November 3.
Nothing gives me so much pleasure as to find in the newspapers the name of a person in whose house I have served. This pleasure I felt this morning more keenly than ever before, in learning from the "Petit Journal" that Victor Charrigaud has just published a new book, which has met with much approval and of which everybody speaks in admiration. This book is entitled, "From Five to Seven," and is a howling success. It is, says the article, a series of brilliant and cutting society studies, which, beneath their light exterior, hide a profound philosophy. Yes, rely upon it! At the same time that they praise Victor Charrigaud for his talent, they also compliment him highly on his elegance, on his distinguished social position, on hissalon. Ah! let us say a word of hissalon. For eight months I was the Charrigauds' chambermaid, and I really believe that I have never met such boors. God knows, however!
Everybody is familiar with the name Victor Charrigaud. He has already published a series of books that have made a sensation. "Their Little Garters," "How They Sleep," "The Sentimental Bigoudis," "Humming-Birds and Parrots," are among the most celebrated. He is a man of infinite wit, a writer of infinite talent; unhappily, success and wealth have come to him too quickly. His beginnings aroused the greatest hopes. Everybody was struck with his great faculty of observation, with his powerful gift of satire, with his implacable and just irony that penetrated so deeply humanity's ridiculous side. A well-informed and free mind, to which social conventions were nothing but falsehood and servility, a generous and clear-sighted soul, which, instead of bending under the humiliating level of prejudice, bravely directed its impulses toward a pure and elevated social ideal. At least so Victor Charrigaud was described to me by one of his friends, a painter, who was stuck on me, and whom I used sometimes to go to see, and from whom I got the opinions just expressed and the details that are to follow regarding the literature and the life of this illustrious man.
Among the ridiculous things that Charrigaud had lashed so severely, there was none that he had treated so harshly as snobbishness. In his lively conversation, well supported by facts, even more than in his books, he branded its moral cowardice and its intellectual barrenness with a bitter precision in the picturesque, a comprehensive and merciless philosophy, and sharp, profound, terrible words, which, taken up by some and passed on by others, were repeated at the four corners of Paris, and at once became classics, in a way. A complete and astonishing psychology of snobbishness is contained in the impressions, the traits, the concise profiles, the strangely-outlined and life-like silhouettes, of which this prodigal and never-wearying originality was an ever-flowing source. It seems, then, that, if any one should have escaped that sort of moral influenza which rages so violently in thesalons, it was Victor Charrigaud, better protected than anybody else against contagion by that admirable antiseptic—irony. But man is nothing but surprise, contradiction, incoherence, and folly.
Scarcely had he felt the first caresses of success, when the snob that was in him—and that was the reason why he was able to paint the snob with such force of expression—revealed itself, exploded, one might say, like an engine that has just received an electric shock. He began by dropping those friends that had become embarrassing or compromising, keeping only those who, some by their recognized talent, others by their position in the press, could be useful to him, and bolster his young fame by their persistent puffery. At the same time he made dress and fashion a subject of most careful consideration. He was seen in frock coats of an audacious Philippism, wearing collars and cravats of the style of 1830 much exaggerated, velvet waistcoats of irresistible cut, and showy jewels; and he took from metal cases, inlaid with too precious stones, cigarettes sumptuously rolled in gilt paper. But, heavy of limb and awkward of movement, he retained, in spite of everything, the unwieldy gait of the Auvergne peasants, his compatriots. Too new in a too sudden elegance in which he did not feel at home, in vain did he study himself and the most perfect models of Parisian style; he could not acquire that ease, that supple, delicate, and upright line which he saw in the young swells at the clubs, at the race-courses, at the theatres, and at the restaurants, and which he envied them with a most violent hatred. It astonished him, for, after all, he patronized only the most select furnishing houses, the most famous tailors, memorable shirt-makers, and what shoemakers! what shoemakers! Examining himself in the glass, he threw insults at himself, in his despair.
"In vain do I cover myself with velvets, silks, and satin; I always look like a boor. There is always something that is not natural."
As for Madame Charrigaud, who previously had dressed very simply and with discreet taste, she, too, sported showy and stunning costumes, with hair too red, jewels too big, silks too rich, giving her the air of a laundry queen, the majesty of a Mardi-Gras empress. They made a great deal of sport of her, sometimes cruelly. Old comrades, at once humiliated and delighted by so much luxury and so much bad taste, avenged themselves by saying jestingly of this poor Victor Charrigaud:
"Really, for an ironist, he has no luck."
Thanks to fortunate manoeuvres, incessant diplomacy, and more incessant platitudes, they were received into what they called—they too—real society, in the houses of Jewish bankers, Venezuelan dukes, and vagrant arch-dukes, and in the houses of very old ladies, crazed over literature, panderism, and the Academy. They thought of nothing but cultivating and developing these new relations, and of acquiring others more desirable and more difficult of attainment,—others, others, and always others.
