For some time past, Monsieur Gourd had been prowling about with an
uneasy and mysterious air. He was met gliding noiselessly along, his
eyes open, his ears pricked up, continually ascending the two
staircases, where lodgers had even encountered him going his rounds in
the dead of night. The morality of the house was certainly worrying
him; he felt a kind of breath of shameful things which troubled the
cold nakedness of the courtyard, the calm peacefulness of the
vestibule, the beautiful domestic virtues of the different stories.
One evening, Octave had found the doorkeeper standing motionless and
without a light at the end of his passage, close to the door which
opened onto the servants’ staircase. Greatly surprised, he questioned
him.
“I wish to ascertain something, Monsieur Mouret,” simply answered
Monsieur Gourd, deciding to go off to bed.
The young man was very much frightened. Did the doorkeeper suspect his
relations with Berthe? He was perhaps watching them. Their attachment
encountered continual obstacles in that house, where there was always
some one prying about and the inmates of which professed the most
strict principles.
It happened to be a Tuesday night when Octave discovered Monsieur Gourd
watching close to his room. This increased his uneasiness. For a week
past, he had been imploring Berthe to come up and join him in his
apartment, when all the house would be asleep. Had the doorkeeper
guessed this? Octave went back to his room dissatisfied, tormented with
fear and desire.
The night was a close one, and, overcome by the heat, Octave had dozed
off in an easy-chair, when toward midnight he was roused by a gentle
knocking.
“It’s I,” faintly whispered a woman’s voice.
It was Berthe. He opened the door and clasped her in his arms in the
obscurity. When he had lighted his candle, he saw that she was deeply
troubled about something. The day before, not having sufficient money
in his pocket, he had been unable to pay for the bonnet at the time:
and as in her delight she had so far forgotten herself as to give her
name, they had sent her the bill that evening. Then, trembling at the
thought that they might call on the morrow when her husband was there,
she had dared to come up, gathering courage from the great silence of
the house, and confident that Rachel was asleep.
“To-morrow morning, you will be sure to pay it to-morrow morning, won’t
you?” implored she, trying to escape.
But he again clasped her in his arms.
“Stay!”
She remained. The clock slowly struck the hours in the voluptuous
warmth of the room; and, at each sound of the bell, he begged her so
tenderly to stay, that her strength seemed to desert her and she
yielded to his entreaties. Then, toward four o’clock, just as she had
at length determined to go, they both dropped off to sleep locked in
each other’s arms. When they again opened their eyes, the bright
daylight was entering at the window, it was nine o’clock. Berthe
uttered a cry.
“Good heavens! I’m lost!”
Then ensued a moment of confusion. With her eyes half closed with sleep
and fatigue, feeling vaguely about with her hands scarcely able to
distinguish anything, she gave vent to stifled exclamations of regret.
He, seized with a similar despair, had thrown himself before the door,
to prevent her from going out at such an hour. Was she mad? people
might meet her on the stairs, it was too risky; they must think the
matter over, and devise a way for her to go down without being noticed.
But she was obstinate, simply wishing to get away; and she again made
for the door, which he defended. Then he thought of the servants’
staircase. Nothing could be more convenient; she could go quickly
through her own kitchen into her apartment. Only, as Marie Pichon was
always in the passage of a morning, Octave considered it prudent to
divert her attention, whilst the other young woman made her escape.
He went out in his ordinary quiet way, and was surprised to find
Saturnin making himself at home at Marie’s, and calmly watching her do
her housework. The madman loved thus to seek refuge beside her as in
former days, delighted with the manner in which she left him to
himself, and certain of not being jostled. Moreover, he was not in her
way, and she willingly tolerated him, though his conversational powers
were not great. It was company all the same, and she would still sing
her ballad in a low and expiring voice.
“Hallo! so you’re with your lover?” said Octave, maneuvering so as to
keep the door shut behind his back.
Marie turned crimson. Oh! that poor Monsieur Saturnin! Was it possible?
He who seemed to suffer even when any one touched his hand by accident!
And the madman also got angry. He would not be any one’s lover—never,
never! Whoever told his sister such a lie would have him to deal with.
Octave, amazed at his sudden irritation, felt it necessary to calm him.
Meanwhile Berthe made her way to the servants’ staircase. She had two
flights to descend. At the first step a shrill laugh, issuing from
Madame Juzeur’s kitchen below, caused her to stop; and she tremblingly
stood against the landing window, opened wide onto the narrow
courtyard.
Suddenly a voice exclaimed:
“Here’s master coming for his hot water!”
