Chapter 20

But to love long, to make of the woman the aim of our life, the spring of our actions, the ideal of our existence; to believe in happiness together, to put faith in these fragile, vain and ignorant dolls!... What trickery!

To believe in happiness through love! Dream of the school-boy! It is permissible to the neophyte who puts on for the first time the white surplice and the golden chasuble with so much joy and pride. The sweet young girls, the youthful wives, the grave matrons regard you with softened eyes. Then you have faith, you have confidence, you see the future illumined by angels with virgin bodies who murmur mysterious words in your ear, which melt your heart. You dare hardly lift your eyes, and you say to yourself: "Which one shall I love in this legion of seraphims? Oh, I will love them all, all!" Presumptuous youth which doubts of nothing!

But when you have loved one, two, three of them ... afterwards, afterwards?

After having experienced the nothingness of all these trifles, of all these follies of the heart, of all these caprices of the imagination, of all these abortions of the thought, of all these voids of the soul, of all these impurities of the body, of all the uncleanness of the woman with whom you are satiated, and whose couch you are leaving, then go and speak of eternal love.

Oh, how right Diogenes was to call love a short epilepsy.

How right that Imperial sophist of the Decline to call it a convulsion! and the first Bonaparte, an affair of the sopha.

Thus Marcel moralized, like an old prelate, coming out from a closed room when some filthy scene has been enacted.

The fact is, that for some time he had been the hero of a comedy and of a drama; the grotesque comedy which he had unrolled with his servant, the terrible drama in which he saw himself involved with Suzanne Durand. And he was wearied and satiated. The satisfaction of his senses left him by way of retaliation, shame, trouble and fear.

Daniel Defoe has written in his admirable book:

"From how many mysterious sources, opposed one to the other, do not different circumstances cause our passions to proceed? We hate in the evening what we cherished in the morning; we avoid to-day what we sought for yesterday; we desire an object passionately, and a few moments after, we shall not know how to endure the idea of it."

Thus Marcel was cursing love, when Zulma came and knocked at his door.

XC.

LE CYGNE DE LA CROIX.

"As soon as she comes The Hostess looks hard: --My beauty no ceremony, The supper is ready; Come in, come in, my beauty Come in, and no more noise With three gallant captains You shall spend the night."

(_Popular Songs of France_).

Madame Connard, a widow, and the landlady of the Cygne de la Croix, a godly and right-thinking person, made a significant grimace when she saw a young girl, quietly dressed, entering her house, with no other luggage than an old band-box.

But when she handed her the card of Monsieur Tibulle, judge of the Court at Vic, president of the Society of St. Vincent de Paul, and member of the Committee for the protection of poor Young Girls, her grimace changed into a gracious smile.

She soon gave her a room and asked her what she wanted to eat, informing her, however, that it was a fast-day and that, consequently, she had not much choice.

--Whatever you like, said the dancer; I am convalescent; I have a good appetite, and I accommodate myself to everything: don't give then the best which you have, but the cheapest.

--The little thing is sharp, thought Madame Connard; and she added aloud: A young lady, recommended by Monsieur Tibulle, need not fear that she will want for anything. Consider what you would like, my little dear, and don't disturb yourself about the rest. And since you are ill, the Church allows us to give you meat to eat.

She went out in the meantime, and an hour afterwards she herself served a dinner which would have made the most greedy of curates envious, and washed down with that light wine, acrid but heady, which the slopes of the Meurthe produce.

The dancer, like a true child of Bohemia, dined heartily, and without needing to be asked. She was at her coffee, when she heard a whispering in the corridor, and a little cracked voice, which said:

--I am a little late, dear Madame, but I have been kept by Monseigneur. Has the little one behaved well?

--Like an angel, Monsieur Tibulle, and a demon for beauty.

--Yes, yes. This will be a fine acquisition for the Church. A soul snatched from Satan, dear Madame, snatched from Satan. We shall make something of her.

--Ah, how happy you gentlemen are to snatch in this way pretty little souls from hell. We, poor women, have not that power.

--But you prepare the ways. You open them, dear Madame Connard; everything has its purpose, its purpose, its purpose.

