Germinie Lacerteux
They would go up the Chaussee Clignancourt, and, with the flood ofParisians from the faubourg hurrying to drink a little fresh air, wouldwalk on toward the great patch of sky that rose straight from thepavements, at the top of the ascent, between the two lines of houses,unobstructed except by an occasional omnibus. The air was growing coolerand the sun shone only upon the roofs of the houses and the chimneys. Asfrom a great door opening into the country, there came from the end ofthe street and from the sky beyond, a breath of boundless space andliberty.
At the Chateau-Rouge they found the first tree, the first foliage. Then,at Rue du Chateau, the horizon opened before them in dazzling beauty.The fields stretched away in the distance, glistening vaguely in thepowdery, golden haze of seven o'clock. All nature trembled in thedaylight dust that the day leaves in its wake, upon the verdure it blotsfrom sight and the houses it suffuses with pink.
Frequently they descended the footpath covered with the figures of thegame of hop-scotch marked out in charcoal, by long walls with anoccasional overhanging branch, by lines of detached houses with gardensbetween. At their left rose tree-tops filled with light, clusteringfoliage pierced by the beams of the setting sun, which cast lines offire across the bars of the iron gateways. After the gardens camehedgerows, estates for sale, unfinished buildings erected upon the lineof projected streets and stretching out their jagged walls into emptyspace, with heaps of broken bottles at their feet; large, low, plasteredhouses, with windows filled with bird-cages and cloths, and with the Yof the sink-pipes at every floor; and openings into enclosures thatresembled barnyards, studded with little mounds on which goats werebrowsing.
They would stop here and there and smell the flowers, inhale the perfumeof a meagre lilac growing in a narrow lane. Germinie would pluck a leafin passing and nibble at it.
Flocks of joyous swallows flew wildly about in circles and in fantasticfigures over her head. The birds called. The sky answered the cages. Sheheard everything about her singing, and glanced with a glad eye atthe women in chemisettes at the windows, the men in their shirt sleevesin the little gardens, the mothers on the doorsteps with their littleones between their legs.
Chapter XII
_But at the fortifications her pleasure returned. She would go withJupillon and sit upon the slope of the embankment. Beside her werefamilies innumerable, workmen lying flat upon their faces, smallannuitants gazing at the horizon through spy-glasses, philosophers ofwant, bent double, with their hands upon their knees, the greasy coatscharacteristic of old men, and black hats worn as red as their redbeards._]
At the foot of the slope the pavement came to an end. The street wassucceeded by a broad, white, chalky, dusty road, made of debris, oldpieces of plaster, crumbs of lime and bricks; a sunken road, with deepruts, polished on the edges, made by the iron tires of the huge greatwheels of carts laden with hewn stone. At that point began the thingsthat collect where Paris ends, the things that grow where grass does notgrow, one of those arid landscapes that large cities create around them,the first zone of suburbs _intra muros_ where nature is exhausted, thesoil used up, the fields sown with oyster shells. Beyond was awilderness of half-enclosed yards displaying numbers of carts and truckswith their shafts in the air against the sky, stone-cutters' sheds,factories built of boards, unfinished workmen's houses, full of gaps andopen to the light, and bearing the mason's flag, wastes of gray andwhite sand, kitchen gardens marked out with cords, and, on the lowerlevel, bogs to which the embankment of the road slopes down in oceans ofsmall stones.
Soon they would reach the last lantern hanging on a green post. Peoplewere still coming and going about them. The road was alive and amusedthe eyes. They met women carrying their husband's canes, lorettes insilk dresses leaning on the arms of their blouse-clad brothers, oldwomen in bright-colored ginghams walking about with folded arms,enjoying a moment's rest from labor. Workmen were drawing their childrenin little wagons, urchins returning with their rods from fishing atSaint-Ouen, and men and women dragging branches of flowering acacia atthe ends of sticks.
Sometimes a pregnant woman would pass, holding out her arms to a yetsmall child, and casting the shadow of her pregnancy upon the wall.
And everyone moved tranquilly, blissfully, at a pace that told of thewish to delay, with the awkward ease and the happy indolence of thosewho walk for pleasure. No one was in a hurry, and against the unbrokenhorizon line, crossed from time to time by the white smoke of a railroadtrain, the groups of promenaders were like black spots, almostmotionless, in the distance.