And windows were quickly closed, and doors slammed. The silence of
death ensued, yet Berthe did not at first dare to move. When she at
length went down, the thought came to her that Rachel was probably in
the kitchen, waiting for her. This caused her fresh anguish. She now
dreaded to enter, she would have preferred to reach the street and fly
away in the distance forever. She nevertheless pushed the door ajar,
and felt relieved on beholding that the servant was not there. Then,
seized with a childish joy on finding herself at home again and safe,
she hurried to her room. But there was Rachel standing before the bed,
which had not even been opened. She looked at the bed, and then at her
mistress with her expressionless face. In her first moment of fright,
the young woman lost her head to the point of trying to excuse herself,
and talked of an illness of her sister’s. She stammered out the words,
and then, frightened at the poorness of her lie, understanding that
denial was utterly useless, she suddenly burst into tears. Dropping
onto a chair, she continued crying.
This lasted a good while. Not a word was exchanged, sobs alone
disturbed the perfect quiet of the room. Rachel, exaggerating her
habitual discretion, maintaining her cold manner of a girl who knows
everything, but who says nothing, had turned her back, and was making a
pretence of beating up the pillows, as though she was just finishing
arranging the bed. At length, when madame, more and more upset by this
silence, was giving too loud a vent to her despair, the maid, who was
then dusting, said simply, in a respectful tone of voice:
“Madame is wrong to take on so, master is not so very pleasant.”
Berthe left off crying. She would pay the girl, that was all Without
waiting further she gave her twenty francs. Then, not thinking that
sufficient, and already feeling uneasy, having fancied she saw her curl
her lips disdainfully, she rejoined her in the kitchen, and brought her
back to make her a present of an almost new dress.
At the same moment, Octave, on his part, was again in a state of alarm,
on account of Monsieur Gourd. On leaving the Pichons’, he had found him
standing immovable, the same as the night before, listening behind the
door communicating with the servants’ staircase. He followed him
without even daring to speak to him. The doorkeeper gravely went back
again down the grand staircase. On the floor below he took a key from
his pocket and entered the room which was let to the distinguished
individual, who came there to work one night every week. And through
the door, which remained open for a moment, Octave obtained a clear
view of that room which was always kept as closely shut as a tomb. It
was in a terrible state of disorder that morning, the gentleman having
no doubt worked there the night before. A huge bed, with the sheets
stripped off, a wardrobe with a glass door, empty, save for the
remnants of a lobster and two partly filled bottles, two dirty
hand-basins lying about, one beside the bed and the other on a chair.
Monsieur Gourd, with his calm air of a retired judge, at once occupied
himself with emptying and rinsing out the basins.
As he hurried to the Passage de la Madeleine to pay for the bonnet, the
young man was tormented by a painful uncertainty. Finally, he
determined to engage the doorkeepers in conversation on his return.
Madame Gourd, reclining in her commodious armchair, was getting a
breath of fresh air between the two pots of flowers, at the open window
of their room. Standing up beside the door, old mother Pérou was
waiting in a humble and frightened manner.
“Have you a letter for me?” asked Octave, as a commencement.
Monsieur Gourd just then came down from the room on the third floor.
Seeing after that was the only work that he now condescended to do in
the house; and he showed himself highly flattered by the confidence of
the gentleman, who paid him well on condition that his basins should
not pass through any other hands.
“No, Monsieur Mouret, nothing at all,” answered he.
He had seen old mother Pérou perfectly well, but he pretended not to be
aware of her presence. The day before he had got into such a rage with
her for upsetting a pail of water in the middle of the vestibule, that
he had sent her about her business on the spot. And she had called for
her money, but the mere sight of him made her tremble, and she almost
sank into the ground with humility.
However, as Octave remained some time doing the amiable with Madame
Gourd, the doorkeeper roughly turned toward the poor old woman.
“So, you want to be paid. What’s owing to you?”
But Madame Gourd interrupted him.
“Look, darling, there’s that girl again with her horrible little
beast.”
It was Lisa, who, a few days before, had found a spaniel in the street.
And this occasioned continual disputes with the doorkeepers. The
landlord would not allow any animals in the house. No, no animals, and
no women! The little dog was even forbidden to go into the courtyard;
the street was quite good enough for him. As it had been raining that
morning, and the little beast’s paws were sopping wet, Monsieur Gourd
rushed forward, exclaiming:
“I will not have him walk up the stairs, you hear me! Carry him in your
arms.”
