On the following Tuesday Berthe did not keep her promise to Octave. This time she had warned him not to expect her, in a rapid explanation they had had that evening, after the warehouse closed; and she sobbed; she had been to confession the day before, feeling a want of religious comfort, and was still quite upset by Abbé Mauduit’s grievous exhortations. Since her marriage she had thrown aside all religion, but, after the foul words with which the servants had sullied her, she had suddenly felt so sad, so abandoned, so unclean, that she had returned for an hour to the belief of her childhood, inflamed with a hope of purification and salvation. On her return, the priest having wept with her, her sin quite horrified her. Octave, impotent and furious, shrugged his shoulders.
Then, three days later, she again promised for the following Tuesday. At a meeting with her lover, in the Passage des Panoramas, she had seen some Chantilly lace shawls, and she was incessantly alluding to them, whilst her eyes were filled with desire. So that, on the Monday morning, the young man laughingly said to her, in order to soften the brutal nature of the bargain, that, if she at last kept her word, she would find a little surprise for herself up in his room. She understood him, and again burst into tears. No! no! she would not go now; he had spoilt all the pleasure she had anticipated from their being together. She had spoken of the shawl thoughtlessly; she no longer wanted it; she would throw it on the fire if he gave it her. However, on the morrow, they made all their arrangements: she was to knock three times at his door very softly half an hour after midnight.
That day, when Auguste started for Lyons, he struck Berthe as being rather peculiar. She had caught him whispering with Rachel behind the kitchen door; besides which, he was quite yellow, and shivering, with one eye closed up; but, as he complained a good deal of his headache, she thought he was ill, and told him that the journey would do him good. Directly he had left, she returned to the kitchen, still feeling slightly uneasy, and tried to sound the servant. The girl continued to be discreet and respectful, and maintained the stiff attitude of her early days. The young woman, however, felt that she was vaguely dissatisfied, and she thought that she had been very foolish to give her twenty francs and a dress, and then to stop all further gratuities, although compelled to do so, for she was forever in want of a five franc piece herself.
“My poor girl,” said she to her, “I have not been very generous, have I? But it is not my fault. I have not forgotten you, and I shall recompense you by-and-by.”
“Madame owes me nothing,” answered Rachel, in her cold way.
Then Berthe went and fetched two of her old chemises, wishing at least to show her good nature. But the servant, on receiving them, observed that they would do for rags for the kitchen.
“Thank you, madame; calico irritates my skin; I only wear linen.”
Berthe, however, found her so polite, that she became more easy. She made herself very familiar with her, told her she was going to sleep out, and even asked her to leave a lamp alight, in case she required it. The door leading on to the grand staircase could be bolted, and she would go out by way of the kitchen, the key of which she would take with her. The servant received these instructions as coolly as if it had been a question of cooking a piece of beef for the morrow’s dinner.
By a refinement of discretion, as his mistress was to dine with her parents that evening, Octave accepted an invitation to the Campardons’. He counted on staying there till ten o’clock, and then going and shutting himself up in his room, and waiting for half-past twelve with as much patience as possible.
The dinner at the Campardons’ was quite patriarchal. The architect, seated between his wife and her cousin, lingered over the dishes—regular family dishes—abundant and wholesome, as he described them.
“Eat away,” cried the architect to Octave; “you may be eaten yourself some day.”
Madame Campardon, bending toward the young man’s ear, was once more congratulating herself on the happiness which the cousin had brought the household; an economy of quite cent. per cent., the servants made to be respectful; Angèle looked after properly, and receiving good examples.
“In short,” murmured she, “Achille continues to be as happy as a fish in water, and, as for me, I have absolutely nothing whatever left to do, absolutely nothing. Listen! she even washes me now. I can live without moving either arms or legs; she has taken all the cares of the household on her own shoulders.”
Then the architect related how “he had settled those jokers of the Ministry of Public Instruction.”
“Just fancy, my dear fellow, they made no end of a fuss about the work I’ve done at Evreux, You see, I wished, above all, to please the bishop. Only, the range for the new kitchens and the heating apparatus have come to more than twenty thousand francs. No credit was voted for them, and it is not easy to get twenty thousand francs out of the small sum allowed for repairs.”
