"But," said Germinie, in whose heart black wrath was beginning torumble, "what about what your son owes me? My money? The money I tookout of the savings bank, the money I borrowed for him, the money I----"
"Money? he owes you money? Oh! yes, what you lent him to begin businesswith. Well! what about it? Do you think we're thieves? Does anyone wantto cheat you out of your old money, although there wasn't any paper--Iknow it because the other day--it just occurs to me--that honest man ofa child of mine wanted to write it down for fear he might die. But thenext minute we're pickpockets, as glib as you please! Oh! my God, it'shardly worth while living in such times as these! Ah! I'm well paid forgetting attached to you! But I see through it now. You're a politician,you are! You wanted to pay yourself with my son, for his whole life!Excuse me! No, thank you! It costs less to give back your money! A cafewaiter's leavings! my poor dear boy! God preserve him from it!"
Germinie had snatched her shawl and hat from the hook and was out ofdoors.
XXVII
Mademoiselle was sitting in her large armchair at the corner of thefireplace, where a few live embers were still sleeping under the ashes.Her black cap was pulled down over her wrinkled forehead almost to hereyes. Her black dress, cut in the shape of a child's frock, was drapedin scanty folds about her scanty body, showing the location of everybone, and fell straight from her knees to the floor. She wore a smallblack shawl crossed on her breast and tied behind her back, as they areworn by little girls. Her half-open hands were resting on her hips, withthe palms turned outward--thin, old woman's hands, awkward and stiff,and swollen with gout at the knuckles and finger joints. Sitting in thehuddled, crouching posture that compels old people to raise their headsto look at you and speak to you, she seemed to be buried in all thatmass of black, whence nothing emerged but her face, to whichpreponderance of bile had imparted the yellow hue of old ivory, and theflashing glance of her brown eyes. One who saw her thus, her bright,sparkling eyes, the meagre body, the garb of poverty and the noble airwith which she bore all the burdens of age, might well have fanciedthat he was looking at a fairy on the stage of the Petits-Menages.
Germinie was by her side. The old lady began:
"The list is still under the door, eh, Germinie?"
"Yes, mademoiselle."
"Do you know, my girl," Mademoiselle de Varandeuil resumed, after apause, "do you know that when one is born in one of the finest houses onRue Royale--when one has been in a fair way to own the Grand andPetit-Charolais--when one has almost had the Chateau ofClichy-la-Garenne for a country house--and when it took two servants tocarry the silver platter on which the joint was served at yourgrandmother's--do you know that it takes no small amount ofphilosophy"--and mademoiselle with difficulty raised a hand to hershoulder--"to see yourself end like this, in this devilish nest ofrheumatism, where, in spite of all the list in the world, you can't keepout of draughts.--That's it, stir up the fire a little."
She put out her feet toward Germinie, who was kneeling in front of thefireplace, and laughingly placed them under her nose: "Do you know thatthat takes no small amount of philosophy--to wear stockings out at heel!Simpleton! I'm not scolding you; I know well enough that you can't doeverything. So you might as well have a woman come to do the mending.That's not very much to do. Why don't you speak to that little girl thatcame here last year? She had a face that I remember."
"Oh! she's black as a mole, mademoiselle."
"Bah! I knew it. In the first place you never think well of anybody.That isn't true, you say? Why, wasn't she a niece of Mere Jupillon's? Wemight take her for one or two days a week."
"That hussy shall never set foot here."
"Nonsense, more fables! You're a most astonishing creature, to adorepeople and then not want to see them again. What has she done to you?"
"She's a lost creature, I tell you!"
"Bah! what does my linen care for that?"
"But, mademoiselle."
"All right! find me someone else then. I don't care about herparticularly. But find me someone."
"Oh! the women that come in like that don't do any work. I'll mend yourclothes. You don't need any one."
"You!--Oh! if we have to rely on your needle!" said mademoisellejocosely; "and then, will Mere Jupillon ever give you the time?"
"Madame Jupillon? Oh! for all the dust I shall ever leave in her houseagain!"
