On the following Tuesday Berthe did not keep her promise to Octave.
This time she had warned him not to expect her, in a rapid explanation
they had had that evening, after the warehouse closed; and she sobbed;
she had been to confession the day before, feeling a want of religious
comfort, and was still quite upset by Abbé Mauduit’s grievous
exhortations. Since her marriage she had thrown aside all religion,
but, after the foul words with which the servants had sullied her, she
had suddenly felt so sad, so abandoned, so unclean, that she had
returned for an hour to the belief of her childhood, inflamed with a
hope of purification and salvation. On her return, the priest having
wept with her, her sin quite horrified her. Octave, impotent and
furious, shrugged his shoulders.
Then, three days later, she again promised for the following Tuesday.
At a meeting with her lover, in the Passage des Panoramas, she had seen
some Chantilly lace shawls, and she was incessantly alluding to them,
whilst her eyes were filled with desire. So that, on the Monday
morning, the young man laughingly said to her, in order to soften the
brutal nature of the bargain, that, if she at last kept her word, she
would find a little surprise for herself up in his room. She understood
him, and again burst into tears. No! no! she would not go now; he had
spoilt all the pleasure she had anticipated from their being together.
She had spoken of the shawl thoughtlessly; she no longer wanted it; she
would throw it on the fire if he gave it her. However, on the morrow,
they made all their arrangements: she was to knock three times at his
door very softly half an hour after midnight.
That day, when Auguste started for Lyons, he struck Berthe as being
rather peculiar. She had caught him whispering with Rachel behind the
kitchen door; besides which, he was quite yellow, and shivering, with
one eye closed up; but, as he complained a good deal of his headache,
she thought he was ill, and told him that the journey would do him
good. Directly he had left, she returned to the kitchen, still feeling
slightly uneasy, and tried to sound the servant. The girl continued to
be discreet and respectful, and maintained the stiff attitude of her
early days. The young woman, however, felt that she was vaguely
dissatisfied, and she thought that she had been very foolish to give
her twenty francs and a dress, and then to stop all further gratuities,
although compelled to do so, for she was forever in want of a five
franc piece herself.
“My poor girl,” said she to her, “I have not been very generous, have
I? But it is not my fault. I have not forgotten you, and I shall
recompense you by-and-by.”
“Madame owes me nothing,” answered Rachel, in her cold way.
Then Berthe went and fetched two of her old chemises, wishing at least
to show her good nature. But the servant, on receiving them, observed
that they would do for rags for the kitchen.
“Thank you, madame; calico irritates my skin; I only wear linen.”
Berthe, however, found her so polite, that she became more easy. She
made herself very familiar with her, told her she was going to sleep
out, and even asked her to leave a lamp alight, in case she required
it. The door leading on to the grand staircase could be bolted, and she
would go out by way of the kitchen, the key of which she would take
with her. The servant received these instructions as coolly as if it
had been a question of cooking a piece of beef for the morrow’s dinner.
By a refinement of discretion, as his mistress was to dine with her
parents that evening, Octave accepted an invitation to the Campardons’.
He counted on staying there till ten o’clock, and then going and
shutting himself up in his room, and waiting for half-past twelve with
as much patience as possible.
The dinner at the Campardons’ was quite patriarchal. The architect,
seated between his wife and her cousin, lingered over the
dishes—regular family dishes—abundant and wholesome, as he described
them.
“Eat away,” cried the architect to Octave; “you may be eaten yourself
some day.”
Madame Campardon, bending toward the young man’s ear, was once more
congratulating herself on the happiness which the cousin had brought
the household; an economy of quite cent. per cent., the servants made
to be respectful; Angèle looked after properly, and receiving good
examples.
“In short,” murmured she, “Achille continues to be as happy as a fish
in water, and, as for me, I have absolutely nothing whatever left to
do, absolutely nothing. Listen! she even washes me now. I can live
without moving either arms or legs; she has taken all the cares of the
household on her own shoulders.”
Then the architect related how “he had settled those jokers of the
Ministry of Public Instruction.”
“Just fancy, my dear fellow, they made no end of a fuss about the work
I’ve done at Evreux, You see, I wished, above all, to please the
bishop. Only, the range for the new kitchens and the heating apparatus
have come to more than twenty thousand francs. No credit was voted for
them, and it is not easy to get twenty thousand francs out of the small
sum allowed for repairs.”
They laughed all round the table, without the least respect for the
Ministry, of which they spoke with disdain, their mouths full of rice.
Rose declared that it was best to be on the side of religion. Ever
since the works at Saint-Roch, Achille was overwhelmed with orders; the
greatest families would employ no one else; it was impossible for him
to attend to them all; he would have to work all night as well as all
day. God wished them well, most decidedly, and the family returned
thanks to Him, both night and morning.
