Part 14

"Well, Joseph, tell me that it was you who outraged the little Claire in the woods."

Joseph received the shock with extraordinary tranquillity. He simply shrugged his shoulders, swayed back and forth a few seconds, and then, giving a hitch to his pantaloons, which had slipped a little, he answered, simply:

"You see? Did I not tell you so? I know your thoughts; I know everything that goes on in your mind."

His voice was softer, but his look had become so terrifying that it was impossible for me to articulate a word.

"It is not a question of the little Claire; it is a question of you."

He took me in his arms, as he did the other evening.

"Will you come with me to the little café?"

Shuddering and trembling, I found strength to answer:

"I am afraid; I am afraid of you, Joseph. Why am I afraid of you?"

He held me cradled in his arms. And, disdaining to justify himself, happy perhaps at increasing my terrors, he said to me, in a paternal tone:

"Well, well, since that is the case, I will talk with you again about it to-morrow."

A Rouen newspaper is circulating in town, in which there is an article that is creating a scandal among the pious. It is a true story, very droll, and somewhat _risqué_, which happened lately at Port-Lançon, a pretty place situated three leagues from here. And it gains in piquancy from the fact that everybody knows the personages. Here again is something for people to talk about, for a few days. The newspaper was brought to Marianne yesterday, and at night, after dinner, I read the famous article aloud. At the first phrases Joseph rose, with much dignity, very severe and even a little angry. He declared that he does not like dirty stories, and that he cannot sit and listen to attacks on religion.

"You are not behaving well in reading that, Célestine; you are not behaving well."

And he went off to bed.

To-day, November 10, it took us all day to clean the silver service. That is an event in the house,--a traditional epoch, like the preserve-canning season. The Lanlaires possess a magnificent silver service, containing old pieces, rare and very beautiful. It comes from Madame's father, who took it, some say on deposit, others say as security for money lent to a neighboring member of the nobility. Young people for military service were not all that this blusterer bought. Everything was fish that came to his net, and one swindle more or less made no difference to him. If the grocer is to be believed, the story of this silver service is one of the most doubtful, or one of the clearest, as you choose to look at it. It is said that Madame's father got his money back, and then, thanks to some circumstance the nature of which I do not know, succeeded in keeping the silver service in the bargain. An astonishing piece of sharp practice!

Of course, the Lanlaires never use it. It remains locked up at the back of a closet in the servants' hall, in three great boxes lined with red velvet and fastened to the wall by solid iron clamps. Every year, on the tenth of November, it is taken from the boxes, and cleaned under Madame's supervision. And it is never seen again until the following year. Oh! Madame's eyes in presence of her silver service,--her silver service in our hands! Never have I seen in a woman's eyes such aggressive cupidity.

Are they not curious,--these people who hide everything, who bury their silver, their jewels, all their wealth, all their happiness, and who, being able to live in luxury and joy, persist in living a life of ennui bordering on deprivation?

The work done, the silver service locked up for a year in its boxes, and Madame having gone away after satisfying herself that none of it has stuck to our fingers, Joseph said to me, with a queer air:

"That is a very beautiful silver service, you know, Célestine. Especially 'the cruet of Louis XVI.' Ah! _sacristi!_ and how heavy it is! The whole business is worth perhaps twenty-five thousand francs, Célestine; perhaps more. One does not know what it is worth."

And, looking at me steadily and heavily, piercing the very depths of my soul, he asked:

"Will you come with me to the little café?"

What relation can there be between Madame's silver service and the little café at Cherbourg? Really, I don't know why, but Joseph's slightest words make me tremble.

XII

_November 12._

I have said that I would speak of M. Xavier. The memory of this boy pursues me, runs continually through my head. Among so many faces his is one of those that come back most frequently to my mind. Sometimes with regret, sometimes with anger. All the same, he was prettily droll and prettily vicious, M. Xavier, with his irregular features and his blonde and brazen face. Ah! the little rascal! Really one may say of him that he belonged to his epoch.

