Germinie Lacerteux
The cab passed through a narrow street filled with orange carts, andwith women sitting on the sidewalk offering biscuit for sale in baskets.There was something unspeakably wretched and dismal in this open-airdisplay of fruit and cakes,--the delicacies of the dying, the _viaticum_of invalids, craved by feverish mouths, longed for by thedeath-agony,--which workingmen's hands, black with toil, purchase asthey pass, to carry to the hospital and offer death a tempting morsel.Children carried them with sober faces, almost reverentially, andwithout touching them, as if they understood.
The cab stopped before the gate of the courtyard. It was five minutes toone. There was a long line of women crowding about the gate, women withtheir working clothes on, sorrowful, depressed and silent. Mademoisellede Varandeuil took her place in the line, went forward with the othersand was admitted: they searched her. She inquired for SalleSainte-Josephine, and was directed to the second wing on the secondfloor. She found the hall and the bed, No. 14, which was, as she hadbeen told, one of the last at the right. Indeed, she was guided thither,as it were, from the farther end of the hall, by Germinie's smile--thesmile of a sick person in a hospital at an unexpected visit, which says,so gently, as soon as you enter the room: "Here I am."
She leaned over the bed. Germinie tried to push her away with a gestureof humility and the shamefacedness of a servant.
Mademoiselle de Varandeuil kissed her.
"Ah!" said Germinie, "the time dragged terribly yesterday. I imagined itwas Thursday and I longed so for you."
"My poor girl! How are you?"
"Oh! I'm getting on finely now--the swelling in my bowels has all gone.I have only three weeks to stay here, mademoiselle, you'll see.They talk about a month or six weeks, but I know better. And I'm verycomfortable here, I don't mind it at all. I sleep all night now. My! butI was thirsty, when you brought me here Monday! They wouldn't give mewine and water."
Chapter LXV
_One and all, after a moment's conversation, leaned over Germinie tokiss her, and with every kiss Mademoiselle de Varandeuil could hear anindistinct murmur as of words exchanged; a whispered question from thosewho kissed, a hasty reply from her who was kissed._]
"What have you there to drink?"
"Oh! what I had at home--lime-water. Would you mind pouring me out some,mademoiselle? their pewter things are so heavy!"
She raised herself with one arm by the aid of the little stick that hungover the middle of the bed, and putting out the other thin, tremblingarm, left bare by the sleeve falling back from it, she took the glassmademoiselle held out to her, and drank.
"There," said she when she had done, and she placed both her armsoutside the bed, on the coverlid.
"What a pity that I have to put you out in this way, my poordemoiselle!" she continued. "Things must be in a horribly dirty state athome!"
"Don't worry about that."
There was a moment's silence. A faint smile came to Germinie's lips. "Iam sailing under false colors," she said, lowering her voice; "I haveconfessed so as to get well."
Then she moved her head on the pillow in order to bring her mouth nearerto Mademoiselle de Varandeuil's ear:
"There are tales to tell here. I have a funny neighbor yonder." Sheindicated with a glance and a movement of her shoulder the patient towhom her back was turned. "There's a man who comes here to see her. Hetalked to her an hour yesterday. I heard them say they'd had a child.She has left her husband. He was like a madman, the man was, when he wastalking to her."
As she spoke, Germinie's face lighted up as if she were still full ofthe scene of the day before, still stirred up and feverish withjealousy, so near death as she was, because she had heard love spoken ofbeside her!
Suddenly her expression changed. A woman came toward her bed. She seemedembarrassed when she saw Mademoiselle de Varandeuil. After a fewmoments, she kissed Germinie, and hurriedly withdrew as another womancame up. The new-comer did the same, kissed Germinie and at once tookher leave. After the women a man came; then another woman. One and all,after a moment's conversation, leaned over Germinie to kiss her, andwith every kiss Mademoiselle de Varandeuil could hear an indistinctmurmur as of words exchanged; a whispered question from those whokissed, a hasty reply from her who was kissed.
"Well!" she said to Germinie, "I hope you are well taken care of!"