They were having dessert, when Campardon exclaimed:
“By the way, my dear fellow, you know that Duveyrier has found ————”
He was about to name Clarisse. But he recollected that Angèle was
present, so, casting a side glance toward his daughter, he added:
“He has found his relative, you know.”
And, biting his lip and winking his eye, he at length made himself
understood by Octave, who at first did not in the least catch what he
meant.
“Yes, Trublot, whom I met, told me so. The day before yesterday, when
it was pouring in torrents, Duveyrier stood up inside a doorway, and
who do you think he saw there? why, his relative shaking out her
umbrella. Trublot had been seeking her for a week past, so as to
restore her to him.”
Angèle had modestly lowered her eyes onto her plate, and began
swallowing enormous mouthfuls. The family rigorously excluded all
indecent words from their conversation.
“Is she good looking?” asked Rose of Octave.
“That’s a matter of taste,” replied the latter. “Some people may think
so.”
“She had the audacity to come to the shop one day,” said Gasparine,
who, in spite of her own skinniness, detested thin people. “She was
pointed out to me. A regular bean-stalk.”
“All the same,” concluded the architect, “Duveyrier’s hooked again. His
poor wife———”
He intended saying that Clotilde was probably relieved and delighted.
Only, he remembered a second time that Angèle was present, and put on a
doleful air to declare:
“Relations do not always agree together. Yes! every family has its
worries.”
Lisa, on the other side of the table, with a napkin on her arm, looked
at Angèle, and the latter, seized with a mad fit of laughter, hastened
to take a long drink, and hide her face in her glass.
A little before ten o’clock, Octave pretended to be very fatigued, and
retired to his room. In spite of Rose’s affectionate ways, he was ill
at ease in that family circle, where he felt Gasparine’s hostility to
him to be ever on the increase. Yet, he had never done anything to her.
She detested him for being a handsome man, she suspected him of having
overcome all the women of the house, and that exasperated her, though
she did not desire him the least in the world, but merely yielded, at
the thought of his happiness, to the instinctive anger of a woman whose
beauty had faded too soon.
Directly he had left, the family talked of retiring for the night.
Before getting into bed, Rose spent an hour in her dressing-room every
evening. She proceeded to wash and scent herself all over, then did her
hair, examined her eyes, her mouth, her ears, and even placed a tiny
patch under her chin. At night-time, she replaced her luxury of
dressing-gowns by a luxury of night-caps and chemises.
On that occasion she selected a chemise and a cap trimmed with
Valenciennes lace. Gasparine had assisted her, handing her the basins,
wiping up the water she spilt, drying her with a soft towel, little
things which she did far better than Lisa.
“Ah! I do feel comfortable!” said Rose at length, stretched out in her
bed, whilst the cousin tucked in the sheets and raised the bolster.
And she laughed with delight, all alone in the middle of the big bed.
With her soft, delicate, and spotless body, reclining amidst the lace,
she looked like some beautiful creature awaiting the idol of her heart.
When she felt herself pretty, she slept better, she used to say.
Besides, it was the only pleasure left her.
“Is it all right?” asked Campardon, entering the room. “Well!
good-night, little duck.”
He pretended he had some work to do. He would have to sit up a little
longer. But she grew angry, she wished him to take some rest; it was
foolish to work himself to death like that!
“You hear me, now go to bed. Gasparine, promise me to make him go to
bed.”
The cousin, who had just placed a glass of sugar and water, and one of
Dickens’ novels on the night table, looked at her. Without answering,
she bent over and said:
“You are so nice, this evening!”
And she kissed her on both cheeks, with her dry lips and bitter mouth,
in the resigned manner of a poor and ugly relation. Campardon, his face
very red, and suffering from a difficult digestion, also looked at his
wife. His mustache quivered slightly as he kissed her in his turn.
“Good night, my little duck.”
“Good night, my darling. Now, mind you go to bed at once.”
“Never fear!” said Gasparine. “If he’s not in bed asleep at eleven
o’clock, I’ll get up and put his lamp out.”
Toward eleven o’clock, Campardon, who was yawning over a Swiss cottage,
the fancy of a tailor of the Rue Rameau, rose from his seat and
undressed himself slowly, thinking of Rose, so pretty and so clean;
then, after opening his bed, on account of the servants, he went and
joined Gasparine in hers. It was so narrow that they slept very
uncomfortably in it, and their elbows were constantly digging into each
other’s ribs. He especially always had one leg quite stiff in the
morning, through his efforts to balance himself on the edge of the
mattress.