One day, to free himself from an obligation which he had stupidly assumed by accepting an invitation to the house of a friend who was not a conspicuous personage, but whom he was not yet ready to drop, Charrigaud wrote him the following letter:
My Dear Old Friend:We are disconsolate. Excuse us for not keeping our promise for Monday. But we have just received, for that very day, an invitation to dine at the Rothschilds. It is the first. You understand that we cannot refuse. It would be disastrous. Fortunately, I know your heart. Far from being angry with us, I am sure that you will share our joy and our pride.
My Dear Old Friend:
We are disconsolate. Excuse us for not keeping our promise for Monday. But we have just received, for that very day, an invitation to dine at the Rothschilds. It is the first. You understand that we cannot refuse. It would be disastrous. Fortunately, I know your heart. Far from being angry with us, I am sure that you will share our joy and our pride.
Another day he was telling of the purchase that he had just made of a villa at Deauville:
"I really don't know for whom these people took us. They undoubtedly took us for journalists, for Bohemians. But I quickly let them see that I had a notary."
Gradually he eliminated all that remained of the friends of his youth,—those friends whose simple presence in his house was a constant and disagreeable reminder of the past, and a confession of that stain, of that social inferiority,—literature and labor. And he contrived also to extinguish the flames that sometimes kindled in his brain, and to finally stifle that cursed wit whose sudden revival on certain occasions it frightened him to feel, supposing it to be dead forever. Then, it was no longer enough for him to be received in the houses of others; he desired, in turn, to receive others in his own house. His occupancy of a residence of some pretension, which he had just bought in Auteuil, was made the pretext for a dinner.
I entered their service at the time when the Charrigauds had at last resolved to give this dinner. Not one of those private dinners, gay and without pose, such as they had been in the habit of giving, and which for some years had made their house so charming, but a really elegant, really solemn dinner, a stiff and chilly dinner, a select dinner, to which should be ceremoniously invited, together with some correct celebrities of literature and art, some society personalities, not too difficult to reach, not too regularly established, but sufficiently decorative to shed a little of their brilliancy upon their hosts.
"For the difficult thing," said Victor Charrigaud, "is not to dine in the city, but to give a dinner at home."
After thinking over the plan for a long time, Victor Charrigaud made this proposition:
"Well, I have it. I think that at first we can have only divorced women—with their lovers. We must begin somewhere. There are some who are very suitable, and whom the most Catholic newspapers speak of with admiration. Later, when our connections shall have become more extensive, and at the same time more select,—why, we can let the divorced people slide."
"You are right," approved Mme. Charrigaud. "For the moment, the important thing is to get the best people among those who are divorced. Say what you will, the time has come when a divorce gives a person a certain position."
"It has at least the merit of abolishing adultery," chuckled Charrigaud. "Adultery is now very old-fashioned. Nobody but friend Bourget now believes in adultery,—Christian adultery,—and in English furniture."
To which Mme. Charrigaud replied, in a tone of nervous vexation:
"How you tire me, with your maliciously wicked remarks! You will see, you will see that, because of them, we shall never be able to establish a desirablesalon."
And she added:
"If you really wish to become a man of society, you must learn first either to be an imbecile or to hold your tongue."
They made, unmade, and remade a list of guests, which, after laborious combinations, was finally settled upon as follows:
The Countess Fergus, divorced, and her friend, the economist and deputy, Joseph Brigard.
The Baroness Henri Gogsthein, divorced, and her friend, the poet, Théo Crampp.
The Baroness Otto Butzinghen, and her friend, the Viscount Lahyrais, clubman, sportsman, gambler, and trickster.
Mme. de Rambure, divorced, and her friend, Mme. Tiercelet, suing for divorce.
Sir Harry Kimberly, symbolist musician, and his young friend, Lucien Sartorys, as beautiful as a woman, as supple as apeau de Suèdeglove, as slender and blonde as a cigar.
The two academicians, Joseph Dupont de la Brie, collector of obscene coins, and Isidore Durand de la Marne, author of gallant memoirs in private and severe student of Chinese at the Institute.
The portrait-painter, Jacques Rigaud.
The psychological novelist, Maurice Fernancourt.
The society reporter, Poult d'Essoy.
The invitations were sent out, and, thanks to the mediation of influential persons, all were accepted.
The Countess Fergus alone hesitated:
"The Charrigauds?" said she. "Is theirs really a proper house? Has he not been engaged in all sorts of pursuits on Montmartre, in the past? Do they not say that he sold obscene photographs, for which he had posed, with an artificial bust? And are there not some disagreeable stories afloat regarding her? Did she not have some rather vulgar experiences before her marriage? Is it not said that she has been a model,—that she has posed for the altogether? What a horror! A woman who stripped before men who are not even her lovers?"
