Germinie would walk on and on. She would cover all the territory wherelow debauchery fills its crop on Mondays and finds its loves, between ahospital, a slaughter-house, and a cemetery; Lariboisiere, the Abattoirand Montmartre.
The people who passed that way--the workman returning from Pariswhistling; the workingwoman, her day's work ended, hurrying on with herhands under her armpits to keep herself warm; the street-walker in herblack cap--would stare at her as they passed. Strange men acted as ifthey recognized her; the light made her ashamed. She would turn and runtoward the other end of the boulevard and follow the dark, desertedfootway along the city wall; but she was soon driven away by horribleshadows of men and by brutally familiar hands.
She tried to go away; she insulted herself inwardly; she called herselfa cowardly wretch; she swore to herself that each turn should be thelast, that she would go as far as a certain tree, and that was all; ifhe had not returned, she would go away and put an end to the wholething. But she did not go; she walked on and on; she waited, moreconsumed than ever, the longer he delayed, with the mad desire to seehim.
At last, as the hours flew by and the boulevard became empty, Germinie,exhausted, overdone with weariness, would approach the houses. She wouldloiter from shop to shop, she would go mechanically where gas was stillburning, and stand stupidly in the bright glare from the shop windows.She welcomed the dazzling light in her eyes, she tried to allay herimpatience by benumbing it. The objects to be seen through theperspiring windows of the wine-shops--the cooking utensils, the bowls ofpunch flanked by two empty bottles with sprigs of laurel protruding fromtheir necks, the show-cases in which the liquors combined their variedcolors in a single beam, a cup filled with plated spoons--these thingswould hold her attention for a long while. She would read the oldannouncements of lottery drawings placarded on the walls of a saloon,the advertisements of _gloria_--coffee with brandy--the inscriptions inyellow letters: _New wine, pure blood, 70 centimes._ For a whole quarterof an hour she would stand staring into a back room containing a man ina blouse sitting on a stool by a table, a stove-pipe, a slate, and twoblack tea-boards against the wall. Her fixed, vacant stare would rest,through the reddish mist, upon the dark forms of shoemakers leaning overtheir benches. It fell and lingered heedlessly upon a counter that wasbeing washed, upon hands that were counting the receipts of the day,upon a tunnel or jug that was being scoured with sandstone. She hadceased to think. She would simply stand there, nailed to the spot andgrowing weaker and weaker, feeling her courage vanish from the mereweariness of standing on her feet, seeing things only through a sort offilm as in a swoon, hearing the noise made by the muddy cabs rollingover the wet pavements only as a buzzing in her ears, ready to fall andcompelled again and again to lean against the wall for support.
In her then condition of prostration and illness, with thatsemi-hallucination of vertigo that made her so timid of crossing theSeine and impelled her to cling to the bridge railings, it happenedthat, on certain evenings, when it rained, these fits of weakness thatshe had upon the outer boulevard assumed the terrors of a nightmare.When the light from the lanterns, trembling in misty vapor, cast itsvarying, flickering reflection on the damp ground; when the pavements,the sidewalks, the earth, seemed to melt away and disappear under therain, and there was no appearance of solidity anywhere in the aqueousdarkness, the wretched creature, almost mad with fatigue, would fancythat she could see a flood rising in the gutter. A mirage of terrorwould show her suddenly the water all about her, and creeping constantlynearer to her. She would close her eyes, not daring to move, fearing tofeel her feet slip from under her; she would begin to weep, and wouldweep on until someone passed by and offered to escort her to the _Hotelof the Little Blue Hand_.
LII
She would then ascend the stairs; that was her last place of refuge. Shewould fly from the rain and snow and cold, from fear, despair, andfatigue. She would go up and sit on the top step against Gautruche'sclosed doors; she would draw her shawl and skirts closely about her inorder to leave room for those who went and came up that long steepladder, and would draw back as far as possible into the corner in orderthat her shame might fill but little space on the narrow landing.
From the open doors the odor of unventilated closets, of families heapedtogether in a single room, the exhalations of unhealthy trades, thedense, greasy fumes of cooking done in chafing-dishes on the floor, thestench of rags and the faint damp smell of clothes drying in the house,came forth and filled the hall. The broken-paned window behind Germiniewafted to her nostrils the fetid stench of a leaden pipe in which thewhole house emptied its refuse and its filth. Her stomach rose in revoltevery moment at a puff of infection; she was obliged to take from herpocket a phial of melissa water that she always carried, and swallow amouthful of it to avoid being ill.
But the staircase had its passers, too: honest workmen's wives went upwith a bushel of charcoal, or a pint of wine for supper. Their feetwould rub against her as they passed, and as they went farther up,Germinie would feel their scornful glances resting upon her and fallingupon her with more crushing force at every floor. The children--littlegirls in _fanchons_ who flitted up the dark stairway and brightened itas if with flowers, little girls in whom she saw, as she so often saw indreams, her own little one, living and grown to girlhood--she saw themstop and look at her with wide open eyes that seemed to recoil from her;then the little creatures would turn and run breathlessly up-stairs,and, when they were well out of reach, would lean over the rail untilthey almost fell, and hurl impure jests at her, the insults of thechildren of the common people. Insulting words, poured out upon her bythose rosebud mouths, wounded Germinie more deeply than all else. Shewould half rise for an instant; then, overwhelmed by shame, resigningherself to her fate, she would fall back into her corner, and, pullingher shawl over her head in order to bury herself therein out of sight,she would sit like a dead woman, crushed, inert, insensible, coweringover her own shadow, like a bundle tossed on the floor which everyonemight tread upon--having no control of her faculties, dead to everythingexcept the footsteps that she was listening for--and that did not come.