At the same time, as Victoire had gone to her room, having finished her
washing up, Lisa came, in accordance with her usual custom, to see if
mademoiselle required anything more. Angèle was waiting for her
comfortably in her bed; and thus, every evening, unknown to the
parents, they had endless games at cards, on a corner of the
counterpane, which they spread out for the purpose. They played at
beggar-my-neighbor, while abusing cousin Gasparine, a dirty creature,
whom the maid coarsely pulled to pieces before the child. They both
avenged themselves for their hypocritical submission during the day,
and Lisa took a low delight in this corruption of Angèle, and in
satisfying the curiosity of this sickly girl, agitated by the crisis of
her thirteen years. That night they were furious with Gasparine, who,
for two days past, had taken to locking up the sugar, with which the
maid filled her pockets, to empty them afterward on the child’s bed.
What a bear she was! now they were not even able to get a lump of sugar
to suck when going to sleep!
“Yet, your papa gives her plenty of sugar!” said Lisa, with a sensual
laugh.
“Oh! yes!” murmured Angèle, laughing also.
“What does your papa do to her? Come, show me.”
Then the child caught the maid round the neck, pressed her in her bare
arms, and kissed her violently on the mouth, saying as she did so:
“See! like this. See! like this.”
Midnight struck. Campardon and Gasparine were moaning in their
over-narrow bed, whilst Rose, stretching herself out in the middle of
hers, and extending her limbs, was reading Dickens, with tears of
emotion. A profound silence followed; the chaste night cast its shadow
over the respectability of the family.
On going up to his room, Octave found that the Pichons had company.
Jules called him in, and persisted on his taking a glass of something.
Monsieur and Madame Vuillaume were there, having made it up with the
young people, on the occasion of Marie’s churching, she having been
confined in September. They had even agreed to come to dinner one
Tuesday, to celebrate the young woman’s recovery, which only fully
dated from the day before. Anxious to pacify her mother, whom the sight
of the child, another girl, annoyed, she had sent it out to nurse, not
far from Paris. Lilitte was sleeping on the table, overcome by a glass
of pure wine, which her parents had forced her to drink to her little
sister’s health.
“Well! two may still be put up with!” said Madame Vuillaume, after
clinking glasses with Octave. “Only, don’t do it again, son-in-law.”
The others all laughed. But the old woman remained perfectly grave.
“There is nothing laughable in that,” she continued. “We accept this
child, but I swear to you that if another were to come——”
“Oh! if another came,” finished Monsieur Vuillaume, “you would have
neither heart nor brains. Dash it all! one must be serious in life, one
should restrain oneself, when one has not got hundreds and thousands to
spend in pleasures.”
And, turning toward Octave, he added:
“You see, sir, I am decorated. Well! I may tell you that, so as not to
dirty too many ribbons, I don’t wear my decoration at home. Therefore,
if I deprive my wife and myself of the pleasure of being decorated in
our own home, our children can certainly deprive themselves of the
pleasure of having daughters. No, sir, there are no little economies.”
But the Pichons assured him of their obedience. They were not likely to
be caught at that game again!
“To suffer what I’ve suffered!” said Marie, still quite pale.
“I would sooner cut my leg off,” declared Jules.
The Vuillaumes nodded their heads with a satisfied air. They had their
word, so they forgave them that time. And, as ten was striking by the
clock, they tenderly embraced all round; and Jules put on his hat to
see them to the omnibus. This resumption of the old ways affected them
so much that they embraced a second time on the landing. When they had
taken their departure, Marie, who stood watching them go down, leaning
over the balustrade, beside Octave, took the latter back to the
dining-room, saying:
“Ah! mamma is not unkind, and she is quite right: children are no
joke!”
She had shut the door, and was clearing the table of the glasses which
still lay about. The narrow room, with its smoky lamp, was quite warm
from the little family jollification. Lilitte continued to slumber on a
corner of the American cloth.
“I’m off to bed,” murmured Octave.
But he sat down, feeling very comfortable there.
“What! going to bed already!” resumed the young woman. “You don’t often
keep such good hours. Have you something to see to, then, early
to-morrow?”
“No,” answered he. “I feel sleepy, that is all. Oh! I can very well
stay another ten minutes or so.”
He just then thought of Berthe. She would not be coming up till
half-past twelve: he had plenty of time. And this thought, the hope of
having her with him for a whole night, which had been consuming him for
weeks past, no longer had the same effect on him. The fever of the day,
the torment of his desire counting the minutes, evoking the continual
image of approaching bliss, gave way beneath the fatigue of waiting.
“Will you have another small glass of brandy?” asked Marie.
“Well! yes, I don’t mind.”
He thought that it would set him up a bit. When she had taken the glass
from him, he caught hold of her hands, and held them in his, whilst she
smiled, without the least alarm. He thought her charming, with her
paleness of a woman who had recently gone through a deal of suffering.
All the hidden tenderness with which he felt himself again invaded,
ascended with sudden violence to his throat, and to his lips. He had
one evening restored her to her husband, after placing a father’s kiss
upon her brow, and now he felt a necessity to take her back again, an
acute and immediate longing, in which all desire for Berthe vanished,
like something too distant to dwell upon.