Finally she accepted the invitation, on being assured that Mme. Charrigaud had posed only for the head, that Charrigaud, who was very vindictive, would be quite capable of disgracing her in one of his books, and that Kimberly would come to this dinner. Oh! if Kimberly had promised to come! Kimberly, such a perfect gentleman, and so delicate and so charming, really charming!
The Charrigauds were informed of these negotiations and these scruples. Far from taking offence, they congratulated themselves that they had successfully conducted the former and overcome the latter. It was now a matter only of watching themselves, and, as Mme. Charrigaud said, of behaving themselves like real society people. This dinner, so marvelously prepared and planned, so skilfully negotiated, was really their first manifestation in the new avatar of their elegant destiny, of their social ambitions. It must, then, be an astonishing affair.
For a week beforehand everything was topsy-turvy in the house. It was necessary that the apartments should be made to look like new, and that there should be no hitch. They tried various lighting arrangements and table decorations, that they might not be embarrassed at the last moment. Over these matters M. and Mme. Charrigaud quarreled like porters, for they had not the same ideas, and their æsthetic views differed on all points, she inclining to sentimental arrangements, he preferring the severe and "artistic."
"It is idiotic," cried Charrigaud. "They will think that they are in a grisette's apartments. Ah! what a laughing-stock we shall be!"
"You had better not talk," replied Mme. Charrigaud, her nervousness reaching the point of paroxysm. "You are still what you used to be, a dirty tavern bum. And besides, I have enough of it; my back is broken with it."
"Well, that's it; let us have a divorce, my little wolf, let us have a divorce. By that means we at least shall complete the series, and cast no reflection on our guests."
They perceived also that there would not be enough silverware, glassware, and plates. They must rent some, and also rent some chairs, for they had only fifteen, and even these were not perfect. Finally, the menu was ordered of one of the grand caterers of the Boulevard.
"Let everything be ultra-stylish," ordered Mme. Charrigaud, "and let no one be able to recognize the dishes that are served. Shrimp hash, goose-liver cutlets, game that looks like ham, ham that looks like cake, truffles in whipped cream, and mashed potatoes in branches,—cherries in squares and peaches twisted into spirals. In short, have everything as stylish as possible."
"Rest easy," declared the caterer. "I know so well how to disguise things that I defy anybody to know what he is eating. It is a specialty of the house."
At last the great day arrived.
Monsieur rose early,—anxious, nervous, agitated. Madame, who had been unable to sleep all night, and weary from the errands of the day before and the preparations of all sorts, could not keep still. Five or six times, with wrinkled brow, out of breath, trembling and so weary that, as she said, she felt her belly in her heels, she made a final examination of the house, upset and rearranged bric-à-brac and furniture without reason, and went from one room to another without knowing why and as if she were mad. She trembled lest the cooks might not come, lest the florist might fail them, and lest the guests might not be placed at table in accordance with strict etiquette. Monsieur followed her everywhere, clad only in pink silk drawers, approving here, criticising there.
"Now that I think about it again," said he, "what a queer idea that was of yours to order centauries for the table decoration! I assure you that blue becomes black in the light. And then, after all, centauries are nothing but simple corn-flowers. It will look as if we had been to the fields to gather corn-flowers."
"Oh! corn-flowers! how provoking you are!"
"Yes, indeed, corn-flowers. And the corn-flower, as Kimberly said very truly the other evening at the Rothschilds, is not a society flower. Why not also corn poppies?"
"Let me alone," answered Madame. "You drive me crazy with all your stupid observations. A nice time to offer them, indeed!"
But Monsieur was obstinate:
"All right, all right; you will see, you will see. Provided, my God, that everything goes off tolerably well, without too many accidents, without too many delays. I did not know that to be society people was so difficult, so fatiguing, and so complicated a matter. Perhaps we ought to have remained simple boors."
And Madame growled:
"Oh! for that matter, I see clearly that nothing will change you. You scarcely do honor to a woman."
As they thought me pretty, and very elegant to look at, my masters had allotted to me also an importantrolein this comedy. First I was to preside over the cloak-room, and then to aid, or rather superintend, the four butlers, four tall lascars, with immense side-whiskers, selected from several employment-bureaus to serve this extraordinary dinner.
At first all went well. Nevertheless, there was a moment of alarm. At quarter before nine the Countess Fergus had not yet arrived. Suppose she had changed her mind, and resolved at the last moment not to come? What a humiliation! What a disaster! The Charrigauds were in a state of consternation. Joseph Brigard reassured them. It was the day when the countess had to preside over her admirable "Society for the Collection of Cigar-Stumps for the Army and Navy." The sessions sometimes did not end till very late.
"What a charming woman!" said Mme. Charrigaud, ecstatically, as if this eulogy had the magic power to hasten the coming of "this dirty countess," whom, at the bottom of her soul, she cursed.
"And what a brain!" said Charrigaud, going her one better, though really entertaining the same feeling. "The other day at the Rothschilds I felt that it would be necessary to go back to the last century to find such perfect grace and such superiority."