"Hoity-toity! What's that? She too! so she's on your black books, isshe? Oho! hurry up and make another acquaintance, or else, _bon Dieu deDieu_! we shall have some bad days here!"
XXVIII
The winter of that year should certainly have assured Mademoiselle deVarandeuil a share of paradise hereafter. She had to undergo the reflexaction of her maid's chagrin, her nervous irritability, the vengeance ofher embittered, contradictory moods, which the approaching spring wouldere long infect with that species of malignant madness which thecritical season, the travail of nature and the restless, disturbingfructification of the summer cause in unhealthily sensitiveorganizations.
Germinie was forever wiping eyes which no longer wept, but which hadonce wept copiously. She was always ready with an everlasting:"Nothing's the matter, mademoiselle!" uttered in the tone that covers asecret. She adopted dumb, despairing, funereal attitudes, the airs bywhich a woman's body diffuses melancholy and makes her very shadow abore. With her face, her glance, her mouth, the folds of her dress, herpresence, the noise she made at work in the adjoining room, even withher silence, she enveloped mademoiselle in the despair that exhaled fromher person. At the slightest word she would bristle up. Mademoisellecould not address an observation to her, ask her the most trivialquestion, give her an order or express a wish: everything was taken byher as a reproach. And thereupon she would act like a madwoman. Shewould wipe her eyes and grumble: "Oh! I am very unfortunate! I can seethat mademoiselle doesn't care for me any more!" Her spite againstvarious people vented itself in sublimely ingenious complaints. "Thatwoman always comes when it rains!" she would say, upon discovering a bitof mud that Madame de Belleuse had left on the carpet. During the weekfollowing New Year's Day, the week when all of Mademoiselle deVarandeuil's remaining relatives and friends, rich and poor alike,climbed the five flights and waited on the landing at her door for theirturns to occupy the six chairs in her bedroom, Germinie redoubled herill-humor, her impertinent remarks, her sulky muttering. Inventinggrievances against her mistress, she punished her constantly by apersistent silence, which it was impossible to break. Then there wouldbe periods of frenzied industry. Mademoiselle would hear through thepartitions on all sides furious manipulation of the broom and duster,the sharp, vicious scrubbing and slamming of the servant whom oneimagines muttering to herself as she maltreats the furniture: "Oh! yes,I'll do your work for you!"
Old people are patient with servants who have been long in theirservice. Long habit, the weakening will-power, the horror of change,the dread of new faces,--everything disposes them to weakness andcowardly concessions. Notwithstanding her quick temper, her promptnessto lose her head, to fly into a rage, to breathe fire and flame,mademoiselle said nothing. She acted as if she saw nothing. Shepretended to be reading when Germinie entered the room. She waited,curled up in her easy-chair, until the maid's ill-humor had blown overor burst. She bent her back before the storm; she said no word, had nothought of bitterness against her. She simply pitied her for causingherself so much suffering.
In truth Germinie was not Mademoiselle de Varandeuil's maid; she wasDevotion, waiting to close her eyes. The solitary old woman, overlookedby death, alone at the end of her life, dragging her affections fromgrave to grave, had found her last friend in her servant. She had restedher heart upon her as upon an adopted daughter, and she was especiallyunhappy because she was powerless to comfort her. Moreover, atintervals, Germinie returned to her from the depths of her broodingmelancholy and her savage humor, and threw herself on her knees beforeher kind heart. Suddenly, at a ray of sunlight, a beggar's song, or anyone of the nothings that float in the air a
nd expand the heart, shewould burst into tears and demonstrations of affection; her heart wouldoverflow with burning emotions, she would seem to feel a pleasure inembracing her mistress, as if the joy of living again had effacedeverything. At other times some trifling ailment of mademoiselle's wouldbring about the change; a smile would come to the old servant's face andgentleness to her hands. Sometimes, at such moments, mademoiselle wouldsay: "Come, my girl--something's the matter. Tell me what it is." AndGerminie would reply: "No, mademoiselle, it's the weather."--"Theweather!" mademoiselle would repeat with a doubtful air, "the weather!"