They laughed all round the table, without the least respect for the Ministry, of which they spoke with disdain, their mouths full of rice. Rose declared that it was best to be on the side of religion. Ever since the works at Saint-Roch, Achille was overwhelmed with orders; the greatest families would employ no one else; it was impossible for him to attend to them all; he would have to work all night as well as all day. God wished them well, most decidedly, and the family returned thanks to Him, both night and morning.
They were having dessert, when Campardon exclaimed:
“By the way, my dear fellow, you know that Duveyrier has found ————”
He was about to name Clarisse. But he recollected that Angèle was present, so, casting a side glance toward his daughter, he added:
“He has found his relative, you know.”
And, biting his lip and winking his eye, he at length made himself understood by Octave, who at first did not in the least catch what he meant.
“Yes, Trublot, whom I met, told me so. The day before yesterday, when it was pouring in torrents, Duveyrier stood up inside a doorway, and who do you think he saw there? why, his relative shaking out her umbrella. Trublot had been seeking her for a week past, so as to restore her to him.”
Angèle had modestly lowered her eyes onto her plate, and began swallowing enormous mouthfuls. The family rigorously excluded all indecent words from their conversation.
“Is she good looking?” asked Rose of Octave.
“That’s a matter of taste,” replied the latter. “Some people may think so.”
“She had the audacity to come to the shop one day,” said Gasparine, who, in spite of her own skinniness, detested thin people. “She was pointed out to me. A regular bean-stalk.”
“All the same,” concluded the architect, “Duveyrier’s hooked again. His poor wife———”
He intended saying that Clotilde was probably relieved and delighted. Only, he remembered a second time that Angèle was present, and put on a doleful air to declare:
“Relations do not always agree together. Yes! every family has its worries.”
Lisa, on the other side of the table, with a napkin on her arm, looked at Angèle, and the latter, seized with a mad fit of laughter, hastened to take a long drink, and hide her face in her glass.
A little before ten o’clock, Octave pretended to be very fatigued, and retired to his room. In spite of Rose’s affectionate ways, he was ill at ease in that family circle, where he felt Gasparine’s hostility to him to be ever on the increase. Yet, he had never done anything to her. She detested him for being a handsome man, she suspected him of having overcome all the women of the house, and that exasperated her, though she did not desire him the least in the world, but merely yielded, at the thought of his happiness, to the instinctive anger of a woman whose beauty had faded too soon.
Directly he had left, the family talked of retiring for the night. Before getting into bed, Rose spent an hour in her dressing-room every evening. She proceeded to wash and scent herself all over, then did her hair, examined her eyes, her mouth, her ears, and even placed a tiny patch under her chin. At night-time, she replaced her luxury of dressing-gowns by a luxury of night-caps and chemises.
On that occasion she selected a chemise and a cap trimmed with Valenciennes lace. Gasparine had assisted her, handing her the basins, wiping up the water she spilt, drying her with a soft towel, little things which she did far better than Lisa.
“Ah! I do feel comfortable!” said Rose at length, stretched out in her bed, whilst the cousin tucked in the sheets and raised the bolster.
And she laughed with delight, all alone in the middle of the big bed. With her soft, delicate, and spotless body, reclining amidst the lace, she looked like some beautiful creature awaiting the idol of her heart. When she felt herself pretty, she slept better, she used to say. Besides, it was the only pleasure left her.
“Is it all right?” asked Campardon, entering the room. “Well! good-night, little duck.”
He pretended he had some work to do. He would have to sit up a little longer. But she grew angry, she wished him to take some rest; it was foolish to work himself to death like that!
“You hear me, now go to bed. Gasparine, promise me to make him go to bed.”
The cousin, who had just placed a glass of sugar and water, and one of Dickens’ novels on the night table, looked at her. Without answering, she bent over and said:
“You are so nice, this evening!”
And she kissed her on both cheeks, with her dry lips and bitter mouth, in the resigned manner of a poor and ugly relation. Campardon, his face very red, and suffering from a difficult digestion, also looked at his wife. His mustache quivered slightly as he kissed her in his turn.
“Good night, my little duck.”
