and surprised air.
“But, sir, they told you. To a lecture.”
“A lecture, a lecture,” grumbled the husband. “Their lecture was over
at ten o’clock. Respectable women should be home at this hour!”
Then he resumed his walk, casting side glances at his assistant, whom
he suspected of being an accomplice of the ladies, or at least of
excusing them. Octave, also feeling anxious, slyly observed him. He had
never before seen him so nervously excited. What was it all about? And,
as he turned his head, he caught sight of Saturnin at the other end of
the shop cleaning a looking-glass with a sponge dipped in spirit.
Little by little, the family set the madman to do housework, so that he
might at least earn his food. But that evening Saturnin’s eyes sparkled
strangely. He crept behind Octave, and said, in a very low voice:
“Beware of him. He has found a paper. Yes, he has a paper in his
pocket. Look out, if it’s anything of yours!”
And he quickly resumed rubbing his glass. Octave did not understand.
For some time past the madman had been displaying a singular affection
for him, like the caress of an animal yielding to an instinct. Why did
he speak to him of a paper? He had written no letter to Berthe; as yet
he only ventured to look at her with tender glances, watching for an
opportunity of making her some trifling present. It was a tactic he had
adopted after deep reflection.
“Ten minutes past eleven!—damnation! damnation!” suddenly exclaimed
Auguste, who never swore.
But at that very moment the ladies returned. Berthe had on a delicious
dress, of pink silk, embroidered over with white jet, whilst her
sister, always in blue, and her mother, always in mauve, still wore
their glaring and laboriously obtained costumes, altered every season.
Madame Josserand, broad and imposing, entered first, so as at once to
nip in the bud the reproaches which all three had just foreseen, at a
council held at the end of the street, her son-in-law would begin to
make. She even deigned to explain that they were late through having
loitered before the shop-windows. But Auguste, who was very pale, did
not utter a single complaint; he answered curtly; it was evident he was
keeping it in and waiting. For a moment longer, the mother, who felt
the coming storm through her great knowledge of domestic broils, tried
to intimidate him; then she was obliged to go up-stairs, merely adding:
“Good night, my child. And sleep well, you know, if you wish to live
long.”
Directly she had gone, Auguste, losing all patience, forgetting that
Octave and Saturnin were present, withdrew a crumpled paper from his
pocket, and thrust it under Berthe’s nose, whilst he stammered out:
“What’s that?”
Berthe had not even had time to take her bonnet off. She turned very
red.
“That?” said she; “why, it’s a bill!”
“Yes, a bill! and for false hair, too! Is it possible? for hair! as
though you had none left on your head! But that’s not all. You’ve paid
the bill; tell me, what did you pay it with?”
The young woman, becoming more and more confused, ended by replying:
“With my own money, of course!”
“Your money! but you haven’t any. Some one must have given you some, or
else you have taken it from here. And, listen! I know all; you’re in
debt. I will tolerate what you like; but no debts, understand me, no
debts!—never!”
And he put into these words all the horror of a prudent fellow, all his
commercial integrity, which consisted in never owing anything. For a
long while he relieved his pent-up feelings, reproaching his wife with
her constant goings-out, her visits all over Paris, her dresses, her
luxury, which he could not provide for. Was it sensible for people in
their position to stop out till eleven o’clock at night, with pink silk
dresses embroidered with white jet? When one had such tastes as those,
one should bring five hundred thousand francs as a marriage portion.
Moreover, he knew who was the guilty one; it was the silly mother who
brought up her daughters to squander fortunes, without even being able
to give them so much as a chemise on their wedding-day.
“Don’t say a word against mamma!” cried Berthe, raising her head and
thoroughly exasperated at last. “No one can reproach her with anything;
she has done her duty. And your family—it’s a nice one! People who
killed their father!”
Octave had buried himself in his tickets, and pretended not to hear.
But he followed the quarrel from out of the corner of his eye, and
especially watched Saturnin, who was all in a tremble, and had left off
rubbing the glass, his fists clenched, his eyes glaring, ready to
spring at the husband’s throat.
“Let us leave our families alone,” resumed the latter. “We have quite
enough with our own home. Listen! you must alter your ways, for I will
not give another sou for all this tomfoolery. Oh! I have quite made up
my mind. Your place is here at the till, in a quiet dress, like a woman
who has some respect for herself. And if you incur any more debts,
we’ll see.”