Behind Montmartre, they came to those great moats, as it were, thosesloping squares, where narrow, gray, much-trodden paths cross andrecross. A few blades of shriveled, yellow grass grew thereabout,softened by the rays of the setting sun, which they could see, allablaze, between the houses. And Germinie loved to watch the wool-combersat work there, the quarry horses at pasture in the bare fields, themadder-red trousers of the soldiers who were playing at bowls, thechildren flying kites that made black spots in the clear air. Passingall these, they turned to cross the bridge over the railroad by thewretched settlement of ragpickers, the stonemasons' quarter at the footof Clignancourt hill. They would walk quickly by those houses built ofmaterials stolen from demolished buildings, and exuding the horrors theyconceal; the wretched structures, half cabin, half burrow, causedGerminie a vague feeling of terror: it seemed to her as if all thecrimes of Night were lurking there.
But at the fortifications her pleasure returned. She would go withJupillon and sit upon the slope of the embankment. Beside her werefamilies innumerable, workmen lying flat upon their faces, smallannuitants gazing at the horizon through spy-glasses, philosophers ofwant, bent double, with their hands upon their knees, the greasy coatscharacteristic of old men, and black hats worn as red as their redbeards. The air was full of rich harmonies. Below her, in the moat, amusical society was playing at each corner. Before her eyes was amulti-colored crowd, white blouses, children in blue aprons runningaround, a game of riding at the ring in progress, wine shops, cakeshops, fried fish stalls, and shooting galleries half hidden in clumpsof verdure, from which arose staves bearing the tricolor; and fartheraway, in a bluish haze, a line of tree tops marked the location of aroad. To the right she could see Saint-Denis and the towering basilica;at her left, above a line of houses that were becoming indistinct, thesun was setting over Saint-Ouen in a disk of cherry-colored flame, andprojecting upon the gray horizon shafts of light like red pillars thatseemed to support it tremblingly. Often a child's balloon would passswiftly across the dazzling expanse of sky.
They would go down, pass through the gate, walk along by the Lorrainesausage shops, the dealers in honeycomb, the board _cabarets_, theverdureless, still unpainted arbors, where a noisy multitude of men andwomen and children were eating fried potatoes, mussels and prawns, untilthey reached the first field, the first living grass: on the edge of thegrass there was a handcart laden with gingerbread and peppermintlozenges, and a woman selling hot cocoa on a table in the furrow. Astrange country, where everything was mingled--the smoke from thefrying-pan and the evening vapor, the noise of quoits on the head of acask and the silence shed from the sky, the city barrier and the idyllicrural scene, the odor of manure and the fresh smell of green wheat, thegreat human Fair and Nature! Germinie enjoyed it, however; and, urgingJupillon to go farther, walking on the very edge of the road, she wouldconstantly step in among the grain to enjoy the fresh, cool sensation ofthe stalks against her stockings. When they returned she always wantedto go upon the slope once more. The sun had by that time disappeared andthe sky was gray below, pink in the centre and blue above. The horizongrew dark; from green the trees became a dark brown and melted into thesky; the zinc roofs of the wine shops looked as if the moon wereshining upon them, fires began to appear in the darkness, the crowdbecame gray, and the white linen took on a bluish tinge. Little bylittle everything would fade away, be blotted out, lose its form andcolor in a dying remnant of colorless daylight, and through theincreasing da
rkness the voices of a class whose life begins at night,and the voice of the wine beginning to sing, would arise, mingled withthe din of the rattles. Upon the slope the tops of the tall grass wavedto and fro in the gentle breeze. Germinie would make up her mind to go.She would wend her way homeward, filled with the influence of thefalling night, abandoning herself to the uncertain vision of thingshalf-seen, passing the dark houses, and finding that everything alongher road had turned paler, as it were--wearied by the long walk overrough roads, and content to be weary and slow and half-fainting, andwith a feeling of peace at her heart.
At the first lighted lanterns on Rue du Chateau, she would fall from herdream to the pavement.