--Well, Monsieur Tibulle, proceed to yours. It is number 10. I leave you.

And she quietly half-opened the door of No. 10, into which Monsieur glided like a shadow, saying in his tremulous voice:

--Eh! Eh! it is I, I, I, my little dear. How happy I am to see you again, to find you here, comfortably installed like a little queen. Eh, eh.

Madame Connard put her head in for an instant, smiled, and cautiously closed the door; "He is still pretty young for his age," she said to herself. "Ah, these men! these men! that goes on to the very end."

XCI.

THE CALVES.

"Non formosus erat sed erat facundus Ulixes."

OVID.

Zulma had run forward to meet him. He took hold of both her hands and made her sit down close beside him on the sofa.

--Well, what is the news? How have they received you here? Are you satisfied? Have you had a good dinner?

--Too good, replied Zulma: I am afraid I have spent a deal of money.

--A deal of money! Eh, eh! the good little girl! But you have nothing to pay here, my little puss. Nothing at all to pay, nothing at all. All the expense is my concern, and the more you spend, the better pleased I shall be. Have they not told you that, told you that, told you that?

--You are too kind, Monsieur; but I, what shall I do then for you?

--She is heavenly, eh, eh! But I want nothing, darling, nothing, nothing ... except to see your pretty eyes. When we see them once, we have only one wish, and that is to see them again, again, again. I am well paid for the little I have done for you, since I have that pleasure. Yes, yes, yes. We are only too happy for what we can do for a charming little face like yours, and when we have obliged it, we say thank you! That is what I do, my little duck; thank-you, thank-you, thank-you.

--I am very grateful to you....

--That is what I was thinking. I want to kiss you for that kind word. Alas, we come across so many ungrateful people in the world.... What a fine and velvety skin; how soft it is under the lips ... again, again.... I could eat it ... again.... Ah, you do not want to again. What are you afraid of? I might be your father.... Come, another little kiss for poor papa.

Zulma let him kiss her again.

[PLATE V: THE CALVES. "I want to see them again, again, again."

--Well, there they are, but do not touch.

--Oh, oh, you are cheating. That is only half, I want to see them all ... up to the knees.]

--Ah, what a pretty girl! Look how strong and well made she is! continued the old President passing his trembling hand over the young girl's waist: have not these breasts grown a little thin? Yes, I believe, a little, a little, but how firm they are! like a rock, like a rock; hard as a rock, heavenly girl.... Eh, eh! you are drawing back, you are afraid of me ... of me who might be your papa.

--And perhaps my grandpapa, said Zulma.

--Grandpapa! Ah, the little girl is not flattering. Grandfather! you think then that I am quite old? I am going to pinch her calves for that naughty word, those big calves which I saw at Vic, and which have turned my head. Have they grown smaller too? Let us see, let us see.

Zulma held back the too presumptuous hand.

--What, said the worthy man astonished, you will not show your calves?

--What is the good, since you have seen them at Vic?

--I want to see them again, again, again.

--Well, there they are, but do not touch.

--Oh, oh, you are cheating. That is only half, I want to see them all ... up to the knees; at the least what I saw in the market-place.

--No, sir.

--Ah, you must not say _no_ to me.... I do not like _no_. Let me help you, my pretty. Women always have a lot of strings under their petticoats and sometimes there are knots, knots, knots. I know that, so let me do it.

--But I don't want to, I tell you.

--Nevertheless, just to show me your calves, your fine big calves.

--You have seen them enough.

--What, cried Monsieur Tibulle, indignant at length at such obstinacy, you refuse to show to me what you exhibit in public, to everybody, in the market-places, in the streets, to the first who comes along; you refuse me when I am all alone, in this little room where nobody sees us. Ah, it is very wrong, wrong, wrong. I intend to punish you for that naughty act.

--In public, that is my profession, and besides I have a costume.

--She is nice enough to eat! A costume! If you only want that, it is very easy to find. I know of a little costume, very nice and not dear; and if you like, we will both of us put it on.

--What is it?

--That which God gave us. It is the best of all, and besides it is that which will become you the best. Ah, my little dear, nothing is equal to the gifts of God, and all the fripperies of women will never serve them as well as the simple attire of our first mother. We are going then to try the costume of Adam and Eve. Does that suit you, little one? You will no longer be afraid then of showing your calves. Come, come, Sophie, my dear, enough of these affectations.