“So that he shall make me all in a mess!” said Lisa, insolently. “What
a great misfortune it’ll be if he wets the servants’ staircase a bit!
Up you go, doggie.”
Monsieur Gourd tried to seize hold of her, and almost slipped, so he
fell to abusing those sluts of servants. He was always at war with
them, tormented with the rage of a former servant who wishes to be
waited on in his turn. But Lisa turned upon him, and with the verbosity
of a girl who had grown up in the gutters of Montmartre, she shouted
out:
“Eh! just you leave me alone, you miserable old flunkey! Go and empty
the duke’s jerries!”
It was the only insult capable of silencing Monsieur Gourd, and the
servants all took advantage of it. He returned to his room quivering
with rage and mumbling to himself, saying that he was certainly very
proud of having been in service at the duke’s, and that she would not
have staid there two hours even, the baggage! Then he assailed mother
Pérou, who almost jumped out of her skin.
“Well! what is it you’re owed? Eh! you say twelve francs sixty-five
centimes. But it isn’t possible? Sixty-three hours at twenty centimes
the hour. Ah! you charge a quarter of an hour. Never! I warned you, I
only pay the hours that are completed.”
And he did not even give her her money then, he left her perfectly
terrified, and joined in the conversation between his wife and Octave.
The latter was cunningly alluding to all the worries that such a house
must cause them, hoping thus to get them to talk about the lodgers.
Such strange things must sometimes take place behind the doors! Then
the doorkeeper chimed in, as grave as ever:
“What concerns us, concerns us, Monsieur Mouret, and what doesn’t
concern us, doesn’t concern us. Over there, for instance, is something
which quite puts me beside myself. Look at it, look at it!”
And, stretching out his arm, he pointed to the boot-stitcher, that
tall, pale girl who had arrived at the house in the middle of the
funeral. She walked with difficulty; she was evidently in the family
way, and her condition was exaggerated by the sickly skinniness of her
neck and legs.
“On my word of honor! sir, if this sort of thing was likely to
continue, we would prefer to retire to our home at Mort-la-Ville; would
we not, Madame Gourd? for, thank heaven! we have sufficient to live on,
we are dependent on no one. A house like this to be made the talk of
the place by such a creature! for so it is, sir!”
“She seems very ill,” said Octave, following her with his eyes, not
daring to pity her too much. “I always see her looking so sad, so pale,
so forlorn. But, of course, she has a lover.”
At this, Monsieur Gourd gave a violent start.
“Now we have it! Do you hear, Madame Gourd? Monsieur Mouret is also of
opinion that she has a lover. It’s clear, such things don’t come of
themselves. Well, sir! for two months past I’ve been on the watch, and
I’ve not yet seen the shadow of a man. How full of vice she must be!
Ah! if I only found her chap, how I would chuck him out! But I can’t
find him, and it’s that which worries me.”
“Perhaps no one comes,” Octave ventured to observe.
The doorkeeper looked at him with surprise.
“That would not be natural. Oh! I’m determined I’ll catch him. I’ve
still six weeks before me, for I got the landlord to give her notice to
quit in October. Just fancy her being confined here!” and, with his arm
still thrust out, he pointed to the young woman, who was painfully
wending her way up the servants’ staircase. Madame Gourd was obliged to
calm him: he took the respectability of the house too much to heart; he
would end by making himself ill. Then, mother Pérou having dared to
manifest her presence by a discreet cough, he returned to her, and
coolly deducted the sou she had charged for the odd quarter of an hour.
She was at length going off with her twelve francs sixty centimes, when
he offered to take her back, but at three sous an hour only. She burst
into tears, and accepted.
“I shall always be able to get some one,” said he. “You’re no longer
strong enough; you don’t even do two sous’ worth.”
Octave felt his mind relieved as he returned to his room for a minute.
On the third floor he caught up Madame Juzeur, who was also going to
her apartments. She was obliged now to run down every morning after
Louise, who loitered at the different shops.
“How proud you are becoming,” said she, with her sharp smile. “One can
see very well that you are being spoilt elsewhere.”
These words once more aroused all the young man’s anxiety. He followed
her into her drawing-room, pretending to joke with her the while. Only
one of the curtains was slightly drawn back, and the carpet and the
hangings before the doors subdued still more this alcove-like light;
and the noise of the street did not penetrate more than to the extent
of a faint buzz, in this room as soft as down. She made him seat
himself beside her on the low, wide sofa. But, as he did not take her
hand and kiss it, she asked him archly:
“Do you, then, no longer love me?”