“Good night, my darling. Now, mind you go to bed at once.”
“Never fear!” said Gasparine. “If he’s not in bed asleep at eleven o’clock, I’ll get up and put his lamp out.”
Toward eleven o’clock, Campardon, who was yawning over a Swiss cottage, the fancy of a tailor of the Rue Rameau, rose from his seat and undressed himself slowly, thinking of Rose, so pretty and so clean; then, after opening his bed, on account of the servants, he went and joined Gasparine in hers. It was so narrow that they slept very uncomfortably in it, and their elbows were constantly digging into each other’s ribs. He especially always had one leg quite stiff in the morning, through his efforts to balance himself on the edge of the mattress.
At the same time, as Victoire had gone to her room, having finished her washing up, Lisa came, in accordance with her usual custom, to see if mademoiselle required anything more. Angèle was waiting for her comfortably in her bed; and thus, every evening, unknown to the parents, they had endless games at cards, on a corner of the counterpane, which they spread out for the purpose. They played at beggar-my-neighbor, while abusing cousin Gasparine, a dirty creature, whom the maid coarsely pulled to pieces before the child. They both avenged themselves for their hypocritical submission during the day, and Lisa took a low delight in this corruption of Angèle, and in satisfying the curiosity of this sickly girl, agitated by the crisis of her thirteen years. That night they were furious with Gasparine, who, for two days past, had taken to locking up the sugar, with which the maid filled her pockets, to empty them afterward on the child’s bed. What a bear she was! now they were not even able to get a lump of sugar to suck when going to sleep!
“Yet, your papa gives her plenty of sugar!” said Lisa, with a sensual laugh.
“Oh! yes!” murmured Angèle, laughing also.
“What does your papa do to her? Come, show me.”
Then the child caught the maid round the neck, pressed her in her bare arms, and kissed her violently on the mouth, saying as she did so:
“See! like this. See! like this.”
Midnight struck. Campardon and Gasparine were moaning in their over-narrow bed, whilst Rose, stretching herself out in the middle of hers, and extending her limbs, was reading Dickens, with tears of emotion. A profound silence followed; the chaste night cast its shadow over the respectability of the family.
On going up to his room, Octave found that the Pichons had company. Jules called him in, and persisted on his taking a glass of something. Monsieur and Madame Vuillaume were there, having made it up with the young people, on the occasion of Marie’s churching, she having been confined in September. They had even agreed to come to dinner one Tuesday, to celebrate the young woman’s recovery, which only fully dated from the day before. Anxious to pacify her mother, whom the sight of the child, another girl, annoyed, she had sent it out to nurse, not far from Paris. Lilitte was sleeping on the table, overcome by a glass of pure wine, which her parents had forced her to drink to her little sister’s health.
“Well! two may still be put up with!” said Madame Vuillaume, after clinking glasses with Octave. “Only, don’t do it again, son-in-law.”
The others all laughed. But the old woman remained perfectly grave.
“There is nothing laughable in that,” she continued. “We accept this child, but I swear to you that if another were to come——”
“Oh! if another came,” finished Monsieur Vuillaume, “you would have neither heart nor brains. Dash it all! one must be serious in life, one should restrain oneself, when one has not got hundreds and thousands to spend in pleasures.”
And, turning toward Octave, he added:
“You see, sir, I am decorated. Well! I may tell you that, so as not to dirty too many ribbons, I don’t wear my decoration at home. Therefore, if I deprive my wife and myself of the pleasure of being decorated in our own home, our children can certainly deprive themselves of the pleasure of having daughters. No, sir, there are no little economies.”
But the Pichons assured him of their obedience. They were not likely to be caught at that game again!
“To suffer what I’ve suffered!” said Marie, still quite pale.
“I would sooner cut my leg off,” declared Jules.
The Vuillaumes nodded their heads with a satisfied air. They had their word, so they forgave them that time. And, as ten was striking by the clock, they tenderly embraced all round; and Jules put on his hat to see them to the omnibus. This resumption of the old ways affected them so much that they embraced a second time on the landing. When they had taken their departure, Marie, who stood watching them go down, leaning over the balustrade, beside Octave, took the latter back to the dining-room, saying:
“Ah! mamma is not unkind, and she is quite right: children are no joke!”
