‘But he’s only got one arm!’ said Baugé suddenly. ‘How does he manage to play the horn?’
He had not taken his eyes off Lhomme. Then Pauline, who sometimes amused herself by playing on his innocence, told him that the cashier held the instrument against a wall; and he quite believed her, thinking it a very ingenious idea. And then when she, filled with remorse, explained to him how Lhomme had adapted a system of pincers to his stump which he then used like a hand, he shook his head, full of suspicion, declaring that they couldn’t make him swallow that.
‘You really are silly!’ she said laughing. ‘Never mind, I love you all the same.’
The cab sped on and they arrived at Vincennes station just in time for a train. Baugé paid, but Denise had already declared that she intended to pay her share of the expenses; they would settle up in the evening. They got into the second-class, and found the train full of a gay, noisy throng. At Nogent a wedding party got out amid laughter. Finally, they arrived at Joinville and went straight to the island to order lunch; and they stayed there, on the bank beneath the tall poplars which border the Marne. It was cold in the shade; a sharp breeze was blowing in the sunshine, extending far into the distance, on the other bank, the limpid purity of open country, with its endless folds of cultivated fields. Denise lingered behind Pauline and her lover, who were walking with their arms round each other’s waists; she had picked a handful of buttercups, and was watching the water flow past, happy, although her heart sank and she hung her head each time Baugé leaned over to kiss the nape of his sweetheart’s neck. Tears came to her eyes. And yet she was not suffering. What gave her this choking feeling, and why did the vast countryside, where she had looked forward to such carefree happiness, fill her with a vague regret she could not explain? Then, at lunch, Pauline’s noisy laughter made her feel quite dizzy. The latter, who adored the suburbs with the passion of an actress used to living in gaslight and the stuffy air of crowds, had wanted to lunch in an arbour, in spite of the sharp wind. She was amused by the sudden gusts which made the table-cloth flap; she thought the arbour, which was still bare, was fun, and the freshly painted trellis, with its lozenges silhouetted on the table-cloth. What’s more, she devoured her food with the hungry greed of a girl who, badly fed in the shop, gave herself indigestion outside with the things she liked. That was her vice; all her money went on cakes, on indigestible things, on little dishes she would keep on one side for her spare moments. As Denise seemed to have had enough eggs, fried fish, and sautéd chicken, she restrained herself, not daring to order any strawberries, which were still expensive, for fear of making the bill too big.
‘Now what are we going to do?’ asked Baugé when the coffee was served.
Usually, in the afternoon, he and Pauline went back to Paris for dinner and finished their day at the theatre. But, at Denise’s request, they decided that they would stay at Joinville; it would be amusing, and they would have their fill of the country. All the afternoon they wandered about the fields. Once they spoke of a trip in a boat, but abandoned the idea since Baugé rowed too badly. But their wanderings, along paths taken at random, took them back to the banks of the Marne all the same, and they watched with interest the life of the river, the squadrons of skiffs and rowing-boats, and the teams of oarsmen who populated it. The sun was going down, and they were going back towards Joinville, when two skiffs going downstream and racing each other exchanged several volleys of insults, in which the repeated cries of ‘pub-crawlers’ and ‘counter-jumpers’ figured prominently.
‘I say!’ said Pauline, ‘it’s Monsieur Hutin!’
‘Yes,’ said Baugé, shading his face with his hand, ‘I recognize his mahogany skiff… The other one must be manned by a team of students.’
And he explained the old enmity which often set students and shopmen against each other. On hearing Hutin’s name, Denise had stopped, and was following the slender craft, looking for the young man among the rowers; but she could only make out the white dresses of two women, one of whom, sitting at the tiller, wore a red hat. Their voices were drowned by the noise of the river.
‘Into the water with the pub-crawlers!’
‘Into the water with them, into the water with the counter-jumpers!’
In the evening they went back to the restaurant on the island. But it had become too cold outside, and they had to eat in one of the two closed rooms, where the table-cloths were still soaking wet with the dampness of winter. From six o’clock all the tables were occupied, the hikers were hurrying, trying to find a place; and the waiters were bringing more and more chairs and benches, putting plates closer together, cramming people in. It was stifling now; they had to open the windows. Outside the light was fading, and a greenish dusk was falling from the poplars so quickly that the restaurant owner, ill-equipped for these meals under cover, and having no lamps, had to have a candle put on each table. The noise—laughs, calls, the clatter of plates and dishes—was deafening; the candles were flaring and guttering in the draught from the windows, while moths were fluttering about in the air warmed by the smell of food and cut through by sudden gusts of icy wind.
‘They’re really having fun, aren’t they?’ said Pauline, deep in a fish stew which she declared quite superb.
She leaned over to add:
‘Haven’t you noticed Monsieur Albert, over there?’
It was indeed young Lhomme, surrounded by three dubious-looking women: an old lady in a yellow hat who had the vulgar appearance of a procuress, and two girls under age, little girls of about thirteen and fourteen, swaying their hips, and embarrassingly insolent. He was already very drunk, and was banging his glass on the table and talking of thrashing the waiter if he didn’t bring some liqueurs immediately.