He blushed, and protested that he adored her. Then she gave him her
hand of her own accord, with a little stifled laugh; and he was obliged
to raise it to his lips, so as to dispel her suspicions, if she had
any. But she almost immediately withdrew it again.
“No, no; though you pretend to excite yourself, it gives you no
pleasure. Oh, I feel it does not, and, besides, it is only natural!”
What? what did she mean? He seized her round the waist, and pressed her
with questions, but she would not answer; she abandoned herself to his
embrace, and kept shaking her head. At length, to oblige her to speak,
he commenced tickling her.
“Well, you see,” she ended by murmuring, “you love another.” She named
Valérie, and reminded him of the evening at the Josserands when he
devoured her with his eyes. Then, as he declared that Valérie was
nothing to him, she retorted, with another laugh, that she knew that
very well, and had been only teasing him. Only, there was another, and
this time she named Madame Hédouin, laughing more than ever, and amused
at his protestations, which were very energetic. Who, then? Was it
Marie Pichon? Ah! he could not deny that one. Yet he did do so, but she
shook her head. She assured him that her little finger never told
stories. And to draw each of these women’s names from her, he was
obliged to redouble his caresses.
But she had not named Berthe. He was loosening his hold of her, when
she resumed:
“Now, there’s the last one.”
“What last one?” inquired he, anxiously.
Screwing up her mouth, she again obstinately refused to say anything
more, so long as he had not opened her lips with a kiss.
He continued to hold her reclining in his arms. She languishingly
alluded to the cruel being who had deserted her after having only been
married a week. A miserable woman like her knew too much of the
tempests of the heart! For a longtime past she had guessed what she
styled Octave’s “little games;” for not a kiss could be exchanged in
the house without her hearing it. And, in the depths of the wide sofa,
they had quite a cozy little chat, interrupted now and then with all
sorts of delightful caresses.
When Octave left her he felt more at ease. She had restored his good
humor, and she amused him with her complicated principles of virtue.
Down-stairs, directly he entered the warehouse, he reassured Berthe
with a sign, as her eyes questioned him with reference to the bonnet.
Then all the terrible adventure of the morning was forgotten. When
Auguste returned, a little before lunch-time, he found them both
looking the same as usual, Berthe very much bored at the pay-desk, and
Octave gallantly measuring off some silk for a lady.
But, after that day, the lovers’ private meetings became rarer still.
As a practical fellow, he ended by thinking it stupid to be always
paying, when she, on her side, only gave him her foot under the table.
Paris had decidedly brought him ill-luck; at first, repulses, and then
this silly passion, which was fast emptying his purse. He could
certainly not be accused of succeeding through women. He now found a
certain honor in it by way of consolation, in his secret rage at the
failure of his plan so clumsily carried out up till then.
Yet Auguste was not much in their way. Ever since the bad turn affairs
had taken at Lyons, he had suffered more than ever with his headaches.
On the first of the month, Berthe had experienced a sudden joy on
seeing him, in the evening, place three hundred francs under the
bed-room timepiece for her dress; and, in spite of the reduction on the
amount which she had demanded, as she had given up all hope of ever
seeing a sou of it, she threw herself into his arms, all warm with
gratitude. On this occasion the husband had a night of hugging such as
the lover never experienced.
September passed away in this manner, in the great calm of the house
emptied of its occupants by the summer months. The people of the second
floor had gone to the seaside in Spain, which caused Monsieur Gourd,
full of pity, to shrug his shoulders: what a fuss! as though the most
distinguished people were not satisfied with Trouville! The Duveyriers,
since the beginning of Gustave’s holidays, had been at their country
house at Villeneuve-Saint-Georges. Even the Josserands went and spent a
fortnight at a friend’s, near Pontoise, spreading a rumor beforehand
that they were going to some watering-place.
This clearance, these deserted apartments, the staircase slumbering in
a greater silence than ever, seemed to Octave to offer less danger; and
he argued and so wearied Berthe that she at last received him in her
room one evening whilst Auguste was away at Lyons. But this meeting
also nearly took a bad turn. Madame Josserand, who had returned home
two days before, was seized with such an attack of indigestion after
dining out, that Hortense, filled with anxiety, went down-stairs for
her sister. Fortunately, Rachel was just finishing scouring her
saucepans, and she was able to let the young man out by the servants’
staircase. On the following days, Berthe availed herself of that alarm
to again refuse him everything.