"Oh! yes," Germinie answered in a peculiar tone, "they take excellentcare of me!"
She had lost the animation that she displayed at the beginning of thevisit. The little blood that had mounted to her cheeks remained there inone spot only. Her face seemed closed; it was cold and deaf, like awall. Her drawn-in lips were sealed, as it were. Her features wereconcealed beneath the veil of infinite dumb agony. There was nothingcaressing or eloquent in her staring eyes, absorbed as they were andfilled with one fixed thought. You would have said that all exteriorsigns of her ideas were drawn within her by an irresistible power ofconcentration, by a last supreme effort of her will, and that her wholebeing was clinging in desperation to a sorrow that drew everything toitself.
The visitors she had just received were the grocer, the fish-woman, thebutter woman and the laundress--all her debts, incarnate! The kisseswere the kisses of her creditors, who came to keep on the scent of theirclaims and to extort money from her death-agony!
LXVI
Mademoiselle had just risen on Saturday morning. She was making a littlepackage of four jars of Bar preserves, which she intended to carry toGerminie the next day, when she heard low voices, a colloquy between thehousekeeper and the concierge in the reception room. Almost immediatelythe door opened and the concierge came in.
"Sad news, mademoiselle," he said.
And he handed her a letter he had in his hand; it bore the stamp of theLariboisiere hospital: Germinie was dead; she died at seven o'clock thatmorning.
Mademoiselle took the letter; she saw only the letters that said: "Dead!dead!" And they repeated the word: "Dead! dead!" to no purpose, for shecould not believe it. As is always the case with a person of whose deathone learns abruptly, Germinie appeared to her instinct with life, andher body, which was no more, seemed to stand before her with theawe-inspiring presence of a ghost. Dead! She should never see her more!So there was no longer a Germinie on earth! Dead! She was dead! And theperson she should hear henceforth moving about in the kitchen would notbe she; somebody else would open the door for her, somebody else wouldpotter about her room in the morning! "Germinie!" she cried at last, inthe tone with which she was accustomed to call her; then, collecting herthoughts: "Machine! creature! What's your name?" she cried, savagely, tothe bewildered housekeeper. "My dress--I must go there."
She was so taken by surprise by this sudden fatal termination of thedisease, that she could not accustom her mind to the thought. She couldhardly realize that sudden, secret, vague death, of which her onlyknowledge was derived from a scrap of paper. Was Germinie really dead?Mademoiselle asked herself the question with the doubt of persons whohave lost a dear one far away, and, not having seen her die, do notadmit that she is dead. Was she not still alive the last time she sawher? How could it have happened? How could she so suddenly have become athing good for nothing except to be put under ground? Mademoiselle darednot think about it, and yet she kept on thinking. The mystery of thedeath-agony, of which she knew nothing, attracted and terrified her. Theanxious interest of her affection turned to her maid's last hours, andshe tried gropingly to take away the veil and repel the feeling ofhorror. Then she was seized with an irresistible longing to knoweverything, to witness, with the help of what might be told her, whatshe had not seen. She felt that she must know if Germinie had spokenbefore she died,--if she had expressed any desire, spoken of any lastwishes, uttered one of those sentences which are the final outcry oflife.
When she reached Lariboisiere, she passed the concierge,--a stout manreeking with life as one reeks with wine,--passed through the corridorswhere pallid convalescents were gliding hither and thither, and rang ata door, veiled with white curtains, at the
extreme end of the hospital.The door was opened: she found herself in a parlor, lighted by twowindows, where a plaster cast of the Virgin stood upon an altar, betweentwo views of Vesuvius, which seemed to shiver against the bare wall.Behind her, through an open door, came the voices of Sisters and littlegirls chattering together, a clamor of youthful voices and freshlaughter, the natural gayety of a cheery room where the sun frolics withchildren at play.
