Part 22

William was given to these disenchanting aphorisms. And, being all the same a very gallant man, he added, as he took me about the waist:

"A little girl like you is less flattering to a lover's vanity. But she is more serious, all the same."

I must say that Madame spent all her wrath and showered all her coarse words upon Monsieur; with us, I repeat, she was rather timid.

Moreover, amid the disorder of her house, amid all the reckless waste she tolerated, Madame showed queer streaks of avarice that were quite unexpected. She higgled with the cook over two sous spent for salad, economized in the matter of the servants' washing, raised objections to a bill of three francs, and did not rest until, after endless complaints and correspondence, and interminable negotiations, she had secured a refunding of fifteen centimes unwarrantably collected by an expressman for the transportation of a package. Every time she took a cab, there was a quarrel with the coachman, to whom she gave no tip, and whom she even found a way of cheating. And yet she left her money about everywhere, with her jewels and her keys, on the mantels and on the furniture. She recklessly ruined her richest costumes and her finest linen, she suffered herself to be impudently robbed by dealers in articles of luxury, and accepted with without a frown the books of the old butler, as Monsieur, for that matter, accepted those of William. And yet God knows what frauds they contained! Sometimes I said to William:

"Really, you pinch too much; some day you will get into trouble."

To which William replied, very calmly:

"Oh! let me alone; I know what I am about, and how far I can go. When one has masters as stupid as these are, it would be a crime not to take advantage of them."

But the poor fellow scarcely profited by these continual larcenies, which, in spite of the astonishing tips he had, continually went to fill the pockets of the bookmakers.

Monsieur and Madame had been married for five years. At first they went into society a great deal, and gave dinners. Then gradually they restricted their goings-out and their receptions, and lived almost alone, saying that they were jealous of each other. Madame reproached Monsieur with flirting with the women; Monsieur accused Madame of looking too much at the men. They loved each other much,--that is to say, they quarreled all day long, like a little _bourgeois_ household. The truth is that Madame had not succeeded in society, and that her manners had cost her not a few insults. She was angry with Monsieur for not having been able to impose her upon society, and Monsieur was angry with Madame for having made him ridiculous in the eyes of his friends. They did not confess to each other the bitterness of their feelings, finding it simpler to charge their dissensions to the score of love.

Every year, in the middle of June, they started for the country, Madame having, it seems, a magnificent château in Touraine. The personnel was re-enforced with a coachman, two gardeners, a second chambermaid, and some barnyard-scullions. There were cows, peacocks, hens, and rabbits. How delightful! William told me the details of their country life with a bitter and grumbling ill-humor. He did not like the country; the fields, the trees, and the flowers made him tired. Nature was endurable to him only with bar-rooms, race-tracks, bookmakers, and jockeys. He was exclusively Parisian.

"Do you know anything more stupid than a chestnut tree?" he often said to me. "Take Edgar, for instance; he is a _chic_ man, a superior man; does he like the country?"

I became enthusiastic:

"Oh! but the flowers in the broad lawns! And the little birds!"

William sneered:

"The flowers? They are pretty only on hats and in the millinery shops. And the little birds? Oh, don't talk about them! They prevent you from sleeping in the morning. They sound like bawling children. Oh! no. Oh! no. I have enough of the country. The country is fit only for peasants."

And, straightening up, with a noble gesture, he concluded, in a proud voice:

"I must have sport. I am not a peasant; I am a sportsman."

Nevertheless I was happy, and I awaited the month of June with impatience. Oh! the marguerites in the meadows; the little paths under the trembling leaves; the nests hidden in the ivies against the old walls; and the nightingales on moonlight nights; and the sweet conversations, hand in hand, on the brinks of wells, lined with honeysuckles and carpeted with maiden's-hair and moss; and the bowls of foaming milk; and the broad-brimmed straw hats; and the little chickens; and the masses heard in the village churches, with their towering steeples; and everything that moves and charms you, and makes an impression on your heart, like one of those pretty ballads they sing in the music-halls!