"And even then!" said Joseph Brigard, capping the climax. "You see, my dear Monsieur Charrigaud, in democratic societies based upon equality...."
He was about to deliver one of those semi-gallant, semi-sociological discourses which he was fond of retailing in thesalons, when the Countess Fergus entered, imposing and majestic, in a black gown embroidered with jet and steel that showed off the fat whiteness and soft beauty of her shoulders. And it was amid murmurs and whispers of admiration that they made their way ceremoniously to the dining-room.
The beginning of the dinner was rather cold. In spite of her success, perhaps even because of her success, the Countess Fergus was a little haughty, or, at least, too reserved. She seemed to wear an air of condescension at having honored with her presence the humble house of "these little people." Charrigaud thought he noticed that she examined with a discreetly but visibly contemptuous pout the rented silverware, the table decoration, Mme. Charrigaud's green costume, and the four butlers whose too long side-whiskers dipped into the dishes. He was filled with vague terrors and agonizing doubts as to the proper appearance of his table and his wife. It was a horrible minute!
After some commonplace and laborious replies, exchanged apropos of trivial topics then current, the conversation gradually became general, and finally settled down upon the subject of correctness in society life.
All these poor devils, all these poor wretches, male and female, forgetting their own social irregularities, showed a strangely implacable severity toward persons whom it was allowable to suspect, not even of stains or blemishes, but simply of some formal lack of respect for society laws,—the only ones that ought to be obeyed. Living, in a certain sense, outside of their social ideal, thrown back, so to speak, to the margin of that existence whose disgraced correctness and regularity they honored as a religion, they undoubtedly hoped to get into it again by driving out others. The comicality of this was really intense and savory. They divided the universe into two great parts: on the one side, that which is regular; on the other, that which is not; here the people that one may receive; there the people that one may not receive. And these two great parts soon became pieces, and the pieces became thin slices, the subdivision going onad infinitum. There were those in whose houses one may dine, and also those to whose houses one may go only for the evening. Those in whose houses one may not dine, but to which one may go for the evening. Those whom one may receive at his table, and those to whom one may accord only admission to hissalon,—and even then only under certain circumstances, clearly defined. There were also those in whose houses one may not dine and whom one should not receive at one's house, and those whom one may receive at one's house and in whose houses one may not dine; those whom one may receive at breakfast, and never at dinner; and those in whose country houses one may dine, but never in their Paris residences, etc. The whole being supported with demonstrative and peremptory examples, well-known names being cited by way of illustration.
"Shades," said the Viscount Lahyrais, sportsman, clubman, gambler, and trickster. "The whole thing lies there. It is by the strict observance of shades that a man is really in society, or is not."
I believe that I never heard such dreary things. As I listened to them, I really felt a pity for these unfortunates.
Charrigaud neither ate or drank, and said nothing. Although he was scarcely in the conversation, he nevertheless felt its enormous and forbidding stupidity like a weight upon his skull. Impatient, feverish, very pale, he watched the service, tried to catch favorable or ironical impressions of the faces of his guests, and mechanically, with movements more and more accelerated, and in spite of the warnings of his wife, rolled big pellets of bread-crumb between his fingers. When a question was put to him, he answered in a bewildered, distracted, far-away voice:
"Certainly ... certainly ... certainly."
Opposite him, very stiff in her green gown, upon which spangles of green steel glittered with a phosphorescent brilliancy, and wearing an aigrette of red feathers in her hair, Mme. Charrigaud bent to right and to left, and smiled, without ever a word,—a smile so eternally motionless that it seemed painted on her lips.
"What a goose!" said Charrigaud to himself; "what a stupid and ridiculous woman! And what a carnival costume! To-morrow, because of her, we shall be the laughing-stock of Parisian society."
And on her side Mme. Charrigaud, beneath the fixity of her smile, was thinking:
"What an idiot this Victor is! And what a bad appearance he makes! To-morrow we shall catch it on account of his pellets."
The topic of correctness in society being exhausted, there followed an embarrassing lull in the conversation, which Kimberly broke by telling of his last trip to London.
"Yes," said he, "I spent in London an intoxicating week; and, ladies, I witnessed a unique thing. I attended a ritual dinner which the great poet, John-Giotto Farfadetti, gave to some friends to celebrate his betrothal to the wife of his dear Frederic-Ossian Pinggleton."
"How exquisite that must have been!" minced the Countess Fergus.
"You cannot imagine," answered Kimberly, whose look and gestures, and even the orchid that adorned the button-hole of his coat, expressed the most ardent ecstasy.
And he continued:
"Fancy, my dear friends, in a large hall, whose blue walls, though scarcely blue, are decorated with white peacocks and gold peacocks,—fancy a table of jade, inconceivably and delightfully oval. On the table some cups, in which mauve and yellow bonbons harmonized, and in the centre a basin of pink crystal, filled with kanaka preserves ... and nothing more. Draped in long white robes, we slowly passed in turn before the table, and we took, upon the points of our golden knives, a little of these mysterious preserves, which then we carried to our lips ... and nothing more."
