"As we passed the landlady's door I felt my heart beating very quickly. But we reached the second floor, then the third, and at last the fifth, and got into my room. Victory!
"However, I only dared to speak in a whisper, and took off my boots so as not to make any noise. The tea, which I made over a spirit-lamp, was soon drunk, and then I became pressing, till little by little, as if in play, I, one by one, took off my companion's garments. She yielded while resisting, blushing, confused.
"She had absolutely nothing on except a short white petticoat when my door suddenly opened, and Mme Kergaran appeared with a candle in her hand, in exactly the same costume as Emma.
"I jumped away from her and remained standing, looking at the two women, who were looking at each other. What was going to happen?
"My landlady said, in a lofty tone of voice which I had never heard from her before:
"'Monsieur Kervelen, I will not have prostitutes in my house.'
"'But, Madame Kergaran,' I stammered, 'the young lady is a friend of mine. She just came in to have a cup of tea.'
"'People don't take tea in their chemises. You will please make this person go directly.'
"Emma, in a natural state of consternation, began to cry, and hid her face in her petticoat, and I lost my head, not knowing what to do or say. My landlady added, with irresistible authority:
"'Help her to dress, and take her out at once.'
"It was certainly the only thing I could do, so I picked up her dress from the floor where it had collapsed in a heap like a deflated balloon, put it over her head, and began to fasten it as best I could. She helped me, crying all the time, hurrying and making all sorts of mistakes and unable to find either button-holes or laces, while Mme Kergaran stood by motionless, with the candle in her hand, looking at us with the severity of a judge.
"Emma now began to hurry feverishly, throwing her things on at random, tying, pinning, lacing and fastening in a frenzy, goaded on by the irresistible desire for flight, and without even stopping to button her boots, she rushed past the landlady and ran downstairs. I followed her in my slippers and half undressed, and kept repeating: 'Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!'
"I felt that I ought to say something to her, but I could not find anything. I overtook her just by the street-door, and tried to take her into my arms, but she pushed me violently away, saying in a low, nervous voice:
"'Leave me alone, leave me alone!' and so ran out into the street, closing the door behind her.
"When I went upstairs again I found that Mme Kergaran was waiting on the first landing. I went up slowly, expecting, and ready for, anything.
"Her door was open, and she called me in, saying in severe voice:
"'I want to speak to you, M. Kervelen.'
"I went in, with my head bent. She put her candle on the mantlepiece, and then, folding her arms over her expansive bosom, which a fine white dressing-jacket hardly covered, she said:
"'So, Monsieur Kervelen, you think my house is a house of ill-fame?'
"I was not at all proud. I murmured:
"'Oh dear, no! But, Mme Kergaran, you must not be angry; you know what young men are.'
"'I know,' was her answer, 'that I will not have such creatures here, so you will understand that. I expect to have my house respected, and I will not have it lose its reputation, you understand me? I know—'
"She went on thus for at least twenty minutes, overwhelming me with the good name of her house, with reasons for her indignation, and loading me with severe reproofs.
"Men are curious creatures. Instead of listening to her, I was looking at her, and did not hear a word, not a word she said. She had a superb bosom, firm, white and plump, perhaps a little too plump, but tempting enough to send shivers down one's spine. I should never have dreamed that anything so charming was concealed beneath the woollen dress of my landlady. She looked ten years younger when undressed. I began to feel queer... shall I say... moved? I suddenly found myself picking up with her the threads of the situation she had disturbed fifteen minutes previously in my bedroom.
"Behind her, in the alcove, I could see her bed, with the sheets rolled down, tossed, showing a hollow place where her body had pressed. And I thought it must be very nice, very warm there, much warmer than in any other bed, no doubt because of the opulent charms that rested there.
"What could be more charming, more disturbing, than an unmade bed? This one, even from a distance, intoxicated me, and made my flesh tingle.
"She was still talking, but now more gently, like a gruff but well-meaning friend, who is willing to make up and be friends.
"'Madame Kergaran, 'I stammered, 'I... I...', and as she had stopped to hear my reply, I seized her in my arms and began to kiss her, to devour her, like a famished man who has been waiting for a long time.
"She struggled, turning away her head, but without becoming really angry, and repeated mechanically, as was her habit: 'Oh, the brute... the brute... the bru...
"She did not finish the word, for I had lifted her with an effort, and was carrying her clasped to my heart. Under certain circumstances, one acquires remarkable vigour!
"I stumbled against the edge of the bed, and I fell on it still holding her in my arms... It was nice and warm in her bed.
"An hour later, the candle having gone out, my landlady got up to light another. As she returned and slipped in by my side, her great, round leg crushing the sheets, she said in a coaxing, satisfied, perhaps grateful tone: 'Oh, the brute... the brute!...'"
Maître Chicot, the innkeeper, who lived at Épreville, pulled up his tilbury in front of Mother Magloire's farmhouse. He was a tall man of about forty, fat and with a red face, who was generally said to be very malicious.
He hitched his horse up to the gatepost and went in the yard. He owned some land adjoining that of the old woman. He had been coveting her plot for a long while, and had tried in vain to buy it a score of times, but she had always obstinately refused to part with it.
"I was born here, and here I mean to die," was all she said.
He found her peeling potatoes outside the farmhouse door. She was a woman of about seventy-two, very thin, shrivelled and wrinkled, almost dried-up, in fact, and much bent, but as active and untiring as a girl. Chicot patted her on the back in a very friendly fashion, and then sat down by her on a stool.
"Well, Mother, you are always pretty well and hearty, I am glad to see."
"Nothing to complain of, considering, thank you. And how are you, Maître Prosper?"
"Oh! pretty well, thank you, except a few rheumatic pains occasionally; otherwise, I should have nothing to complain of."
"Well, I am glad of that!"
And she said no more, while Chicot watched her going on with her work. Her crooked, knotty fingers, hard as a lobster's claws, seized the tubers, which were lying in a pail, as if they had been a pair of pincers, and peeled them rapidly, cutting off long strips of skin with an old knife which she held in the other hand, throwing the potatoes into the water as they were done. Three daring fowls jumped one after the other into her lap, seized a bit of peel, and then ran away as fast as their legs would carry them with it in their beaks.
Chicot seemed embarrassed, anxious, with something on the tip of his tongue which he could not get out. At last he said hurriedly:
"I say. Mother Magloire—"
"Well, what is it?"
"You are quite sure that you do not want to sell your farm?"
"Certainly not; you may make up your mind to that. What I have said, I have said, so don't bring it up again."
"Very well; only I fancy I have thought of an arrangement that might suit us both very well."
"What is it?"
"Here you are: You shall sell it to me, and keep it all the same. You don't understand? Very well, just listen to my idea."