“You are not afraid, then, to-day?” asked he, squeezing her hands
tighter.
“No, since it has now become impossible. Oh! we shall always be good
friends!”
And she gave him to understand that she knew everything. Saturnin must
have spoken. Moreover, she always noticed when Octave received a
certain person in his room. As he turned pale with anxiety, she
hastened to ease his mind: she would never say a word to any one, she
was not angry, on the contrary she wished him much happiness.
“Come,” repeated she, “I’m married, so I can’t bear you any ill will.”
He took her on his knees, and exclaimed:
“But it’s you who I love!”
[Illustration]
And he spoke truly. At that moment he loved her and only her, and with
an absolute and infinite passion. All his new intrigue, the two months
spent in pursuing another, were as naught. He again beheld himself in
that narrow room, coming and kissing Marie on the neck, behind Jule’s
back, ever finding her willing, with her passive gentleness. This was
true happiness, how was it that he had disdained it? Regret almost
broke his heart. He still wished for her, and he felt that, if he had
her no more, he would be eternally miserable.
“Let me be,” murmured she, trying to release herself. “You are not
reasonable, you will end by grieving me. Now that you love another,
what is the use of continuing to torment me?”
She defended herself thus, in her gentle and irresolute way, merely
feeling a certain repugnance for what did not amuse her much. But he
was getting crazy, he squeezed her tighter, he kissed her throat
through the coarse material of her woolen dress.
“It’s you who I love, you cannot understand—Listen! on what I hold most
sacred, I swear to you I do not lie. Tear my heart open and see. Oh! I
implore you, be kind!”
Marie, paralyzed by the will of this man, made a movement as though to
take slumbering Lilitte into the next apartment; but he prevented her,
fearing that she would awaken the child. The peacefulness of the house,
at that hour of the night, filled the little room with a sort of
buzzing silence. Suddenly the lamp went down, and they were about to
find themselves in the dark, when Marie, rising, was just in time to
wind it up again.
Tears filled her eyes, and she remained sad, though still without
anger. When he left her, he felt dissatisfied, he would have liked to
have gone to sleep. But the other one would be there shortly, he must
wait for her, and this thought weighed terribly on him; after having
spent feverish nights in concocting extravagant plans for getting her
to visit him in his room, he longed for something to happen which would
prevent her from coming up. Perhaps she would once again fail to keep
her word. It was a hope with which he scarcely dared delude himself.
Midnight struck. Octave, quite tired out, stood listening, fearing to
hear the rustling of her skirts along the narrow passage. At half past
twelve, he was seized with real anxiety; at one o’clock, he thought
himself saved, but a secret irritation mingled with his relief, the
annoyance of a man made a fool of by a woman. But, just as he made up
his mind to undress himself, yawning for want of sleep, there came
three gentle taps at the door. It was Berthe. He felt both annoyed and
flattered, and advanced to meet her with open arms, when she motioned
him aside, and stood trembling and listening against the door, which
she had hastily shut after her.
“What is the matter?” asked he, in a low voice.
“I don’t know, I was frightened,” stammered she. “It is so dark on the
stairs, I thought that somebody was following me. Dear me! how stupid
all this is! Some harm is sure to happen to us.”
This chilled them both. They did not even kiss each other.
“I am going back,” said she, without leaving her chair.
“What, you are going?”
“Do you think I sell myself? You are always hurting my feelings; you
have again spoilt all my pleasure to-night. Why did you buy it, when I
forbade you to do so?”
She got up, and at length consented to look at it. But, when she opened
the box, she experienced such a disappointment, that she could not
restrain this indignant exclamation:
“What! it is not Chantilly at all, it is llama!”
Octave, who was reducing his presents, had yielded to a miserly idea.
He tried to explain to her that there was some superb llama, quite
equal to Chantilly; and he praised up the article, just as though he
had been behind his counter, making her feel the lace, and swearing
that it would last her forever. But she shook her head, and silenced
him by observing contemptuously.
“The long and short of it is, this costs one hundred francs, whereas
the other would have cost three hundred.”
And, seeing him turn pale, she added, so as to soften her words: “You
are very kind all the same, and I am much obliged to you. It is not the
value which makes the present, when one’s intention is good.”
She sat down again, and a pause ensued. She was still quite upset by
her silly fright on the stairs! And she returned to her misgivings with
respect to Rachel, relating how she had found Auguste whispering with
the maid behind the door. Yet, it would have been so easy to have
bought the girl over by giving her a five franc piece from time to
time. But to do this, it was necessary to have some five franc pieces;
she never had one, she had nothing. Her voice became harsh, the llama
shawl, which she no longer alluded to, was working her up to such a
pitch of rancor and despair, that she ended by picking the quarrel with
her lover which had already existed so long between her and her
husband.
