Two years before her father's death, Sempronie's brother had returnedfrom America. He brought with him a colored woman who had nursed himthrough the yellow fever, and two girls, already grown up, whom he hadhad by the woman before marrying her. Although she was imbued with theideas of the old regime as to the blacks, and although she looked uponthat ignorant creature, with her negro jargon, her grin like a wildbeast's and her skin that left grease stains upon her clothing, as nobetter than a monkey, Mademoiselle de Varandeuil combated her father'shorror and unwillingness to receive his daughter-in-law; and she it waswho induced him, in the last days of his life, to allow her brother topresent his wife to him. When her father was dead she reflected thather brother's household was all that remained of the family.
Monsieur de Varandeuil, to whom the Comte d'Artois had caused thearrears of salary of his office to be paid at the return of theBourbons, left about ten thousand francs a year to his children. Thebrother had, before that inheritance, only a pension of fifteen hundredfrancs from the United States. Mademoiselle de Varandeuil consideredthat five or six thousand francs a year would hardly suffice for thecomfortable support of that family, in which there were two children,and it at once occurred to her to add to it her share in theinheritance. She suggested this contribution in the most natural andsimple way imaginable. Her brother accepted it, and she went with him tolive in a pretty little apartment at the upper end of Rue de Clichy, onthe fourth floor of one of the first houses built in that neighborhood,then hardly known, where the fresh country air blew briskly through theframework of the white buildings. She continued there her modest life,her humble manner of dressing, her economical habits, content with theleast desirable room in the suite, and spending upon herself no morethan eighteen hundred to two thousand francs a year. But, soon, abrooding jealousy, slowly gathering strength, took possession of themulattress. She took offence at the fraternal affection which seemed tobe taking her husband from her arms. She suffered because of thecommunion of speech and thought and reminiscences between them; shesuffered because of the conversations in which she could take no part,because of what she heard in their voices, but could not understand. Theconsciousness of her inferiority kindled in her heart the fires of wrathand hatred that burn fiercely in the tropics. She had recourse to herchildren for her revenge; she urged them on, excited them, aroused theirevil passions against her sister-in-law. She encouraged them to laugh ather, to make sport of her. She applauded the manifestations of themischievous intelligence characteristic of children, in whom observationbegins with naughtiness. Once she had let them loose upon their aunt,she allowed them to laugh at all her absurdities, her figure, her nose,her dresses, whose meanness, nevertheless, provided their own elegantattire. Thus incited and upheld, the little ones soon arrived atinsolence. Mademoiselle de Varandeuil had the quick temper thataccompanies kindness of heart. With her the hand, as well as the heart,had a part in the first impulse. And then she shared the prevalentopinion of her time as to the proper way of bringing up children. Sheendured two or three impertinent sallies without a word; but at thefourth she seized the mocking child, took down her skirts, andadministered to her, notwithstanding her twelve years, the soundestwhipping she had ever received. The mulattress made a great outcry andtold her sister-in-law, that she had always detested her children andthat she wanted to kill them. The brother interposed between the twowomen and succeeded in reconciling them after a fashion. But new scenestook place, when the little ones, inflamed against the woman who madetheir mother weep, assailed their aunt with the refined tortures ofmisbehaved children, mingled with the fiendish cruelty of littlesavages. After several patched-up truces it became necessary to part.Mademoiselle de Varandeuil decided to leave her brother, for she saw howunhappy he was amid this daily wrenching of his dearest affections. Sheleft him to his wife and his children. This separation was one of thegreat sorrows of her life. She who was so strong against emotion and soself-contained, and who seemed to take pride in suffering, as it were,almost broke down when she had to leave the apartment, where she haddreamed of enjoying a little happiness in her corner, looking on at thehappiness of others: her last tears mounted to her eyes.