The old woman left off peeling her potatoes, and her bright eyes looked at the innkeeper attentively from under her wrinkled eyelids, as he went on:
"Let me explain myself: Every month I will give you a hundred and fifty francs. You understand me, I suppose? Every month I will come and bring you thirty crowns, and it will not make the slightest difference in your life—not the very slightest. You will have your own home just as you have now, will not trouble yourself about me, and will owe me nothing; all you will have to do will be to take my money. Will that arrangement suit you?"
He looked at her good-humouredly, one might almost have said benevolently, and the old woman returned his looks distrustfully, as if she suspected a trap, and said:
"It seems all right, as far as I am concerned, but it will not give you the farm."
"Never mind about that," he said, "you will remain here as long as it pleases God Almighty to let you live; it will be your home. Only you will sign a deed before a lawyer making it over to me after your death. You have no children, only nephews and nieces for whom you don't care a straw. Will that suit you? You will keep everything during your life, and I will give you the thirty crowns a month. It is pure gain as far as you are concerned."
The old woman was surprised, rather uneasy, but, nevertheless, very much tempted to agree, and answered:
"I don't say that I will not agree to it, but I must think about it. Come back in a week and we will talk it over again, and I will then give you my definite answer."
And Maître Chicot went off, as happy as a king who had conquered an empire.
Mother Magloire was thoughtful, and did not sleep at all that night; in fact, for four days she was in a fever of hesitation. She felt instinctively, that there was something underneath the offer which was not to her advantage; but then the thought of thirty crowns a month, of all those coins chinking in her apron, falling to her, as it were, from the skies, without her doing anything for it, filled her with covetousness.
She went to the notary and told him about it. He advised her to accept Chicot's offer, but said she ought to ask for a monthly payment of fifty crowns instead of thirty, as her farm was worth sixty thousand francs at the lowest calculation.
"If you live for fifteen years longer," he said, "even then he will only have paid forty-five thousand francs for it."
The old woman trembled with joy at this prospect of getting fifty crowns a month; but she was still suspicious, fearing some trick, and she remained a long time with the lawyer asking questions without being able to make up her mind to go. At last she gave him instructions to draw up the deed, and returned home with her head in a whirl, just as if she had drunk four jugs of new cider.
When Chicot came again to receive her answer she took a lot of persuading, and declared that she could not make up her mind to agree to his proposal, though she was all the time on tenter-hooks lest he should not consent to give the fifty crowns. At last, when he grew urgent, she told him what she expected for her farm.
He looked surprised and disappointed, and refused.
Then, in order to convince him, she began to talk about the probable duration of her life.
"I am certainly not likely to live for more than five or six years longer. I am nearly seventy-three, and far from strong, even considering my age. The other evening I thought I was going to die, and I had to be carried to bed."
But Chicot was not going to be taken in.
"Come, come, old lady, you are as strong as the church tower, and will live till you are a hundred at least; you will be sure to see me put underground first."
The whole day was spent in discussing the money, and as the old woman would not give way, the landlord consented to give the fifty crowns, and she insisted upon having ten crowns over and above to strike the bargain.
Three years passed by, and the old dame did not seem to have grown a day older. Chicot was in despair. It seemed to him as if he had been paying that annuity for fifty years, that he had been taken in, outwitted, and ruined. From time to time he went to see his annuitant, just as one goes in July to see when the harvest is likely to begin. She always met him with a cunning look, and one would have thought that she was congratulating herself on the trick she had played him. Seeing how well and hearty she seemed, he very soon got into his tilbury again, growling to himself:
"Will you never die, you old brute?"
He did not know what to do, and felt inclined to strangle her when he saw her. He hated her with a ferocious, cunning hatred, the hatred of a peasant who has been robbed, and he began to cast about for means of getting rid of her.
One day he came to see her again, rubbing his hands as he did the first time when he proposed the bargain, and, after having chatted for a few minutes, he said:
"Why do you never come and have a bit of dinner at my place when you are in Épreville? The people are talking about it and saying that we are not on friendly terms, and that pains me. You know it will cost you nothing if you come, for I don't look at the price of a dinner. Come whenever you feel inclined; I shall be very glad to see you."
Old Mother Magloire did not need to be told twice, and the next day but one—she was going to the town in any case, it being market-day, in her gig, driven by her man—she, without any demur, put her trap up in Maître Chicot's stable, and went in search of her promised dinner.
The innkeeper was delighted, and treated her like a princess, giving her roast fowl, black pudding, leg of mutton, and bacon and cabbage. But she ate next to nothing. She had always been a small eater and had generally lived on a little soup and a crust of bread-and-butter.
Chicot was disappointed, and pressed her to eat more, but she refused. She would drink next to nothing either, and declined any coffee, so he asked her:
"But surely, you will take a little drop of brandy?"
"Well, as to that, I don't know that I will refuse." Whereupon he shouted out:
"Rosalie, bring the superfine brandy,—the special,—you know."
The servant appeared, carrying a long bottle ornamented with a paper vine-leaf, and he filled two liquor glasses.
"Just try that; you will find it first-rate."
The good woman drank it slowly in sips, so as to make the pleasure last all the longer, and when she had finished her glass, draining the last drops so as to make sure of all, she said:
"Yes, that is first-rate!"
Almost before she had said it, Chicot had poured her out another glassful. She wished to refuse, but it was too late, and she drank it very slowly, as she had done the first, and he asked her to have a third. She objected, but he persisted.
"It is as mild as milk, you know. I can drink ten or a dozen without any ill effect; it goes down like sugar, and leaves no headache behind; one would think that it evaporated on the tongue. It is the most wholesome thing you can drink."
She took it, for she really wanted it, but she left half the glass.
Then Chicot, in an excess of generosity, said:
"Look here, as it is so much to your taste, I will give you a small keg of it, just to show that you and I are still excellent friends." Then she took her leave, feeling slightly overcome by the effects of what she had drunk.
The next day the innkeeper drove into her yard, and took a little iron-hooped keg out of his gig. He insisted on her tasting the contents, to make sure it was the same delicious article, and, when they had each of them drunk three more glasses, he said, as he was going away:
"Well, you know, when it is all gone, there is more left; don't be modest, for I shall not mind. The sooner it is finished the better pleased I shall be."
Four days later he came again. The old woman was outside her door cutting up the bread for her soup.
He went up to her, and put his face close to hers, so that he might smell her breath; and when he smelled the alcohol he felt pleased.
"I suppose you will give me a glass of the special?" he said. And two or three times they drank each other's health.
Soon, however, it began to be whispered abroad that Mother Magloire was in the habit of getting drunk all by herself. She was picked up, sometimes in her kitchen, sometimes in her yard, sometimes on the roads in the neighbourhood, and was often brought home dead to the world.
Chicot did not go near her any more, and, when people spoke to him about her, he used to say, putting on a distressed look:
"It is a great pity that she should have taken to drink at her age; but when people get old there is no remedy. It will be the death of her in the long run."