She had shut the door, and was clearing the table of the glasses which still lay about. The narrow room, with its smoky lamp, was quite warm from the little family jollification. Lilitte continued to slumber on a corner of the American cloth.
“I’m off to bed,” murmured Octave.
But he sat down, feeling very comfortable there.
“What! going to bed already!” resumed the young woman. “You don’t often keep such good hours. Have you something to see to, then, early to-morrow?”
“No,” answered he. “I feel sleepy, that is all. Oh! I can very well stay another ten minutes or so.”
He just then thought of Berthe. She would not be coming up till half-past twelve: he had plenty of time. And this thought, the hope of having her with him for a whole night, which had been consuming him for weeks past, no longer had the same effect on him. The fever of the day, the torment of his desire counting the minutes, evoking the continual image of approaching bliss, gave way beneath the fatigue of waiting.
“Will you have another small glass of brandy?” asked Marie.
“Well! yes, I don’t mind.”
He thought that it would set him up a bit. When she had taken the glass from him, he caught hold of her hands, and held them in his, whilst she smiled, without the least alarm. He thought her charming, with her paleness of a woman who had recently gone through a deal of suffering. All the hidden tenderness with which he felt himself again invaded, ascended with sudden violence to his throat, and to his lips. He had one evening restored her to her husband, after placing a father’s kiss upon her brow, and now he felt a necessity to take her back again, an acute and immediate longing, in which all desire for Berthe vanished, like something too distant to dwell upon.
“You are not afraid, then, to-day?” asked he, squeezing her hands tighter.
“No, since it has now become impossible. Oh! we shall always be good friends!”
And she gave him to understand that she knew everything. Saturnin must have spoken. Moreover, she always noticed when Octave received a certain person in his room. As he turned pale with anxiety, she hastened to ease his mind: she would never say a word to any one, she was not angry, on the contrary she wished him much happiness.
“Come,” repeated she, “I’m married, so I can’t bear you any ill will.”
He took her on his knees, and exclaimed:
“But it’s you who I love!”
And he spoke truly. At that moment he loved her and only her, and with an absolute and infinite passion. All his new intrigue, the two months spent in pursuing another, were as naught. He again beheld himself in that narrow room, coming and kissing Marie on the neck, behind Jule’s back, ever finding her willing, with her passive gentleness. This was true happiness, how was it that he had disdained it? Regret almost broke his heart. He still wished for her, and he felt that, if he had her no more, he would be eternally miserable.
“Let me be,” murmured she, trying to release herself. “You are not reasonable, you will end by grieving me. Now that you love another, what is the use of continuing to torment me?”
She defended herself thus, in her gentle and irresolute way, merely feeling a certain repugnance for what did not amuse her much. But he was getting crazy, he squeezed her tighter, he kissed her throat through the coarse material of her woolen dress.
“It’s you who I love, you cannot understand—Listen! on what I hold most sacred, I swear to you I do not lie. Tear my heart open and see. Oh! I implore you, be kind!”
Marie, paralyzed by the will of this man, made a movement as though to take slumbering Lilitte into the next apartment; but he prevented her, fearing that she would awaken the child. The peacefulness of the house, at that hour of the night, filled the little room with a sort of buzzing silence. Suddenly the lamp went down, and they were about to find themselves in the dark, when Marie, rising, was just in time to wind it up again.
Tears filled her eyes, and she remained sad, though still without anger. When he left her, he felt dissatisfied, he would have liked to have gone to sleep. But the other one would be there shortly, he must wait for her, and this thought weighed terribly on him; after having spent feverish nights in concocting extravagant plans for getting her to visit him in his room, he longed for something to happen which would prevent her from coming up. Perhaps she would once again fail to keep her word. It was a hope with which he scarcely dared delude himself.
Midnight struck. Octave, quite tired out, stood listening, fearing to hear the rustling of her skirts along the narrow passage. At half past twelve, he was seized with real anxiety; at one o’clock, he thought himself saved, but a secret irritation mingled with his relief, the annoyance of a man made a fool of by a woman. But, just as he made up his mind to undress himself, yawning for want of sleep, there came three gentle taps at the door. It was Berthe. He felt both annoyed and flattered, and advanced to meet her with open arms, when she motioned him aside, and stood trembling and listening against the door, which she had hastily shut after her.