Besides, they were so foolish as not to reward the servant. She
attended to them in her cold way, and with her superior respect of a
girl who hears and sees nothing; only, as madame was forever crying
after money, and as Monsieur Octave already spent too much in presents,
she curled her lip more and more in that wretched establishment, where
the mistress’ lover did not even present her with ten sous when he
stayed there.
Meanwhile, Madame Juzeur wept with that lovesick darling who could only
gaze on his mistress from a distance; and she gave him the very best
advice. Octave’s passion reached such a pitch that he thought one day
of imploring her to lend him her apartment; no doubt she would not have
refused, but he feared rousing Berthe’s indignation by his
indiscretion. He also had the idea of utilizing Saturnin; perhaps the
madman would watch over them like a faithful dog in some out-of-the-way
room; only, he displayed such a fantastical humor, at one time
overwhelming his sister’s lover with the most awkward caresses, at
another, sulking with him and casting suspicious glances gleaming with
a sudden hatred. One could almost have thought him jealous, with the
nervous and violent jealousy of a woman.
Just as September was drawing to a close, and the lodgers were on the
point of returning home, a wild idea came to Octave in the midst of his
torment. Rachel had asked her permission to sleep out on one of the
Tuesdays that her master would be at Lyons, in order to enable her to
attend the wedding of one of her sisters in the country; and it was
merely a question of passing the night in the servant’s room, where no
one in the world would think of seeking them. Berthe, feeling deeply
hurt at the suggestion, at first displayed the greatest repugnance; but
he implored her with tears in his eyes; he talked of leaving Paris,
where he suffered too much; he confused and wearied her with such a
number of arguments, that, scarcely knowing what she did, she ended by
consenting. All was settled. The Tuesday evening, after dinner, they
took a cup of tea at the Josserands’, so as to dispel any suspicions.
Trublot, Gueulin, and uncle Bachelard were there; and, very late in the
evening, Duveyrier, who occasionally came to sleep at the Rue de
Choiseul, on account of business which he pretended he had to attend to
early in the morning, even put in an appearance. Octave made a show of
joining freely in the conversation of these gentlemen; then, when
midnight struck, he withdrew, and went and locked himself in Rachel’s
room, where Berthe was to join him an hour later when all the house was
asleep.
Upstairs, the arrangement of the room occupied him during the first
half-hour. He had provided himself with clean bed linen, and he
proceeded to remake the bed, awkwardly, and occupying a long while over
it, through fear of being overheard. Then, like Trublot, he sat down on
a box and tried to wait patiently. The servants came up to bed, one by
one; and through the thin partitions the sounds of women undressing
themselves could be heard. One o’clock struck, then the quarter, then
the half hour past. He began to feel anxious; why was Berthe so long in
coming? She must have left the Josserands’ about one o’clock at the
latest; and it could not take her more than ten minutes to go to her
rooms and come out again by the servants’ staircase. When two o’clock
struck, he imagined all sorts of catastrophes. At length, he heaved a
sigh of relief, on fancying he recognized her footstep. And he opened
the door, in order to light her. But surprise rooted him to the spot.
Opposite Adèle’s door, Trublot, bent almost double, was looking through
the key-hole, and jumped up, frightened by that sudden light.
“What! it’s you again!” murmured Octave, with annoyance.
Trublot began to laugh, without appearing the least surprised at
finding him there at such a time of night.
“Just fancy,” explained he, very softly, “that fool Adèle hasn’t given
me her key, and she has gone and joined Duveyrier in his room. Eh?
what’s the matter with you? Ah! you didn’t know Duveyrier slept with
her. It is so, my dear fellow. He really is reconciled with his wife,
who, however, only resigns herself to him now and then; so he falls
back upon Adèle. It’s convenient, whenever he comes to Paris.”
He interrupted himself, and stooped down again, then added, between his
clenched teeth.
“What a confounded brainless girl that Adèle is! If she had only given
me her key, I could have made myself comfortable here.”
Then he returned to the loft where he had been, previously waiting,
taking Octave with him, who, moreover, desired to question him
respecting the finish of the evening at the Josserands’. But, for some
time, Trublot would not allow him to open his mouth.
Octave was at length able to question him as to the wind-up of the
party. It seemed that Berthe had left her mother’s shortly after
midnight, looking very composed. No doubt, she was now in Rachel’s
room. But Trublot, delighted at the meeting, would not let him go.