And it certainly was the death of her. She died the next winter, about Christmas time, having fallen down drunk in the snow.
And when Maître Chicot inherited the farm he said:
"It was very stupid of her; if she had not taken to drink she might very well have lived for ten years longer."
The lawyer's house looked on to the Square. Behind it, there was a nice, well-kept garden, extending to the Passage des Piques, which was almost always deserted, and from which it was separated by a wall.
At the bottom of that garden Maître Moreau's wife had promised, for the first time, to meet Captain Sommerive, who had been making love to her for a long time.
Her husband had gone to Paris for a week, so she was quite free for the time being. The Captain had begged so hard, and had used such loving words; she was certain that he loved her so ardently, and she felt so isolated, so misunderstood, so neglected amid all the law business which seemed to be her husband's sole pleasure, that she had given away her heart without even asking herself whether she would give anything else some day.
Then, after some months of Platonic love, of pressing of hands, of quick kisses stolen behind a door, the Captain had declared that he would ask permission to exchange, and leave the town immediately, if she would not grant him a meeting, a real meeting in the shadow of the trees, during her husband's absence. So she had yielded to his importunity, as she had promised.
Just then she was waiting, close against the wall, with a beating heart, trembling at the slightest sound, and when she heard somebody climbing up the wall, she very nearly ran away.
Suppose it were not he, but a thief? But no; some one called out softly, "Mathilde!" and when she replied, "Étienne!" a man jumped on to the path with a crash.
It was he! What a kiss!
For a long time they remained in each other's arms, with united lips. But suddenly a fine rain began to fall, and the drops from the leaves fell on to her neck and made her start. Whereupon he said:
"Mathilde, my adored one, my darling, my angel, let us go indoors. It is twelve o'clock, we can have nothing to fear; please let us go in."
"No, dearest; I am too frightened. Who knows what might happen?"
But he held her in his arms, and whispered in her ear:
"Your servants sleep on the third floor, looking on to the Square, and your room, on the first, looks on to the garden, so nobody can hear us. I love you so that I wish to love you entirely, from head to foot." And he embraced her vehemently, maddening her with his kisses.
She resisted still, frightened and even ashamed. But he put his arms round her, lifted her up, and carried her off through the rain, which was by this time descending in torrents.
The door was open; they groped their way upstairs; and when they were in the room she bolted the door while he lit a match.
Then she fell, half fainting, into a chair, while he kneeled down beside her and slowly he undressed her, beginning with her shoes and stockings in order to kiss her feet.
At last, she said, panting:
"No! no! Étienne, please let me remain a virtuous woman; I should be too angry with you afterwards; and after all, it is so horrid, so common. Cannot we love each other with a spiritual love only? Oh! Étienne!"
With the skill of a lady's maid and the speed of a man in a hurry, he unbuttoned, untied, unhooked and unlaced without stopping, and when she tried to get up and run away, she suddenly emerged from her dress, her petticoat and her underclothes as naked as a hand thrust from a muff. In her fright she ran to the bed in order to hide herself behind the curtains; but it was a dangerous place of refuge, and he followed her. But in haste he took off his sword too quickly, and it fell on to the floor with a crash. And then a prolonged, shrill child's cry came from the next room, the door of which had remained open.
"You have awakened André," she whispered, "and he won't be able to go to sleep again."
Her son was only fifteen months old and slept in a room opening out of hers, so that she might be able to watch over him all the time.
The Captain exclaimed ardently:
"What does it matter, Mathilde? How I love you; you must come to me, Mathilde."
But she struggled and resisted in her fright.
"No! no! Just listen how he is crying; he will wake up the nurse, and what should we do if she were to come? We should be lost. Just listen to me, Étienne. When he screams at night his father always takes him into our bed, and he is quiet immediately; it is the only means of keeping him still. Do let me take him."
The child roared, uttering shrill screams, which pierced the thickest walls and could be heard by passers-by in the streets.
In his consternation the Captain got up, and Mathilde jumped out and took the child into her bed, when he was quiet at once.
Étienne sat astride on a chair, and rolled a cigarette, and in about five minutes André went to sleep again.
"I will take him back," his mother said; and she took him back very carefully to his cradle.
When she returned, the Captain was waiting for her with open arms, and put his arms round her in a transport of love, while she, embracing him more closely, said, stammering:
"Oh! Étienne, my darling, if you only knew how I love you; how—"
André began to cry again, and he, in a rage, exclaimed:
"Confound it all, won't the little brat be quiet?"
No, the little brat would not be quiet, but howled all the louder, on the contrary.
She thought she heard a noise downstairs; no doubt the nurse was coming, so she jumped up and took the child into bed, and he grew quiet directly.
Three times she put him back, and three times she had to fetch him again, and an hour before daybreak the Captain had to go, swearing like the proverbial trooper; and, to calm his impatience, Mathilde promised to receive him again the next night. Of course he came, more impatient and ardent than ever, excited by the delay.
He took care to lay his sword carefully on the arms of a chair, he took off his boots like a thief, and spoke so low that Mathilde could hardly hear him. At last, he was just going to be really happy when the floor, or some piece of furniture, or perhaps the bed itself, creaked; it sounded as if something had broken; and in a moment a cry, feeble at first, but which grew louder, every moment, made itself heard. André was awake again.
He yapped like a fox, and there was not the slightest doubt that if he went on like that the whole house would awake; so his mother, not knowing what to do, got up and brought him. The Captain was more furious than ever, but did not move, and very carefully he put out his hand, took a small piece of the child's flesh between his two fingers, no matter where it was, the thighs or elsewhere, and pinched it. The little one struggled and screamed in a deafening manner, but his tormentor pinched everywhere, furiously and more vigorously. He took a piece of flesh and twisted and turned it, and then let go, only to take hold of another piece, and then another and another.
The child screamed like a chicken having its throat cut, or a dog being mercilessly beaten. His mother caressed him, kissed him, and tried to stifle his cries by her tenderness; but André grew purple, as if he were going into convulsions, and kicked and struggled with his little arms and legs in an alarming manner.
The Captain said, softly:
"Try to take him back to his cradle; perhaps he will be quiet."
And Mathilde went into the other room with the child in her arms. As soon as he was out of his mother's bed he cried less loudly, and when he was in his own he was quiet, with the exception of a few broken sobs. The rest of the night was quiet and the Captain was happy.
The next night the Captain came again. As he happened to speak rather loudly, André awoke again and began to scream. His mother went and fetched him immediately, but the Captain pinched so hard and long that the child was nearly suffocated by its cries, its eyes turned in its head and it foamed at the mouth. As soon as it was back in its cradle it was quiet, and in four days André did not cry any more to come into his mother's bed.