XIII
Madame Jupillon's face always wore a pleased expression when Germinieappeared; when she kissed her she was very effusive, when she spoke toher her voice was caressing, when she looked at her her glance was mostamiable. The huge creature's kind heart seemed, when with her, toabandon itself to the emotion, the affection, the trustfulness of a sortof maternal tenderness. She took Germinie into her confidence as to herbusiness, as to her woman's secrets, as to the most private affairs ofher life. She seemed to open her heart to her as to a person of her ownblood, whom she desired to make familiar with matters of interest to thefamily. When she spoke of the future, she always referred to Germinie asone from whom she was never to be separated, and who formed a part ofthe household. Often she allowed certain discreet, mysterious smiles toescape her, smiles which made it appear that she saw all that was goingon and was not angry. Sometimes, too, when her son was sitting byGerminie's side, she would let her eyes, moist with a mother's tears,rest upon them, and would embrace them with a glance that seemed tounite her two children and call down a blessing on their heads.
Without speaking, without ever uttering a word that could be construedas an engagement, without divulging her thoughts or binding herself inany way, and all the time repeating that her son was still very young tothink of being married, she encouraged Germinie's hopes and illusions byher whole bearing, her airs of secret indulgence and of complicity, sofar as her heart was concerned; by those meaning silences when sheseemed to open to her a mother-in-law's arms. And displaying all hertalents in the way of hypocrisy, drawing upon her hidden mines ofsentiment, her good-natured shrewdness, and the consummate, intricatecunning that fat people possess, the corpulent matron succeeded invanquishing Germinie's last resistance by dint of this tacit assuranceand promise of marriage; and she finally allowed the young man's ardorto extort from her what she believed that she was giving in advance tothe husband.
XIV
As Germinie was going down the servant's staircase one day, she heardAdele's voice calling her over the banister and telling her to bring hertwo sous' worth of butter and ten of absinthe.
"Oh! you can sit down a minute, you know you can," said Adele, when shebrought her the absinthe and the butter. "I never see you now, you'llnever come in. Come! you have plenty of time to be with your old woman.For my part, I couldn't live with an Antichrist's face like hers! Sostay. This is the house without work to-day. There isn't a sou--madame'sabed. Whenever there's no money, she goes to bed, does madame; she staysin bed all day, reading novels. Have some of this?"--And she offered herher glass of absinthe.--"No? oh! no, you don't drink. You're veryfoolish. It's a funny thing not to drink. Say, it would be very nice ofyou to write me a little line for my dearie. Hard work, you know. I havetold you about it. See, here's madame's pen--and her paper--it smellsgood. Are you ready? He's a good fellow, my dear, and no mistake! He'sin the butcher line as I told you. Ah! my word! I mustn't rub him thewrong way! When he's had a glass of blood after killing his beasts, he'slike a madman--and if you're obstinate with him--Dame! why then hethumps you! But what would you have? He does that to make him strong. Ifyou could see him thump himself on the breast--blows that would kill anox, and say: 'That's a wall, that is!' Ah! he's a gentleman, I tell you!Are you thinking about the letter, eh? Make it one of the fetching kind.Say nice things to him, you know--and a little sad--he adores that. Atthe theatre he doesn't like anything that doesn't make him cry. Lookhere! Imagine that you're writing to a lover of your own."
Germinie began to write.
"Say, Germinie! Have you heard? Madame's taken a strange idea into herhead. It's a funny thing about women like her, who can hold their headsup with the greatest of 'em, who can have everything, hobnob with kingsif they choose! And there's nothing to be said--when one is like madame,you know, when one has such a body as that! And then the way they loadthemselves down with finery, with their tralala of dresses and laceeverywhere and everything else--how do you suppose anyone can resistthem? And if it isn't a gentleman, if it's someone like us--you can seehow much more all that will catch him; a woman in velvet goes to hisbrain. Yes, my dear, just fancy, here's madame gone daft on that_gamin_ of a Jupillon! That's all we needed to make us die of hungerhere!"
Germinie, with her pen in the air over the letter she had begun, lookedup at Adele, devouring her with her eyes.
"That brings you to a standstill, doesn't it?" said Adele, sipping herabsinthe, her face lighted up with joy at sight of Germinie'sdiscomposed features. "Oh! it is too absurd, really; but it's true, 'ponmy word it's true. She noticed the _gamin_ on the steps of the shop theother day, coming home from the races. She's been there two or threetimes on the pretence of buying something. She'll probably have someperfumery sent from there--to-morrow, I think.--Bah! it's sickening,isn't it? It's their affair. Well! what about my letter? Is it what Itold you that makes you so stupid? You played the prude--I didn'tknow--Oh! yes, yes, now I remember; that's what it is--What was it yousaid to me about the little one? I believe you didn't want anyone totouch him! Idiot!"
