For some time past, Monsieur Gourd had been prowling about with an uneasy and mysterious air. He was met gliding noiselessly along, his eyes open, his ears pricked up, continually ascending the two staircases, where lodgers had even encountered him going his rounds in the dead of night. The morality of the house was certainly worrying him; he felt a kind of breath of shameful things which troubled the cold nakedness of the courtyard, the calm peacefulness of the vestibule, the beautiful domestic virtues of the different stories.
One evening, Octave had found the doorkeeper standing motionless and without a light at the end of his passage, close to the door which opened onto the servants’ staircase. Greatly surprised, he questioned him.
“I wish to ascertain something, Monsieur Mouret,” simply answered Monsieur Gourd, deciding to go off to bed.
The young man was very much frightened. Did the doorkeeper suspect his relations with Berthe? He was perhaps watching them. Their attachment encountered continual obstacles in that house, where there was always some one prying about and the inmates of which professed the most strict principles.
It happened to be a Tuesday night when Octave discovered Monsieur Gourd watching close to his room. This increased his uneasiness. For a week past, he had been imploring Berthe to come up and join him in his apartment, when all the house would be asleep. Had the doorkeeper guessed this? Octave went back to his room dissatisfied, tormented with fear and desire.
The night was a close one, and, overcome by the heat, Octave had dozed off in an easy-chair, when toward midnight he was roused by a gentle knocking.
“It’s I,” faintly whispered a woman’s voice.
It was Berthe. He opened the door and clasped her in his arms in the obscurity. When he had lighted his candle, he saw that she was deeply troubled about something. The day before, not having sufficient money in his pocket, he had been unable to pay for the bonnet at the time: and as in her delight she had so far forgotten herself as to give her name, they had sent her the bill that evening. Then, trembling at the thought that they might call on the morrow when her husband was there, she had dared to come up, gathering courage from the great silence of the house, and confident that Rachel was asleep.
“To-morrow morning, you will be sure to pay it to-morrow morning, won’t you?” implored she, trying to escape.
But he again clasped her in his arms.
“Stay!”
She remained. The clock slowly struck the hours in the voluptuous warmth of the room; and, at each sound of the bell, he begged her so tenderly to stay, that her strength seemed to desert her and she yielded to his entreaties. Then, toward four o’clock, just as she had at length determined to go, they both dropped off to sleep locked in each other’s arms. When they again opened their eyes, the bright daylight was entering at the window, it was nine o’clock. Berthe uttered a cry.
“Good heavens! I’m lost!”
Then ensued a moment of confusion. With her eyes half closed with sleep and fatigue, feeling vaguely about with her hands scarcely able to distinguish anything, she gave vent to stifled exclamations of regret. He, seized with a similar despair, had thrown himself before the door, to prevent her from going out at such an hour. Was she mad? people might meet her on the stairs, it was too risky; they must think the matter over, and devise a way for her to go down without being noticed. But she was obstinate, simply wishing to get away; and she again made for the door, which he defended. Then he thought of the servants’ staircase. Nothing could be more convenient; she could go quickly through her own kitchen into her apartment. Only, as Marie Pichon was always in the passage of a morning, Octave considered it prudent to divert her attention, whilst the other young woman made her escape.
He went out in his ordinary quiet way, and was surprised to find Saturnin making himself at home at Marie’s, and calmly watching her do her housework. The madman loved thus to seek refuge beside her as in former days, delighted with the manner in which she left him to himself, and certain of not being jostled. Moreover, he was not in her way, and she willingly tolerated him, though his conversational powers were not great. It was company all the same, and she would still sing her ballad in a low and expiring voice.
“Hallo! so you’re with your lover?” said Octave, maneuvering so as to keep the door shut behind his back.
Marie turned crimson. Oh! that poor Monsieur Saturnin! Was it possible? He who seemed to suffer even when any one touched his hand by accident! And the madman also got angry. He would not be any one’s lover—never, never! Whoever told his sister such a lie would have him to deal with. Octave, amazed at his sudden irritation, felt it necessary to calm him.
Meanwhile Berthe made her way to the servants’ staircase. She had two flights to descend. At the first step a shrill laugh, issuing from Madame Juzeur’s kitchen below, caused her to stop; and she tremblingly stood against the landing window, opened wide onto the narrow courtyard.