On Saturday evening the lawyer returned, and took his place again at the domestic hearth and in the conjugal chamber. As he was tired with his journey he went to bed early; but he had not long lain down when he said to his wife:
"Why, how is it that André is not crying? Just go and fetch him, Mathilde; I like to feel that he is between us."
She got up and brought the child, but as soon as he saw that he was in that bed, in which he had been so fond of sleeping a few days before, he wriggled and screamed so violently in his fright that she had to take him back to his cradle.
M. Moreau could not get over his surprise. "What a very funny thing! What is the matter with him this evening? I suppose he is sleepy?"
"He has been like that all the time that you were away; I have never been able to have him in bed with me once."
In the morning the child woke up and began to laugh and play with his toys.
The lawyer, who was an affectionate man, got up, kissed his offspring, and took him into his arms to carry him to their bed. André laughed, with that vacant laugh of little creatures whose ideas are still vague. He suddenly saw the bed and his mother in it, and his happy little face puckered up, till suddenly he began to scream furiously, and struggled as if he were going to be put to the torture.
In his astonishment his father said:
"There must be something the matter with the child," and mechanically he lifted up his little nightshirt.
He uttered a prolonged "O—o—h!" of astonishment. The child's calves, thighs, and buttocks were covered with blue spots as big as half-pennies.
"Just look, Mathilde!" the father exclaimed; "this is horrible!" And the mother rushed forward in a fright. It was horrible; no doubt the beginning of some sort of leprosy, of one of those strange affections of the skin which doctors are often at a loss to account for. The parents looked at one another in consternation.
"We must send for the doctor," the father said.
But Mathilde, pale as death, was looking at her child, who was spotted like a leopard. Then suddenly uttering a violent cry as if she had seen something that filled her with horror, she exclaimed:
"Oh! the wretch!"
M. Moreau, surprised asked: "What? Whom are you speaking about? What wretch?"
She reddened up to the roots of her hair and stammered: "Nothing... it is... you see, I guess... It must be... Don't let us get the doctor. It is surely that miserable nurse who pinches the little one to make him stop when he cries." The notary, very angry, went to the nurse and nearly beat her. She denied the charges, but was discharged. Her conduct was denounced to the municipal authorities, and she could never get another situation.
My dear friend, you can hardly believe it? I can see why. You think I have gone mad? It may be so, but not for the reasons which you suppose.
Yes, I am going to get married. That's true.
My ideas and my convictions have not changed at all. I look upon all legalized co-habitation as utterly stupid, for I am certain that nine husbands out of ten are cuckolds; and they get no more than their deserts for having been idiotic enough to fetter their lives and renounce their freedom in love, the only happy and good thing in the world, and for having clipped the wings of fancy which continually drives us on toward all women. You know what I mean. More than ever I feel that I am incapable of loving one woman alone, because I shall always adore all the others too much. I should like to have a thousand arms, a thousand mouths, and a thousand—temperaments, to be able to strain an army of these charming creatures in my embrace at the same moment.
And yet I am going to get married!
I may add that I know very little of the girl who is going to become my wife to-morrow; I have only seen her four or five times. I know that she is not distasteful to me, and that is enough for my purpose. She is small, fair, and stout; so of course the day after to-morrow I shall ardently wish for a tall, dark, thin, woman.
She is not rich, and belongs to the middle classes. She is a girl such as you may find by the gross, well adapted for matrimony, without any apparent faults, and with no particularly striking qualities. People say of her: "Mlle Lajolle is a very nice girl," and to-morrow they will say: "What a very nice woman Madame Raymon is." She belongs, in a word, to that immense number of girls who make very good wives for us till the moment comes when we discover that we happen to prefer all other women to that particular woman we have married.
"Well," you will say to me, "what on earth do you get married for?"
I hardly like to tell you the strange and seemingly improbable reason that urged me on to this mad action. I am getting married in order not to be alone.
I don't know how to tell you or to make you understand me, but my state of mind is so wretched that you will pity me and despise me.
I do not want to be alone any longer at night; I want to feel that there is some one close to me touching me, a being who can speak and say something, no matter what it be.
I wish to be able to awaken somebody by my side, so that I may be able to ask some sudden question, a stupid question even, if I feel inclined, so that I may hear a human voice, to have somebody living in my house and feel that there is some waking soul close to me, some one whose reason is at work—so that when I hastily light the candle I may see some human face by my side—because—because—I am ashamed to confess it—because when I am alone, I am afraid.
Oh! you don't understand me yet.
I am not afraid of any danger; if a man were to come into the room I should kill him without trembling. I am not afraid of ghosts, nor do I believe in the supernatural. I am not afraid of dead people, for I believe in the total annihilation of every being that disappears from the face of this earth.
Well,—yes, well, then... I am afraid of myself, afraid of that horrible sensation of incomprehensible fear, afraid of the spasms of my terrified mind.
You may laugh, if you like. It is terrible and incurable. I am afraid of the walls, of the furniture, of the familiar objects, which are animated, as far as I am concerned, by a kind of animal life. Above all, I am afraid of my own dreadful thoughts, of my reason, which seems as if it were about to leave me, driven away by a mysterious and invisible anguish.
At first I feel a vague uneasiness in my mind which causes a cold shiver to run all over me. I look round, and of course nothing is to be seen, and I wish there were something there, no matter what, as long as it were something tangible: I am frightened, merely because I cannot understand my own terror.
If I speak, I am afraid of my own voice. 'If I walk, I am afraid of I know not what, behind the door, behind the curtains, in the cupboard, or under my bed, and yet all the time I know there is nothing anywhere, and I turn round suddenly because I am afraid of what is behind me, although there is nothing there, and I know it.
I get agitated; I feel that my fear increases, and so I shut myself up in my own room, get into bed, and hide under the clothes, and there, cowering down,rolled into a ball, I close my eyes in despair and remain thus for a long time, remembering that my candle is alight on the table by my bedside, and that I ought to put it out, and yet—I dare not do it!
It is very terrible, is it not, to be like that?
Formerly I felt nothing of all that; I came home quite comfortably, and went up and down in my rooms without anything disturbing my calmness of mind. Had anyone told me that I should be attacked by a malady—for I can call it nothing else—of most improbable fear, such a stupid and terrible malady as it is, I should have laughed outright. I was certainly never afraid of opening the door in the dark; I used to go to bed slowly without locking it, and never got up in the middle of the night to make sure that everything was firmly closed.
It began last year in a very strange manner, on a damp autumn evening. When my servant had left the room, after I had dined, I asked myself what I was going to do. I walked up and down my room for some time, feeling tired without any reason for it, unable to work, and without enough energy to read. A fine rain was falling, and I felt unhappy, a prey to one of those fits of casual despondency which make us feel inclined to cry, or to talk, no matter to whom, so as to shake off our depressing thoughts.