--My name is not Sophie.

--Your name is Zulma, and also Aspasia, and Phryne, and again it is Eve. For it is long since you ate of the forbidden fruit, is it not, you little rogue?

--Let me alone, I ask you.

--Leave you alone! you would think I was very silly. Come, heavenly Eve, be quick into the costume of your part; I will play Adam and you shall see what a fine apple we will eat.

--Sir, a man of your age!

--Old men are always more amorous than the young ones, you will see, you will see.

--I don't want to see anything, let me go.

--Go! and where do you want to go to? A man does not let a little duck like you go away when he has hold of her, for I have you, you little rogue, yes, yes, I have you. Listen. We will go away to-morrow morning, each our own way, neither seen, nor known. And I assure you that you will be satisfied. My wife does not expect me till to-morrow.

--Your wife? What, you are married?...

--Does that surprise you? My wife is an old she-goat who is good for nothing more. Therefore I make no more use of her. Come, let us be quick; into the costume of Eve, and if you absolutely keep to it, I will fasten a fig-leaf on to you.

But Zulma was not the girl to allow herself to be forced in this way; and the worthy old man, who wanted to add deeds to words, received a vigorous slap on the face.

He stopped, quite confused, and rubbed his cheek.

--She has a strong wrist, he said. Who would suspect that such a little hand could hit so hard? But the ice is broken now, and you are going to pay me for it.

XCII.

THE SCAPULAR

"And the old bearded fellow rubbed away, pushed with his hips, embracing her in front: clasped with his arms embracing her behind; stuffing at the chancellery, throwing her gently and collecting his strength, labouring with his chest, and even tripping her up: he made use of all."

LÉON CLADEL (_Ompdrailles_).

--I shall scream, said Zulma, who was defending herself valiantly; I shall scream if you do not loose me.

--Scream as much as you will, said the holy man as he recovered breath: here the walls are deaf, and you will have to deal with me.

--I just laugh at you. You old Punch!

--Old Punch! Punch!

--You ought to be ashamed.

--You insult me; take care.

--Let me go directly, or I shall know whom to complain to.

--Ah, you assume that tone! You want to make a complaint do you? And to whom, you little wretch?

--To whom it may concern.

--Ah, what a fine expression you have learnt by heart. Who is _whom it may concern_? I do not know him. Whoever he may be, _whom it may concern_ will laugh in your face. You, a daughter of the streets, a rope-dancer, a clown, a ragged slut, you would lodge a complaint against me! Surely you do not know who I am. I am an honourable man; known everywhere, respected everywhere. Come, you see clearly that you are talking nonsense; be more reasonable again. What! it pleases me to cast my eyes upon you, to want to pass a little while with you agreeably; I honour you by stooping myself to a girl of your kind, and you refuse, and are fastidious. Has one ever seen such a thing? It is enough to make God laugh. Come, come now, not so many affectations: for the lost time, how much do you want? A hundred francs?

--You horrify me. Let me go away.

He cast a fearful look upon her, and said, with a laugh which chilled her blood:

--Oh, you want to go away. Well, how about the money I have spent on you, and on your journey?

--Your money! I did not ask you for it. But I will let you have it back again, be assured; when I have worked and earned it.

--And you believe that I shall be satisfied with this fine promise? You will let me have my money back immediately, or I shall certainly accuse you of being a thief ... an adventuress.

--I will say what happened. It was you who compelled me to take the money for the coach-fare.

--I make you a present of that, but you will have to pay all that you have spent here; if not, you will be put in prison, you understand, little good-for-nothing? Do you think people are going to keep you and let you enjoy yourself for nothing?

--And who has told you that I shall not pay, replied Zulma, struck by the logic of this objection.

--Then you will pay immediately, said the worthy man, for I have been answerable for you, and it is on my recommendation that they have received a trollop like you into this respectable house. Madame Connard, he cried at the door, dear Madame Connard, will you bring up the bill, the little bill?

Madame Connard appeared at once:

--What, Mademoiselle is going away, is she not sleeping here?