Suddenly a voice exclaimed:
“Here’s master coming for his hot water!”
And windows were quickly closed, and doors slammed. The silence of death ensued, yet Berthe did not at first dare to move. When she at length went down, the thought came to her that Rachel was probably in the kitchen, waiting for her. This caused her fresh anguish. She now dreaded to enter, she would have preferred to reach the street and fly away in the distance forever. She nevertheless pushed the door ajar, and felt relieved on beholding that the servant was not there. Then, seized with a childish joy on finding herself at home again and safe, she hurried to her room. But there was Rachel standing before the bed, which had not even been opened. She looked at the bed, and then at her mistress with her expressionless face. In her first moment of fright, the young woman lost her head to the point of trying to excuse herself, and talked of an illness of her sister’s. She stammered out the words, and then, frightened at the poorness of her lie, understanding that denial was utterly useless, she suddenly burst into tears. Dropping onto a chair, she continued crying.
This lasted a good while. Not a word was exchanged, sobs alone disturbed the perfect quiet of the room. Rachel, exaggerating her habitual discretion, maintaining her cold manner of a girl who knows everything, but who says nothing, had turned her back, and was making a pretence of beating up the pillows, as though she was just finishing arranging the bed. At length, when madame, more and more upset by this silence, was giving too loud a vent to her despair, the maid, who was then dusting, said simply, in a respectful tone of voice:
“Madame is wrong to take on so, master is not so very pleasant.”
Berthe left off crying. She would pay the girl, that was all Without waiting further she gave her twenty francs. Then, not thinking that sufficient, and already feeling uneasy, having fancied she saw her curl her lips disdainfully, she rejoined her in the kitchen, and brought her back to make her a present of an almost new dress.
At the same moment, Octave, on his part, was again in a state of alarm, on account of Monsieur Gourd. On leaving the Pichons’, he had found him standing immovable, the same as the night before, listening behind the door communicating with the servants’ staircase. He followed him without even daring to speak to him. The doorkeeper gravely went back again down the grand staircase. On the floor below he took a key from his pocket and entered the room which was let to the distinguished individual, who came there to work one night every week. And through the door, which remained open for a moment, Octave obtained a clear view of that room which was always kept as closely shut as a tomb. It was in a terrible state of disorder that morning, the gentleman having no doubt worked there the night before. A huge bed, with the sheets stripped off, a wardrobe with a glass door, empty, save for the remnants of a lobster and two partly filled bottles, two dirty hand-basins lying about, one beside the bed and the other on a chair. Monsieur Gourd, with his calm air of a retired judge, at once occupied himself with emptying and rinsing out the basins.
As he hurried to the Passage de la Madeleine to pay for the bonnet, the young man was tormented by a painful uncertainty. Finally, he determined to engage the doorkeepers in conversation on his return. Madame Gourd, reclining in her commodious armchair, was getting a breath of fresh air between the two pots of flowers, at the open window of their room. Standing up beside the door, old mother Pérou was waiting in a humble and frightened manner.
“Have you a letter for me?” asked Octave, as a commencement.
Monsieur Gourd just then came down from the room on the third floor. Seeing after that was the only work that he now condescended to do in the house; and he showed himself highly flattered by the confidence of the gentleman, who paid him well on condition that his basins should not pass through any other hands.
“No, Monsieur Mouret, nothing at all,” answered he.
He had seen old mother Pérou perfectly well, but he pretended not to be aware of her presence. The day before he had got into such a rage with her for upsetting a pail of water in the middle of the vestibule, that he had sent her about her business on the spot. And she had called for her money, but the mere sight of him made her tremble, and she almost sank into the ground with humility.
However, as Octave remained some time doing the amiable with Madame Gourd, the doorkeeper roughly turned toward the poor old woman.
“So, you want to be paid. What’s owing to you?”
But Madame Gourd interrupted him.
“Look, darling, there’s that girl again with her horrible little beast.”
It was Lisa, who, a few days before, had found a spaniel in the street. And this occasioned continual disputes with the doorkeepers. The landlord would not allow any animals in the house. No, no animals, and no women! The little dog was even forbidden to go into the courtyard; the street was quite good enough for him. As it had been raining that morning, and the little beast’s paws were sopping wet, Monsieur Gourd rushed forward, exclaiming:
“I will not have him walk up the stairs, you hear me! Carry him in your arms.”