I felt that I was alone and that my rooms seemed to me to be more empty that they had ever been before. I was surrounded by a sensation of infinite and overwhelming solitude. What was I to do? I sat down, but then a kind of nervous impatience seized my legs, so that I got up and began to walk about again. I was feverish, for I noticed my hands, which I had clasped behind me, as one often does when walking slowly, almost seemed to burn one another. Then suddenly a cold shiver ran down my back, and I thought the damp air might have penetrated into my room, so I lit the fire for the first time that year, and [sat down again and looked at the flames. But soon I felt that I could not possibly remain quiet. So I got up again and determined to go out, to pull myself together, and to seek a friend to bear me company. I went out. I looked up three friends who were not at home, then I went on to the boulevards to try and meet some acquaintance or other there.
It was wretched everywhere. The wet pavement glistened in the gaslight, and a moist warmth, that kind of warmth that chills you with sudden shivers, the oppressive heat of impalpable rain, lay heavily over the streets and seemed to obscure the light from the lamps.
I went on slowly, saying to myself, "I shall not find a soul to talk to."
I glanced into several cafés from the Madeleine as far as the Faubourg Poissonnière, and saw many unhappy-looking individuals sitting at the tables, who did not seem even to have enough energy left to finish the refreshments they had ordered.
For a long time I wandered aimlessly up and down, and about midnight I started off for home; I was very calm and very tired. My concierge, who goes to bed before eleven o'clock, opened the door at once, which was quite unusual for him, and I thought that another lodger had no doubt just come in.
When I go out I always turn the key twice. Now I found it merely closed, which surprised me; but I supposed that some letters had been brought up for me in the course of the evening.
I went in, and found my fire still burning so that it lighted up the room a little. I took up a candle to fight it at the fire when looking in front of me I noticed somebody sitting in my armchair by the fire, warming his feet, with his back toward me.
I was not in the slightest degree frightened. I thought very naturally that some friend or other had come to see me. No doubt the concierge, who knew I had gone out, had said I was coming back and had lend him his own key. In a moment I remembered all the circumstances of my return, how the street door had been opened immediately and that my own door was only latched and not locked.
I could see nothing of my friend but his head. He had evidently gone to sleep while waiting for me, so I went up to him to rouse him. I saw him quite clearly; his right arm was hanging down and his feet were crossed, while his head, which was somewhat inclined to the left of the armchair, seemed to indicate that he was asleep. "Who can it be?" I asked myself. I could not see clearly, as the room was rather dark, so I put out my hand to touch him on the shoulder, and it came in contact with the back of the chair. There was nobody there; the armchair was empty.
Merciful heaven, what a start I gave! For a moment I drew back as if some terrible danger had suddenly appeared in my way; then I turned round again feeling there was somebody behind me, then, impelled by some imperious desire to look at the armchair again, I turned round once more. I remained standing up panting with fear, so upset that I could not collect my thoughts, and ready to drop.
But I am naturally a cool man, and soon recovered myself. I thought: "It is a mere hallucination, that is all," and I immediately began to reflect about this phenomenon. Thoughts fly very quickly at such moments.
I had been suffering from a hallucination, that was an incontestable fact. My mind had been perfectly lucid and had acted regularly and logically, so there was nothing the matter with the brain. It was only my eyes that had been deceived; they had had a vision, one of those visions which lead simple folk to believe in miracles. It was a nervous accident to the optical apparatus, nothing more; the eyes were rather overwrought, perhaps.
I lit my candle, and when I stooped down to the fire in so doing, I noticed that I was trembling, and I raised myself up with a jump, as if somebody had touched me from behind.
I was not comfortable by any means.
I walked up and down a little, and hummed a tune or two. Then I double-locked my door, and felt rather reassured; now, at any rate, nobody could come in.
I sat down again, and thought over my adventure for a long time; then I went to bed, and put out my light.
For some minutes all went well; I lay quietly on my back. Then an irresistible desire seized me to look round the room, and I turned on to my side.
My fire was nearly out and the few glowing embers threw a faint light on to the floor by the chair, where I fancied I saw the man sitting again.
I quickly struck a match, but I had been mistaken, for there was nothing there; I got up, however, and hid the chair behind my bed, and tried to get to sleep as the room was now dark. But I had not been asleep for more than five minutes when in my dream I saw all the scene which I had witnessed as clearly as if it were reality. I woke up with a start, and, having lit the candle, sat up in bed, without venturing even to try and go to sleep again.
Twice, however, sleep overcame me for a few moments in spite of myself, and twice I saw the same thing again, till I fancied I was going mad. When day broke, however, I thought that I was cured, and slept peacefully till noon.
It was all past and gone. I had been feverish, had had nightmare; or something. I had been ill, in a word, but yet I thought that I was a great fool.
I enjoyed myself thoroughly that evening; I went and dined at a restaurant; afterward I went to the theatre, and then started home. But as I got near the house I was seized by a strange feeling of uneasiness once more; I was afraid of seeing him again. I was not afraid of him, not afraid of his presence, in which I did not believe; but I was afraid of being deceived again; I was afraid of some fresh hallucination, afraid lest fear should take possession of me.
For more than an hour I wandered up and down the pavement; then I thought that I was really too foolish, and returned home. I panted so that I could scarcely get upstairs, and remained standing on the landing outside my door for more than ten minutes; then suddenly I took courage and pulled myself together. I inserted my key into the lock, and went in with a candle in my hand. I kicked open my half-open bedroom door, and gave a frightened look toward the fireplace; there was nothing there. A—h!
What a relief and what a delight! What a deliverance! I walked up and down briskly and boldly, but I was not altogether reassured, and kept turning round with a jump; the very shadows in the corners disquieted me.
I slept badly, and was constantly disturbed by imaginary noises, but I did not see him; no, that was all over.
Since that time I have been afraid of being alone at night. I feel that the spectre is there, close to me, around me; but it has not appeared to me again. And supposing it did, what would it matter, since I do not believe in it and know that it is nothing?
It still worries me, however, because I am constantly thinking of it: his right arm hanging down and his head inclined to the left like a man who was asleep—Enough of that, in Heaven's name! I don't want to think about it!
Why, however, am I so persistently possessed with this idea? His feet were close to the fire!
He haunts me; it is very stupid, but so it is. Who and what is HE? I know that he does not exist except in my cowardly imagination, in my fears, and in my anguish! There—enough of that!
Yes, it is all very well for me to reason with myself, to brace myself up; I cannot remain alone at home, because I know he is there. I know I shall not see him again; he will not show himself again; that is all over. But he is there all the same in my thoughts. He remains invisible, but that does not prevent his being there. He is behind the doors, in the closed wardrobe, under the bed, in every dark corner. If I open the door or the wardrobe, if I take the candle to look under the bed and throw a fight on the dark places, he is there no longer, but I feel that he is behind me. I turn round, certain that I shall not see him, that I shall never see him again; but he is, none the less, behind me.