Berthe was almost stifling, in presence of that brutal husband’s foot
set down upon her habits, her pleasures, and her dresses. It was the
extinction of all she loved, of all she had dreamed of when marrying.
But, with a woman’s tactics, she hid the wound from which her heart was
bleeding; she gave a pretext to the passion which was swelling her
face, and repeated more violently than ever:
“I will not permit you to insult mamma!”
Auguste shrugged his shoulders.
“Your mother! Listen? you’re like her, you’re quite ugly, when you put
yourself in that state. Yes, I scarcely know you; it is she herself. On
my word, it quite frightens me!”
At this, Berthe calmed down, and, looking him full in the face,
exclaimed:
“Only go and tell mamma what you were saying just now, and see how
quickly she’ll show you the door.”
“Ah! she’ll show me the door!” yelled the husband, in a fury. “Well,
then! I’ll go up and tell her at once.”
And he did indeed move toward the door. It was time he went, for
Saturnin, with his wolf-like eyes, was treacherously advancing to
strangle him from behind. The young woman had dropped into a chair,
where she was murmuring, in a low voice:
“Ah! good heavens! I’d take care not to marry him, if I had my choice
over again!”
Up-stairs, Monsieur Josserand, greatly surprised, answered the door,
Adèle having just gone up to bed. As he was then preparing to pass the
night in addressing wrappers, in spite of the ill-health he had been
lately complaining of, it was with a certain embarrassment, a shame at
being found out, that he ushered his son-in-law into the dining-room;
and he spoke of some pressing work, a copy of the last inventory of the
Saint Joseph glass factory. But, when Auguste deliberately accused his
daughter, reproaching her with running into debt, relating all the
quarrel brought about by the matter of the false hair, the poor old
man’s hands were seized with a nervous trembling. Struck to the heart,
he could only manage to stammer out a few words, whilst his eyes filled
with tears. His daughter in debt, living as he had lived himself, in
the midst of constant matrimonial squabbles! All the unhappiness of his
life was then going to be gone through again in the person of his
daughter! And another fear almost froze him on his chair: he dreaded
every minute to hear his son-in-law broach the money question, demand
the dowry, and call him a thief. No doubt the young man knew
everything, as he burst in upon them at past eleven o’clock at night.
“My wife is going to bed,” stammered he, his head in a whirl. “It is
useless to disturb her, is it not? I am really amazed at the things you
have told me! Poor Berthe is not wicked, though, I assure you. Be
indulgent. I will speak to her. As for ourselves, my dear Auguste, we
have done nothing, I think, which can displease you.”
And he sounded him, so to speak, with his glance, already reassured, as
he saw that he could know nothing as yet, when Madame Josserand
appeared on the threshold of the bed-room. She was in her night-gown,
all white and terrible. Auguste, though greatly excited, drew back. No
doubt she had been listening at the door, for she commenced with a
direct thrust.
“It’s not your ten thousand francs you’ve come for, I suppose? There
are still two months before the time they become due. And in two
months’ time we will pay them to you, sir. We don’t die to get out of
our engagements.”
This superb assurance completely overwhelmed Monsieur Josserand.
However, Madame Josserand continued dumbfounding her son-in-law by the
most extraordinary declarations, without allowing him time to speak.
“You’re by no means smart, sir. When you’ve made Berthe ill, you’ll
have to call in the doctor, and that will occasion some expense at the
chemist’s, and it will still be you who’ll have to pay. A little while
ago, I went off, when I saw that you were bent on making a fool of
yourself. Do as you like! Beat your wife, my maternal heart is easy,
for God is watching, and retribution is never long in coming!”
At length Auguste was able to state his grievances. He returned to the
constant goings-out, the dresses, and was even so bold as to condemn
the way in which Berthe had been brought up. Madame Josserand listened
to him with an air of supreme contempt. Then, when he had finished, she
retorted:
“What you say is so absurd that it does not deserve an answer, my dear
fellow! I’ve my conscience, and that suffices me. A man to whom I
confided an angel! I’ll have nothing more to do with the matter, as I’m
insulted. Settle it between yourselves.”
“But your daughter will end by deceiving me, madame!” exclaimed
Auguste, again overcome with passion.