"Oh! I find that moving," sighed the countess, "so moving!"
"You cannot imagine. But the most moving thing—a thing that really transformed this emotion into a painful laceration of our souls—was when Frederic-Ossian Pinggleton sang the poem of the betrothal of his wife and his friend. I know nothing more tragically, more superhumanly beautiful."
"Oh! I beg of you," implored the Countess Fergus, "repeat this prodigious poem for our benefit, Kimberly."
"The poem, alas! I cannot. I can give you only its essence."
"That's it, that's it! The essence."
In spite of his morals, in which they cut no figure, Kimberly filled women with mad enthusiasm, for his specialty was subtle stories of transgression and of extraordinary sensations. Suddenly a thrill ran round the table, and the flowers themselves, and the jewels on their beds of flesh, and the glasses on the table-cloth, took attitudes in harmony with the state of souls. Charrigaud felt his reason departing. He thought that he had suddenly fallen into a mad-house. Yet, by force of will, he was still able to smile, and say:
"Why, certainly ... certainly."
The butlers finished passing something that resembled a ham, from which, in a flood of yellow cream, cherries poured like red larvæ. As for the Countess Fergus, half swooning, she had already started for extra-terrestrial regions.
Kimberly began:
"Frederic-Ossian Pinggleton and his friend, John-Giotto Farfadetti, were finishing their daily tasks in the studio which they occupied in common. One was the great painter, the other the great poet; the former short and stout, the latter tall and thin; both alike clad in drugget robes, their heads alike adorned with Florentine BONNETS, both alike neurasthenics, for they had, in different bodies, like souls and lily-twin spirits. John-Giotto Farfadetti sang in his verses the marvelous symbols that his friend, Frederic-Ossian Pinggleton, painted on his canvases, so that the glory of the poet was inseparable from that of the painter, and that their works and their immortal geniuses had come to be confounded in one and the same adoration."
Kimberly stopped for a moment. The silence was religious. Something sacred hovered over the table. He continued:
"The day was nearing its end. A very soft twilight was enveloping the studio in a pallor of fluid and lunar shade. Scarcely could one still distinguish on the mauve walls the long, supple, waving, golden algæ that seemed to move in obedience to the vibration of some deep and magic water. John-Giotto Farfadetti closed the sort of antiphonary on the vellum of which, with a Persian reed, he wrote, or rather engraved, his eternal poems; Frederic-Ossian Pinggleton turned his lyre-shaped easel against a piece of drapery, placed his heart-shaped palette upon a fragile piece of furniture, and the two, facing one another, stretched themselves, with august poses of fatigue, upon a triple row of cushions, of the color of sea-weed."
"Hum!" said Mme. Tiercelet, with a slightly warning cough.
"No, not at all," said Kimberly, reassuringly; "it is not what you think."
And he continued:
"In the centre of the studio, from a marble basin in which the petals of roses were bathing, a violent perfume was rising. And on a little table long-stemmed narcissuses were dying, like souls, in a narrow vase whose neck opened into the calyx of a lily, strangely green and distorted."
"Impossible to forget," said the countess, in a quivering voice, so low that it could scarcely be heard.
And Kimberly, without stopping, went on with his narration:
"Outside, the street became more silent, because deserted. From the Thames came, muffled by the distance, the distracted voices of sirens, the gasping voices of marine boilers. It was the hour when the two friends, giving themselves over to dreaming, preserved an ineffable silence."
"Oh! I see them so clearly!" said Madame Tiercelet, in a tone of admiration.
"And that 'ineffable,' how evocative it is!" applauded the Countess Fergus, "and so pure!"
Kimberly profited by these flattering interruptions to take a swallow of champagne. Then, feeling that he was listened to with more passionate attention than before, he repeated:
"Preserved an ineffable silence. But on this special evening John-Giotto Farfadetti murmured: 'I have a poisoned flower in my heart.' To which Frederic-Ossian Pinggleton answered: 'This evening a sorrowful bird has been singing in my heart.' The studio seemed moved by this unusual colloquy. On the mauve wall, which was gradually losing its color, the gold algæ seemed to spread and contract, and to spread and contract again, in harmony with the new rhythms of an unusual undulation, for it is certain that the soul of man communicates to the soul of things its troubles, its passions, its fervors, its transgressions, its life."
"How true that is!"
This cry, coming from several mouths at once, did not prevent Kimberly from going on with the recital, which thenceforth was to unfold itself amid the silent emotion of his hearers. His voice became even more mysterious.