“So that he shall make me all in a mess!” said Lisa, insolently. “What a great misfortune it’ll be if he wets the servants’ staircase a bit! Up you go, doggie.”
Monsieur Gourd tried to seize hold of her, and almost slipped, so he fell to abusing those sluts of servants. He was always at war with them, tormented with the rage of a former servant who wishes to be waited on in his turn. But Lisa turned upon him, and with the verbosity of a girl who had grown up in the gutters of Montmartre, she shouted out:
“Eh! just you leave me alone, you miserable old flunkey! Go and empty the duke’s jerries!”
It was the only insult capable of silencing Monsieur Gourd, and the servants all took advantage of it. He returned to his room quivering with rage and mumbling to himself, saying that he was certainly very proud of having been in service at the duke’s, and that she would not have staid there two hours even, the baggage! Then he assailed mother Pérou, who almost jumped out of her skin.
“Well! what is it you’re owed? Eh! you say twelve francs sixty-five centimes. But it isn’t possible? Sixty-three hours at twenty centimes the hour. Ah! you charge a quarter of an hour. Never! I warned you, I only pay the hours that are completed.”
And he did not even give her her money then, he left her perfectly terrified, and joined in the conversation between his wife and Octave. The latter was cunningly alluding to all the worries that such a house must cause them, hoping thus to get them to talk about the lodgers. Such strange things must sometimes take place behind the doors! Then the doorkeeper chimed in, as grave as ever:
“What concerns us, concerns us, Monsieur Mouret, and what doesn’t concern us, doesn’t concern us. Over there, for instance, is something which quite puts me beside myself. Look at it, look at it!”
And, stretching out his arm, he pointed to the boot-stitcher, that tall, pale girl who had arrived at the house in the middle of the funeral. She walked with difficulty; she was evidently in the family way, and her condition was exaggerated by the sickly skinniness of her neck and legs.
“On my word of honor! sir, if this sort of thing was likely to continue, we would prefer to retire to our home at Mort-la-Ville; would we not, Madame Gourd? for, thank heaven! we have sufficient to live on, we are dependent on no one. A house like this to be made the talk of the place by such a creature! for so it is, sir!”
“She seems very ill,” said Octave, following her with his eyes, not daring to pity her too much. “I always see her looking so sad, so pale, so forlorn. But, of course, she has a lover.”
At this, Monsieur Gourd gave a violent start.
“Now we have it! Do you hear, Madame Gourd? Monsieur Mouret is also of opinion that she has a lover. It’s clear, such things don’t come of themselves. Well, sir! for two months past I’ve been on the watch, and I’ve not yet seen the shadow of a man. How full of vice she must be! Ah! if I only found her chap, how I would chuck him out! But I can’t find him, and it’s that which worries me.”
“Perhaps no one comes,” Octave ventured to observe.
The doorkeeper looked at him with surprise.
“That would not be natural. Oh! I’m determined I’ll catch him. I’ve still six weeks before me, for I got the landlord to give her notice to quit in October. Just fancy her being confined here!” and, with his arm still thrust out, he pointed to the young woman, who was painfully wending her way up the servants’ staircase. Madame Gourd was obliged to calm him: he took the respectability of the house too much to heart; he would end by making himself ill. Then, mother Pérou having dared to manifest her presence by a discreet cough, he returned to her, and coolly deducted the sou she had charged for the odd quarter of an hour. She was at length going off with her twelve francs sixty centimes, when he offered to take her back, but at three sous an hour only. She burst into tears, and accepted.
“I shall always be able to get some one,” said he. “You’re no longer strong enough; you don’t even do two sous’ worth.”
Octave felt his mind relieved as he returned to his room for a minute. On the third floor he caught up Madame Juzeur, who was also going to her apartments. She was obliged now to run down every morning after Louise, who loitered at the different shops.
“How proud you are becoming,” said she, with her sharp smile. “One can see very well that you are being spoilt elsewhere.”