Madame Josserand, who was going off, turned round, and looked him full
in the face.
“You’re doing all you can to bring such a thing about, sir.”
And she retired into her room with the dignity of a colossal
triple-breasted Ceres draped in white.
The father kept Auguste a few minutes longer. He was conciliatory,
giving him to understand that with women it was best to put up with
everything, and finally sent him off calmed and resolved to forgive.
But when the poor old man found himself alone again in the dining-room,
seated in front of his little lamp, he burst into tears. It was all
over; there was no longer any happiness; he would never have time
enough of a night to address sufficient wrappers to enable him to
assist his daughter clandestinely. The thought that his child might run
into debt crushed him like some personal fault. And he felt ill; he had
just received another blow; strength would fail him one of those
nights. At length, restraining his tears, he painfully recommenced his
work.
Down-stairs in the shop, her face buried in her hands, Berthe had
remained for a while immovable. After putting up the shutters, the
porter had returned to the basement. Then Octave thought he might
approach the young woman. Ever since the husband’s departure, Saturnin
had been making signs to him over his sister’s head, as though inviting
him to console her. Now he was beaming and multiplied his winks;
fearing that he was not understood, he emphasized his advice by blowing
kisses into space, with a child’s overflowing effusion.
“What! you want me to kiss her?” asked Octave by signs.
“Yes, yes,” replied the madman, with an enthusiastic nod of the head.
And, when he beheld the young man smiling before his sister, who had
noticed nothing, he seated himself on the floor, behind a counter,
hiding, so as not to be in their way. In the profound silence of the
closed warehouse the gas-jets were still burning with tall flames.
There reigned a death-like peacefulness, a closeness of atmosphere
mingled with the unsavory odor of the dressed silk.
“Do not take it so much to heart, madame, I beg of you,” said Octave,
in his caressing tones.
She started at finding him so close to her.
“Excuse me, Monsieur Octave. It is not my fault that you assisted at
this painful scene. And I must ask you to excuse my husband, for he
could not have been very well this evening. You know that in all
families there are little unpleasantnesses——”
Sobs choked her utterance. The mere idea of extenuating her husband’s
faults before the world had brought on a copious flood of tears, which
quite unnerved her. Saturnin raised his anxious face on a level with
the counter; but he dived down again directly he saw Octave take hold
of his sister’s hand.
“I beg of you, madame, summon up a little courage,” said the assistant.
“No, I cannot help it,” stammered she. “You were there—you heard
everything. For ninety-five francs’ worth of hair! As though all women
did not wear false hair now! But he knows nothing—he understands
nothing. He knows no more about women than the Grand Turk; he has never
had anything to do with them, no never, Monsieur Octave! Ah! I am very
miserable!”
She said all this in her feverish spite. A man whom she pretended she
had married for love, and who would soon allow her to go without a
chemise! Did she not fulfill her duties? Had he the least negligence to
reproach her with? If he had not flown into a passion on the day when
she asked him for some hair, she would never have been reduced to the
necessity of paying for it out of her own pocket! And for the least
thing there was the same story over again; she could never express a
wish, desire the most insignificant article of dress, without coming
into contact with his ferocious sullenness. She naturally had her
pride, so she no longer asked for anything, preferring to go without
necessaries rather than to humiliate herself to no purpose. Thus, for a
fortnight past, she had been ardently longing for a fancy set of
ornaments which she had seen with her mother in a jeweler’s window in
the Palais-Royal.
“You know, three stars in paste for the hair. Oh! a mere trifle—a
hundred francs, I think. Well! although I spoke of them from morning
till night, don’t imagine that my husband understood!”
Octave would never have dared to hope for such an opportunity. He
hastened matters.
“Yes, yes, I know. You mentioned the subject several times in my
presence. And, dear me! madame, your parents received me so well; you
yourself have welcomed me so kindly, that I thought I might venture——”
As he spoke he withdrew from his pocket an oblong box, in which the
three stars were sparkling on some cotton wool. Berthe had risen from
her seat, deeply affected.
“But it is impossible, sir. I will not—you were very wrong indeed.”
He pretended to be very simple, inventing various pretexts. In the
South such things were done constantly. And, besides, the ornaments
were of no value whatever. She had turned quite rosy, and was no longer
weeping, whilst her eyes, fixed on the box, acquired a fresh luster
from the sparkling of the imitation gems.