She did not go too far away, so that she might be at hand to nurse herbrother if he were ill, and to see him and meet him sometimes. But therewas a great void in her heart and in her life. She had begun to visither kinsfolk since her father's death: she drew nearer to them; sheallowed the relatives whom the Restoration had placed in a lofty andpowerful position to come to her, and sought out those whom the neworder of things left in obscurity and poverty. But she returned to herdear _chick_ first of all, and to another distant cousin, also married,who had become the _chick's_ sister-in-law. Her relations with herkinsfolk soon assumed remarkable regularity. Mademoiselle de Varandeuilnever went into society, to an evening party, or to the play. Itrequired Mademoiselle Rachel's brilliant success to persuade her to stepinside a theatre; she ventured there but twice. She never accepted aninvitation to a large dinner-party. But there were two or three houseswhere, as at the _chick's_, she would invite herself to dine,unexpectedly, when there were no guests. "My love," she would saywithout ceremony, "are you and your husband doing nothing this evening?Then I will stay and eat some of your ragout." At eight o'clockregularly she rose to go, and when the husband took his hat to escorther home, she would knock it out of his hands with a: "Nonsense! an oldnanny-goat like me! Why, I frighten men in the street!" And then tendays or a fortnight would pass, during which they would not see her. Butif anything went wrong, if there was a death or sickness in the house,Mademoiselle de Varandeuil always heard of it at once, no one knew how;she would come, in spite of everything--the weather or the hour--wouldgive a loud ring at the bell in her own way--they finally called it_cousin's ring_--and a moment later, relieved of her umbrella, whichnever left her, and of her pattens, her hat tossed upon a chair, she wasat the service of those who needed her. She listened, talked, restoredtheir courage with an indescribable martial accent, with language asenergetic as a soldier might use to console a wounded comrade, andstimulating as a cordial. If it was a child that was out of sorts, shewould go straight to the bed, laugh at the little one, whose fearvanished at once, order the father and mother about, run hither andthither, assume the management of everything, apply the leeches, arrangethe cataplasms, and bring back hope, joy and health at the double quick.In all branches of the family the old maid appeared thus providentially,without warning, on days of sorrow, _ennui_ and suffering. She was neverseen except when her hands were needed to heal, her devoted friendshipto console. She was, so to speak, an impersonal creature, because of hergreat heart; a woman who did not belong to herself: God seemed to havemade her only to give her to others. Her everlasting black dress whichshe persisted in wearing, her worn, dyed shawl, her absurd hat, herimpoverished appearance, were, in her eyes, the means of being richenough to help others with her little fortune; she was extravagant inalmsgiving, and her pockets were always filled with gifts for the poor;not of money, for she feared the wineshop, but of four-pound loaveswhich she bought for them at the baker's. And then, too, by dint ofliving in poverty, she was able to give herself what was to her thegreatest of all luxuries: the joy of her friends' children whom sheoverwhelmed with New Year's and other gifts, with surprises andpleasures of all sorts. For instance, suppose that one of them had beenleft by his mother, who was absent from Paris, to pass a lovely summerSunday at his boarding school, and the little rascal, out of spite, hadmisbehaved so that he was not allowed to go out. How surprised he wouldbe, as the clock struck nine, to see his old cousin appear in thecourtyard, just buttoning the last button of her dress, she had come insuch haste. And what a feeling of desolation at the sight! "Cousin," hewould say piteously, in one of those fits of passion in which at thesame moment you long to cry and to kill your _tyrant_, "I--I am kept in,and----" "Kept in? Oh! yes, kept in! And do you suppose I've taken allthis trouble----Is your schoolmaster poking fun at me? Where is thepuppy, that I may ha
ve a word with him? You go and dress yourselfmeanwhile. Off with you!" And the child, not daring to hope that a womanso shabbily dressed would have the power to raise the embargo, wouldsuddenly feel a hand upon his arm, and the cousin would carry him off,toss him into a cab, all bewildered and dumfounded with joy, and takehim to the Bois de Boulogne. She would let him ride a donkey all daylong, urging the beast on with a broken branch, and crying: "Get up!"And then, after a good dinner at Borne's, she would take him back toschool, and, under the porte-cochere, as she kissed him she would slip abig hundred-sou piece into his hand.