One day I was engaged as chambermaid by Mme. de Tarves, in the Rue de Varennes. A nickel-plated establishment, an elegant retinue, and handsome wages. A hundred francs a month, with washing, and wine, and everything, included. The morning that I arrived at the house, in a highly satisfied state of mind, Madame had me shown into her dressing-room. An astonishing room, hung with cream silk, and Madame, a tall woman, extremely made up, her skin too white, her lips too red, her hair too blonde, but nevertheless pretty, rustling,--with an imposing presence, and style! So much was not to be gainsaid.

I already possessed a very keen eye. Even from rapidly passing through a Parisian interior, I was able to judge of its habits and morals, and, although furniture lies as well as faces, I was rarely mistaken. In spite of the sumptuous and decent appearance of this establishment, I felt at once the disorganization that prevailed there, the broken ties, the intrigue, the haste, the feverish life, the private and hidden filth,--not sufficiently hidden, however, to prevent me from detecting the odor, always the same! Moreover, in the first looks exchanged between new and old servants there is a sort of masonic sign, generally spontaneous and involuntary, which immediately informs you regarding the general spirit of the establishment. As in all other professions, servants are very jealous of each other, and they defend themselves ferociously against new-comers. Even I, who am so easy in my ways, have suffered from these jealousies and hatreds, especially on the part of women who were enraged at my beauty. But, for the contrary reason, men--I must do them this justice--have always welcomed me cordially.

In the look of the _valet de chambre_ who had opened the door for me at the house of Mme. de Tarves I had clearly read these words: "This is a queer box ... with ups and downs ... nothing like security ... but plenty of fun, all the same. You can come in, my little one." So, in making my way to the dressing-room, I was prepared, to the extent of these uncertain and summary impressions, for something peculiar. But I must confess that I had no idea of that which really awaited me.

Madame was writing letters at a little jewel of a desk. A large skin of white astrachan served as a carpet for the room. On the cream silk walls I was astonished to see engravings of the eighteenth century, more than licentious, almost obscene, not very far from the very old enamels representing religious scenes. In a glass cabinet a quantity of old jewels, ivories, miniature snuff-boxes, and gallant little Saxon porcelains, deliciously fragile. On a table, toilet articles, very rich, of gold and silver. A little yellow dog, a ball of silky and shiny hair, was asleep on a long chair, between two mauve silk cushions.

Madame said to me:

"Célestine, is it not? Ah! I do not like that name at all. I will call you Mary, in English. Mary, you will remember? Mary, yes; that is more suitable."

That is in the order of things. We servants have not a right even to a name of our own, because in all the houses there are daughters, cousins, dogs, and parrots that have the same name that we have.

"Very well, Madame," I answered.

"Do you know English, Mary?" "No, Madame. I have already told Madame so."

"Ah! to be sure. I regret it. Turn a little, Mary, that I may look at you."

She examined me from every point of view, front, back, and profile, murmuring from time to time:

"Well, she is not bad; she is rather good-looking."

And suddenly:

"Tell me, Mary, have you a good figure ... a very good figure?"

This question surprised and disturbed me. I did not grasp the connection between my service in the house and the shape of my body. But, without waiting for my reply, Madame said, talking to herself, and surveying my entire person from head to foot, through her _face-à-main:_

"Yes, she seems to have a good figure enough."

Then, addressing me directly, she exclaimed, with a satisfied smile:

"You see, Mary, I like to have about me only women with good figures. It is more suitable."

I was not at the end of my surprises. Continuing to examine me minutely, she cried, suddenly:

"Oh! your hair! I desire you to do your hair otherwise. Your hair is not done with elegance. You have beautiful hair; you should make the most of it. A fine head of hair is a very important matter. See, like that; something in that style."

She dishevelled a little the hair on my forehead, repeating:

"Something in that style. She is charming. See, Mary, you are charming. It is more suitable."

And, while she was patting my hair, I asked myself if Madame was not a little off.

When she had finished, being satisfied with my hair, she asked:

"Is that your prettiest gown?"

"Yes, Madame."

"It is not much, your prettiest gown. I will give you some of mine which you can make over. And your underwear?"