--No, Mademoiselle is going to try her fortune elsewhere.

Madame Connard handed the bill to Monsieur Tibulle.

--No, no. It is Mademoiselle who is going to settle it; this young lady.

Zulma glanced at it and grew pale. She had hardly 10 francs, and the bill amounted to 19 francs, 75 centimes.

--And besides, it is so little because it is you. Everything is so dear here, and one does not know what to do for a living.

The poor girl remained silent; she looked at the bill without seeing it, for her eyes were full of tears.

--Well, said Monsieur Tibulle in a wheedling tone. Is there some little hindrance to your settling that?

--Madame, said Zulma, I have not enough money with me; no, I do not believe I have enough money ... but I can find it, I know where to find it ... and in an hour or two....

--Oh, oh, cried Madame Connard, in an hour or two, that is a very fine tale. But I know it, my girl, and people don't tell me that sort of thing.

--Well, dear Madame, I leave you, said Monsieur Tibulle, making her a knowing sign; I am going to see if my horse is put to, for I am setting off directly. Good-bye, little one, good-bye. No malice.

--Well, Mademoiselle, said Madame Connard, what do you decide?

--I have told you, Madame, I can give you five or six francs, and, although it is a downright robbery, I will find you the rest.

-What! a robbery? you little thief, you little hussy, you dare to call me a thief, you little street-walker. You are going to pay me immediately, or I will hand you over to the police.

--Very well, call the police, if you wish; I ask for nothing better; I will relate what has occurred.

She considered no doubt that she was wrong, for she cried:

--Look, that is not all, pay me immediately and take yourself off somewhere else. Has one ever seen anything like? You believed perhaps that I was going to lodge you and keep you for your pretty face? No, my dear. I have been done already in that way, and you don't catch me any more. There was a respectable gentleman, very polite, rich, and wearing a red ribbon, who was answerable for you, if you had been willing to make an arrangement with him; but instead of making an arrangement with him, you have a dispute; so much the worse for you, your family quarrels don't concern me. What I want is the money, that is all that I know; pay me my bill and get out, you little prostitute.

--Come, dear Madame, I will try and arrange this little matter, said Monsieur Tibulle, appearing again; the little one is going to think better of it, I feel sure. Let me reason with her.

Madame Connard withdrew complacently.

--You see, you see in what a position you are placing yourself, said the excellent old gentleman, crossing his arms and looking at the young girl with all the dignity and sorrow of a father who has detected his child in some shameful act.

--Say rather into what an ambush you have driven me, you old scoundrel.

--Oh, oh, oh! no bad word, my girl. Bad words are no use. I am going away to pay the bill.

--A fig for you and your money.

--What! a fig for me and my money! In the first place you should never despise money, my girl; we can do nothing without money in this world. And then you are wrong to despise me, who only wish you well, my dear; yes, yes, wish you well.

--I tell you to leave me alone.

--Look now, don't be naughty, for I am going to settle the matter.

--I don't want you. Don't touch me....

--And how are you going to get yourself out of this scrape, if you will not let me get you out. You rebuff me again, though I only want to make you happy.

--I tell you not to come near me.

--Come, be pacified, you little angry cat; only a kiss and that shall be all.

He wanted to take hold of her waist, but she pushed him back. But he had gone too far to believe that he ought to beat a retreat, and he retained to the charge with renewed vigour. In the struggle she seized him by the neck, his waistcoat came undone, and a little square bit of painted canvas, of a dubious colour, remained in her hand. She threw it back in his face in disgust.

--My scapular! he cried. You throw my scapular about in this way. Stay, you are a little wretch, a street-walker, a hussy, a reprobate. You will perish miserably, and I leave you to your fate. Ah, you throw away my scapular!

When he had said this, the good gentleman piously recovered his scapular, buttoned up his overcoat, and retired full of dignity.

XCIII.

FROM THE DARK TO THE FAIR.

"Moderation should preside over pleasure: let us seek in new pleasures a refuge against the satiety of our souls."

KALVOS DE ZANTE (_Odes nouvelles_).

Zulma had remembered Marcel and had gone to him boldly.