It is very stupid, it is dreadful; but what am I to do? I cannot help it.
But if there were two of us in the place, I feel certain that he would not be there any longer, for he is there just because I am alone, simply and solely because I am alone!
My uncle Sosthène was a freethinker, like many others, a freethinker from sheer stupidity. People are very often religious for the same reason. The mere sight of a priest threw him into a violent rage; he would shake his fist and grimace at him, and touch a piece of iron when the priest's back was turned, forgetting that the latter action showed a belief after all, the belief in the evil eye.
Now when beliefs are unreasonable, one should either have all or none at all. I myself am a freethinker; I revolt at all the dogmas which have invented the fear of death, but I feel no anger toward places of worship, be they Catholic Apostolic, Roman, Protestant, Greek, Russian, Buddhist, Jewish, or Mohammedan. I have a peculiar manner of looking at them and explaining them. A place of worship represents the homage paid by man to the unknown. The more extended our thoughts and our views become, the more the unknown diminishes, and the more places of worship will decay. I, however, instead of incense burners, would fit them up with telescopes, microscopes, and electrical machines; that is all.
My uncle and I differed on nearly every point. He was a patriot, while I was not—for, after all, patriotism is a kind of religion; it is the egg from which wars are hatched.
My uncle was a Freemason, and I used to declare that they are stupider than the pious old ladies. That is my opinion, and I maintain it; if we must have any religion at all, the old one is good enough for me.
Those imbeciles simply imitate priests. Their symbol is a triangle instead of a cross. They have chapels which they call lodges, and a whole lot of different sects: the Scottish rite, the French rite, the Grand Orient, a collection of balderdash that would make a cat laugh.
What is their object? Mutual help to be obtained by tickling the palms of each other's hands. I see no harm in it, for they put into practice the Christian precept: "Do unto others as ye would they should do unto you." The only difference consists in the tickling, but it does not seem worth while to make such a fuss about lending a poor devil five francs.
Convents whose duty and business it is to administer alms and help, put the letters "J.M.J." at the head of their communications. The Masons put three periods in a row after their signature. It is six of one and half a dozen of the other.
My uncle's reply used to be:
"We are raising up a religion against a religion; Free-thought will kill clericalism. Freemasonry is the headquarters of those who are demolishing all deities."
"Very well, my dear uncle," I would reply (in my heart I felt inclined to say, "You old idiot!"); "it is just that which I am blaming you for. Instead of destroying, you are organizing competition; it is only a case of lowering the prices. And then, if you only admitted freethinkers among you I could understand it, but you admit anybody. You have a number of Catholics among you, even the leaders of the party. Pius IX is said to have been one of you before he became Pope. If you call a society with such an organization a bulwark against clericalism, I think it is an extremely weak one."
"My dear boy," my uncle would reply, with a wink, "our most formidable actions are political; slowly and surely we are everywhere undermining the monarchical spirit."
Then I broke out: "Yes, you are very clever! If you tell me that freemasonry is an election-machine, I will grant it. I will never deny that it is used as a machine to control candidates of all shades; if you say that it is only used to hoodwink people, to drill them to go to the voting-urn as soldiers are sent under fire, I agree with you; if you declare that it is indispensable to all political ambitions because it changes all its members into electoral agents, I should say to you, 'That is as clear as daylight.' But when you tell me that it serves to undermine the monarchical spirit, I can only laugh in your face.
"Just consider that vast and democratic association which had Prince Napoleon for its Grand Master under the Empire; which has the Crown Prince for its Grand Master in Germany, the Czar's brother in Russia, and to which the Prince of Wales and King Humbert and nearly all the royalists of the globe belong."
"You are quite right," my uncle said; "but all these persons are serving our projects without knowing it."
"And vice versa, what?"
And I added, to myself, "pack of fools!"
It was, however, indeed a sight to see my uncle when he had a freemason to dinner.
On meeting they shook hands in a mysterious manner that was irresistibly funny; one could see that they were going through a series of secret mysterious pressures. When I wished to put my uncle in a rage, I had only to tell him that dogs also have a manner which savours very much of freemasonry, when they greet one another on meeting.
Then my uncle would take his friend into a corner to tell him something important, and at dinner they had a peculiar way of looking at each other, and of drinking to each other, in a manner as if to say: "We belong to it, don't we?"
And to think that there are millions on the face of the globe who are amused at such monkey tricks! I would sooner be a Jesuit.
Now in our town there really was an old Jesuit who was my uncle's pet aversion. Every time he met him, or if he only saw him at a distance, he used to say: "Dirty skunk!" And then, taking my arm, he would whisper to me:
"Look here, that fellow will play me a trick some day or other, I feel sure of it."
My uncle spoke quite truly, and this was how it happened, through my fault moreover.
It was close on Holy Week, and my uncle made up his mind to give a dinner on Good Friday, a real dinner with chitterlings and saveloy sausage. I resisted as much as I could, and said:
"I shall eat meat on that day, but at home, quite by myself. Your manifesto, as you call it, is an idiotic idea. Why should you manifest? What does it matter to you if people do not eat any meat?"
But my uncle would not be persuaded. He asked three of his friends to dine with him at one of the best restaurants in the town, and as he was going to pay the bill, I had certainly, after all, no scruples aboutmanifesting.
At four o'clock we took a conspicuous place in the Café Pénélope, the most frequented restaurant in the town, and my uncle in a loud voice described the menu.
We sat down at six o'clock, and at ten o'clock we had not finished. Five of us had drunk eighteen bottles of fine wines, and four of champagne. Then my uncle proposed what he was in the habit of calling: "The archbishop's feat." Each man put six small glasses in front of him, each of them filled with a different liqueur, and then they had all to be emptied at one gulp, one after another, while one of the waiters counted twenty. It was very stupid, but my uncle thought it was very suitable to the occasion.
At eleven o'clock he was as drunk as a fiddler, so we had to take him home in a cab and put him to bed, and one could easily foresee that his anti-clerical demonstration would end in a terrible fit of indigestion.
As I was going back to my lodgings, being rather drunk myself, with a cheerful Machiavelian drunkenness which quite satisfied all my skeptical instincts, an idea struck me.
I arranged my necktie, put on a look of great distress, and went and rang loudly at the old Jesuit's door. As he was deaf he made me wait a longish while, but at length he appeared at his window in a cotton nightcap and asked what I wanted.
I shouted out at the top of my voice:
"Make haste, reverend father, and open the door; a poor, despairing, sick man is in need of your spiritual ministrations."