“What is the matter?” asked he, in a low voice.
“I don’t know, I was frightened,” stammered she. “It is so dark on the stairs, I thought that somebody was following me. Dear me! how stupid all this is! Some harm is sure to happen to us.”
This chilled them both. They did not even kiss each other.
“I am going back,” said she, without leaving her chair.
“What, you are going?”
“Do you think I sell myself? You are always hurting my feelings; you have again spoilt all my pleasure to-night. Why did you buy it, when I forbade you to do so?”
She got up, and at length consented to look at it. But, when she opened the box, she experienced such a disappointment, that she could not restrain this indignant exclamation:
“What! it is not Chantilly at all, it is llama!”
Octave, who was reducing his presents, had yielded to a miserly idea. He tried to explain to her that there was some superb llama, quite equal to Chantilly; and he praised up the article, just as though he had been behind his counter, making her feel the lace, and swearing that it would last her forever. But she shook her head, and silenced him by observing contemptuously.
“The long and short of it is, this costs one hundred francs, whereas the other would have cost three hundred.”
And, seeing him turn pale, she added, so as to soften her words: “You are very kind all the same, and I am much obliged to you. It is not the value which makes the present, when one’s intention is good.”
She sat down again, and a pause ensued. She was still quite upset by her silly fright on the stairs! And she returned to her misgivings with respect to Rachel, relating how she had found Auguste whispering with the maid behind the door. Yet, it would have been so easy to have bought the girl over by giving her a five franc piece from time to time. But to do this, it was necessary to have some five franc pieces; she never had one, she had nothing. Her voice became harsh, the llama shawl, which she no longer alluded to, was working her up to such a pitch of rancor and despair, that she ended by picking the quarrel with her lover which had already existed so long between her and her husband.
“Come, now, is it a life worth living? never a sou, always at any one’s mercy for the least thing! Oh! I’ve had enough of it, I’ve had enough of it!”
Octave, who was pacing the room, stopped short to ask her:
“But why do you tell me all this?”
“Eh? sir, why? But there are things which delicacy alone ought to tell you, without my being made to blush by having to discuss such matters with you. Ought you not, long ere now, and without having to be told, to have made me easy by bringing this girl to our feet?”
She paused, then she added, in a tone of disdainful irony:
“It would not have ruined you.”
There was another silence. The young man, who was again pacing the room, at length replied:
“I am not rich, and I regret it for your sake.”
Then matters went from bad to worse, the quarrel assumed quite conjugal violence.
“Say that I love you for your money!” cried she, with all the bluntness of her mother, whose very words seemed to come to her lips. “I am a money-loving woman, am I not? Well! yes, I am a money-loving woman, because I am a sensible woman. It is no use pretending the contrary; money will ever be money in spite of everything. As for me, whenever I have had twenty sous, I have always pretended that I had forty, for it is better to create envy than pity.”
He interrupted her to say, in a weary voice, like a man who only desires peace.
“Listen, if it annoys you so much that it’s a llama shawl, I will give you one in Chantilly.”
“Your shawl!” continued she, in a regular fury, “why, I’ve already forgotten all about your shawl! The other things are what exasperate me, understand! Oh! moreover, you’re just like my husband. You wouldn’t care a bit if I hadn’t a pair of boots to go out in. Yet, when one loves a woman, good nature alone should prompt one to feed and dress her. But no man will ever understand that. Why, between the two of you, you would soon let me go out with nothing on but my chemise, if I was agreeable!”
Octave, tired out by this domestic squabble, decided not to answer, having noticed that Auguste sometimes got rid of her in that way. He let pass the flow of words, and thought of the ill-luck of his amours. Yet, he had ardently desired this one, even to the point of upsetting all his calculations; and, now that she was in his room, it was to quarrel with him, to make him pass a sleepless night, as though they had already left six months of married life behind them.
And full of conciliation, without desire, but polite, he tried to kiss her. She pushed him away, and burst into tears.