“Come, now, is it a life worth living? never a sou, always at any one’s
mercy for the least thing! Oh! I’ve had enough of it, I’ve had enough
of it!”
Octave, who was pacing the room, stopped short to ask her:
“But why do you tell me all this?”
“Eh? sir, why? But there are things which delicacy alone ought to tell
you, without my being made to blush by having to discuss such matters
with you. Ought you not, long ere now, and without having to be told,
to have made me easy by bringing this girl to our feet?”
She paused, then she added, in a tone of disdainful irony:
“It would not have ruined you.”
There was another silence. The young man, who was again pacing the
room, at length replied:
“I am not rich, and I regret it for your sake.”
Then matters went from bad to worse, the quarrel assumed quite conjugal
violence.
“Say that I love you for your money!” cried she, with all the bluntness
of her mother, whose very words seemed to come to her lips. “I am a
money-loving woman, am I not? Well! yes, I am a money-loving woman,
because I am a sensible woman. It is no use pretending the contrary;
money will ever be money in spite of everything. As for me, whenever I
have had twenty sous, I have always pretended that I had forty, for it
is better to create envy than pity.”
He interrupted her to say, in a weary voice, like a man who only
desires peace.
“Listen, if it annoys you so much that it’s a llama shawl, I will give
you one in Chantilly.”
“Your shawl!” continued she, in a regular fury, “why, I’ve already
forgotten all about your shawl! The other things are what exasperate
me, understand! Oh! moreover, you’re just like my husband. You wouldn’t
care a bit if I hadn’t a pair of boots to go out in. Yet, when one
loves a woman, good nature alone should prompt one to feed and dress
her. But no man will ever understand that. Why, between the two of you,
you would soon let me go out with nothing on but my chemise, if I was
agreeable!”
Octave, tired out by this domestic squabble, decided not to answer,
having noticed that Auguste sometimes got rid of her in that way. He
let pass the flow of words, and thought of the ill-luck of his amours.
Yet, he had ardently desired this one, even to the point of upsetting
all his calculations; and, now that she was in his room, it was to
quarrel with him, to make him pass a sleepless night, as though they
had already left six months of married life behind them.
And full of conciliation, without desire, but polite, he tried to kiss
her. She pushed him away, and burst into tears.
“Go on, reproach me also with my outings,” stammered she in the midst
of her sobs. “Accuse me of being too great an expense to you. Oh! I see
clearly now; it’s all on account of that wretched present. If you could
shut me up in a box, you would do so. I have lady friends; I go to call
on them; that is no crime. And as for mamma——”
“For heaven’s sake leave your mamma alone,” interrupted Octave; “and
allow me to tell you that she has given you a precious bad temper.”
She mechanically commenced to undress herself, and becoming more and
more excited, she raised her voice.
“Mamma has always done her duty. It’s not for you to speak of her here.
I forbid you to mention her name. It only remained for you to attack my
family!”
Finding a difficulty in undoing the string of her petticoat, she broke
it. Then, seating herself on the edge of the bed, her bosom heaving
with anger in the midst of the surrounding lace of her chemise, she
continued:
“Ah! how I regret my weakness, sir! how one would reflect, if one could
only foresee everything!”
Octave, who had made a show of lying with his face to the wall,
suddenly bounced round, exclaiming:
“What! you regret having loved me?”
“Most certainly, a man incapable of understanding a woman’s heart!”
And they looked at each other close together, with hardened faces,
quite devoid of love.
“Ah! good heavens! if it were only to come over again!” added she.
“You would take another, wouldn’t you?” said he, brutally and in a very
low voice.
She was about to answer fin the same exasperated tone, when there came
a sudden hammering at the door. Not understanding at first what it
meant, they remained immovable, and their blood seemed to freeze in
their veins. A hollow voice said:
“Open the door, I can hear you at your dirty tricks. Open, or I will
burst it in!”
It was the husband’s voice. Still the lovers did not move, their heads
were filled with such a buzzing that they could think of nothing; and
they felt very cold, just like corpses. Berthe at length jumped from
the bed, with an instinctive desire to fly from her lover, whilst, on
the other side of the door, Auguste repeated:
“Open! open, I say!”
Then ensued a terrible confusion, an inexpressible anguish. Berthe
turned about the room in a state of distraction, seeking for some
outlet, with a fear of death which made her turn ghastly pale. Octave,
whose heart jumped to his mouth at each blow, had gone and mechanically
leant against the door, as though to strengthen it. The noise was
becoming unbearable, the fool would wake the whole house up, he would
have to open the door. But, when she understood his determination, she
hung onto his arms, imploring him with terrified eyes; no, no, mercy!
the other would rush upon them with a pistol or a knife. He, as pale as
herself, and partly overcome by her fright, slipped on his trousers,
and beseeched her to dress herself. Still bewildered, she only managed
to put on her stockings. All this time the husband continued his
uproar.