“I beg of you, madame. Just to show me that you are satisfied with my
work.”
“No, really, Monsieur Octave; do not insist. You pain me.”
Saturnin had reappeared, and he looked at the jewels in ecstasy, as
though he were beholding some reliquary. But his sharp ear heard
Auguste’s returning footsteps. He warned Berthe by making a slight
noise with his tongue. Then the latter came to a decision just as her
husband was about to enter.
“Well! listen,” murmured she rapidly, popping the box into her pocket,
“I’ll say that my sister Hortense made me a present of them.”
Auguste gave orders for the gas to be turned out, and then went up with
her to bed, without saying a word about the quarrel, delighted at heart
at finding her all right again and very lively, as though nothing had
taken place between them. The warehouse became wrapped in intense
darkness; and, just as Octave was also retiring, he felt hot hands
squeezing his own almost sufficient to crush them in the obscurity. It
was Saturnin, who slept in the basement.
“Friend—friend—friend,” repeated the madman, with an outburst of wild
tenderness.
Disconcerted in his expectations, Octave little by little became seized
with a young and passionate desire for Berthe. If he had at first been
merely following his old plan, his wish to succeed by the aid of women,
he now no longer beheld in her the employer simply, whose possession
would place the whole establishment in his hands; he desired above all
the Parisian, that adorable creature of luxury and grace, which he had
never had an opportunity of tasting at Marseilles; he felt a sudden
hunger for her little gloved hands, her tiny feet encased in
high-heeled boots, her delicate neck hidden by gewgaws, even for the
questionable unseen, the make-shifts which, he suspected, were covered
by her gorgeous costumes; and this sudden attack of passion went so far
as to get the better of his shrewd economical nature to the extent of
causing him to squander in presents and all sorts of other expenses the
five thousand francs which he had brought with him from the South, and
had already doubled by financial operations which he never mentioned to
anybody.
On the morrow of the quarrel, Octave, delighted at having prevailed on
the young woman to accept his present, thought that it would be well
for him to ingratiate himself with the husband. Therefore, as he took
his meals at his employer’s table—the latter being in the habit of
feeding his assistants, so as always to have them at hand—he showed him
the utmost attention, listened to him at desserts and warmly approved
all he said. He even went so far in private as to appear to sympathize
with his complaints against his wife, pretending, too, to watch her,
and making him little reports. Auguste felt greatly touched; he
admitted one night to the young man that he had been on the point of
discharging him, under the idea that he was conniving with his
mother-in-law.
“You understand me, you do!” he would say to the young man. “I merely
want peace. Beyond that I don’t care a hang, virtue excepted, of
course, and providing my wife doesn’t carry off the cash-box. Eh? am I
not reasonable? I don’t ask her for anything extraordinary?”
And Octave lauded his wisdom, and they celebrated together the
sweetness of an uneventful existence, year after year, always the same,
passed in measuring off silk. One evening he had alarmed Auguste by
reverting to his dream of vast modern bazars, and by advising him, as
he had advised Madame Hédouin, to purchase the adjoining house, so as
to enlarge his premises. Auguste, whose head was already splitting
between his four counters, had looked at him with the frightened air of
a tradesman accustomed to dividing farthings into four, that he had
hastened to withdraw his suggestion and to go into raptures over the
honest security of small dealings.
Days passed by; Octave was making his little nest in the place, a cozy
nest lined with wool which would keep him nice and warm. The husband
esteemed him; Madame Josserand herself, with whom, however, he avoided
being too polite, looked at him encouragingly. As for Berthe, she was
becoming charmingly familiar with him. But his great friend was
Saturnin, whose dumb affection he felt was increasing daily—a faithful
dog’s devotion which grew as his longing for the young woman became
more intense. Toward every one else the madman displayed a gloomy
jealousy; a man could not approach his sister without his becoming at
once uneasy, curling up his lips, and preparing to bite. But if, on the
contrary, Octave leant freely toward her, and caused her to laugh with
the soft and tender laughter of a happy mistress, he laughed himself
with delight, and his face reflected a little of their sensual joy. The
poor creature seemed to feel a gratitude full of happiness for the
chosen lover. He would detain the latter in all the corners, casting
mistrustful glances about; then, if he found they were alone, he would
speak to him of her, always repeating the same stories in broken
phrases.