These words once more aroused all the young man’s anxiety. He followed her into her drawing-room, pretending to joke with her the while. Only one of the curtains was slightly drawn back, and the carpet and the hangings before the doors subdued still more this alcove-like light; and the noise of the street did not penetrate more than to the extent of a faint buzz, in this room as soft as down. She made him seat himself beside her on the low, wide sofa. But, as he did not take her hand and kiss it, she asked him archly:
“Do you, then, no longer love me?”
He blushed, and protested that he adored her. Then she gave him her hand of her own accord, with a little stifled laugh; and he was obliged to raise it to his lips, so as to dispel her suspicions, if she had any. But she almost immediately withdrew it again.
“No, no; though you pretend to excite yourself, it gives you no pleasure. Oh, I feel it does not, and, besides, it is only natural!” What? what did she mean? He seized her round the waist, and pressed her with questions, but she would not answer; she abandoned herself to his embrace, and kept shaking her head. At length, to oblige her to speak, he commenced tickling her.
“Well, you see,” she ended by murmuring, “you love another.” She named Valérie, and reminded him of the evening at the Josserands when he devoured her with his eyes. Then, as he declared that Valérie was nothing to him, she retorted, with another laugh, that she knew that very well, and had been only teasing him. Only, there was another, and this time she named Madame Hédouin, laughing more than ever, and amused at his protestations, which were very energetic. Who, then? Was it Marie Pichon? Ah! he could not deny that one. Yet he did do so, but she shook her head. She assured him that her little finger never told stories. And to draw each of these women’s names from her, he was obliged to redouble his caresses.
But she had not named Berthe. He was loosening his hold of her, when she resumed:
“Now, there’s the last one.”
“What last one?” inquired he, anxiously.
Screwing up her mouth, she again obstinately refused to say anything more, so long as he had not opened her lips with a kiss.
He continued to hold her reclining in his arms. She languishingly alluded to the cruel being who had deserted her after having only been married a week. A miserable woman like her knew too much of the tempests of the heart! For a longtime past she had guessed what she styled Octave’s “little games;” for not a kiss could be exchanged in the house without her hearing it. And, in the depths of the wide sofa, they had quite a cozy little chat, interrupted now and then with all sorts of delightful caresses.
When Octave left her he felt more at ease. She had restored his good humor, and she amused him with her complicated principles of virtue. Down-stairs, directly he entered the warehouse, he reassured Berthe with a sign, as her eyes questioned him with reference to the bonnet. Then all the terrible adventure of the morning was forgotten. When Auguste returned, a little before lunch-time, he found them both looking the same as usual, Berthe very much bored at the pay-desk, and Octave gallantly measuring off some silk for a lady.
But, after that day, the lovers’ private meetings became rarer still. As a practical fellow, he ended by thinking it stupid to be always paying, when she, on her side, only gave him her foot under the table. Paris had decidedly brought him ill-luck; at first, repulses, and then this silly passion, which was fast emptying his purse. He could certainly not be accused of succeeding through women. He now found a certain honor in it by way of consolation, in his secret rage at the failure of his plan so clumsily carried out up till then.
Yet Auguste was not much in their way. Ever since the bad turn affairs had taken at Lyons, he had suffered more than ever with his headaches. On the first of the month, Berthe had experienced a sudden joy on seeing him, in the evening, place three hundred francs under the bed-room timepiece for her dress; and, in spite of the reduction on the amount which she had demanded, as she had given up all hope of ever seeing a sou of it, she threw herself into his arms, all warm with gratitude. On this occasion the husband had a night of hugging such as the lover never experienced.
September passed away in this manner, in the great calm of the house emptied of its occupants by the summer months. The people of the second floor had gone to the seaside in Spain, which caused Monsieur Gourd, full of pity, to shrug his shoulders: what a fuss! as though the most distinguished people were not satisfied with Trouville! The Duveyriers, since the beginning of Gustave’s holidays, had been at their country house at Villeneuve-Saint-Georges. Even the Josserands went and spent a fortnight at a friend’s, near Pontoise, spreading a rumor beforehand that they were going to some watering-place.
This clearance, these deserted apartments, the staircase slumbering in a greater silence than ever, seemed to Octave to offer less danger; and he argued and so wearied Berthe that she at last received him in her room one evening whilst Auguste was away at Lyons. But this meeting also nearly took a bad turn. Madame Josserand, who had returned home two days before, was seized with such an attack of indigestion after dining out, that Hortense, filled with anxiety, went down-stairs for her sister. Fortunately, Rachel was just finishing scouring her saucepans, and she was able to let the young man out by the servants’ staircase. On the following days, Berthe availed herself of that alarm to again refuse him everything.