"This minute of silence was poignant and tragic. 'Oh! my friend!' implored John-Giotto Farfadetti, 'you who have given me everything, you whose soul is so marvelously twin with mine, you must give me something of yourself that I have not yet had, and from the lack of which I am dying.' 'Is it, then, my life that you ask?' said the painter; 'it is yours; you can take it.' 'No, it is not your life; it is more than your life; it is your wife!' 'Botticellina!' cried the poet. 'Yes, Botticellina; Botticellinetta; flesh of your flesh, the soul of your soul, the dream of your dream, the magic sleep of your sorrows!' 'Botticellina! Alas! Alas! It was to be. You have drowned yourself in her, she has drowned herself in you, as in a bottomless lake, beneath the light of the moon. Alas! Alas! It was to be.' Two tears, phosphorescent in the penumbra, rolled from the eyes of the painter. The poet answered: 'Listen to me, oh! my friend! I love Botticellina, and Botticellina loves me, and we shall both die of loving one another, and of not daring to tell one another, and of not daring to unite. She and I are two fragments, long ago separated, of one and the same living being, which for perhaps two thousand years have been seeking and calling one another, and which meet at last to-day. Oh! my dear Pinggleton, unknown life has these strange, terrible, and delicious fatalities. Was there ever a more splendid poem than that which we are living to-night?' But the painter kept on repeating, in a voice more and more sorrowful, this cry: 'Botticellina! Botticellina!' He rose from the triple row of cushions upon which he was lying, and walked back and forth in the studio, feverishly. After some minutes of anxious agitation, he said: 'Botticellina was Mine. Henceforth must she be Thine?' 'She shall be Ours!' replied the poet, imperiously; 'for God has chosen you to be the point of suture for this severed soul which is She and which is I! If not, Botticellina possesses the magic pearl that dissipates dreams, I the dagger that delivers from corporeal chains. If you refuse, we shall love each other in death.' And he added, in a deep tone that resounded through the studio like a voice from the abyss: 'Perhaps it would be better so.' 'No,' cried the painter, 'you shall live. Botticellina shall be Thine, as she has been Mine. I will tear my flesh to shreds, I will tear my heart from my breast, I will break my head against the wall, but my friend shall be happy. I can suffer. Suffering, too, is voluptuousness, in another form!' 'And a voluptuousness more powerful, more bitter, more fierce than any other!' exclaimed John-Giotto Farfadetti, ecstatically; 'I envy your fate, do you know? As for me, I really believe that I shall die either of the joy of my love or of the sorrow of my friend. The hour has come. Adieu!' He rose, like an archangel. At that moment the drapery moved, opening and closing again on an illuminating apparition. It was Botticellina, draped in a flowing robe, of the color of the moonlight. Her floating hair shone around her like artificial fire. In her hand she held a golden key. An ecstasy was on her lips, and the night-sky in her eyes. John-Giotto rushed forward, and disappeared behind the drapery. Then Frederic-Ossian Pinggleton lay down again on the triple row of cushions, of the color of sea-weed. And, while he buried his nails in his flesh, and while the blood streamed from him as from a fountain, the golden algæ, now scarcely visible, gently quivered upon the wall, which was gradually taking on a coating of darkness. And the heart-shaped palette and the lyre-shaped easel resounded long and long, in nuptial songs."
For some moments Kimberly was silent; then, while the emotion that prevailed around the table was choking throats and compressing hearts, he concluded:
"And this is why I have dipped the point of my golden knife in the preserves prepared by kanaka virgins in honor of a betrothal more magnificent than any that our century, in its ignorance of beauty, has ever known."
The dinner was over. They rose from the table in religious silence, but thrilled through and through. In thesalonKimberly was closely surrounded and warmly congratulated. The looks of all the women converged radiantly upon his painted face, surrounding it with a halo of ecstasies.
"Ah! I should so like to have my portrait painted by Frederic-Ossian Pinggleton," cried Mme. de Rambure; "I would give anything to enjoy such happiness."
"Alas! Madame," answered Kimberly, "since the sorrowful and sublime event which I have related, Frederic-Ossian Pinggleton has been unwilling to paint human faces, however charming they may be; he paints only souls."
"And he is right! I should so like to be painted as a soul!"
"Of what sex?" asked Maurice Fernancourt, in a slightly sarcastic tone, visibly jealous of Kimberly's success.
The latter said, simply:
"Souls have no sex, my dear Maurice. They have...."
"Hair on their paws," said Victor Charrigaud, in a very low voice, so as to be heard only by the psychological novelist, to whom he was just then offering a cigar.
And, dragging him into the smoking-room, he whispered:
"Ah! old man! I wish I could shout the most filthy things, at the top of my voice, in the faces of all these people. I have enough of their souls, of their green and perverse loves, of their magic preserves. Yes, yes, to say the coarsest things, to besmear one's self with good black fetid mud for a quarter of an hour,—oh! how exquisite that would be, and how restful! And how it would relieve me of all these nauseating lilies that they have put into my heart! And you?"