“When she was little, she had tiny limbs as large as that; and already
plump, and quite rosy, and so gay; then, she used to sprawl about on
the floor. It amused me; I would go down on my knees and watch her.
Then, bang! bang! bang! she would kick me in the stomach, and I would
be so pleased, oh! so pleased!”
Octave thus learnt all about Berthe’s childhood, with its little
ailments, its playthings, its growth of a charming, uncontrolled little
creature.
His eyes lighted up; he laughed and cried, just as though these events
had occurred the day before. From his broken sentences the history of
this strange affection could be spun together: his poor, half-witted
devotion at the little patient’s bedside, when she had been given up by
the doctors, his heart and body devoted to the dying darling, whom he
nursed in her nudity with all the tenderness of a mother; his affection
and his desires had been arrested there, checked forevermore by this
drama of suffering, from the shock of which he never recovered; and,
from that time, in spite of the ingratitude which followed the
recovery, Berthe remained everything to him, a mistress before whom he
trembled, a child and a sister whom he had saved from death, an idol
which he worshiped with a jealous adoration. So that he pursued the
husband with the furious hatred of a displeased lover, never at a loss
for ill-natured remarks as he opened his heart to Octave.
“He’s got his eye bunged up again. His headache’s becoming a
nuisance!—You heard him dragging his feet about yesterday—Look, there
he is squinting into the street. Eh? isn’t he a fool?—Dirty beast,
dirty beast!”
And Auguste could scarcely move without angering the madman. Then would
come the disquieting proposals.
“If you like, we’ll bleed him like a pig between us.”
Octave would calm him. Then, on his quiet days, Saturnin would go from
Octave to the young woman, with an air of delight, repeating what one
had said about the other, doing their errands, and acting like a
continual bond of tenderness between them. He would have thrown himself
on the floor at their feet, to serve them as a carpet.
Berthe had not again alluded to the present. She did not seem to notice
Octave’s trembling attentions, but treated him as a friend, without the
least confusion. He had never before been so careful in his dress, and
he was ever caressing her with his eyes of the color of old gold, and
whose velvety softness he deemed irresistible.
One day, however, she experienced a great emotion. On returning from a
dog-show, Octave beckoned to her to descend to the basement; and there
handed her a bill, amounting to sixty-two francs, for some embroidered
stockings which had been brought during her absence. She turned quite
pale, and in a cry that came from her heart, at once asked:
“Good heavens! has my husband seen this?”
He hastened to set her mind at rest, telling her what trouble he had
had to get hold of the bill under Auguste’s very nose. Then, in an
embarrassed way, he was obliged to add in a low voice:
“I paid it.”
Then she made a show of feeling in her pockets, and, finding nothing,
said simply:
“I will pay you back. Ah! what thanks I owe you, Monsieur Octave! It
would have killed me if Auguste had seen this.”
And, this time, she took hold of both his hands, and for a moment held
them pressed between her own. But the sixty-two francs were never again
mentioned.
Thus, little by little, the breach between the couple widened, in spite
of the husband’s efforts, he being desirous of having no disturbance in
his existence. He desperately defended his desire for a somnolent and
idiotic peacefulness, he closed his eyes to small faults, and even
stomached some big ones, with the constant dread of discovering
something abominable which would drive him into a furious passion. He
therefore tolerated Berthe’s lies, by which she attributed to her
sister’s or her mother’s affection a host of little things, the
purchase of which she could not have otherwise explained; he even no
longer grumbled overmuch when she went out of an evening, thus enabling
Octave to take her twice privately to the theater, accompanied by
Madame Josserand and Hortense; delightful outings, after which these
ladies agreed together that the young man knew how to live.
It was on a Saturday that a frightful quarrel occurred between the
husband and wife, with respect to twenty sous which were deficient in
Rachel’s accounts. While Berthe was balancing up the book, Auguste
brought, according to his custom, the money necessary for the household
expenses of the ensuing week. The Josserands were to dine there that
evening, and the kitchen was littered with things—a rabbit, a leg of
mutton, and some cauliflowers. Saturnin, squatting on the tiled floor
beside the sink, was blacking his sister’s shoes and his
brother-in-law’s boots. The quarrel began with long arguments
respecting the twenty sou piece. What had become of it? How could one
mislay twenty sous? Auguste would go over all the additions again.