Strange old maid. The bitter experiences of her whole existence, thestruggle to live, the never-ending physical suffering, thelong-continued bodily and mental torture had, as it were, cut her loosefrom life and placed her above it. Her education, the things she hadseen, the spectacle of what seemed the end of everything, theRevolution, had so formed her character as to lead her to disdain humansuffering. And this old woman, who had nothing left of life save breath,had risen to a serene philosophy, to a virile, haughty, almost satiricalstoicism. Sometimes she would begin to declaim against a sorrow thatseemed a little too keen; but, in the midst of her tirade, she wouldsuddenly hurl an angry, mocking word at herself, upon which her facewould at once become calm. She was cheerful with the cheerfulness of adeep, bubbling spring, the cheerfulness of devoted hearts that have seeneverything, of the old soldier or the old hospital nurse. Kind-heartedto admiration she was, and yet something was lacking in her kindness ofheart: forgiveness. Hitherto, she had never succeeded in moving orbending her character. A slight, an unkind action, a trifle, if ittouched her heart, wounded her forever. She forgot nothing. Time, deathitself, did not disarm her memory.
Of religion, she had none. Born at a period when women did without it,she had grown to womanhood at a time when there were no churches. Massdid not exist when she was a young maid. There had been nothing toaccustom her to the thought of God or to make her feel the need of Him,and she had retained a sort of shrinking hatred for priests, which musthave been connected with some family secret of which she never spoke.Her faith, her strength, her piety, all consisted in the pride of herconscience; she considered that if she retained her own esteem, shecould be sure of acting rightly and of never failing in her duty. Shewas thus singularly constituted by the two epochs in which she hadlived, a compound of the two, dipped in the opposing currents of the oldregime and the Revolution. After Louis XVI. failed to take horse on theTenth of August, she lost her regard for kings; but she detested themob. She desired equality and she held parvenus in horror. She was arepublican and an aristocrat, combined scepticism with prejudice, thehorrors of '93, which she saw, with the vague and noble theories ofhumanity which surrounded her cradle.
Her external qualities were altogether masculine. She had the sharpvoice, the freedom of speech, the unruly tongue of the old woman of theeighteenth century, heightened by an accent suggestive of the commonpeople, a mannish, highly colored style of elocution peculiar toherself, rising above modesty in the choice of words and fearless incalling things baldly by their plain names.
Meanwhile, the years rolled on, sweeping away the Restoration and themonarchy of Louis-Philippe. She saw all those whom she had loved gofrom her one by one, all her family take the road to the cemetery. Shewas left quite alone, and she marveled and was grieved that death shouldforget her, who would have offered so little resistance, for she wasalready leaning over the grave and was obliged to force her heart downto the level of the little children brought to her by the sons anddaughters of the friends whom she had lost. Her brother was dead. Herdear _chick_ was no more. The _chick's_ sister-in-law alone was left toher. But hers was a life that hung trembling in the balance, ready tofly away. Crushed by the death of a child for whom she had waited foryears, the poor woman was dying of consumption. Mademoiselle deVarandeuil was in her bedroom every day, from noon until six o'clock,for four years. She lived by her side all that time, in the closeatmosphere and the odor of constant fumigations. She did not allowherself to be kept away for one hour by her own gout and rheumatism, butgave her time and her life to the peaceful last hours of that dyingwoman, whose eyes were fixed upon heaven, where her dead childrenawaited her. And when, in the cemetery, Mademoiselle de Varandeuil hadturned aside the shroud to kiss the dead face for the last time, itseemed to her as if there were no one near to her, as if she were allalone upon the earth.