Besides, they were so foolish as not to reward the servant. She attended to them in her cold way, and with her superior respect of a girl who hears and sees nothing; only, as madame was forever crying after money, and as Monsieur Octave already spent too much in presents, she curled her lip more and more in that wretched establishment, where the mistress’ lover did not even present her with ten sous when he stayed there.
Meanwhile, Madame Juzeur wept with that lovesick darling who could only gaze on his mistress from a distance; and she gave him the very best advice. Octave’s passion reached such a pitch that he thought one day of imploring her to lend him her apartment; no doubt she would not have refused, but he feared rousing Berthe’s indignation by his indiscretion. He also had the idea of utilizing Saturnin; perhaps the madman would watch over them like a faithful dog in some out-of-the-way room; only, he displayed such a fantastical humor, at one time overwhelming his sister’s lover with the most awkward caresses, at another, sulking with him and casting suspicious glances gleaming with a sudden hatred. One could almost have thought him jealous, with the nervous and violent jealousy of a woman.
Just as September was drawing to a close, and the lodgers were on the point of returning home, a wild idea came to Octave in the midst of his torment. Rachel had asked her permission to sleep out on one of the Tuesdays that her master would be at Lyons, in order to enable her to attend the wedding of one of her sisters in the country; and it was merely a question of passing the night in the servant’s room, where no one in the world would think of seeking them. Berthe, feeling deeply hurt at the suggestion, at first displayed the greatest repugnance; but he implored her with tears in his eyes; he talked of leaving Paris, where he suffered too much; he confused and wearied her with such a number of arguments, that, scarcely knowing what she did, she ended by consenting. All was settled. The Tuesday evening, after dinner, they took a cup of tea at the Josserands’, so as to dispel any suspicions. Trublot, Gueulin, and uncle Bachelard were there; and, very late in the evening, Duveyrier, who occasionally came to sleep at the Rue de Choiseul, on account of business which he pretended he had to attend to early in the morning, even put in an appearance. Octave made a show of joining freely in the conversation of these gentlemen; then, when midnight struck, he withdrew, and went and locked himself in Rachel’s room, where Berthe was to join him an hour later when all the house was asleep.
Upstairs, the arrangement of the room occupied him during the first half-hour. He had provided himself with clean bed linen, and he proceeded to remake the bed, awkwardly, and occupying a long while over it, through fear of being overheard. Then, like Trublot, he sat down on a box and tried to wait patiently. The servants came up to bed, one by one; and through the thin partitions the sounds of women undressing themselves could be heard. One o’clock struck, then the quarter, then the half hour past. He began to feel anxious; why was Berthe so long in coming? She must have left the Josserands’ about one o’clock at the latest; and it could not take her more than ten minutes to go to her rooms and come out again by the servants’ staircase. When two o’clock struck, he imagined all sorts of catastrophes. At length, he heaved a sigh of relief, on fancying he recognized her footstep. And he opened the door, in order to light her. But surprise rooted him to the spot. Opposite Adèle’s door, Trublot, bent almost double, was looking through the key-hole, and jumped up, frightened by that sudden light.
“What! it’s you again!” murmured Octave, with annoyance.
Trublot began to laugh, without appearing the least surprised at finding him there at such a time of night.
“Just fancy,” explained he, very softly, “that fool Adèle hasn’t given me her key, and she has gone and joined Duveyrier in his room. Eh? what’s the matter with you? Ah! you didn’t know Duveyrier slept with her. It is so, my dear fellow. He really is reconciled with his wife, who, however, only resigns herself to him now and then; so he falls back upon Adèle. It’s convenient, whenever he comes to Paris.”
He interrupted himself, and stooped down again, then added, between his clenched teeth.
“What a confounded brainless girl that Adèle is! If she had only given me her key, I could have made myself comfortable here.”
Then he returned to the loft where he had been, previously waiting, taking Octave with him, who, moreover, desired to question him respecting the finish of the evening at the Josserands’. But, for some time, Trublot would not allow him to open his mouth.