During this time, Rachel, always pliant in spite of her harsh looks,
her mouth closed but her eyes on the watch, was quietly spitting the
leg of mutton. At length he gave fifty francs, and was on the point of
going down-stairs again, when he returned, worried by the thought of
the missing coin.
“It must be found, though,” said he. “Perhaps you borrowed it of
Rachel, and have forgotten doing so.”
Berthe felt greatly hurt at this.
“Accuse me of cooking the accounts! Ah! you are nice!”
Everything started from that, and they soon came to high words.
Auguste, in spite of his desire to purchase peace at a dear price,
became aggressive, excited by the sight of the rabbit, the leg of
mutton and the cauliflowers, beside himself before the pile of food,
which she was going to thrust all at once under her parents’ noses. He
looked through the account book, expressing astonishment at almost
every item. It was incredible! She must be in league with the servant
to make something on the marketing.
“I! I!” exclaimed the young woman, thoroughly exasperated; “I in league
with the servant! But it’s you, sir, who pay her to spy upon me! Yes, I
am forever feeling her about me; I can’t move a step without
encountering her eyes. Ah! she may watch me through the key-hole, when
I’m changing my under-linen. I do no harm, and I don’t care a straw for
your system of police. Only, don’t you dare to reproach me with being
in league with her.”
This unexpected attack quite dumbfounded the husband for a moment.
Rachel turned round, still holding the leg of mutton; and, placing her
hand upon her heart, she protested.
“Oh! madame, how can you think so? I who respect madame so much!”
“She’s mad!” said Auguste, shrugging his shoulders. “Don’t take the
trouble to defend yourself, my girl. She’s mad!”
But a noise behind his back caused him some anxiety. It was Saturnin,
who had violently thrown down one of the half-polished shoes to fly to
his sister’s assistance. With a terrible expression in his face and his
fists clenched, he stuttered out that he would strangle the dirty
rascal if he again called her mad. Thoroughly frightened, Auguste
sought refuge behind the filter, calling out:
“It’s really become unbearable; I can no longer make a remark to you
without his thrusting himself in between us! I allowed him to come
here, but he must leave me alone! He’s another nice present of your
mother’s! She was frightened to death of him, and so she saddled him on
me, preferring to see me murdered in her stead. Thanks for nothing!
He’s got a knife now. Do make him desist!”
[Illustration]
Berthe disarmed her brother, and calmed him with a look, whilst
Auguste, who had turned very pale, continued to mumble angry words.
Always knives being caught up! An injury is so soon done; and, with a
madman, one could do nothing; justice would even refuse to avenge it!
In short, it was not proper to make a bodyguard of such a brother,
rendering a husband powerless, even in circumstances of the most
legitimate indignation, going as far as forcing him to submit to his
shame.
“You’ve no tact, sir,” declared Berthe, disdainfully. “A gentleman
would not discuss such matters in a kitchen.”
And she withdrew to her room, slamming the doors behind her. Rachel had
returned to the roaster, as though no longer hearing the quarrel
between her master and mistress.
“Do understand, my dear,” said Auguste to Berthe, whom he had rejoined
in the bed-room, “it was not in reference to you that I spoke, it was
for that girl who robs us. Those twenty sous ought certainly to be
found.”
The young woman trembled nervously with exasperation. She looked him
full in the face, very pale and resolute.
“Will you leave off bothering me about your twenty sous? It’s not
twenty sous I want, it’s five hundred francs a month. Yes, five hundred
francs for my dress. Ah! you discuss money matters in the kitchen,
before the servant! Well! that has decided me to discuss them also!
I’ve been restraining myself for a long time past. I want five hundred
francs.”