The good, kind man put on his trousers as quickly as he could and came down without his cassock. I told him in a breathless voice that my uncle, the freethinker, had been taken suddenly ill. Fearing it was going to be something serious he had been seized with a sudden fear of death, and wished to see a priest and talk to him; to have his advice and comfort, to make up with the Church, and to confess, so as to be able to cross the dreaded threshold at peace with himself; and I added in a mocking tone:
"At any rate, he wishes it, and if it does him no good it can do him no harm."
The old Jesuit, who was startled, delighted, and almost trembling, said to me:
"Wait a moment, my son, I will come with you."
But I replied: "Pardon me. Father, if I do not go with you; but my convictions will not allow me to do so. I even refused to come and fetch you, so I beg you not to say that you have seen me, but to declare that you had a presentiment—a sort of revelation of his illness."
The priest consented, and went off quickly, knocked at my uncle's door, was soon let in, and I saw the black cassock disappear within that stronghold of Free-thought.
I hid under a neighbouring gateway to wait for events. Had he been well, my uncle would have half murdered the Jesuit, but I knew that he would be unable to move an arm, and I asked myself, gleefully, what sort of a scene would take place between these antagonists—what fight, what explanation would be given, and what would be the issue of this situation, which my uncle's indignation would render more tragic still?
I laughed till I had to hold my sides, and said to myself, half aloud: "Oh! what a joke, what a joke!"
Meanwhile it was getting very cold. I noticed that the Jesuit stayed a long time, and thought: "They are having an explanation, I suppose."
One, two, three hours passed, and still the reverend Father did not come out. What had happened? Had my uncle died in a fit when he saw him, or had he killed the cassocked gentleman? Perhaps they had mutually devoured each other? This last supposition appeared very unlikely, for I fancied that my uncle was quite incapable of swallowing a grain more nourishment at that moment.
At last the day dawned. I was very uneasy, and not venturing to go into the house myself, I went to one of my friends who lived opposite. I roused him, explained matters to him, much to his amusement and astonishment, and took possession of his window.
At nine o'clock he relieved me and I got a little sleep. At two o'clock I, in my turn, replaced him. We were utterly astonished.
At six o'clock the Jesuit left, with a very happy and satisfied look on his face, and we saw him go away with a quiet step.
Then, timid and ashamed, I went and knocked at my uncle's door. When the servant opened it I did not dare to ask her any questions, but went upstairs without saying a word.
My uncle was lying pale, exhausted, with weary, sorrowful eyes and heavy arms, on his bed. A little religious picture was fastened to one of the bed-curtains with a pin.
"Why, uncle," I said, "you in bed still? Are you not well?"
He replied in a feeble voice:
"Oh! my dear boy, I have been very ill; nearly dead."
"How was that, uncle?"
"I don't know; it was most surprising. But what is stranger still, is that the Jesuit priest who has just left—you know, that excellent man whom I have made such fun of—had a divine revelation of my state, and came to see me."
I was seized with an almost uncontrollable desire to laugh, and with difficulty said: "Oh, really!"
"Yes, he came. He heard a Voice telling him to get up and come to me, because I was going to die. It was a revelation."
I pretended to sneeze, so as not to burst out laughing; I felt inclined to roll on the ground with amusement.
In about a minute I managed to say, indignantly: "And you received him, uncle, you? You, a freethinker, a freemason? You did not have him thrown out?"
He seemed confused, and stammered:
"Listen a moment, it is so astonishing—so astonishing and providential! He also spoke to me about my father; he knew him formerly."
"Your father, uncle? But that is no reason for receiving a Jesuit."
"I know that, but I was very ill, and he looked after me most devotedly all night long. He was perfect; no doubt he saved my life; those men are all more or less doctors."
"Oh! he looked after you all night? But you said just now that he had only been gone a very short time."
"That is quite true; I kept him to breakfast after all his kindness. He had it at a table by my bedside while I drank a cup of tea."
"And he ate meat?"
My uncle looked vexed, as if I had said something very much out of place, and then added:
"Don't joke, Gaston; such things are out of place at times. He has shown me more devotion than many a relation would have done and I expect you to respect his convictions."
This rather upset me, but I answered, nevertheless: "Very well, uncle; and what did you do after breakfast?"
"We played a game of bezique, and then he repeated his breviary while I read a little book which he happened to have in his pocket, and which was not by any means badly written."
"A religious book, uncle?"
"Yes, and no, or rather—no. It is the history of their missions in Central Africa, and is rather a book of travels and adventures. What these men have done is very good."
I began to feel that matters were going badly, so I got up. "Well, good-bye, uncle," I said, "I see you are going to leave freemasonry for religion; you are a renegade."
He was still rather confused, and stammered:
"Well, but religion is a sort of freemasonry."
"When is your Jesuit coming back?" I asked.
"I don't—I don't know exactly; to-morrow, perhaps; but it is not certain."
I went out, altogether overwhelmed.
My joke turned out very badly for me! My uncle became radically converted, and if that had been all I should not have cared so much. Clerical or freemason, to me it is all the same; six of one and half a dozen of the other; but the worst of it is that he has just made his will—yes, made his will—and has disinherited me in favor of that holy Jesuit!
Old Taille had three daughters: Anna, the eldest, who was scarcely ever mentioned in the family; Rose, the second girl, who was eighteen; and Clara, the youngest, who was a girl of fifteen.
Old Taille was a widower, and a foreman in M. Lebrument's button-factory. He was a very upright man, very well thought of, abstemious; in fact a sort of model workman. He lived at Havre, in the Rue d'Angoulême.
When Anna ran away the old man flew into a fearful rage. He threatened to kill the seducer, who was head of a department in a large draper's establishment in that town. Then when he was told by various people that she was keeping very steady and investing money in government securities, that she was no gadabout, but was kept by a Monsieur Dubois, who was a judge of the Tribunal of Commerce, the father was appeased.
He even showed some anxiety as to how she was faring, asked some of her old friends who had been to see her how she was getting on; and when told that she had her own furniture, and that her mantlepiece was covered with vases and the walls with pictures, that there were clocks and carpets everywhere, he gave a broad, contented smile. He had been working for thirty years to get together a wretched five or six thousand francs. His little girl was evidently no fool.
One fine morning the son of Touchard, the cooper at the other end of the street, came and asked him for the hand of Rose, the second girl. The old man's heart began to beat, for the Touchards were rich and in a good position. He was decidedly lucky with his girls.
The marriage was agreed upon. It was settled that it should be a grand affair, and the wedding dinner was to be held at Sainte-Adresse, at Mother Gusa's restaurant. It would cost a lot certainly; but never mind, it did not matter just for once in a way.
But one morning, just as the old man was going home to breakfast with his two daughters, the door opened suddenly and Anna appeared. She was loudly dressed, wore rings and a very dressy hat. She looked undeniably pretty and nice. She threw her arms round her father's neck before he could say a word, then fell into her sisters' arms with many tears, and then asked for a plate, so that she might share the family soup. Old Taille was moved to tears in his turn and said several times:
"That is right, dear; that is right."