At a gesture of denial from Germinie, she continued:
"Nonsense, nonsense! What do I care? The kind of a child that, if youblew his nose, milk would come out! Thanks! that's not my style.However, that's your business. Come, now for my letter, eh?"
Germinie leaned over the sheet of paper. But she was burning up withfever; the quill cracked in her nervous fingers. "There," she said,throwing it down after a few seconds, "I don't know what's the matterwith me to-day. I'll write it for you another time."
"As you like, little one--but I rely on you. Come to-morrow, then.--I'lltell you some of madame's nonsense. We'll have a good laugh at her!"
And, when the door was closed, Adele began to roar with laughter: it hadcost her only a little _blague_ to unearth Germinie's secret.
XV
So far as young Jupillon was concerned, love was simply the satisfactionof a certain evil curiosity, which sought, in the knowledge andpossession of a woman, the privilege and the pleasure of despising her.Just emerging from boyhood, the young man had brought to his first_liaison_ no other ardor, no other flame than the cold instincts ofrascality awakened in boys by vile books, the confidences of theircomrades, boarding-school conversation, the first breath of impuritywhich debauches desire. The sentiment with which the young man usuallyregards the woman who yields to him, the caresses, the loving words, theaffectionate attentions with which he envelops her--nothing of all thatexisted in Jupillon's case. Woman was to him simply an obscene image;and a passion for a woman seemed to him desirable as being prohibited,illicit, vulgar, cynical and amusing--an excellent opportunity fortrickery and sarcasm.
Sarcasm--the low, cowardly, despicable sarcasm of the dregs of thepeople--was the beginning and the end of this youth. He was a perfecttype of those Parisians who bear upon their faces the mockingscepticism of the great city of _blague_ in which they are born. Thesmile, the shrewdness and the mischief of the Parisian physiognomy werealways mocking and impertinent in him. Jupillon's smile had the jovialexpression imparted by a wicked mouth, a mouth that was almost cruel atthe corners of the lips, which curled upward and were always twitchingnervously. His face was pale with the pallor that nitric acid strongenough to eat copper gives to the complexion, and in his sharp, pert,bold features were mingled br
avado, energy, recklessness, intelligence,impudence and all sorts of rascally expressions, softened, at certaintimes, by a cat-like, wheedling air. His trade of glove-cutter--he hadtaken up with that trade after two or three unsuccessful trials as anapprentice in other crafts--the habit of working in the shop-windows, ofbeing on exhibition to the passers-by, had given to his whole person theself-assurance and the dandified airs of a _poseur_. Sitting in thework-shop on the street, with his white shirt, his little black cravat_a la Colin_, and his skin-tight pantaloons, he had adopted an awkwardair of nonchalance, the pretentious carriage and _canaille_ affectationsof the workman who knows he is being stared at. And various littlerefinements of doubtful taste, the parting of the hair in the middle andbrushing it down over the temples, the low shirt collars that left thewhole neck bare, the striving after the coquettish effects thatproperly belong to the other sex, gave him an uncertain appearance,which was made even more ambiguous by his beardless face, marred only bya faint suggestion of a moustache, and his sexless features to whichpassion and ill-temper imparted all the evil quality of a shrewishwoman's face. But in Germinie's eyes all these airs and this Jupillonstyle were of the highest distinction.
Thus constituted, with nothing lovable about him and incapable of agenuine attachment even through his passions, Jupillon was greatlyembarrassed and bored by this adoration which became intoxicated withitself, and waxed greater day by day. Germinie wearied him to death. Sheseemed to him absurd in her humiliation, and laughable in her devotion.He was weary, disgusted, worn out with her. He had had enough of herlove, enough of her person. And he had no hesitation about cutting loosefrom her, without charity or pity. He ran away from her. He failed tokeep the appointments she made. He pretended that he was kept away byaccident, by errands to be done, by a pressure of work. At night, shewaited for him and he did not come; she supposed that he was detained bybusiness: in fact he was at some low billiard hall, or at some ball atthe barrier.