He stood aghast at such a demand. And she commenced the grand quarrel
which, during twenty years, her mother had picked with her father,
regularly every fortnight. Did he expect to see her walk about
barefoot? When one married a woman, one should at least arrange to
clothe and feed her decently. She would sooner beg than resign herself
to such a pauper existence! It was not her fault if he proved incapable
of managing his business properly; oh! yes, incapable, without ideas or
initiative, only knowing how to split farthings into four. A man who
ought to have made it his glory to acquire a fortune quickly, so as to
dress her like a queen, and make the people of The “Ladies’ Paradise”
die with rage! But no! with such a poor head as his, bankruptcy was
sure to come sooner or later. And from this flow of words emerged the
respect, the furious appetite for money, all that worship of wealth,
the adoration of which she had learnt in her family, when beholding the
mean tricks to which one stoops, merely to appear to possess it.
“Five hundred francs!” said Auguste at length. “I would sooner shut up
the shop.”
She looked at him coldly.
“You refuse. Very well, I will run up bills.”
“More debts, you wretched woman!”
In a sudden violent movement, he seized her by the arms, and pushed her
against the wall. Then, without a cry, choking with passion, she ran
and opened the window, as though to throw herself out; but she retraced
her steps, and pushing him in her turn toward the door, turned him out
of the room gasping:
“Go away, or I shall do you an injury!”
And she noisily pushed the bolt behind his back. For a moment he
listened and hesitated. Then he hastened to go down to the warehouse,
again seized with terror, as he beheld Saturnin’s eyes gleaming in the
shadow, the noise of the short struggle having brought him from the
kitchen.
Down-stairs, Octave, who was selling silk handkerchiefs to an old lady,
at once noticed his agitated appearance. The assistant looked at him
out of the corner of his eye as he feverishly paced up and down before
the counters. When the customer had gone, Auguste’s heart quite
overflowed. “My dear fellow, she’s going mad,” said he without naming
his wife. “She has shut herself in. You ought to oblige me by going up
and speaking to her. I fear an accident, on my word of honor, I do!”
The young man pretended to hesitate. It was such a delicate matter!
Finally, he agreed to do so out of pure devotion. Up-stairs, he found
Saturnin keeping guard before Berthe’s door. On hearing footsteps, the
madman uttered a menacing grunt. But when he recognized the assistant,
his face brightened.
“Ah! yes, you,” murmured he. “You’re all right. She mustn’t cry. Be
nice, say something to her. And you know, stop there. There’s no
danger. I’m here. If the servant tries to peep, I’ll settle her.”
And he squatted down on the floor, guarding the door. As he still held
one of his brother-in-law’s boots, he commenced to polish it, to pass
away the time.
Octave made up his mind to knock. No answer, not a sound.
Then he gave his name. The bolt was at once drawn. And, opening the
door slightly, Berthe begged him to enter. Then she closed and bolted
it again with a nervous hand.
“I don’t mind you,” said she; “but I won’t have him!”
She paced the room, carried away by passion, going from the bedstead to
the window, which still remained open. And she muttered disconnected
sentences: he might entertain her parents at dinner, if he liked; yes,
he could account to them for her absence, for she would not appear at
the table; she would sooner die! Besides, she preferred to go to bed.
With her feverish hands, she already began to tear off the quilt, shake
up the pillows, and turn down the sheet, forgetful of Octave’s presence
to the extent that she was about to unhook her dress. Then she jumped
to another idea.
“Just fancy! He beat me, beat me, beat me! And only because, ashamed of
always going about in rags, I asked him for five hundred francs!”
Octave, standing up in the middle of the room, tried to find some
conciliating words. She was wrong to allow it to upset her so much.
Everything would come right again. And he ended by timidly offering her
assistance.
“If you are worried about any bill, why not apply to your friends? I
should be so pleased! Oh! simply a loan. You could return it to me some
other time.”
She looked at him. After a pause, she replied:
“Never! it cannot be. What would people think, Monsieur Octave?”
Her refusal was so decided that there was no further question of money.
But her anger seemed to have left her. She breathed heavily, and bathed
her face; and she looked quite pale, very calm, rather wearied, with
large, resolute eyes. Standing before her, he felt himself overcome by
that timidity of love, which he held in such contempt. Never before had
he loved so ardently; the strength of his desire communicated an
awkwardness to his charms of a handsome assistant. Whilst continuing to
advise a reconciliation in vague phrases, he was reasoning clearly in
his own mind, asking himself if he ought not to take her in his arms;
but the fear of being again repulsed made him hesitate. She, without
uttering a word, continued to look at him with her decided air, her
forehead contracted by a faint wrinkle.