‘Oh, well!’ Pauline went on, ‘what a fine family! The mother at Rambouillet, the father in Paris, and the son in Joinville … They won’t tread on each other’s toes!’
Denise, who detested noise, smiled none the less, tasting the joy of no longer thinking in the midst of all this noise. But suddenly, in the neighbouring room, there was a burst of voices which drowned all the others. There were yells, which must have been followed by blows, for scuffles and the crash of chairs were heard, a real struggle in which the river cries again rang out:
‘Into the water with them, the counter-jumpers!’
‘Into the water with them, into the water with them, the pub-crawlers!’
And when the innkeeper’s gruff voice had calmed the battle, Hutin suddenly appeared. Wearing a red jumper, and a cap reversed and pushed to the back of his head, he had on his arm the tall girl in white who had been at the tiller; she, in order to wear the skiff’s colours, had planted a tuft of poppies behind her ear. A burst of applause greeted their entrance; and he beamed with pride, throwing out his chest as he swaggered along with a nautical rolling gait, flaunting a bruise on his cheek caused by a blow, puffed up with pleasure at being the focus of attention. Behind them followed the team. They seized possession of one of the tables, and the din became tremendous.
‘It seems,’ Baugé explained, after listening to the conversations behind him, ‘it seems that the students recognized the woman with Hutin; she used to live in the neighbourhood, and now sings in a music-hall in Montmartre. And then they came to blows over her … Those students never pay their women.’
‘In any case,’ said Pauline stiffly, ‘she’s terribly ugly, with her carroty hair … Honestly, I don’t know where Monsieur Hutin picks them up, but each one’s worse than the last.’
Denise had turned pale. She felt an icy cold, as if her heart’s blood had drained away drop by drop. Already, on the river bank, at the sight of the speeding skiff, she had felt the first shiver; and now she could no longer have any doubt, this girl was really with Hutin. She felt a lump in her throat; her hands were trembling, and she was no longer eating.
‘What’s the matter?’ her friend asked.
‘Nothing,’ she stammered, ‘it’s rather warm in here.’
br /> But Hutin had sat down at a neighbouring table, and when he caught sight of Baugé, whom he knew, he started a conversation in a shrill voice in order to go on holding the attention of the room.
‘I say,’ he shouted, ‘are you still chaste at the Bon Marché?’
‘Not as much as all that,’ Baugé replied, turning very red.
‘Get away! You know they only take virgins, and they’ve got a confessional permanently attached to the shop for salesmen who look at them … A shop where they arrange marriages … No thanks!’
The others laughed. Liénard, who was a member of the team, added:
‘It isn’t like that at the Louvre … They’ve got a midwife attached to the ladieswear department there. It’s the truth!’
The gaiety increased. Pauline herself was bursting with laughter, the idea of the midwife seemed so funny. But Baugé was annoyed by the jokes about the innocence of his shop. Suddenly he blurted out:
‘But you’re not so well off at the Ladies’s Paradise! Sacked for the slightest thing, and with a boss who looks as if he picks up the customers!’
Hutin was no longer listening to him, but was launching into a paean of praise for the shop in the Place Clichy. He knew a girl there who was so respectable that the customers didn’t dare speak to her for fear of humiliating her. Then, drawing his plate closer, he told how he had made a hundred and fifteen francs that week. Oh! it had been a marvellous week, Favier left behind with fifty-two francs, the whole roster left behind. And it was obvious that he was blowing his money; he would not go to bed until he had got rid of the whole hundred and fifteen francs. Then, as he became tipsy, he attacked Robineau, that fool of an assistant buyer, who pretended to keep aloof to such an extent that he would not even walk with one of his salesmen in the street.
‘Shut up,’ said Liénard, ‘you talk too much, old chap.’
It had become even hotter; the candles were guttering on to the table-cloths stained with wine, and through the open windows, when the noise made by the diners suddenly subsided, a distant, long-drawn-out voice could be heard, the voice of the river and of the tall poplars which were falling asleep in the peaceful night. Baugé had called for the bill on seeing that Denise, quite white, her chin rigid with the tears she was holding back, was feeling no better; but the waiter did not reappear, and she had to go on suffering Hutin’s loud talk. Now he was saying that he was smarter than Liénard, because Liénard simply squandered his father’s money, whereas he squandered money he had earned, the fruit of his intelligence. At last Baugé paid, and the two women went out.
‘There’s a girl from the Louvre,’ murmured Pauline in the outer room, looking at a tall thin girl putting on her coat.
‘You don’t know her; you can’t tell,’ said the young man.
‘Of course I can! Look at the way she drapes herself! The midwife’s department, obviously! If she heard, she ought to be pleased!’
They were outside. Denise gave a sigh of relief. She had thought she would die in that suffocating heat, in the midst of all that shouting; and she still attributed her faintness to the lack of air. Now she could breathe. A cool breeze was descending from the starry sky. As the two girls were leaving the restaurant garden, a timid voice murmured in the shadows:
‘Good evening, ladies.’