Although I am fond of fun, I have a poetical nature. The old shepherds, the outspread hay, the birds that pursue one another from branch to branch, and the brooks that run singing over light pebbles, and the handsome lads, with complexions made purple by the sun, like grapes on very old vines,--the handsome lads with robust limbs and powerful chests,--all these things make me dream pleasant dreams. In thinking of these things, I become almost a little girl again, my soul inundated and my heart refreshed by innocence and candor, as a little rain refreshes the little flower too much burned by the sun, too much dried by the wind. And at night, while waiting for William, becoming enthusiastic over the prospects of this future of pure joys, I made verses:

Petite fleur, O toi, ma soeur, Dont la senteur Fait mon bonheur ...

Et toi, ruisseau, Lointain coteau, Frêle arbrisseau, Au bord de l'eau,

Que puis-je dire, Dans mon délire? Je vous admire ... Et je soupire ...

Amour, amour, Amour d'un jour, Et de toujours!... Amour, amour!...

As soon as William returned, all poesy flew away. He brought me the heavy odor of the bar-room, and his kisses, which smelt of gin, quickly broke the wings of my dream. I never wanted to show him my verses. What was the use? He would have laughed at me, and at the sentiment that inspired them. And undoubtedly he would have said to me:

"Take Edgar, now! He is an astonishing man. Does he make verses?"

My poetical nature was not the only cause of my impatience to start for the country. My stomach was out of order, in consequence of the long period of poverty through which I had just passed, and perhaps also in consequence of the too abundant and exciting food that I was now enjoying, and the champagne and the Spanish wines that William forced me to drink. I was really suffering. Often, in the morning, on getting out of bed, I was seized with vertigo. During the day my legs bent under me, and I felt pains in my head, like the blows of a hammer. I really needed a quieter life, to restore me a little.

Alas! it was written that all this dream of happiness and health was also to be dashed.

"Oh! hell!" as Madame would say.

The scenes between Monsieur and Madame always began in Madame's dressing-room, and always grew out of trifling pretexts, out of nothing. The more trifling the pretext, the more violent was the scene. After which, having vomited all that their hearts contained of long pent-up bitterness and wrath, they sulked for entire weeks. Monsieur retired into his room, where he played solitaire and rearranged his collection of pipes in new harmonies. Madame remained all the time in her room, where, stretched upon a long chair, she read love stories, interrupting her reading only to rearrange her closets and her wardrobe, with rage and frenzy,--such a pillage! They met only at meals. At first, not being familiar with their manias, I thought they were going to throw plates, knives, and bottles at each other's heads. Nothing of the kind, alas! It was at these times that they were the best behaved, and that Madame contrived to appear like a woman of society. They talked about their little affairs as if nothing had happened,--a little more ceremoniously than usual, with a little more cold and stilted politeness,--that was all. One would have said they were dining in town. Then, the meal finished, with serious air, sad eyes, and very dignified, they retired to their respective rooms. Madame began again on her novels and drawers, Monsieur on his solitaire and his pipes. Sometimes Monsieur went to pass an hour or two at his club, but rarely. And they exchanged a furious correspondence, hen-shaped or heart-shaped love-letters, with the transmission of which I was entrusted. All day long I played the letter-carrier, bearing terrible ultimatums, threats, supplications, pardons, and tears, from the room of Madame to that of Monsieur. It was enough to make one die of laughter.

After a few days, they became reconciled, just as they had fallen out, without any apparent reason. And there were sobs, and "Oh, you naughty boy!" "Oh! you naughty girl!" and "It is over, do I not tell you it is over?" And they went away to have a little fête at the restaurant, and the next day arose very late, much fatigued.

I at once understood the farce that the two poor actors were playing for themselves. And, when they threatened to leave each other, I knew very well that they were not sincere. They were riveted to each other,--he by his interest, she by her vanity. Monsieur clung to Madame's money, Madame held fast to Monsieur's name and title. But, as in reality they detested each other, precisely because of this dupe's bargain that bound them, they felt the need of saying so to each other from time to time, and of giving to their disappointment, their spite, and their contempt an expression as base as their souls.

"What are such lives good for?" said I to William.

"For Baby!" answered William, who, under all circumstances, found the accurate and final word.