She raised my skirt, and turned it up slightly.

"Yes, I see," said she; "that will not do at all. And your linen, is it suitable?"

Vexed by this invasive inspection, I answered, in a dry voice:

"I do not know what Madame means by suitable."

"Show me your linen; go and get me your linen. And walk a little ... again ... come back ... turn round ... she walks well, she has style."

As soon as she saw my linen, she made a face:

"Oh, this cotton cloth, these stockings, these chemises,--horrible! And this corset! I do not wish to see that in my house. I do not wish you to wear that in my house. Wait, Mary; help me."

She opened a pink lacker wardrobe, pulled out a large drawer full of fragrant garments, and emptied its contents, pell-mell, on the carpet.

"Take that, Mary; take it all. You will see there are some stitches to be taken, some repairs to be made, some little places to be mended. You will attend to that. Take it all; there is a little of everything; there is enough there to fit you out with a pretty wardrobe, a suitable _trousseau_. Take it all."

Indeed, there was everything,--silk corsets, silk stockings, silk and fine linen chemises, loves of drawers, delicious ruffs, and ornamented petticoats. A strong odor, an odor of _peau d'Espagne_, of jasmine, of well-groomed woman, in short, an odor of love, rose from these piled-up garments whose soft, faded, or violent colors glistened on the carpet like a basket of flowers in a garden. I could not get over it; I stood thoroughly stupefied, contented and embarrassed at once, before this pile of pink, mauve, yellow, and red stuffs, in which there still were ribbons of brighter shades and delicate bits of lace. And Madame stirred up these old things that were still so pretty, these undergarments that were scarcely worn, showed them to me, selected for me, and advised me, indicating her preferences.

"I like the women in my service to be coquettish, elegant; I like to have them smell good. You are a brunette; here is a red skirt that will become you marvelously. Moreover, all these things will become you very well. Take them all."

I was in a state of profound stupefaction. I knew not what to do; I knew not what to say. Mechanically, I repeated:

"Thank you, Madame. How good Madame is! Thank you, Madame."

But Madame did not leave me time to get a clear idea of my own thoughts. She talked and talked, by turns familiar, shameless, maternal, pandering, and so strange!

"It is like cleanliness, Mary, care of the body, private toilets. Oh! I insist upon that, above all things. On this point I am exacting,--exacting to the point of mania."

She entered into intimate details, insisting always on this word "suitable," that came back continually to her lips apropos of things that were scarcely so,--at least, to my thinking. As we finished our sorting of the garments, she said to me:

"A woman, no matter what woman, should always be well kept. For the rest, Mary, you will do as I do; this is a point of capital importance. You-will take a bath to-morrow. I will show you."

Then Madame took me to her room, showed me her closets, her hangings, the place for everything, familiarized me with the service, all the time making remarks that seemed to me queer and not natural.

"Now," said she, "let us go to M. Xavier's room. That, too, will be in your charge. M. Xavier is my son, Mary."

"Very well, Madame."

M. Xavier's room was situated at the other end of the vast apartment. A coquettish room, hung in blue cloth with yellow trimmings. On the walls colored English engravings representing hunting and racing scenes, teams, châteaux. A cane-holder stood in front of a panel,--a real panoply of canes, with a hunting-horn in the middle, flanked by two mail-coach trumpets crossed. On the mantel, among many bibelots, cigar-boxes, and pipes, a photograph of a pretty boy, very young and still beardless, with the insolent face of a precocious dude and the uncertain grace of a girl,--the whole producing an effect that pleased me.

"That is M. Xavier," said Madame.

I could not help exclaiming, undoubtedly with too much warmth:

"Oh! what a handsome boy!"

"Well, well, Mary!" exclaimed Madame.

I saw that my exclamation had not offended her, for she had smiled.

"M. Xavier is like all young people," she said to me. "He is not very orderly. You must be orderly for him; and his room must be perfectly kept. You will enter the room every morning at nine o'clock; you will bring him his tea; at nine o'clock, you understand, Mary? Sometimes M. Xavier comes home late. Perhaps he will not receive you well in the morning, but that makes no difference. A young man should be awakened at nine o'clock."