Mademoiselle asked to speak with the _mother_ of Salle Sainte-Josephine.A short, half-deformed Sister, with a kind, homely face, a face alightwith the grace of God, came in answer to her request. Germinie had diedin her arms. "She hardly suffered at all," the Sister told mademoiselle;"she was sure that she was better; she felt relieved; she was full ofhope. About seven this morning, just as her bed was being made, shesuddenly began vomiting blood, and passed away without knowing that shewas dying." The Sister added that she had said nothing, asked fornothing, expressed no wish.
Mademoiselle rose, delivered from the horrible thoughts she had had.Germinie had been spared all the tortures of the death-agony that shehad dreamed of. Mademoiselle was grateful for that death by the hand ofGod which gathers in the soul at a single stroke.
As she was going away an attendant came to her and said: "Will you bekind enough to identify the body?"
_The body!_ The words gave mademoiselle a terrible shock. Withoutawaiting her reply, the attendant led the way to a high yellow door,over which was written: _Amphitheatre_. He knocked; a man in shirtsleeves, with a pipe in his mouth, opened the door and bade them wait amoment.
Mademoiselle waited. Her thoughts terrified her. Her imagination was onthe other side of that awful door. She tried to anticipate what she wasabout to see. And her mind was so filled with confused images, withfanciful alarms, that she shuddered at the thought of entering the room,of recognizing that disfigured face among a number of others, if,indeed, she could recognize it! And yet she could not tear herself away;she said to herself that she should never see her again!
The man with the pipe opened the door: mademoiselle saw nothing but acoffin, the lid of which extended only to the neck, leaving Germinie'sface uncovered, with the eyes open, and the hair erect upon her head.
LXVII
Prostrated by the excitement and by this last spectacle, Mademoiselle deVarandeuil took to her bed on returning home, after she had given theconcierge the money for the purchase of a burial lot, and for theburial. And when she was in bed the things she had seen arose beforeher. The horrible dead body was still beside her, the ghastly faceframed by the coffin. That never-to-be-forgotten face was engraved uponher mind; beneath her closed eyelids she saw it and was afraid of it.Germinie was there, with the distorted features of one who has beenmurdered, with sunken orbits and eyes that seemed to have withdrawn intotheir holes! She was there with her mouth still distorted by thevomiting that accompanied her last breath! She was there with her hair,her terrible hair, brushed back and standing erect upon her head!
Her hair!--that haunted mademoiselle more persistently than all therest. The old maid thought, involuntarily, of things that had come toher ears when she was a child, of superstitions of the common peoplestored away in the background of her memory; she asked herself if shehad not been told that dead people whose hair is like that carry a crimewith them to the grave. And at times it was such hair as that that shesaw upon that head, the hair of crime, standing on end with terror andstiffened with horror before the justice of Heaven, like the hair of thecondemned man before the scaffold in La Greve!
On Sunday mademoiselle was too ill to leave her bed. On Monday she triedto rise and dress, in order to attend the funeral; but she was attackedwith faintness, and was obliged to return to her bed.
LXVIII
"Well! is it all over?" said mademoiselle from her bed, as the conciergeentered her room about eleven o'clock, on his return from the cemetery,with the black coat and the sanctimonious manner suited to the occasion.
"_Mon Dieu_, yes, mademoiselle. Thank God! the poor girl is out ofpain."
"Stay! I have no head to-day. Put the receipts and the rest of the moneyon my table. We will settle our accounts some other day."
The concierge stood before her without moving or evincing any purpose togo, shifting from one hand to the other a blue velvet cap made from thedress of one of his daughters. After a moment's reflection, he decidedto speak.
"This burying is an expensive business, mademoiselle. In the firstplace, there's----"
"Who asked you to give the figures?" Mademoiselle de Varandeuilinterrupted, with the haughty air of superb charity.
The concierge continued: "And as I was saying, a lot in the cemetery,which you told me to get, ain't given away. It's no use for you to havea kind heart, mademoiselle, you ain't any too rich,--everyone knowsthat,--and I says to myself: 'Mademoiselle's going to have no smallamount to pay out, and I know mademoiselle, she'll pay.' So it'll do noharm to economize on that, eh? It'll be just so much saved. The other'llbe just as safe under ground. And then, what will give her the mostpleasure up yonder? Why, to know that she isn't making things hard foranybody, the excellent girl."