For immediate and material proof he drew from his pocket a magnificent cigar, pinched that very morning, carefully cut off the tip, and then, lighting it with satisfaction and tranquillity, declared, between two fragrant whiffs:

"One should never complain of the stupidity of his masters, my little Célestine. It is the only guarantee of happiness that we servants have. The more stupid the masters, the more fortunate the servants. Go and get me the fine champagne."

Half stretched out in a rocking-chair, with legs cocked up and crossed, with the cigar in his mouth, and a bottle of old Martell within reach of his hand, he slowly and methodically unfolded the "Autorité," and said, with admirable good nature:

"You see, my little Célestine, one must be stronger than the people whom one serves. That is the whole secret. God knows whether Cassagnac is a terrible man. God knows whether his ideas suit me to a T, and whether I admire this tall devil. Well, do you know? I would not like to be his servant,--not for anything in the world. And what I say of Cassagnac I say also of Edgar. Remember this, and try to profit by it. To serve in the houses of intelligent people who are 'on to us' is to be duped, my little pet."

And, enjoying his cigar, he added, after a silence:

"When I think that there are servants who pass their lives in running down their masters, in annoying them and threatening them! What brutes! When I think that there are some who would like to kill them! Kill them! And what then? Do we kill the cow that gives us milk, and the sheep that gives us wool? No, we milk the cow, and shear the sheep ... skilfully ... gently."

And he silently plunged into the mysteries of conservative politics.

Meanwhile Eugénie was prowling around the kitchen, amorous and flabby. She did her work mechanically, like a somnambulist, far from the people up-stairs, far from us, far from herself, with no eye for their follies or ours, and with silent words of sorrowful admiration always on her lips.

"Your little mouth, your little hands, your big eyes!"

All this often saddened me,--I don't know why,--saddened me to the point of tears. Yes, this strange house, in which all the beings in it, the silent old butler, William, and myself, seemed to me disquieting, empty, and dismal, like phantoms, sometimes filled me with unspeakable and oppressive melancholy.

The last scene that I witnessed was particularly droll.

One morning Monsieur entered the dressing-room at the moment when Madame was trying on a new corset in my presence, a frightful mauve satin corset with yellow flowerets and yellow silk lacings. Madame's taste will never choke her.

"What?" said Madame, in a tone of gay reproach. "Is that the way one enters women's rooms, without knocking?"

"Oh! women?" chirped Monsieur. "In the first place, you are not women."

"I am not women? What am I, then?"

Monsieur rounded his lips,--My! what a stupid air he had!--and very tenderly, or pretending tenderness, he buzzed:

"Why! you are my wife, my little wife, my pretty little wife. There is no harm in entering the room of one's little wife, I suppose."

When Monsieur played the imbecile lover, it was because he wanted to get some money out of Madame. She, still suspicious, replied:

"Yes, there is harm."

And she minced:

"Your little wife? Your little wife? It is not so sure that I am your little wife."

"What! It is not so sure?"

"Indeed, one never knows. Men are so queer."

"I tell you, you are my little wife,--my dear, my only little wife ... ah!"

"And you ... my baby ... my big baby ... his little wife's only big baby ... na!"

I was lacing Madame, who, with bare arms raised, was looking into the mirror. And I had a great desire to laugh. How they tired me with their "little wife" and their "big baby"! What a stupid air they both had!

After picking up skirts, stockings, and towels, and disturbing brushes, jars, and bottles, Monsieur took a fashion journal which was lying on the dressing-table, and sat down on a sort of plush-covered stool. He asked:

"Is there a rebus in this number?"

"Yes, I think there is a rebus."

"Have you guessed it?"

"No, I have not guessed it."

"Ah! ah! let's have a look at it."

While Monsieur, with wrinkled brow, was absorbed in the study of the rebus, Madame said, a little dryly:

"Robert?"

"My darling."

"Then you notice nothing?"

"No. What? In this rebus?"

She shrugged her shoulders, and pursed up her lips.

"It is not a question of the rebus. Then you notice nothing? Well, you never notice anything."

Monsieur surveyed the room from carpet to ceiling, from dressing-table to door, with an annoyed and a very round look, which was excessively comical.