But the shock had been too great, and the impression of Kimberly's recital remained. They could no longer interest themselves in the vulgar things of earth,—in topics of society, art, and passion. The Viscount Lahyrais himself, clubman, sportsman, gambler, and trickster, felt wings sprouting all over him. Each one felt the need of collecting his thoughts, of being alone, of prolonging the dream, of realizing it. In spite of the efforts of Kimberly, who went from one to another, asking: "Did you ever drink sable's milk? Ah! then, drink sable's milk; it is ravishing!" the conversation could not be resumed; so that, one after another, the guests excused themselves, and slipped away. At eleven o'clock all had gone.
When they found themselves face to face, alone, Monsieur and Madame looked at each other for a long time, steadily and with hostility, before exchanging their impressions.
"For a pretty fizzle, you know, it is a pretty fizzle," declared Monsieur.
"It is your fault," said Madame, in a tone of bitter reproach.
"Well, that's a good one!"
"Yes, your fault. You paid no attention to anything; you did nothing but roll dirty pellets of bread in your fat fingers. Nobody could get a word out of you. How ridiculous you were! It is shameful."
"Well, you needn't talk," rejoined Monsieur. "And your green gown, and your smiles, and your blunders. It was I perhaps, it was I undoubtedly, who told of Pinggleton's sorrow, who ate kanaka preserves, who painted souls,—I doubtless am the lily-worshipper."
"You are not even capable of being," cried Madame, at the height of her exasperation.
For a long time they hurled insults at one another. And Madame, after having arranged the silverware and the opened bottles in the sideboard, took herself off to her room, and shut herself up.
Monsieur continued to roam about the house in a state of extreme agitation. Suddenly noticing me in the dining-room, where I was putting things a little to rights, he came to me, and, taking me about the waist, he said:
"Ah, Célestine, you do not know the immense delight that you give me. To see a woman who is not a soul! To touch a woman who is not a lily! Kiss me."
You may judge whether I was expecting that.
But the next day, when they read in the "Figaro" an article in which their dinner, their elegance, their taste, their wit, and their social connections were pompously celebrated, they forgot everything, and talked of nothing but their great success. And their soul set sail for more illustrious conquests and more sumptuous snobberies.
"What a charming woman is the Countess Fergus!" said Madame, at lunch, as they were finishing the leavings of the dinner.
"And what a soul!" said Monsieur, in confirmation.
"And Kimberly, would you believe it? There's an astonishing talker for you! And so exquisite in his manners!"
"It is a mistake to make sport of him. After all, his vice concerns no one but himself; it is none of our business."
"Certainly not."
And she added, indulgently:
"Ah! if it were necessary to pick everybody to pieces!"
All day long, in the linen-room, I have amused myself in calling up the queer things that happened in that house,—the passion for notoriety with which, from that time, Madame was so filled that she would prostitute herself to all the dirty journalists who would promise her an article on her husband's books or a word about her costumes and hersalon, and Monsieur's complacency in letting this vile conduct go on, though perfectly aware of it. With admirable cynicism he said: "At any rate—it is less expensive than paying by the line at the newspaper offices." Monsieur, on his side, fell to the lowest depths of baseness and unscrupulousness. He called that the politics of thesalon, and society diplomacy.
I am going to write to Paris to have them send me my old master's new book. But how rotten it must be at bottom!
November 10.
Now all talk of the little Claire has ceased. As was expected, the case has been abandoned. So Joseph and the forest of Raillon will keep their secret forever. Of that poor little human creature no more will be said henceforth than of the body of a blackbird that dies in the woods, in a thicket. The father continues to break stone on the highway, as if nothing had happened, and the town, stirred and roused for a moment by this crime, resumes its usual aspect,—an aspect still more dismal because of the winter. The very bitter cold keeps people shut up in their houses. One can scarcely get a glimpse of their pale and sleepy faces behind the frosty windows, and in the streets one seldom meets anybody except ragged vagabonds and shivering dogs.
To-day Madame sent me on an errand to the butcher's shop, and I took the dogs with me. While I was there, an old woman timidly entered the shop, and asked for meat,—"a little meat to make a little soup for my sick boy." The butcher selected, from thedébrispiled up in a large copper pan, a dirty bit, half bone, half fat, and, after carefully weighing it, announced:
"Fifteen sous."
"Fifteen sous!" exclaimed the old woman; "but that is impossible! And how do you expect me to make soup out of that?"
"As you like," said the butcher, throwing the piece back into the pan. "Only, you know, I am going to send you your bill to-day. If it is not paid by to-morrow, then the process-server!"
"Give it to me," said the old woman, then, with resignation.
When she had gone, the butcher explained to me:
"Nevertheless, if we did not have the poor to buy the inferior parts, we really should not make enough out of an animal. But these wretches are getting to be very exacting nowadays."
And, cutting off two long slices of good red meat, he threw them to the dogs.