“It’s idiotic, keeping me waiting so long,” continued he. “Besides, I’m
almost asleep as it is. My governor has put me into the liquidation
department, and I’m up all night three times a week, my dear fellow. If
Julie were only there, she would make room for me. But Duveyrier only
brings Hippolyte up from the country. And, by the way, you know
Hippolyte, that tall, ugly chap! Well! I just saw him going to join
Louise, that frightened brat of a foundling, whose soul Madame Juzeur
wished to save. Eh? it’s a fine success for Madame! ‘Anything you like
except that.’”
That night, Trublot, who was greatly bored, was full of philosophical
reflections. He added, almost in a whisper:
“Well, you know! like master, like man. When landlords set the example,
it’s scarcely surprising if the servants’ tastes are not exactly
refined. Ah! everything’s decidedly going to the dogs in France!”
“Good-bye,” said Octave; “I’m off.”
But Trublot still detained him, enumerating the servants’ rooms where
he might have slept, as the summer had emptied nearly the whole of
them; only the worst was that they all double-locked their doors, even
when they were merely going to the end of the passage, they had such a
fear of being robbed by each other.
At length Octave was able to get free. He was on the point of leaving
Trublot in the profound obscurity of the loft, when the latter suddenly
expressed his surprise.
“But you, what are you doing amongst the maids? Ah! rascal, you come
here too!”
And he laughed with delight, and promising to keep Octave’s secret,
sent him off, wishing him a pleasant night of it.
When Octave found himself back in Rachel’s room, he experienced a fresh
deception. Berthe was not there. Anger got the better of him now:
Berthe had humbugged him, she had promised him merely to get rid of his
importunities. Whilst he was chafing there, she was sleeping, happy at
being alone, occupying the whole breadth of the conjugal couch. Then,
instead of returning to his room and going to sleep himself, he
obstinately waited, throwing himself all dressed as he was on the bed,
and passing the night in forming projects of revenge. Three o’clock
chimed out in the distance. The snores of robust maid-servants arose on
his left; while on his right there was a continual wail, a woman
moaning with pain in the fever of a sleepless night. He ended by
recognizing the boot-stitcher’s voice. The wretched woman was lying
suffering all alone in one of those poverty-stricken closets next to
the roof.
Just as day was breaking, Octave fell asleep. A profound silence
reigned; even the boot-stitcher no longer moaned, but lay like one
dead. The sun was peering through the narrow window, when the door
opening abruptly awoke the young man.
It was Berthe, who, urged by an irresistible desire, had come up to see
if he was still there; she had at first scouted the idea, then she had
furnished herself with pretexts, the need for going to the room and
putting everything straight, in case he had left it anyhow in his rage.
Moreover, she no longer expected to find him there. When she beheld him
rise from the little iron bedstead, ghastly pale and menacing, she
stood dumbfounded; and she listened with bowed head to his furious
reproaches. He pressed her to answer, to give him at least some
explanation. At length she murmured:
“At the last moment I could not do it. It was too indelicate. I love
you, oh! I swear it. But not here, not here!”
And, seeing him approach her, she drew back, afraid that he might wish
to take advantage of the opportunity. Eight o’clock was striking, the
servants had all gone down, even Trublot had departed. Then, as he
tried to take hold of her hands, saying that, when one loves a person,
one accepts everything, she complained that the closeness of the room
made her feel unwell, and she slightly opened the window. But he again
tried to draw her toward him, overpowering her with his importunities.
At this moment a turbid torrent of foul words ascended from the inner
courtyard.
“Pig! slut! have you done? Your dish-cloth’s again fallen on my head.”
Berthe, turning ghastly pale, and quivering from head to foot, released
herself, murmuring:
“Do you hear those girls? They make me shiver all over. The other day,
I thought I should have been ill. No, leave me alone, and I promise to
see you, on Tuesday next, in your room.”
The two lovers, standing up and not daring to move, were compelled to
hear everything.
“Show yourself a moment,” continued Lisa, who was furious, “so that I
may shy it back in your ugly face!”
Then Adèle went and leant out of her kitchen window.
“There’s a fuss about a bit of rag! To begin with, I only used it for
washing up with yesterday. And then it fell out by accident.” They made
peace together, and Lisa asked her what they had had for dinner at her
place the day before. Another stew! What misers! She would have ordered
chops for herself, if she had been in such a hole! She was forever
inciting Adèle to sneak the sugar, the meat, the candles, just to show
that she could do as she liked; as for herself, never being hungry, she
left Victoire to rob the Campardons, without even taking her share.