Octave was at length able to question him as to the wind-up of the party. It seemed that Berthe had left her mother’s shortly after midnight, looking very composed. No doubt, she was now in Rachel’s room. But Trublot, delighted at the meeting, would not let him go.
“It’s idiotic, keeping me waiting so long,” continued he. “Besides, I’m almost asleep as it is. My governor has put me into the liquidation department, and I’m up all night three times a week, my dear fellow. If Julie were only there, she would make room for me. But Duveyrier only brings Hippolyte up from the country. And, by the way, you know Hippolyte, that tall, ugly chap! Well! I just saw him going to join Louise, that frightened brat of a foundling, whose soul Madame Juzeur wished to save. Eh? it’s a fine success for Madame! ‘Anything you like except that.’”
That night, Trublot, who was greatly bored, was full of philosophical reflections. He added, almost in a whisper:
“Well, you know! like master, like man. When landlords set the example, it’s scarcely surprising if the servants’ tastes are not exactly refined. Ah! everything’s decidedly going to the dogs in France!”
“Good-bye,” said Octave; “I’m off.”
But Trublot still detained him, enumerating the servants’ rooms where he might have slept, as the summer had emptied nearly the whole of them; only the worst was that they all double-locked their doors, even when they were merely going to the end of the passage, they had such a fear of being robbed by each other.
At length Octave was able to get free. He was on the point of leaving Trublot in the profound obscurity of the loft, when the latter suddenly expressed his surprise.
“But you, what are you doing amongst the maids? Ah! rascal, you come here too!”
And he laughed with delight, and promising to keep Octave’s secret, sent him off, wishing him a pleasant night of it.
When Octave found himself back in Rachel’s room, he experienced a fresh deception. Berthe was not there. Anger got the better of him now: Berthe had humbugged him, she had promised him merely to get rid of his importunities. Whilst he was chafing there, she was sleeping, happy at being alone, occupying the whole breadth of the conjugal couch. Then, instead of returning to his room and going to sleep himself, he obstinately waited, throwing himself all dressed as he was on the bed, and passing the night in forming projects of revenge. Three o’clock chimed out in the distance. The snores of robust maid-servants arose on his left; while on his right there was a continual wail, a woman moaning with pain in the fever of a sleepless night. He ended by recognizing the boot-stitcher’s voice. The wretched woman was lying suffering all alone in one of those poverty-stricken closets next to the roof.
Just as day was breaking, Octave fell asleep. A profound silence reigned; even the boot-stitcher no longer moaned, but lay like one dead. The sun was peering through the narrow window, when the door opening abruptly awoke the young man.
It was Berthe, who, urged by an irresistible desire, had come up to see if he was still there; she had at first scouted the idea, then she had furnished herself with pretexts, the need for going to the room and putting everything straight, in case he had left it anyhow in his rage. Moreover, she no longer expected to find him there. When she beheld him rise from the little iron bedstead, ghastly pale and menacing, she stood dumbfounded; and she listened with bowed head to his furious reproaches. He pressed her to answer, to give him at least some explanation. At length she murmured:
“At the last moment I could not do it. It was too indelicate. I love you, oh! I swear it. But not here, not here!”
And, seeing him approach her, she drew back, afraid that he might wish to take advantage of the opportunity. Eight o’clock was striking, the servants had all gone down, even Trublot had departed. Then, as he tried to take hold of her hands, saying that, when one loves a person, one accepts everything, she complained that the closeness of the room made her feel unwell, and she slightly opened the window. But he again tried to draw her toward him, overpowering her with his importunities. At this moment a turbid torrent of foul words ascended from the inner courtyard.
“Pig! slut! have you done? Your dish-cloth’s again fallen on my head.”
Berthe, turning ghastly pale, and quivering from head to foot, released herself, murmuring:
“Do you hear those girls? They make me shiver all over. The other day, I thought I should have been ill. No, leave me alone, and I promise to see you, on Tuesday next, in your room.”
The two lovers, standing up and not daring to move, were compelled to hear everything.
“Show yourself a moment,” continued Lisa, who was furious, “so that I may shy it back in your ugly face!”
Then Adèle went and leant out of her kitchen window.
“There’s a fuss about a bit of rag! To begin with, I only used it for washing up with yesterday. And then it fell out by accident.” They made peace together, and Lisa asked her what they had had for dinner at