She showed me where M. Xavier kept his linen, his cravats, his shoes, accompanying each detail with some remark like this:

"My son is a little sharp, but he is a charming child."

Or else:

"Do you know how to fold pantaloons? Oh! M. Xavier is especially particular about his pantaloons."

As for the hats, it was agreed that I need pay no attention to them, the glory of their daily ironing belonging to the _valet de chambre_.

I found it extremely odd that, in a house where there was a _valet de chambre_, Madame should select me to serve M. Xavier.

"It is funny, but perhaps it is not very suitable," I said to myself, parodying the word which my mistress was constantly repeating apropos of no matter what.

It is true that everything seemed odd to me in this odd house.

In the evening, in the servants' hall, I learned many things.

"An extraordinary box," they explained to me. "It is very astonishing at first, and then you get used to it. Sometimes there isn't a sou in the whole house. Then Madame goes, comes, runs, goes away and comes back again, nervous, tired, her mouth filled with high words. As for Monsieur, he never leaves the telephone. He shouts, threatens, begs, and raises the devil through the instrument. And the process-servers! It has often happened that the butler had to give something out of his own pocket, on account, to furious tradesmen who were unwilling to supply anything more. On one reception day the electricity and gas were cut off. And then, suddenly, there comes a rain of gold. The house is overflowing with wealth. Where does it come from? That nobody knows exactly. As for the servants, they wait months and months for their wages. But they are always paid at last; only after what scenes, after what insults, after what squabbles! It is incredible."

Well, indeed, a nice place I had tumbled into! And such was my luck, for the one time in my life when I had good wages.

"M. Xavier has not yet come in to-night," said the _valet de chambre_.

"Oh!" exclaimed the cook, looking at me persistently, "perhaps he will return now."

And the _valet de chambre_ related that that very morning a creditor of M. Xavier had come again to raise a row. It must have been a very dirty matter, for Monsieur had sung small, and had been obliged to pay a heavy sum,--at least four thousand francs.

"Monsieur was in a pretty rage," he added; "I heard him say to Madame: 'This cannot last; he will disgrace us; he will disgrace us.'"

The cook, who seemed very philosophical, shrugged her shoulders.

"Disgrace them?" said she, with a chuckle; "little they care about that. It is the having to pay that bothers them."

This conversation made me ill at ease. I understood vaguely that there might be some relation between Madame's garments, Madame's words, and M. Xavier. But exactly what?

"It is having to pay that bothers them!"

I did not sleep at all well that night, haunted by strange dreams and impatient to see M. Xavier.

The _valet de chambre_ had not lied. A queer box, indeed!

Monsieur was in the pilgrimages,--I don't know exactly what,--president, director, or something of that sort. He picked up pilgrims where he could, among the Jews, the Protestants, the vagabonds, even among the Catholics; and once a year he took these people to Rome, to Lourdes, to Paray-le-Monial, not without gaining notoriety and profit, of course. The pope didn't see through it, and religion triumphed. Monsieur occupied himself also with charitable and political works: "The League against Secular Education," "The League against Obscene Publications," "The Society of Amusing and Christian Libraries," "The Society for the Collection of Congreganist Sucking-Bottles for the Nursing of Working People's Children." And any number of others. He presided over orphan asylums, alumnæ, convents, clubs, employment-bureaus. He presided over everything. Oh! the trades that he had! He was a plump little man, very lively, very neat, very clean-shaven, whose manners, at the same time sugary and cynical, were those of a shrewd priest full of the devil. Sometimes the newspapers contained references to him and his works. Naturally, some of them extolled his humanitarian virtues and his high apostolic sanctity; others treated him as an old rascal and a dirty scoundrel. In the servants' hall we were much amused over these quarrels, although it is rather _chic_ and flattering to be in the service of masters who are talked about in the newspapers. Every week Monsieur gave a grand dinner, followed by a grand reception, which were attended by celebrities of all sorts, academicians, reactionary senators, Catholic deputies, recalcitrant priests, intriguing monks, and archbishops. There was one especially to whom they paid especial attention, a very old Assumptionist, Father something or other, a sanctimonious and venomous man, who was always saying spiteful things with a contrite and pious air. And everywhere, in every room, there were portraits of the pope. Ah! he must have seen some tall things in that house, the Holy Father.