“Oh!” said Adèle, who was gradually becoming corrupted, “the other
night I hid some potatoes in my pocket. They quite burnt my leg. It was
jolly, it was jolly! And, you know, I like vinegar, I do. I don’t care,
I drink it out of the cruet now.”
Victoire came and leant out in her turn, as she finished drinking some
cassis mixed with brandy, which Lisa treated her to now and then of a
morning, to pay her for concealing her day and night escapades. And, as
Louise thrust out her tongue at them from the depths of Madame Juzeur’s
kitchen, Victoire was at once down upon her.
“Wait a bit! you street foundling; I’ll shove your tongue somewhere for
you!”
“Come along, then, old swiller!” retorted the little one. “I saw you
yesterday bringing it all up again in your plate.”
At this, the rush of foul words again rebounded from wall to wall of
the pestiferous hole. Adèle herself, who was mastering the Paris gift
of the gab, called Louise a filthy drab, whilst Lisa yelled out:
“I’ll make her shut up if she bothers us. Yes, yes, little strumpet,
I’ll tell Clémence. She’ll settle you. But, hush! here’s the man. He’s
a nice, dirty beast, he is!”
Hippolyte, just then appeared at the Duveyriers’ window, blacking his
master’s boots. The other servants, in spite of everything, were polite
to him, for he belonged to the aristocracy, and he despised Lisa, who,
in her turn, despised Adèle, with more haughtiness than rich masters
show to masters in difficulties. They asked him for news of
Mademoiselle Clémence and Mademoiselle Julie. Well! really, they were
almost bored to death there, but they were pretty well. Then, jumping
to another subject, he asked:
“Did you hear that girl last night, wriggling about with her
stomach-ache? Wasn’t it annoying? Luckily she’s going to leave soon. I
had half a mind to call out to her.”
This allusion to the boot-stitcher’s condition caused them to pass all
the ladies of the house in review.
At first they talked of Madame Campardon, who at least had nothing more
to fear; then of Madame Juzeur, who took her precautions; next of
Madame Duveyrier, who was disgusted with her husband; and of Madame
Valérie, who went and got her children away from home. And at each
recital bursts of laughter arose in blasts from the squalid hole.
Berthe had again turned pale. She waited, no longer even daring to
leave the room, her eyes cast down with shame, like one to whom
violence was being offered in Octave’s presence. He, exasperated with
the servants, felt that they were becoming too filthy, and that he
could not again take her in his arms; his desire was giving place to a
weariness and a great sadness. But suddenly the young woman started.
Lisa had just uttered her name.
“Talking of enjoying oneself, there’s one who seems to me to go in for
a rare dose of it! Eh! Adèle, isn’t it true that your Mademoiselle
Berthe was up to all manner of tricks at the time you used to wash her
petticoats?”
“And now,” said Victoire, “she gets her husband’s assistant to give her
a dusting!”
“Hush!” exclaimed Hippolyte softly.
“What for? Her jade of a servant isn’t there to-day. A sly hussy who’d
eat you, when one speaks of her mistress! You know she’s a Jewess, and
she murdered some one once. Perhaps the handsome Octave dusts her also,
in the corners. The governor must have engaged him just to increase the
family, the big ninny!”
Then Berthe, suffering indescribable anguish, raised her eyes to her
lover. And, cast down, imploring some aid, she stammered, in a painful
voice:
“My God! my God!”
Octave took her hand and squeezed it tightly; he was choking with
impotent rage. What was to be done? he could not show himself and force
those women to leave off. The foul words continued, words which the
young woman had never heard before, all the overflow of a sewer which
every morning found an outlet there, close to her, and of which she had
never had the least suspicion. Their love, so carefully hidden as they
thought, was now being dragged amidst the vegetable parings and the
kitchen slops. These women knew all, without any one having spoken.
Lisa related how Saturnin held the candle. Victoire was highly amused
by the husband’s headaches, and said that he would do well to get
himself another eye and have it placed somewhere; even Adèle had a
fling at her mistress’ young lady, whose ailments, private habits, and
toilet secrets she ruthlessly exposed. And a filthy chaff soiled all
that remained that was good and tender in their love.
“Look out below!” suddenly exclaimed Victoire; “here’s some of
yesterday’s carrots which stink enough to poison one! They’ll do for
that crapulous old Gourd!”
The servants, out of spite, threw all the filth they could into the
inner courtyard, so that the doorkeeper should have it to sweep up.
“And here’s a bit of moldy kidney!” said Adèle in her turn.