“You won’t; you don’t answer. Very well, you’ll see.”
Every since he had last paid his rent, Octave had been asking his
landlord for some slight repairs—two new screws in the staple of his
lock, which scarcely held to the wood. Suddenly the door cracked, the
staple yielded, and Auguste, unable to stop himself, rolled into the
middle of the room.
“Damnation!” swore he.
He simply held a key in his hand, which was bleeding through becoming
grazed in his fall. When he got up, livid, and filled with rage and
shame at the thought of his ridiculous entry, he hit out into space,
and wished to spring upon Octave. But the latter, in spite of the
awkwardness of being barefooted and having his trousers all awry,
seized him by the wrists, and, being the stronger of the two, mastered
him, at the same time exclaiming:
“Sir, you are violating my domicile. It is disgraceful; you should act
like a gentleman.”
And he almost beat him. During their short struggle, Berthe had made
off in her chemise by the door which had remained wide open; she
fancied she beheld a kitchen knife in her husband’s bleeding fist, and
she seemed to feel the cold steel between her shoulders. As she rushed
along the dark passage, she thought she heard the sound of blows,
without being able to make out who had dealt them, or who received
them. Voices, which she no longer recognized, were saying:
“I am at your service whenever you please.”
“Very well, you will hear from me.”
With a bound she gained the servants’ staircase. But when she had
rushed down the two flights, as though there had been the flames of a
conflagration behind her, she found the kitchen door locked, and
remembered she had left the key up-stairs in the pocket of her
dressing-gown. Moreover, there was no lamp; not the least glimmer of a
light beneath the door; it was evidently the servant who had sold them.
Without stopping to take breath, she tore up-stairs again, passing once
more before the passage leading to Octave’s room, where the two men’s
voices still continued in violent altercation.
[Illustration]
They were going on abusing each other; she would have time, perhaps.
And she rapidly descended the grand staircase, with the hope that her
husband had left their outer door open. She would bolt herself in her
room, and open to nobody. But there, for the second time, she
encountered a locked door. Then, shut out from her home, with scarcely
a covering to her body, she lost her head, and scampered from floor to
floor, like some hunted animal which knows not where to take earth. She
would never have the courage to knock at her parents’ door. At one
moment she thought of taking refuge with the doorkeepers, but shame
drove her up-stairs again. She listened, raised her head, bent over the
hand-rail, her ears deafened by the beating of her heart in the
profound silence, her eyes blinded by lights which seemed to shoot out
from the dense obscurity. And it was always the knife, the knife in
Auguste’s bleeding fist, the icy cold point of which was about to
pierce her. Suddenly there was a noise; she fancied he was coming, and
she shivered to her very marrow; and, as she was opposite Campardons’
door, she rang desperately, furiously, almost breaking the bell.
“Good heavens! is the house on fire?” asked an agitated voice inside.
The door opened at once. It was Lisa, who was only then leaving
mademoiselle, walking softly, and with a candlestick in her hand. The
mad ringing of the bell had made her start, just as she was crossing
the ante-room. When she caught sight of Berthe in her chemise, she
stood rooted to the spot.
“What’s the matter?” asked she.
The young woman had entered, violently slamming the door behind her;
and, panting and leaning against the wall, she stammered out:
“Hush! keep quiet! He wants to kill me.”
Lisa was trying to get a sensible explanation from her, when Campardon
appeared, looking very anxious. This incomprehensible uproar had
disturbed Gasparine and him in their narrow bed. He had simply slipped
on his trousers, and his fat face was swollen and covered with
perspiration, whilst his yellow beard was quite flaccid and full of the
white down of the pillow. He was all out of breath, and endeavoring to
assume the assurance of a husband who sleeps alone.
“Is that you, Lisa?” called he from the drawing-room. “It’s absurd! How
is it you’re not up-stairs?”
“I was afraid I had not fastened the door properly, sir; I could not
sleep for thinking of it, so I came down to make sure. But it’s
madame——”
The architect, seeing Berthe leaning against the wall of his anteroom
with nothing but her chemise on, stood lost in amazement also. Berthe
forgot how scantily she was clad.
“Oh! sir, keep me here,” repeated she. “He wants to kill me.”
“Who does?” asked he.
“My husband.”
The cousin now put in an appearance behind the architect. She had taken
time to don a dress, and, her hair untidy and also full of down, her
breast flat and hanging, her bones almost protruding through her
garment, she brought with her the rancor arising from her interrupted
repose. The sight of the young woman, of her plump and delicate nudity,
only increased her ill-humor.
“Whatever have you done, then, to your husband?” she asked.