“Go on, reproach me also with my outings,” stammered she in the midst of her sobs. “Accuse me of being too great an expense to you. Oh! I see clearly now; it’s all on account of that wretched present. If you could shut me up in a box, you would do so. I have lady friends; I go to call on them; that is no crime. And as for mamma——”
“For heaven’s sake leave your mamma alone,” interrupted Octave; “and allow me to tell you that she has given you a precious bad temper.”
She mechanically commenced to undress herself, and becoming more and more excited, she raised her voice.
“Mamma has always done her duty. It’s not for you to speak of her here. I forbid you to mention her name. It only remained for you to attack my family!”
Finding a difficulty in undoing the string of her petticoat, she broke it. Then, seating herself on the edge of the bed, her bosom heaving with anger in the midst of the surrounding lace of her chemise, she continued:
“Ah! how I regret my weakness, sir! how one would reflect, if one could only foresee everything!”
Octave, who had made a show of lying with his face to the wall, suddenly bounced round, exclaiming:
“What! you regret having loved me?”
“Most certainly, a man incapable of understanding a woman’s heart!”
And they looked at each other close together, with hardened faces, quite devoid of love.
“Ah! good heavens! if it were only to come over again!” added she.
“You would take another, wouldn’t you?” said he, brutally and in a very low voice.
She was about to answer fin the same exasperated tone, when there came a sudden hammering at the door. Not understanding at first what it meant, they remained immovable, and their blood seemed to freeze in their veins. A hollow voice said:
“Open the door, I can hear you at your dirty tricks. Open, or I will burst it in!”
It was the husband’s voice. Still the lovers did not move, their heads were filled with such a buzzing that they could think of nothing; and they felt very cold, just like corpses. Berthe at length jumped from the bed, with an instinctive desire to fly from her lover, whilst, on the other side of the door, Auguste repeated:
“Open! open, I say!”
Then ensued a terrible confusion, an inexpressible anguish. Berthe turned about the room in a state of distraction, seeking for some outlet, with a fear of death which made her turn ghastly pale. Octave, whose heart jumped to his mouth at each blow, had gone and mechanically leant against the door, as though to strengthen it. The noise was becoming unbearable, the fool would wake the whole house up, he would have to open the door. But, when she understood his determination, she hung onto his arms, imploring him with terrified eyes; no, no, mercy! the other would rush upon them with a pistol or a knife. He, as pale as herself, and partly overcome by her fright, slipped on his trousers, and beseeched her to dress herself. Still bewildered, she only managed to put on her stockings. All this time the husband continued his uproar.
“You won’t; you don’t answer. Very well, you’ll see.”
Every since he had last paid his rent, Octave had been asking his landlord for some slight repairs—two new screws in the staple of his lock, which scarcely held to the wood. Suddenly the door cracked, the staple yielded, and Auguste, unable to stop himself, rolled into the middle of the room.
“Damnation!” swore he.
He simply held a key in his hand, which was bleeding through becoming grazed in his fall. When he got up, livid, and filled with rage and shame at the thought of his ridiculous entry, he hit out into space, and wished to spring upon Octave. But the latter, in spite of the awkwardness of being barefooted and having his trousers all awry, seized him by the wrists, and, being the stronger of the two, mastered him, at the same time exclaiming:
“Sir, you are violating my domicile. It is disgraceful; you should act like a gentleman.”
And he almost beat him. During their short struggle, Berthe had made off in her chemise by the door which had remained wide open; she fancied she beheld a kitchen knife in her husband’s bleeding fist, and she seemed to feel the cold steel between her shoulders. As she rushed along the dark passage, she thought she heard the sound of blows, without being able to make out who had dealt them, or who received them. Voices, which she no longer recognized, were saying:
“I am at your service whenever you please.”
“Very well, you will hear from me.”
With a bound she gained the servants’ staircase. But when she had rushed down the two flights, as though there had been the flames of a conflagration behind her, she found the kitchen door locked, and remembered she had left the key up-stairs in the pocket of her dressing-gown. Moreover, there was no lamp; not the least glimmer of a light beneath the door; it was evidently the servant who