The dogs of the rich,—indeed! they are not poor.
At the Priory events succeed one another. From the tragic they pass to the comical, for one cannot always shudder. Tired of the captain's mischief-making, and acting on Madame's advice, Monsieur has at last brought suit before a justice of the peace. He claims damages and interest for the breaking of his bell-glasses and his frames, and for the devastation of the garden. It seems that the meeting of the two enemies in the office of the justice was really something epic. They blackguarded one another like rag-pickers. Of course, the captain denies, with many oaths, that he has ever thrown stones or anything else into Lanlaire's garden; it is Lanlaire who throws stones into his.
"Have you witnesses? Where are your witnesses? Dare to produce witnesses," screams the captain.
"Witnesses?" rejoins Monsieur; "there are the stones, and all the dirty things with which you have been continually covering my land. There are the old hats, and the old slippers, that I pick up every day, and that everybody recognizes as having belonged to you."
"You lie."
"You are a scoundrel, a drunken rake."
But, it being impossible for Monsieur to bring admissible and conclusive testimony, the justice of the peace, who, moreover, is the captain's friend, invites Monsieur to withdraw his complaint.
"And for that matter, permit me to say to you," concluded the magistrate, "it is highly improbable, it is quite inadmissible, that a valiant soldier, an intrepid officer, who has won all his stripes on fields of battle, amuses himself in throwing stones and old hats upon your land, like a small boy."
"Egad!" vociferates the captain, "this man is an infamous Dreyfusard. He insults the army."
"I?"
"Yes, you! What you are trying to do, you dirty Jew, is to disgrace the army. Long live the army!"
They came near taking each other by the hair, and the justice had much difficulty in separating them. Since then Monsieur has stationed permanently in the garden two invisible witnesses, behind a sort of board shelter, in which are pierced, at the height of a man, four round holes, for the eyes. But the captain, being warned, is lying low, and Monsieur is out the cost of his watchers.
I have seen the captain two or three times, over the hedge. In spite of the frost, he stays in his garden all day long, working furiously at all sorts of things. For the moment he is putting oil-paper caps on his rose-bushes. He tells me of his misfortunes. Rose is suffering from an attack of influenza, and then—with her asthma!... Bourbaki is dead. He died of a congestion of the lungs, from drinking too much cognac. Really, the captain has no luck. And surely that bandit of a Lanlaire has cast a spell over him. He wishes to get the upper hand of him, to rid the country of him, and he submits to me an astonishing plan of campaign.
"Here is what you ought to do, Mademoiselle Célestine. You ought to lodge with the prosecuting attorney at Louviers a complaint against Lanlaire for outrages on morals and an assault on modesty. Ah! that's an idea!"
"But, captain, Monsieur has never outraged my morals or assaulted my modesty."
"Well, what difference does that make?"
"I cannot."
"What! you cannot? But there is nothing simpler. Lodge your complaint, and summon Rose and me. We will come to declare, to certify in a court of justice, that we have seen everything, everything, everything. A soldier's word amounts to something, especially just now, thunder of God! And remember that, after that, it will be easy to rake up the case of little Claire, and involve Lanlaire in it. Ah! that's an idea! Think it over, Mademoiselle Célestine; think it over."
Ah! I have many things, much too many things, to think over just now. Joseph is pressing me for a decision; the matter cannot be postponed. He has heard from Cherbourg that the little café is to be sold next week. But I am anxious, troubled. I want to, and I don't want to. One day the idea pleases me, and the next it doesn't. I really believe that I am afraid that Joseph wants to drag me into terrible things. I cannot come to a decision. He is not brutal in his method of persuasion; he advances arguments, and tempts me with promises of liberty, of handsome costumes, of secure, happy, triumphant life.
"But I must buy the little café," he says to me. "I cannot let such an opportunity go by. And if the Revolution comes? Think of it, Célestine; that means fortune right away. And who knows? The Revolution—ah! bear that in mind—is the best thing possible for the cafés."
"Buy it, at any rate. If it is not I, it will be somebody else."
"No, no, it must be you. Nobody else will do. I am crazy over you. But you distrust me."
"No, Joseph, I assure you."
"Yes, yes; you have bad ideas about me."
I do not know, no, really, I do not know, where, at that moment, I found the courage to ask him:
"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 somewhatrisqué, 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.
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 thevalet de chambrewho 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 herface-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 suitabletrousseau. 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 ofpeau 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 thevalet de chambre.
I found it extremely odd that, in a house where there was avalet 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 thevalet de chambre.
"Oh!" exclaimed the cook, looking at me persistently, "perhaps he will return now."
And thevalet de chambrerelated 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.
Thevalet de chambrehad 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 ratherchicand 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! thebourgeois!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 saidrisquésthings. She gave me advice as to the arrangement of my little affairs, encouraged my coquettish tastes, deluged me with glycerine andpeau 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."