At this simple question Berthe was overcome by a great shame. She
remembered she was half-naked, and blushed from head to foot. In this
long thrill of shame, she crossed her arms over her bosom, as though to
escape the glances directed at her. And she stammered out:
“He found me—he caught me——”
The two others understood, and looked at each other with indignation in
their eyes. Lisa, whose candle lighted up the scene, pretended to share
her master’s reprehension. At this moment, however, the explanation was
interrupted by Angèle also hastening to the spot; and she pretended to
have just woke up, rubbing her eyes heavy with sleep. The sight of the
lady with nothing on her but a chemise suddenly brought her to a
standstill, with a jerk, a quivering of her precocious young girl’s
slender body.
“Oh!” she simply exclaimed.
“It’s nothing; go back to bed!” cried her father.
Then, understanding that some sort of story was necessary, he related
the first that came into his head, but it was really too ludicrous.
“Madame sprained her ankle coming down-stairs, so she’s come here for
assistance. Go back to bed; you’ll catch cold!”
Lisa choked back a laugh on encountering Angèle’s wide-open eyes, as
the latter returned to her bed, all rosy, and quite delighted at having
seen such a sight. For some minutes past Madame Campardon had been
calling from her room. She had not put her light out, being so
interested in her Dickens, and she wished to know what had happened.
What did it all mean? who was there? why did not some one come to set
her mind at rest?
“Come, madame,” said the architect, taking Berthe with him. “And you,
Lisa, wait a minute.”
In the bed-room, Rose was still spread out in the middle of the big
bed. She throned there with her queenly luxury, her quiet serenity of
an idol. She was deeply affected by what she had read, and she had
placed the book on her breast, with the heavings of which it gently
rose and fell. When the cousin in a few words had made her acquainted
with what had taken place, she also appeared to be scandalized. How
could one go with a man who was not one’s husband? and she was filled
with disgust for that which was denied to her. But the architect now
cast confused glances at the young woman, and this ended by making
Gasparine blush.
“It is shocking!” cried she. “Cover yourself up, madame, for it is
really shocking! Pray cover yourself up!”
And she herself threw a shawl of Rose’s over Berthe’s shoulders, a
large knitted woolen shawl which was lying about. It did not reach to
her knees, however, and in spite of himself the architect’s eyes
wandered over the young woman’s person.
Berthe was still trembling. Though she was in safety, she kept starting
and looking toward the door. Her eyes were full of tears, and she
beseeched this lady, who seemed so calm and comfortable as she lay in
bed:
“Oh! madame, keep me, save me. He wants to kill me.”
A pause ensued. The three were consulting one another with their eyes,
without hiding their disapproval of such culpable conduct. Besides, it
was not proper to come in a state of nudity and wake people up after
midnight, and perhaps put them to great inconvenience. No, such a thing
was not right; it showed a want of discretion, besides placing them in
a very awkward position.
“We have a young girl here,” said Gasparine at length. “Think of our
responsibility, madame.”
“You would be better with your parents,” insinuated the architect, “and
if you will allow me to see you to their door——”
Berthe was again seized with terror.
“No, no! He is on the stairs; he would kill me.”
And she implored him to let her remain: a chair was all she needed to
wait on till morning; on the morrow, she would go quietly away. The
architect and his wife would have consented; he won over by such tender
charms; she interested by the drama of this surprise in the middle of
the night. But Gasparine remained inflexible. Yet she had her curiosity
to satisfy, and she ended by asking:
“Wherever were you?”
“Up-stairs, in the room at the end of the passage, you know.”
At this, Campardon held up his arms and exclaimed:
“What! with Octave! it isn’t possible!”
With Octave, with that bean-stalk, such a pretty, plump little woman!
He was annoyed. Rose, also, felt vexed, and was now inclined to be
severe. As for Gasparine, she was quite beside herself, stung to the
heart by her instinctive hatred of the young man. He again! she knew
very well that he had them all; but she was certainly not going to be
so stupid as to keep them warm for him in her home.
“Put yourself in our place,” resumed she, harshly. “I tell you again we
have a young girl here.”
“Besides,” said Campardon, in his turn, “there is the house to be
considered; there is your husband, with whom I have always been on the
best of terms. He would have a right to be surprised. It will never do
for us to appear to publicly approve your conduct, madame, oh! a
conduct which I do not permit myself to judge, but which is rather—what
shall I say?—rather indiscreet, is it not?”
“We are certainly not going to cast stones at you,” continued Rose.
“Only, the world is so wicked! People will say that you had your
meetings here. And, you know, my husband works for some very
strait-laced people. At the least stain on his morality, he would lose
everything. But, allow me to ask you, madame, how is it you were not
restrained by religion? The Abbé Mauduit was talking to us of you quite
paternally, only the day before yesterday.”