Thenceforth, yielding to the infirmities which she had no further reasonto shake off, she began to live the narrow, confined life of old peoplewho wear out their carpet in one spot only--never leaving her room,reading but little because it tired her eyes, and passing most of hertime buried in her easy-chair, reviewing the past and living it overagain. She would sit in the same position for days, her eyes wide openand dreaming, her thoughts far from herself, far from the room in whichshe sat, journeying whither her memories led her, to distant faces,dearly loved, pallid faces, to vanished regions--lost in a profoundlethargy which Germinie was careful not to disturb, saying to herself:"Madame is in her meditations----"
One day in every week, however, she went abroad. Indeed it was with thatweekly excursion in view, in order to be nearer the spot to which shewished to go on that one day, that she left her apartments on RueTaitbout and took up her abode on Rue de Laval. One day in every week,deterred by nothing, not even by illness, she repaired to the MontmartreCemetery, where her father and her brother rested, and the women whoseloss she regretted, all those whose sufferings had come to an end beforehers. For the dead and for Death she displayed a veneration almost equalto that of the ancients. To her, the grave was sacred, and a dearfriend. She loved to visit the land of hope and deliverance where herdear ones were sleeping, there to await death and to be ready with herbody. On that day, she would start early in the morning, leaning on thearm of her maid, who carried a folding-stool. As she drew near thecemetery, she would enter the shop of a dealer in wreaths, who had knownher for many years, and who, in winter, loaned her a foot-warmer. Thereshe would rest a few moments; then, loading Germinie down with wreathsof immortelles, she would pass through the cemetery gate, take the pathto the left of the cedar at the entrance, and make her pilgrimage slowlyfrom tomb to tomb. She would throw away the withered flowers, sweep upthe dead leaves, tie the wreaths together, and, sitting down upon herfolding-chair, would gaze and dream, and absent-mindedly remove a bit ofmoss from the flat stone with the end of her umbrella. Then she wouldrise, turn as if to say _au revoir_ to the tomb she was leaving, walkaway, stop once more, and talk in an undertone, as she had done before,with that part of her that was sleeping under the stone; and having thuspaid a visit to all the dead who lived in her affections, she wouldreturn home slowly and reverentially, enveloping herself in silence asif she were afraid to speak.
III
In the course of her reverie, Mademoiselle de Varandeuil had closed hereyes.
The maid's story ceased, and the remainder of the history of her life,which was upon her lips that evening, was once more buried in her heart.
The conclusion of her story was as follows:
When little Germinie Lacerteux arrived in Paris, being then less thanfifteen years old, her sister, desirous to have her begin to earn herliving at once, and to help to put bread in her hand, obtained a placefor her in a small cafe on the boulevard, where she performed the doubleduties of lady's maid to the mistress of the cafe and assistant to thewaiters in carrying on the main business of the establishment. Thechild, just from her village and dropped suddenly in that place, wascompletely bewildered and terrified by her surroundings and her duties.She had the first instinctive feeling of wounded modesty and,foreshadowing the woman she was destined to become, she shuddered at theperpetual contact with the other sex, working, eating, passing her wholetime with men; and whenever she had an opportunity to go out, and wentto her sisters, there were tearful, despairing scenes, when, withoutactually complaining of anything, she manifested a sort of dread toreturn, saying that she did not
want to stay there, that they were notsatisfied with her, that she preferred to return to them. They wouldreply that it had already cost them enough to bring her to Paris, thatit was a silly whim on her part and that she was very well off where shewas, and they would send her back to the cafe in tears. She dared nottell all that she suffered in the company of the waiters in the cafe,insolent, boasting, cynical fellows, fed on the remains of debauches,tainted with all the vices to which they ministered, and corrupt to thecore with putrefying odds and ends of obscenity. At every turn, she hadto submit to the dastardly jests, the cruel mystifications, themalicious tricks of these scoundrels, who were only too happy to make alittle martyr of the poor unsophisticated child, ignorant of everything,with the crushed and sickly air, timid and sullen, thin and pale, andpitiably clad in her wretched, countrified gowns. Bewildered,overwhelmed, so to speak, by this hourly torture, she became theirdrudge. They made sport of her ignorance, they deceived her and abusedher credulity by absurd fables, they overburdened her with fatiguingtasks, they assailed her with incessant, pitiless ridicule, whichwell-nigh drove her benumbed intellect to imbecility. In addition, theymade her blush at the things they said to her, which made her feelashamed, although she did not understand them. They soiled theartlessness of her fourteen years with filthy veiled allusions. And theyfound amusement in putting the eyes of her childish curiosity to thekeyholes of the private supper-rooms.