XXIX
One evening in March the Jupillons, mother and son, were talkingtogether by the stove in their back-shop.
Jupillon had been drafted. The money his mother had put aside topurchase his release had been used up as a result of six months of poorbusiness and by credits given to certain _lorettes_ on the street, whohad left the key under their door-mat one fine morning. He had notprospered, in a business way, himself, and his stock in trade had beentaken on execution. He had been that day to ask a former employer toadvance him the money to purchase a substitute. But the old perfumer hadnot forgiven him for leaving him and setting up for himself, and herefused point-blank.
Mere Jupillon, in despair, was complaining tearfully. She repeated thenumber drawn by her son: "Twenty-two! twenty-two!" And she said: "Andyet I sewed a black spider into your _paletot_ with his web; a _velvety_fellow he was! Oh, dear! I ought to have done as they told me and madeyou wear the cap you were baptized in. Ah! the good God ain't fair!There's the fruit woman's son drew a lucky number! That comes of beinghonest! And those two sluts at number eighteen must go and hook it withmy money! I might have known they meant something by the way they shookhands. They did me out of more than seven hundred francs, did you knowit? And the black creature opposite--and that infernal girl as had theface to eat pots of strawberries at twenty francs! they might as wellhave taken me too, the hussies! But you haven't gone yet all the same.I'd rather sell the creamery--I'll go out to work again, do cooking orhousekeeping,--anything! Why, I'd draw money from a stone for you!"
Jupillon smoked and let his mother do the talking. When she hadfinished, he said: "That'll do for talk, mamma!--all that's nothing butwords. You'll spoil your digestion and it ain't worth while. You needn'tsell anything--you needn't strain yourself at all--I'll buy mysubstitute and it sha'n't cost you a sou;--do you want to bet on it?"
"Jesus!" ejaculated Madame Jupillon.
"I have an idea."
After a pause, Jupillon continued: "I didn't want to make trouble withyou on account of Germinie--you know, at the time the stories about uswere going round; you thought it was time for me to break with her--thatshe would be in our way--and you kicked her out of the house, stiff.That wasn't my idea--I didn't think she was so bad as all that for thefamily butter. But, however, you thought best to do it. And perhaps,after all, you did the best thing; instead of cooling her off, youwarmed her up for me--yes, warmed her up--I've met her once ortwice--and she's changed, I tell you. Gad! how she's drying up!"
"But you know very well she hasn't got a sou."
"I don't say she has, of her own. But what's that got to do with it?She'll find it somewhere. She's good for twenty-three hundred shinersyet!"
"But suppose you get mixed up in it?"
"Oh! she won't steal 'em----"
"The deuce she won't!"
"Well! if she does, it won't be from anyone but her mistress. Do yousuppose her mademoiselle would have her pinched for that? She'll turnher off, and that'll be the end of it. We'll advise her to try the airin another quarter--off she goes!--and we sha'n't see her again. But itwould be too stupid for her to steal. She'll arrange it somehow, she'llhunt round and turn things over. I don't know how, not I! but that's heraffair, you understand. This is the time for her to show her talents. Bythe way, perhaps you don't know, they say her old woman's sick. If thedear lady should happen to step out and leave her all the stuff, as thestory goes in the quarter--why, it wouldn't be a bad thing to haveplayed see-saw with her, eh, mamma? We must put on gloves, you see,mamma, when we're dealing with people who may have four or five thousanda year come tumbling into their aprons."
"Oh! my God! what are you talking about? But after the way I treatedher--oh! no, she'll never come back here."
"Well! I tell you I'll bring her back--and to-night at the latest," saidJupillon, rising, and rolling a cigarette between his fingers. "Noexcuses, you know," he said to his mother, "they won't do any good--andbe cold to her. Act as if you received her only on my account, becauseyou are weak. No one knows what may happen, we must always keep ananchor to windward."
XXX
Jupillon was walking back and forth on the sidewalk in front ofGerminie's house when she came out.