"No, indeed! What is it? Is there anything new here, then, that I have not noticed? I see nothing, upon my word."

Madame became very sad, and she groaned:

"Robert, you no longer love me."

"What! I no longer love you! Indeed, that is putting it a little too strong!"

He rose, brandishing the fashion journal.

"What! I no longer love you!" he repeated. "Well, that's an idea! Why do you say that?"

"No, you no longer love me ... because, if you still loved me, you would have noticed something."

"But what thing?"

"Well, you would have noticed my corset."

"What corset? Oh! yes, this corset. 'Tis true, I had not noticed it. How stupid I am! Why, yes, it is very pretty, you know,... ravishing."

"Yes, you say that now, and you don't mean it. I am too stupid, myself. I tire myself out in trying to make myself beautiful,--in trying to find things to please you. And you care nothing about it. Besides, what am I to you? Nothing; less than nothing! You come in here, and what do you see? That dirty newspaper. In what are you interested? In a rebus! Ah, a pretty life you give me here! We do not see anybody; we do not go anywhere; we live like wolves, like poor people."

"Oh! come, come, I beg of you. Don't get angry. Come! As poor people, indeed!"

He tried to approach Madame, to take her about the waist, to kiss her, but she repulsed him severely.

"No, let me alone. You provoke me."

"Oh! come, my darling, my little wife."

"You provoke me, do you hear? Let me alone. Do not approach me. You are a gross egoist, a clumsy puppy; you don't know how to do anything for me; you are a dirty type, there!"

"Why do you say that? It is madness. Come, don't fly into a passion like that. Well, yes, I was wrong. I ought to have seen this corset right away,--this very pretty corset. Why did I not see it right away? I do not understand it. Look at me; smile at me. My! how pretty it is! And how it becomes you!"

Monsieur dwelt too persistently upon the subject. He irritated me, although I had no interest in the quarrel. Madame stamped on the carpet, and, becoming more and more nervous, with pale lips and clenched hands, she rattled on:

"You provoke me, you provoke me! Do you understand? Clear out!"

Monsieur continued to stammer, beginning now to show signs of exasperation.

"My darling! It is not reasonable. Just for a corset! It is out of all proportion. Come, my darling, look at me, smile at me. It is stupid to make such a fuss over a corset."

"Ah! _Tu m'emmerdes!_" vomited Madame, in the voice of a washerwoman. "_Tu m'emmerdes!_ Clear out!"

I had finished lacing my mistress. I arose at this word, delighted at having surprised their two beautiful souls in all their nakedness, and at the thought of the humiliation that they would feel in my presence afterward. They seemed to have forgotten that I was there. Desiring to see how the scene would end, I kept perfectly still, and made myself as small as possible.

Monsieur, who had been holding in for a long time, now got angry in his turn. He made the fashion journal into a big ball, and flung it with all his might against the dressing-table; and he cried:

"_Zut! Flûte!_ This is really getting too tiresome! It is always the same thing. One cannot say anything or do anything without being received like a dog. And always brutalities and coarse language. I have enough of this life; I have had enough of these fishwife's manners. And shall I tell you the truth? Your corset,--well, your corset is vile. It is a prostitute's corset."

"Wretch!"

With bloodshot eye, foaming mouth, and clenched and threatening fist, she advanced toward Monsieur. And such was her rage that the words came from her mouth in a sort of hoarse belching.

"Wretch!" she roared again. "And it is you who dare to speak to me in this way,--you? Oh! but it is unheard of. When I picked him up in the mud, this poverty-stricken fine gentleman, covered with dirty debts, posted at his club,--when I saved him from the mire, he was not so proud! Your name, I suppose? Your title? Oh! clean they were, indeed, this name and title, on which the usurers were unwilling to advance you another hundred sous. You can take them back, and welcome. And he talks of his nobility, of his ancestors, this Monsieur whom I have bought and whom I support! Well, the nobility will have nothing more from me,--not that! And, as for your ancestors, you scoundrel, you can try to hang them up. You will see whether you can borrow even ten sous on their ugly mugs,--mugs of veterans and valets. Nothing more, do you hear? Never, never! Back to your gaming-tables, trickster! Back to your prostitutes, pimp!"