At last, after long hours, hours that she could not count, she wouldfancy that she heard a stumbling walk in the street; then a vinous voicewould mount the stairs, stammering "_Canaille!_ _canaille_ of asaloon-keeper!--you sold me the kind of wine that goes to my head!"
It was he.
And almost every day the same scene was enacted.
"Ah! there y'are, my Germinie," he would say as his eyes fell upon her."It's like this--I'll tell you all about it. I'm a little bit underwater." And, as he put the key in the lock: "I'll tell you all about it.It isn't my fault."
He would enter the room, kick aside a turtle-dove with mangy wings thatlimped forward to greet him, and close the door. "It wasn't me, d'yesee. It was Paillon, you know Paillon? that little round fellow, fat asa mad dog. Well, it was him, 'pon my honor. He insisted on paying for asixteen-sous bottle for me. He offered to treat me, and I _proffered_him thanks. Thereupon we naturally _consoled_[5] our coffee; when you'reconsoled, you console! and as one thing led to another, we fell uponeach other! There was a very devil of a carnage! The proof of it is thatthat gallows-bird of a saloon-keeper threw us out-o'-doors like lobstershells!"
Germinie, during the explanation, would have lighted the candle, stuckin a yellow copper candlestick. By its flickering light the dirty paperon the walls could be seen, covered with caricatures from _Charivari_,torn from the paper and pasted on the wall.
"Well, you're a love!" Gautruche would exclaim, as he saw her place acold fowl and two bottles of wine on the table. "For I must tell you allI've had in my stomach to-day--a plate of wretched soup--that's all. Ah!it must have taken a stout master-at-arms to put that fellow's eyesout!"
And he would begin to eat. Germinie would sit with her elbows on thetable, watching him and drinking, and her glance would grow dark.
* * * * *
"Ps
haw! all the negresses are dead,"[6] Gautruche would say at last, ashe drained the bottles one by one. "Put the children to bed!"
* * * * *
Thereupon terrible, fierce, abhorrent outbursts of passion would ensuebetween those two strange creatures, savage ardor followed by savagesatiety, frantic storms of lust, caresses that were impregnated with thefierce brutality of wine, kisses that seemed to seek the blood beneaththe skin, like the tongue of a wild beast, and at the end, utterexhaustion that swallowed them up and left their bodies like corpses.
Germinie plunged into these debauches with--what shall I say?--delirium,madness, desperation, a sort of supreme frenzy. Her ungovernablepassions turned against themselves, and, going beyond their naturalappetites, forced themselves to suffer. Satiety exhausted them withoutextinguishing them; and, overpassing the widest limits of excess, theyexcited themselves to self-torture. In the poor creature's paroxysms ofexcitement, her brain, her nerves, the imagination of her maddened body,no longer sought pleasure in pleasure, but something sharper, keener,and more violent: pain in pleasure. And the words "to die" constantlyescaped from her compressed lips, as if she were invoking death in anundertone and seeking to embrace it in the agonies of love.
Sometimes, in the night, she would suddenly sit up on the edge of thebed, rest her bare feet on the cold floor, and remain there, wild-eyed,listening to the things that breathe in a sleeping-chamber. And littleby little the obscurity of the place and hour seemed to envelop her. Sheseemed to herself to fall and writhe helplessly in the blindunconsciousness of the night. Her will became as naught. All sorts ofblack things, that seemed to have wings and voices, beat against hertemples. The ghastly temptations that afford madness a vague glimpse ofcrime caused a red light, the flash of murder, to pass before her eyes,close at hand; and hands placed against her back pushed her toward thetable where the knives lay. She would close her eyes and move one foot;then fear would lay hold of her and she would cling to the bedclothes;and at last she would turn around, fall back upon the bed, and go tosleep beside the man she had been tempted to murder; why? she had noidea; for nothing--for the sake of killing!
And so, until daybreak, in that wretched furnished lodging, the fiercestruggle of those fatal passions would continue, while the poor maimed,limping dove, the infirm bird of Venus, nesting in one of Gautruche'sold shoes, would utter now and then, awakened by the noise, a frightenedcoo.