--You have been crying then, my child? said the priest who noticed her red eyes.

The young girl in a few words informed him of her adventure.

--Who would ever have believed that? she said. Such a kind man! Such an obliging lady! The old gentleman said to me at Vic: "I shall not concern myself about you if you do not go to Confession, if you do not receive the Communion, if you do not say your prayers." Whom can one trust?

And that Madame Connard: "Eat what you like, and don't stand on ceremony. Monsieur Tibulle wishes it so. Old men are made to pay." And with all these fine words, I owe her ten _francs_.

Marcel could not help laughing at the girl's artlessness.

--Then you have come to ask me for them.

--Yes, said Zulma blushing; have I not done right? She has kept my band-box, the old thief; what it contains is not worth ten _francs_, but I don't want to leave it with her.

--And what will you give me in exchange?

--Everything you want.

--That is a great deal to promise; but you have nothing.

--It is true, I have nothing, she said piteously. Well, I will kiss you and will love you very much. One may kiss a Curé, may one not?

Marcel thought she was getting to business very quickly.

--Priests do not receive kisses from anybody, he replied.

--From nobody? not even from a sister?

--But you are not my sister.

--Well, I will be your comrade.

--No more do they have a comrade.

--Oh, well, if I were a man I should not like to be in your position; one must get awfully tired of being all alone. What are you able to do all the blessed day? For my part, in the first place I must have a lover.

--Ha, ha! and who is your lover?

--A rider at the Loyal Circus. A handsome boy too. A tall dark fellow like you. He is a little too proud, but I like that in a man.

--And for how long has he been your lover?

--Ever since I have seen him. It is nearly two years ago at the fête at Mirecourt. Our booth was beside the Circus.

--Two years! cried Marcel: but at what age did you begin?

--Begin what? to dance on the tight-rope?

--To have lovers.

--But I have only had one, and that is he.

--Well, how old were you when you had him?

--I have never had him.

--Look, dear child, you have told me that you are sixteen.

--Yes, sir.

--Then you began at fourteen.

--Began what?

--With your lover.

--We never began anything. I have told you that he was too proud. I wanted to speak to him once, and he answered, "Go along."

--But he is not your lover.

--But he is, because I love him.

--And you have not had others.

--No, because I love him.

--Well, you are a good girl, and if what you have said is true, you are worth your weight in gold.

--My weight in gold! cried Zulma laughing; then buy me, for it is true, and I shall be rich.

--But how shall I know if what you say is true?

--Ah, that is embarrassing, she said thoughtfully. What can I do to prove it?

--I believe you without proof. But I am not rich enough to pay you.

--It doesn't matter, to you I give myself for nothing.

Marcel was bewildered and hurriedly gave her the ten _francs_.

--How kind you are; I should like all the same to do something for you.

--You wish to please me? Well, remain good.

--Only that! And till when?

--Until I give you permission not to be so any longer.

--I will certainly.

She took a few steps towards the door, opened it, then turning back suddenly, she advanced her bust, as though she were making a bow to the crowd, and placing the tips of her fingers on her lips, she wafted a gracious kiss to the priest.

--There is pleasant and easy love-making, said Marcel to himself. Why did I not know it sooner?

He ran to the door.

--Wait, my child. Where are you going to sleep to-night? It is late. Have you a lodging?

--Stay, my word no, I had forgotten it.

--This is what you will do. First, settle your account with this landlady, without making allusion to anything. A scandal must always be avoided. Monsieur Tibulle is a man, highly esteemed, with a considerable position in the world, and anything you might say against him, would only turn against you. Do not tell this story then to anybody; and do not tell anybody that you know me. Now take these two _louis_, my dear child, and buy yourself a few little articles of dress. You must be dressed properly. Go, and come back here. Monsieur Patin!

The landlord appeared.

--Monsieur Patin, said Marcel, I confide this young person to you, or rather, to Madame Patin here. She has been recommended specially to me by some ladies of high rank. She is going to fetch her small articles of luggage, and will soon be back again. Be careful of her. Give her a room and her meals; I am answerable for her. Mademoiselle, I shall see you again to-morrow.

What were Marcel's intentions?

Had he felt the appetite for the unknown awakening?