She was frightful. Monsieur, timid, trembling, with cowardly back and humiliated eye, retired before this flood of filth. He reached the door, noticed me, and fled, and Madame again cried after him, in the passage-way, in a voice which had become more hoarse and horrible:

"Pimp! Dirty pimp!"

And she sank upon her long chair, overcome by a terrible nervous attack, which I finally quieted by making her inhale an entire flask of ether.

Then Madame began again the reading of her love stories and the rearrangement of her drawers. Monsieur was more absorbed than ever in the complexities of solitaire and in the revision of his collection of pipes. And the correspondence began again. Timid and widely-spaced at first, it was soon going on fast and furiously. I became utterly tired out with running from the room of one to the room of the other, bearing heart-shaped or hen-shaped threats. But oh! what fun I had!

Three days after this scene, while reading a missive from Monsieur, on pink paper and bearing his coat of arms, Madame turned pale, and suddenly asked me, in a gasping voice:

"Célestine, do you really think that Monsieur wants to kill himself? Have you seen him with weapons in his hands? My God! If he were to kill himself?"

I burst out laughing in Madame's face. And this laugh, which had escaped me in spite of myself, increased, let itself loose, poured itself out. I thought I should die, choked by this laugh, strangled by this cursed laugh that rose, like a tempest, in my breast, and filled my throat with irrepressible hiccups.

For a moment Madame sat aghast.

"What is it? What is the matter with you? Why do you laugh like that? Be still, then. Will you be still, nasty creature?"

But the laugh held me fast; it would not let go. At last, between two gasps, I cried:

"Oh! no, your goings on are too funny, too stupid! Oh! la la! Oh! la la! How stupid it is!"

Of course I quit the house that night, and found myself once more on the street pavement.

What a dog of a trade! What a dog of a life!

The blow was a hard one, and I said to myself, but too late, that never should I find another place like that. There I had everything,--good wages, profits of all sorts, easy work, liberty, pleasures. I had only to let myself live. Another, less crazy than I, would have been able to put much money aside, and gradually accumulate a complete and beautiful wardrobe. Five or six years only, and who knows? One could marry, buy a little business, have a home of one's own, secure against want and ill-luck,--almost a lady. But now the series of miseries must begin over again, and I submit anew to the offences of chance. I was much put out by this accident, and furious; furious against myself, against William, against Eugénie, against Madame, against everybody. Curious and inexplicable thing,--instead of clinging and holding fast to my place, which would have been easy with a type like Madame, I had buried myself deeper in my stupidity, and, cheeking it through, I had rendered irreparable that which could have been repaired. What strange things take place in one at certain moments! It passes understanding. It is like a fit of madness which falls upon you, you know not whence, you know not why,--which seizes you, shakes you, excites you, and forces you to cry out and shower insults. Under the influence of this fit of madness, I had heaped outrages upon Madame. I had reproached her with her father, with her mother, and with the imbecile falsehood of her life; I had treated her as one does not treat a prostitute; I had spat upon her husband. And this frightens me, when I think of it. I feel ashamed of these sudden descents into baseness, of these filthy intoxications, in which my reason so often staggers, and which impel me to violence and murder. Why did I not kill her that day? Why did I not strangle her? I do not know. God knows, however, that I am not wicked. To-day I see again this poor woman, in my mind's eye; I see again her sad and disorderly life, with her coward, her dismal coward, of a husband. And I feel an immense pity for her; and I would like her to have strength enough to leave him and be happy.

After the terrible scene I hurried down to the servants' hall. William was mildly polishing the silverware, and smoking a Russian cigarette.

"What is the matter with you?" asked he, in the most tranquil fashion in the world.

"I must go away; I must quit the box to-night," I gasped.

I could scarcely speak.

"What! you are going?" exclaimed William, without the least emotion. "And why?"

In short and hissing phrases, and mimicking their manners, I related the entire scene between Madame and Monsieur. William, very calm and indifferent, shrugged his shoulders.