Then she told them about herself. She did not wish Rose's wedding to take place at Sainte-Adresse,—certainly not. It should take place at her house, and would cost her father nothing. She had settled everything and arranged everything, so it was "no good to say any more about it,—there!"
"Very well, my dear! very well!" the old man said, "we will leave it so." But then he felt some doubt. Would the Touchards consent? But Rose, the bride-elect, was surprised, and asked, "Why should they object, I should like to know? Just leave that to me, I will talk to Philip about it."
She mentioned it to her intended the very same day, and he declared that it would suit him exactly. Father and Mother Touchard were naturally delighted at the idea of a good dinner which would cost them nothing and said:
"You may be quite sure that everything will be in first-rate style, as M. Dubois is made of money."
They asked to be allowed to bring a friend, Mme Florence, the cook on the first floor, and Anna agreed to everything. The wedding was fixed for the last Tuesday of the month.
After the civil formalities and the religious ceremony the wedding party went to Anna's house. Among those whom the Tailles had brought was a cousin of a certain age, a M. Sauvetanin, a man given to philosophical reflections, serious, and always very self-possessed, and Mme Lamondois, an old aunt.
M. Sauvetanin had been told off to give Anna his arm, as they were looked upon as the two most important and most distinguished persons in the company.
As soon as they had arrived at the door of Anna's house she let go her companion's arm, and ran on ahead, saying, "I will show you the way," while the invited guests followed more slowly. When they got upstairs, she stood on one side to let them pass, and they rolled their eyes and turned their heads in all directions to admire this mysterious and luxurious dwelling.
The table was laid in the drawing-room as the dining-room had been thought too small. Extra knives, forks, and spoons had been hired from a neighbouring restaurant, and decanters full of wine glittered under the rays of the sun, which shone in through the window.
The ladies went into the bedroom to take off their shawls and bonnets, and Old Touchard, who was standing at the door, squinted at the low, wide bed, and made funny signs to the men, with many a wink and nod. Old Taille, who thought a great deal of himself, looked with fatherly pride at his child's well-furnished rooms, and went from one to the other holding his hat in his-hand, making a mental inventory of everything, and walking like a verger in a church.
Anna went backward and forward, and ran about giving orders and hurrying on the wedding feast. Soon she appeared at the door of the dining-room, and cried: "Come here, all of you, for a moment," and when the twelve guests did as they were asked they saw twelve glasses of Madeira on a small table.
Rose and her husband had their arms round each other's waists, and were kissing each other in every corner. M. Sauvetanin never took his eyes off Anna; he no doubt felt that ardour, that sort of expectation which all men, even if they are old and ugly, feel for women of easy virtue, as if their trade, their professional duty compelled them to give a little of themselves to every male.
They sat down, and the wedding breakfast began; the relatives sitting at one end of the table and the young people at the other. Mme Touchard, the mother, presided on the right and the bride on the left. Anna looked after everybody, saw that the glasses were kept filled and the plates well supplied. The guests evidently felt a certain respectful embarrassment at the sight of the sumptuousness of the rooms and at the lavish manner in which they were treated. They all ate heartily of the good things provided, but there were no jokes such as are prevalent at weddings of that sort; it was all too grand, and it made them feel uncomfortable. Old Mme Touchard, who was fond of a bit of fun, tried to enliven matters a little, and at the beginning of the dessert she exclaimed: "I say, Philip, do sing us something." The neighbours in their street considered that he had the finest voice in all Havre.
The bridegroom got up, smiled, and turning to his sister-in-law, from politeness and gallantry, tried to think of something suitable for the occasion, something serious and correct, to harmonize with the seriousness of the repast.
Anna had a satisfied look on her face, and leaned back in her chair to listen, and all assumed looks of attention, though prepared to smile should smiles be called for.
The singer announced, "The Accursed Bread," and extending his right arm, which made his coat ruck up into his neck, he began.
Il est un pain béni qu'à la terre économeIl nous faut arracher d'un bras victorieux.C'est le pain du travail, celui que l'honnête homme.Le soir, à ses enfants, apporte tout joyeux.Mais il en est un autre, à mine tentatrice,Pain maudit que l'enfer pour nous damner sema, (bis)Enfant, n'y touchez pas car c'est le pain du vice!Chers enfants, gardez vous de toucher ce pain-là. (bis)
They all applauded frantically. Old Touchard declared the sentiments excellent. The cook, who was one of the guests, twisted in her hands a crust at which she gazed tenderly. M. Sauvetanin murmured, "Bravo!" Aunt Lamondois had already begun to wipe away her tears with her napkin.
The bridegroom announced: "Second verse," and launched forth with renewed vigour:
Respect au malheureux qui, tout brisé par l'âge.Nous implore en passant sur le bord du chemin.Mais flétrissons celui qui, désertant l'ouvrage.Alerte et bien portant, ose tendre la main.Mendier sans besoin, c'est voler la vieillesse.C'est voler l'ouvrier que le travail courba, (bis)Honte à celui qui vit du pain de la paresse.Chers enfants, gardez-vous de toucher ce pain-là. (bis)
They all yelled the refrain in chorus, even the two servants who were standing against the wall. The falsetto, piercing voices of the women put the deeper voices of the men out of tune.
The aunt and the bride wept outright. Old Taille blew his nose with the noise of a trombone, and old Touchard madly brandished a whole loaf over the centre of the table. The friendly cook dropped a few silent tears on the crust with which she was still fumbling.
Amid the general emotion M. Sauvetanin said:
"That is the right sort of song; very different from the usual smut."
Anna, who was visibly affected, kissed her hand to her sister and pointed to her husband with an affectionate nod, as if to congratulate her.
Intoxicated by his success, the young man continued:
Dans ton simple réduit, ouvrière gentille.Tu sembles écouter la voix du tentateur.Pauvre enfant, va, crois-moi, ne quitte pas l'aiguille.Tes parents n'ont que toi, toi seule es leur bonheur.Dans un luxe honteux trouveras-tu des charmes.Lorsque, te maudissant, ton père expirera, (bis)Le pain du déshonneur se pétrit dans les larmesChers enfants, gardez-vous de toucher ce pain-là. (bis)
No one took up the refrain about this bread, supposed to be eaten with tears, except old Touchard and the two servants. Anna had grown deadly pale and cast down her eyes, while the bridegroom looked from one to the other without understanding the reason for this sudden coldness, and the cook hastily dropped the crust as if it were poisoned.
M. Sauvetanin said solemnly, in order to save the situation: "That last couplet is not at all necessary;" and Old Taille, who had got red up to his ears, looked round the table fiercely.