Berthe turned her head about between the three of them, looking at the
one who spoke, in a bewildered sort of way. In the midst of her fright,
she was beginning to understand; she felt surprised at being there. Why
had she rang; what was she doing amongst these people whom she
disturbed? She saw them clearly now—the wife occupying the whole width
of the bed, the husband in his drawers, and the cousin in a thin skirt,
the pair of them white with the feathers of the same pillow. They were
right; it was not proper to tumble amongst people in that way. And, as
the architect pushed her gently toward the ante-room, she went off
without even answering Rose’s religious regrets.
“Shall I accompany you as far as your parents’ door?” asked Campardon.
“Your place is with them.”
She refused, with a terrified gesture.
“Then, wait a moment; I will take a look up and down the stairs, for I
should deeply regret if the least harm happened to you.”
Lisa had remained in the middle of the ante-room, with her candle. He
took it, went out onto the landing, and returned almost immediately.
“I assure you there is no one. Run up quick.”
Then Berthe, who had not again opened her lips, hastily took off the
woolen shawl, and threw it on the floor, saying:
“Here! this is yours. It’s no use keeping it, as he’s going to kill
me!”
And she went out into the darkness, with nothing on but her chemise,
the same as when she came. Campardon double locked the door in a fury,
murmuring the while:
“Eh! go and get tumbled elsewhere!”
Then, as Lisa burst out laughing behind him, he added:
“It’s true, they’d be coming every night, if one received them. Every
one for himself. I would have given her a hundred francs: but my
reputation! no, by Jove!”
In the bed-room, Rose and Gasparine were recovering themselves. Had any
one ever seen such a shameless creature? to walk about the staircase
with nothing on! Really! there were women who respected nothing, at
certain times! But it was close upon two o’clock; they must get to
sleep. And they embraced again: good night, my darling—good night, my
duck. Eh! was it not nice to love each other, and to always agree
together, when one beheld such catastrophes occurring in other
families? Rose again took up her Dickens; he supplied all her
requirements; she would read a few more pages, then let the book slip
into the bed, the same as she did every night, and fall off asleep,
weary with emotion. Campardon followed Gasparine, made her get into bed
first, and then laid himself down beside her. They both grumbled; the
sheets had become cold again; they were not at all comfortable; it
would take them another half-hour to get warm.
And Lisa, who, before going up-stairs, had returned to Angèle’s room,
was saying to her:
“The lady has sprained her ankle. Come, show me how she sprained it.”
“Why! like this!” replied the child, throwing herself on the maid’s
neck, and kissing her on her lips.
Berthe was on the stairs shivering. It was cold, the heating apparatus
was not lighted till the beginning of November. Her fright had at
length abated. She had gone down and listened at her door: nothing, not
a sound. Then she had gone up, not daring to venture as far as Octave’s
room, but listening from a distance: there was a death-like silence,
unbroken by a murmur.
Suddenly, a noise affrighted her, causing her to jump up, and she was
about to hammer with both her fists on her mother’s door, when some one
calling out stopped her.
It was a voice almost as faint as a zephyr.
“Madame—madame—”
She looked down-stairs, but saw nothing.
“Madame—madame—it’s I.”
And Marie showed herself in her chemise also. She had heard all the
disturbance, and had slipped out of bed, leaving Jules asleep, whilst
she remained listening in her little dining-room without a light.
“Come in. You are in trouble. I am a friend.”
She gently reassured her, and told her all that had taken place. The
men had not hurt each other: he had cursed and swore, and pushed the
chest of drawers up against his door, to shut himself in; whilst the
other had gone down-stairs with a bundle in his hand, the things she
had left behind, her shoes and petticoat, which he must have rolled up
mechanically in her dressing-gown, on seeing them lying about. In
short, it was all over. It would be easy enough to prevent them
fighting on the morrow.
But Berthe remained standing on the threshold with a remnant of fear
and shame at thus entering the abode of a lady whom she did not
habitually frequent. Marie was obliged to lead her in by the hand.
“You will sleep there, on that sofa. I will lend you a shawl, and I
will go and see your mother. Good heavens! what a misfortune! When one
is in love, one does not stop to think.”
“Ah! for the little pleasure we had!” said Berthe, with a sigh, which
was full of the cruelty and stupidity of her unprofitable night. “He
does right to swear. If he’s like me, he’s had more than enough of it!”
They were on the point of speaking of Octave. They said nothing
further, but suddenly fell sobbing into each other’s arms in the dark.
Their limbs clasped with a convulsive passion, their bosoms, hot with
tears, were pressed close together beneath their crumpled chemises. It
was a final weariness, an immense sadness, the end of everything. They
did not say another word, whilst their tears flowed, flowed without
ceasing, in the midst of the darkness and of the profound slumber of
that house so full of decency.