Jupillon was walking back and forth on the sidewalk in front of
Germinie's house when she came out.
"Good-evening, Germinie," he said, behind her.
She turned as if she had been struck, and, without answering his
greeting, instinctively moved on a few steps as if to fly from him.
"Germinie!"
Jupillon said nothing more than that; he did not follow her, he did not
move. She came back to him like a trained beast when his rope is taken
off.
"What is it?" said she. "Do you want more money? or do you want to tell
me some of your mother's foolish remarks?"
"No, but I am going away," said Jupillon, with a serious face. "I am
drafted--and I am going away."
"You are going away?" said she. She seemed as if her mind was not awake.
"Look here, Germinie," Jupillon continued. "I have made you unhappy. I
haven't been very kind to you, I know. My cousin's been a little to
blame. What do you want?"
"You're going away?" rejoined Germinie, taking his arm. "Don't lie to
me--are you going away?"
"I tell you, yes--and it's true. I'm only waiting for marching orders.
You have to pay more than two thousand francs for a substitute this
year. They say there's going to be a war: however, there's a chance."
As he spoke he was leading Germinie down the street.
"Where are you taking me?" said she.
"To mother's, of course--so that you two can make up and put an end to
all this nonsense."
"After what she said to me? Never!"
And Germinie pushed Jupillon's arm away.
"Well, if that's the way it is, good-bye."
And Jupillon raised his cap.
"Shall I write to you from the regiment?"
Germinie was silent, hesitating, for a moment. Then she said, abruptly:
"Come on!" and, motioning to Jupillon to walk beside her, she turned
back up the street.
And so they walked along, side by side, without a word. They reached a
paved road that stretched out as far as the eye could see, between two
lines of lanterns, between two rows of gnarled trees that held aloft
handfuls of bare branches and cast their slender, motionless shadows on
high blank walls. There, in the keen air, chilled by the evaporation of
the snow, they walked on and on for a long time, burying themselves in
the vague, infinite, unfamiliar depths of a street that follows the
same wall, the same trees, the same lanterns, and leads on to the same
darkness beyond. The damp, heavy air that they breathed smelt of sugar
and tallow and carrion. From time to time a vivid flash passed before
their eyes: it was the lantern of a butcher's cart that shone upon
slaughtered cattle and huge pieces of bleeding meat thrown upon the back
of a white horse; the light upon the flesh, amid the darkness, resembled
a purple conflagration, a furnace of blood.
"Well! have you reflected?" said Jupillon. "This little Avenue Trudaine
isn't a very cheerful place, do you know?"
"Come on," Germinie replied.
And, without another word, she set out again at the same fierce, jerky
gait, agitated by all the tumult raging in her heart. Her thoughts were
expressed in her gestures. Her feet went astray, madness attacked her
hands. At times her shadow, seen from behind, reminded one of a woman
from La Salpetriere. Two or three passers-by stopped for a moment and
looked after her; then, remembering that they were in Paris, passed on.
Suddenly she stopped, and with the gesture of one who has made a
desperate resolution, she said: "Ah! my God! another pin in the
cushion!--Let us go!"
And she took Jupillon's arm.
"Oh! I know very well," said Jupillon, when they were near the creamery,
"my mother wasn't fair to you. You see, the woman has been too virtuous
all her life. She don't know, she don't understand. And then, d'ye see,
I'll tell you the whole secret: she loves me so much she's jealous of
any woman who loves me. So go in, do!"
And he pushed her into the arms of Madame Jupillon, who kissed her,
mumbled a few words of regret, and made haste to weep in order to
relieve her own embarrassment and make the scene more affecting.
Throughout the evening Germinie sat with her eyes fixed on Jupillon,
almost terrifying him with her expression.
"Come, come," he said, as he walked home with her, "don't be so down in
the mouth as all this. We must have a little philosophy in this world.
Well! here I am a soldier--that's all! To be sure they don't all come
back. But then--look here! I propose that we enjoy ourselves for the
fortnight that's left, because it will be so much gained--and if I don't
come back--Well, at all events, I shall leave you a pleasant memory of
me."
Germinie made no reply.