Chapter LII
_Sometimes, in the night, she would suddenly sit up on the edge of thebed, rest her bare feet on the cold floor, and remain there, wild-eyed,listening to the things that breathe in a sleeping-chamber. The ghastlytemptations that afford madness a vague glimpse of crime caused a redlight, the flash of murder, to pass before her eyes, close at hand; andhands placed against her back pushed her toward the table where theknives lay._]
LIII
In those days Gautruche became a little disgusted with drinking. He feltthe first pangs of the disease of the liver that had long been lurkingin his heated, alcoholized blood, under his brick-red cheek bones. Thehorrible pains that gnawed at his side, and twisted the cords of hisstomach for a whole week, caused him to reflect. There came to his mind,together with divers resolutions inspired by prudence, certain almostsentimental ideas of the future. He said to himself that he must put alittle more water into his life, if he wanted to live to old age. Whilehe lay writhing in bed and tying himself into knots, with his knees upto his chin to lessen the pain, he looked about at his den, the fourwalls within which he passed his nights, to which he brought his drunkenbody home in the evening, and from which he fled into the daylight inthe morning; and he thought about making a real home for himself. Hedreamed of a room, where he could keep a wife, a wife who would make hima good stew, look after him if he were ill, straighten out his affairs,keep his linen in order, prevent him from beginning a new score at thewine-shop; a wife, in short, who would combine all the useful qualitiesof a housekeeper, and who, in addition, would not be a stupid fool, butwould understand him and laugh with him. Such a wife was all found:Germinie was the very one. She probably had a little hoard, a few souslaid by during the time she had been in her old mistress's service; andwith what he earned they could "grub along" in comfort. He had no doubtof her consent; he was sure beforehand that she would accept hisproposition. More than that, her scruples, if she had any, would nothold out against the prospect of marriage which he proposed to exhibitto her at the end of their _liaison_.
One Monday she had come to his room as usual.
"Say, Germinie," he began, "what would you say to this, eh? A goodroom--not like this box--a real room, with a closet--at Montmartre, andtwo windows, no less! Rue de l'Empereur--with a view an Englishman wouldgive five thousand francs to carry away with him. Something first-class,bright, and cheerful, you know, a place where you could stay all daywithout hating yourself. Because, I tell you I'm beginning to haveenough of moving about here and there just to change fleas. And thatisn't all, either: I'm tired of being cooped up in furnished lodgings,I'm tired of being all alone. Friends don't make society. They fall onyou like flies in your glass when you're to pay, and then, there youare! In the first place, I don't propose to drink any more, honorbright! no more for me, you'll see! You understand I don't intend to usemyself up in this life, not if I know myself. Not by any means!Attention! We mustn't let drink get the better of us. It seemed to methose days as if I'd been swallowing corkscrews. And I've no desire toknock at the monument just yet. Well, to go from the thread to theneedle, this is what I thought: I'll make the proposition to Germinie.I'll treat myself to a little furniture. You've got what you have inyour room. You know I'm not much of a shirker, I haven't a lazy bone inmy body where work's concerned. And then we might look to not always beworking for others: we might take a lodging-house for country thieves.If you had a little something put aside, that would help. We would joinforces in genteel fashion, and have ourselves straightened out some daybefore the mayor. That's not such a bad scheme, is it, old girl, eh? Andyou'll leave your old lady this time, won't you, for your dear oldGautruche?"
Germinie, who had listened to him with her head thrust forward and herchin resting on the palm of her hand, threw herself back with a burst ofstrident laughter.
"Ha! ha! ha! You thought--and you have the face to tell me so!--youthought I'd leave her! Mademoiselle? Did you really think so? You're afool, you know! Why, you might have thousands and hundred thousands, youmight be stuffed with gold, do you hear? all stuffed with it. You'rejoking, aren't you? Mademoiselle? Why, don't you know? haven't I evertold you? I would like to see her die and these hands not be there toclose her eyes! I'd like to see it! Come now, really, did you think so?"
"Damnation! I imagined, from the way you acted with me, I thought youcared more for me than that--that you loved me, in fact!" exclaimed thepainter, disconcerted by the terrible, stinging irony of Germinie'swords.
"Ah! you thought that, too--that I loved you!" And, as if she weresuddenly uprooting from the depths of her heart the remorse andsuffering of her passions, she continued: "Well, yes! I do love you--Ilove you as you love me! just as much! and that's all! I love you as oneloves something that is close at hand--that one makes use of because itis there! I am used to you as one gets used to an old dress and wears itagain and again. That's how I love you! How do you suppose I should carefor you? I'd like you to tell me what difference it can make to mewhether it's you or another? For, after all, what have you been to memore than any other man would be? In the first place, you took me. Well?Is that enough to make me love you? What have you done, then, to attachme to you, will you be kind enough to tell me? Have you ever sacrificeda glass of wine to me? Have you even so much as taken pity on me when Iwas tramping about in the mud and snow at the risk of my life? Oh! yes!And what did people say to me and spit out in my face so that my bloodboiled from one end of my body to the other! You never troubled yourhead about all the insults I've swallowed waiting for you! Look you!I've
been wanting to tell you all this for a long time--it's beenchoking me. Tell me," she continued, with a ghastly smile, "do youflatter yourself you've driven me wild with your physical beauty, withyour hair, which you've lost, with that head of yours? Hardly! I tookyou--I'd have taken anyone, it didn't matter who! It was one of thetimes when I had to have someone! At those times I don't know anythingor see anything. I'm not myself at all. I took you because it was a hotday!"