For my part, Monsieur was not to my liking. He did too many things, he loved too many people. And yet nobody knew half the things that he did and half the people that he loved. Surely he was a sly old dog.

On the day after my arrival, as I was helping him to put on his overcoat in the ante-chamber, he asked me:

"Do you belong to my society,--the Society of the Servants of Jesus?"

"No, Monsieur."

"You must join it. It is indispensable. I am going to enter your name."

"Thank you, Monsieur. May I ask Monsieur what this society is?"

"An admirable society, which takes in girl mothers and gives them a Christian education."

"But, Monsieur, I am not a girl mother."

"That makes no difference. There are also women just out of prison; there are repentant prostitutes; there is a little of everything. I am going to enter your name."

He took from his pocket some carefully-folded newspapers, and handed them to me.

"Hide these; read them when you are alone. They are very curious."

And he chucked me under the chin, saying with a slight clack of his tongue:

"Ah! she is a queer little one,--yes, indeed, a very queer little one!"

When Monsieur had gone, I looked at the newspapers that he had left with me. They were the "Fin de Siècle," the "Rigolo," the "Petites Femmes de Paris." Dirty sheets, indeed!

Oh! the _bourgeois!_ What an eternal farce! I have seen many of them, and of the most different kinds. They are all alike. For instance, I was once a domestic in the house of a republican deputy. He spent his time in railing at the priests. A blower, indeed! you should have seen him. He would not hear a word about religion, or the pope, or the good sisters. If people had listened to him, they would have overturned all the churches and blown up all the convents. Well, on Sunday he went to mass, secretly, in far-away parishes. At the slightest ailment he sent for the priests, and all his children were brought up by the Jesuits. He would never consent to meet his brother after the latter's refusal to marry in church. All hypocrites, all cowards, all disgusting, each in his own way.

Madame de Tarves was also in the charity line: she too presided over religious committees and benevolent societies, and organized charity sales. That is to say, she was never at home, and things in the house went on as they could. Very often Madame returned late, coming from the devil knows where. Oh! I know these returns; they directly acquainted me with the sort of works in which Madame was engaged, and with the queer capers that were cut in her committees. But she was nice with me. Never an abrupt word, never a reproach. On the contrary, she treated me familiarly, almost like a comrade; and so far did she carry this that sometimes, she forgetting her dignity and I my respect, we talked nonsense together and said _risqués_ things. She gave me advice as to the arrangement of my little affairs, encouraged my coquettish tastes, deluged me with glycerine and _peau d'Espagne_, covered my arms with cold cream, and sprinkled me with powder. And during these operations she was continually saying:

"You see, Mary, a woman must be well groomed. Her skin must be white and soft. You have a pretty face; you must learn how to set it off. You have a very fine bust; you must give it its full value. Your legs are superb; you must be able to show them. It is more suitable."

I was content. Yet within I still was not free from anxiety and obscure suspicions. I could not forget the surprising stories that they told me in the servants' hall. There, when I praised Madame and enumerated her kindnesses toward me, the cook said:

"Yes, yes, that's all right; but wait and see what follows. What she wants of you is to be intimate with her son, that he may be kept in the house more, and thus may cost these curmudgeons less money. She has already tried that with others. She has even induced friends of hers to come here,--married women,--young girls,--yes, young girls, the trollop! But M. Xavier does not fall in with this. He prefers to roam elsewhere. You will see; you will see."

And she added, with a sort of hateful regret:

"If I were in your place, how I would blackmail them! I would not hesitate, be sure."

These words made me slightly ashamed of my comrades in the servants' hall. But, to reassure myself, I preferred to believe that the cook was jealous of Madame's evident preference for me.