“Really!” he stammeringly continued, “you must be patient. Your husband
is not a bad fellow. If you only go the right way to work with him, he
will give you whatever you ask for.”
And beneath the emptiness of these words, they both felt the same
thought take possession of them. They were alone, free, safe from all
surprise, with the door bolted. This security, the close warmth of the
room, exercised its influence on them. Yet he did not dare; the
feminine side of his nature, his womanly feeling, refined him in that
moment of passion to the point of making him the woman in their
encounter. Then, as though recollecting one of her former lessons,
Berthe dropped her handkerchief.
“Oh! thank you,” said she to the young man, who picked it up. Their
fingers touched, they were drawn closer together by that momentary
contact. Now she smiled tenderly, and gave an easy suppleness to her
form, as she recollected that men detest sticks. It would never do to
act the simpleton, one must permit a little playfulness without seeming
to do so, if one would hook one’s fish.
“Night is coming on,” resumed she, going and pushing the window to.
He followed her, and there, in the shadow of the curtains, she allowed
him to take her hand. She laughed louder, bewildering him with her
ringing tones, enveloping him with her pretty gestures; and, as he at
length became bolder, she threw back her head, displaying her neck, her
young and delicate neck all quivering with her gayety. Distracted by
the sight, he kissed her under the chin.
“Oh! Monsieur Octave!” said she in confusion, making a pretense of
prettily putting him back into his place.
His moment of triumph had come, but it was no sooner over than all the
ferocious disdain of woman which was hidden beneath his air of
wheedling adoration, returned. And when Berthe rose up, without
strength in her wrists, and her face contracted by a pang, her utter
contempt for man was thrown into the dark glance which she cast upon
him. The room was wrapped in complete silence. One only heard Saturnin,
on the other side of the door, polishing her husband’s boot with a
regular movement of the brush.
Octave’s thoughts reverted to Valérie and Madame Hédouin. At last he
was something more than little Pichon’s lover! It seemed like a
rehabilitation in his own eyes. Then, encountering Berthe’s uneasy
glance, he experienced a slight sense of shame, and kissed her with
extreme gentleness. She was resuming her air of resolute recklessness,
and, with a gesture, seemed to say: “What’s done can’t be undone.” But
she afterward experienced the necessity of giving expression to a
melancholy thought.
“Ah! If you had only married me!” murmured she.
He felt surprised, almost uneasy; but this did not prevent him from
replying, as he kissed her again:
“Oh! yes, how nice it would have been!”
That evening the dinner with the Josserands was most delightful, Berthe
had never shown herself so gentle. She did not say a word of the
quarrel to her parents, she received her husband with an air of
submission. The latter, delighted, took Octave aside to thank him; and
he imparted so much warmth into the proceeding, pressing his hands and
displaying such a lively gratitude, that the young man felt quite
embarrassed. Moreover, they one and all overwhelmed him with marks of
their affection. Saturnin, who behaved very well at table, looked at
him with approving eyes. Hortense on her part deigned to listen to him,
whilst Madame Josserand, full of maternal encouragement, kept filling
his glass.
“Dear me! yes,” said Berthe at dessert, “I intend to resume my
painting. For a long time past I have been wanting to decorate a cup
for Auguste.”
The latter was deeply moved at this loving conjugal thought. Ever since
the soup, Octave had kept his foot on the young woman’s under the
table; it was like a taking of possession in the midst of this little
middle-class gathering. Yet Berthe was not without a secret uneasiness
before Rachel, whose eyes she always found looking her through and
through. Was it, then, visible? The girl was decidedly one to be sent
away or else to be bought over.
Monsieur Josserand, who was near his daughter, finished soothing her by
passing her nineteen francs done up in paper under the tablecloth. He
bent down and whispered in her ear:
“You know, they come from my little work. If you owe anything, you must
pay it.”
Then, between her father, who nudged her knee, and her lover, who
gently rubbed her boot, she felt quite happy. Life would now be
delightful. And they united in throwing aside all reserve, enjoying the
pleasure of a family gathering unmarred by a single quarrel. In truth,
it was hardly natural, something must have brought them luck. Auguste,
alone, had his eyes half closed, suffering from a headache, which he
had moreover expected after so many emotions. Toward nine o’clock he
was even obliged to retire to bed.