"Pay? What?" said mademoiselle, out of patience with the concierge'scircumlocution.
"Oh! that's of no account," he replied; "she was very fond of you, allthe same. And then, when she was very sick, it wasn't the time. Oh! _MonDieu_, you needn't put yourself out--there's no hurry about it--it'smoney she owed a long while. See, this is it."
He took a stamped paper from the inside pocket of his coat.
"I didn't want her to make a note,--she insisted."
Mademoiselle de Varandeuil seized the stamped paper and saw at the foot:
_"I acknowledge the receipt of the above amount._
"GERMINIE LACERTEUX."
It was a promise to pay three hundred francs in monthly installments,which were to be endorsed on the back.
"There's nothing there, you see," said the concierge, turning the paperover.
Mademoiselle de Varandeuil took off her spectacles. "I will pay," shesaid.
The concierge bowed. She glanced at him; he did not move.
"That is all, I hope?" she said, sharply.
The concierge had his eyes fixed on a leaf in the carpet. "That'sall--unless----"
Mademoiselle de Varandeuil had the same feeling of terror as at themoment she passed through the door on whose other side she was to seeher maid's dead body.
"But how does she owe all this?" she cried. "I paid her good wages, Ialmost clothed her. Where did her money go, eh?"
"Ah! there you are, mademoiselle. I should rather not have toldyou,--but as well to-day as to-morrow. And then, too, it's better thatyou should be warned; when you know beforehand you can arrange matters.There's an account with the poultry woman. The poor girl owed a littleeverywhere; she didn't keep things in very good shape these last fewyears. The laundress left her book the last time she came. It amounts toquite a little,--I don't know just how much. It seems there's a note atthe grocer's--an old note--it goes back years. He'll bring you hisbook."
"How much at the grocer's?"
"Something like two hundred and fifty."
All these disclosures, falling upon Mademoiselle de Varandeuil, oneafter another, extorted exclamations of stupefied surprise from her.Resting her elbow on her pillow, she said nothing as the veil was tornaway, bit by bit, from this life, as its shameful features were broughtto light one by one.
"Yes, about two hundred and fifty. There's a good deal of wine, he tellsme."
"I have always had wine in the cellar."
"The _cremiere_," continued the concierge, without heeding her remark,"that's no great matter,--some seventy-five francs. It's for absintheand brandy."
"She drank!" cried Mademoiselle de Varandeuil, everything made clear toher by those words.
The concierge did not seem to hear.
"You see, mademoiselle, knowing the Jupillons was the death of her,--theyoung ma
n especially. It wasn't for herself that she did what she did.And the disappointment, you see. She took to drink. She hoped to marryhim, I ought to say. She fitted up a room for him. When they get tobuying furniture the money goes fast. She ruined herself,--think of it!It was no use for me to tell her not to throw herself away by drinkingas she did. You don't suppose I was going to tell you, when she came inat six o'clock in the morning! It was the same with her child. Oh!" theconcierge added, in reply to mademoiselle's gesture, "it was a luckything the little one died. Never mind, you can say she led a gaylife--and a hard one. That's why I say the common ditch. If I wasyou--she's cost you enough, mademoiselle, all the time she's been livingon you. And you can leave her where she is--with everybody else."
"Ah! that's how it is! that's what she was! She stole for men! she ranin debt! Ah! she did well to die, the hussy! And I must pay! Achild!--think of that: the slut! Yes, indeed, she can rot where shewill! You have done well, Monsieur Henri. Steal! She stole from me! Inthe ditch, parbleu! that's quite good enough for her! To think that Ilet her keep all my keys--I never kept any account. My God! That's whatcomes of confidence. Well! here we are--I'll pay--not on her account,but on my own. And I gave her my best pair of sheets to be buried in!Ah! if I'd known I'd have given you the kitchen dish-clout,_mademoiselle how I am duped_!"
And mademoiselle continued in this strain for some moments until thewords choked one another in her throat and strangled her.