"Good-evening, Germinie," he said, behind her.
She turned as if she had been struck, and, without answering hisgreeting, instinctively moved on a few steps as if to fly from him.
"Germinie!"
Jupillon said nothing more than that; he did not follow her, he did notmove. She came back to him like a trained beast when his rope is takenoff.
"What is it?" said she. "Do you want more money? or do you want to tellme some of your mother's foolish remarks?"
"No, but I am going away," said Jupillon, with a serious face. "I amdrafted--and I am going away."
"You are going away?" said she. She seemed as if her mind was not awake.
"Look here, Germinie," Jupillon continued. "I have made you unhappy. Ihaven't been very kind to you, I know. My cousin's been a little toblame. What do you want?"
"You're going away?" rejoined Germinie, taking his arm. "Don't lie tome--are you going away?"
"I tell you, yes--and it's true. I'm only waiting for marching orders.You have to pay more than two thousand francs for a substitute thisyear. They say there's going to be a war: however, there's a chance."
As he spoke he was leading Germinie down the street.
"Where are you taking me?" said she.
"To mother's, of course--so that you two can make up and put an end toall this nonsense."
"After what she said to me? Never!"
And Germinie pushed Jupillon's arm away.
"Well, if that's the way it is, good-bye."
And Jupillon raised his cap.
"Shall I write to you from the regiment?"
Germinie was silent, hesitating, for a moment. Then she said, abruptly:"Come on!" and, motioning to Jupillon to walk beside her, she turnedback up the street.
And so they walked along, side by side, without a word. They reached apaved road that stretched out as far as the eye could see, between twolines of lanterns, between two rows of gnarled trees that held alofthandfuls of bare branches and cast their slender, motionless shadows onhigh blank walls. There, in the keen air, chilled by the evaporation ofthe snow, they walked on and on for a long time, burying themselves inthe vague, infinite, unfamiliar depths of a street that follows thesame wall, the same trees, the same lanterns, and leads on to the samedarkness beyond. The damp, heavy air that they breathed smelt of sugarand tallow and carrion. From time to time a vivid flash passed beforetheir eyes: it was the lantern of a butcher's cart that shone uponslaughtered cattle and huge pieces of bleeding meat thrown upon the backof a white horse; the light upon the flesh, amid the darkness, resembleda purple conflagration, a furnace of blood.
"Well! have you reflected?" said Jupillon. "This little Avenue Trudaineisn't a very cheerful place, do you know?"
"Come on," Germinie replied.
And, without another word, she set out again at the same fierce, jerkygait, agitated by all the tumult raging in her heart. Her thoughts wereexpressed in her gestures. Her feet went astray, madness attacked herhands. At times her shadow, seen from behind, reminded one of a womanfrom La Salpetriere. Two or three passers-by stopped for a moment andlooked after her; then, remembering that they were in Paris, passed on.
Suddenly she stopped,
and with the gesture of one who has made adesperate resolution, she said: "Ah! my God! another pin in thecushion!--Let us go!"
And she took Jupillon's arm.
"Oh! I know very well," said Jupillon, when they were near the creamery,"my mother wasn't fair to you. You see, the woman has been too virtuousall her life. She don't know, she don't understand. And then, d'ye see,I'll tell you the whole secret: she loves me so much she's jealous ofany woman who loves me. So go in, do!"
And he pushed her into the arms of Madame Jupillon, who kissed her,mumbled a few words of regret, and made haste to weep in order torelieve her own embarrassment and make the scene more affecting.
Throughout the evening Germinie sat with her eyes fixed on Jupillon,almost terrifying him with her expression.
"Come, come," he said, as he walked home with her, "don't be so down inthe mouth as all this. We must have a little philosophy in this world.Well! here I am a soldier--that's all! To be sure they don't all comeback. But then--look here! I propose that we enjoy ourselves for thefortnight that's left, because it will be so much gained--and if I don'tcome back--Well, at all events, I shall leave you a pleasant memory ofme."