All the scrapings of the saucepans, all the muck from the washing-up
basins, found their way there, whilst Lisa continued to pull Berthe and
Octave to pieces. The pair remained standing, hand-in-hand, face to
face, unable to turn away their eyes; and their hands became as cold as
ice, and their looks acknowledged the impurity of their intimacy. This
was what their love had come to, this fornication beneath a downpour of
putrid meat and stale vegetables!
“And you know,” said Hippolyte, “the young gentleman doesn’t care for
the missis. He merely took her to help him along in the world. Oh! he’s
a miser at heart in spite of his airs, an unscrupulous fellow, who,
with his pretensions of loving women, is not above slapping them!”
Berthe, her eyes on Octave, saw him turn pale, his face so upset, so
changed, that he frightened her.
“On my word! the two make a nice pair,” resumed Lisa. “I wouldn’t give
much for her skin either. Badly brought up, with a heart as hard as a
stone, caring for nothing except her own pleasure, and sleeping with
fellows for the sake of their money, yes, for their money! for I know
the sort of woman.”
The tears streamed from Berthe’s eyes. Octave beheld her features all
distorted. It was as if they had been flayed before each other, laid
utterly bare, without any possibility of protesting. Then the young
woman, suffocated by this open cesspool which discharged its
exhalations full in her face, wished to fly. He did not detain her, for
disgust with themselves made their presence a torture, and they longed
for the relief of no longer seeing each other.
“You promise to come, next Tuesday, to my room?”
“Yes, yes.”
And she hurried away, quite distracted. Left alone, he walked about the
room, fumbling with his hands, putting the linen he had brought, into a
bundle. He was no longer listening to the servants, when their last
words attracted his attention.
“I tell you that Monsieur Hédouin died last night. If handsome Octave
had foreseen that, he would have continued to cultivate Madame Hédouin,
who’s worth a lot.”
This news, learnt there, amidst those surroundings, re-echoed in the
innermost recesses of his being. Monsieur Hédouin was dead! And he was
seized with an immense regret. He thought out loud, he could not
restrain himself from saying:
“Ah! yes, by Jove! I’ve been a fool!”
When Octave at length went down, with his bundle, he met Rachel coming
up to her room. Had she been a few minutes sooner, she would have
caught them there. Down-stairs, she had again found her mistress in
tears; but, this time, she had not got anything out of her, neither an
avowal, nor a sou. And furious, understanding that they took advantage
of her absence to see each other and thus to do her out of her little
profits, she stared at the young man with a look black with menace. A
singular schoolboy timidity prevented Octave from giving her ten
francs; and, desirous of displaying perfect ease of mind, he went in to
joke with Marie a while, when a grunt proceeding from a corner caused
him to turn round: it was Saturnin, who rose up saying, in one of his
jealous fits:
“Take care! we’re mortal enemies!”
That morning was the 8th of October, and the boot-stitcher had to clear
out before noon. For a week past, Monsieur Gourd had been watching her
with a dread that increased hourly.
The boot-stitcher had implored the landlord to let her stay a few days
longer, so as to get over her confinement, but had met with an
indignant refusal. Pains were seizing her at every moment; during the
last night, she had fancied she would be brought to bed all alone.
Then, toward nine o’clock, she had begun her moving, helping the
youngster whose little truck was in the courtyard, leaning against the
furniture or sitting down on the stairs, whenever a formidable spasm
doubled her up.
Monsieur Gourd, however, had discovered nothing. Not a man! He had been
regularly humbugged. So that, all the morning, he prowled about in a
cold rage. Octave, who met him, shuddered at the thought that he also
must know of their intimacy.
At a quarter to twelve, the work-girl appeared, with her wax-like face,
her perpetual sadness, her mournful despondency. She could scarcely
move along. Monsieur Gourd trembled until she was safe out in the
street. Just as she handed him her key, Duveyrier issued from the
vestibule, so heated by his night’s work that the red blotches on his
forehead seemed almost bleeding. He put on a haughty air, an implacable
moral severity, when the creature passed before him. Ashamed and
resigned, she bowed her head; and, following the little truck, she went
off with the same despairing step as she had come, the day when she had
been engulfed by the undertaker’s black hangings.
Then, only, did Monsieur Gourd triumph. As though this woman had
carried off with her all the uneasiness of the house, the disreputable
things with which the very walls shuddered, he called out to the
landlord:
“A good riddance, sir! One will be able to breathe now, for, on my word
of honor! it was becoming disgusting. It has lifted a hundred weight
from off my chest. No, sir; you see, in a house which is to be
respected, there should be no single women, and especially none of
those women who work!”