It was Deloche. They had not seen him at the back of the outer room, where he had been dining alone, having come from Paris on foot for the sake of the walk. When she recognized his friendly voice Denise, who was feeling weak, yielded automatically to the need for support.
‘Monsieur Deloche, come back with us,’ she said. ‘Give me your arm.’
Pauline and Baugé had already gone on ahead. They were surprised. They had not thought it would happen like this, and certainly not with this boy. However, as they still had an hour before catching the train, they went right to the end of the island, walking along the bank beneath the tall poplars; and from time to time they turned round murmuring:
‘Where are they? Ah! There they are … It’s funny though.’
At first Denise and Deloche remained silent. The noise from the restaurant was slowly dying away, acquiring a musical sweetness in the depths of the night; and they went further in among the cool of the trees, still feverish from that furnace, the candles of which were being extinguished one by one behind the foliage. It was as if a wall of darkness was facing them, a mass of shadow so dense that they could not even make out the pale track of the footpath. However, they went forward quietly, and without fear. Then, as their eyes became accustomed to the dark, to the right they could see the trunks of the poplars, like dark columns supporting the domes of their branches, spattered with stars; while to the left the water shone from time to time like a pewter mirror. The wind was dropping, and they could hear nothing but the flow of the river.
‘I’m very pleased I met you,’ finally stammered Deloche, who was the first to bring himself to speak. ‘You don’t know how happy I am that you agreed to walk with me.’
And after a great many embarrassed words, with the darkness helping him, he ventured to say that he loved her. He had been wanting to write to her about it for a long time; and she would never have known it perhaps, but for this lovely night that had come to his assistance, this water singing and these trees covering them with the curtain of their shade. But she did not reply; she continued to walk with her arm in his, with the same air of suffering. He was trying to look into her face when he heard a muffled sob.
‘Oh! Good heavens!’ he went on, ‘you’re crying, Mademoiselle, you’re crying … Have I offended you?’
‘No, no,’ she murmured.
She was trying to hold back her tears, but she could not. Even at dinner she had thought her heart would burst. And now, in the darkness, she let herself go, her sobs choking her at the thought that if Hutin had been in Deloche’s place, saying such tender things to her, she would have been powerless to resist. This confession, which she was at last making to herself, filled her with confusion. A feeling of shame was burning her face as if, beneath these very trees, she had fallen into the arms of that young man who was showing off in the company of tarts.
‘I didn’t want to offend you,’ repeated Deloche, who was almost crying himself.
‘No, but listen,’ she said, her voice still trembling. ‘I’m not at all angry with you. But please never speak to me again like that… What you ask is impossible. Oh! You’re a nice boy, and I’ll be glad to be your friend, but nothing more … Your friend, you understand!’
He was trembling. After taking a few steps in silence, he blurted out:
‘In other words, you don’t love me?’
And since she was trying to spare him the pain of a brutal ‘No’, he continued in a soft, heart-broken voice:
‘In any case, I expected it… I’ve never had any luck, I know I can never be happy. At home they used to beat me. In Paris they’ve always made fun of me. You see, when you don’t know how to steal other people’s mistresses, and when you’re too clumsy to make as much money as they do, well, the best thing is to go off and die in some corner … Don’t worry, I won’t bother you any more. And as for loving you, you can’t prevent me, can you? I’ll love you without expecting anything in return, like an animal… That’s how it is, nothing ever goes right, that’s my lot in life.’
In his turn he wept. She tried to console him, and as they were pouring out their hearts to each other, they discovered that they both came from the same part of the world, she from Valognes, he from Briquebec, thirteen kilometres away. This was a new link between them. His father, a penniless bailiff who was always morbidly jealous, used to thrash him, saying he was not his child, exasperated by his long, pale face, and his flaxen hair which, he said, did not come from the family. They went on to talk about the great pastures surrounded by quickset hedges, the overgrown paths which disappeared beneath the elms, the grassy roads like the avenues in a park. Around them the night was growing darker still, though they cou
ld distinguish the rushes by the river, the interlaced foliage, black against the twinkling stars; and they began to feel soothed, and forgot their troubles, drawn together in comradeship by their misfortune.
‘Well?’ Pauline asked Denise brightly, taking her aside when they reached the station.
From her friend’s smile and tone of tender curiosity, Denise understood. She turned very red as she replied:
‘Of course not, my dear! I told you I didn’t want to! He comes from my part of the country. We were talking about Valognes.’
Pauline and Baugé were perplexed, put out in their ideas, not knowing what to think. Deloche left them in the Place de la Bastille; like all the young probationers, he slept in the shop, and had to be back there by eleven o’clock. Not wishing to go back with him, Denise, who had been given a theatre pass, accepted an invitation to accompany Pauline to Baugé’s house. In order to be nearer his mistress he had taken a place in the Rue Saint-Roch. They took a cab, and Denise was dumbfounded when, on the way, she learned that her friend was going to spend the night with the young man. There was nothing easier; they only had to give five francs to Madame Cabin; all the girls did it. Baugé did the honours of his room, which was furnished with old Empire furniture, sent him by his father. He got angry when Denise wanted to settle up, and then in the end accepted the fifteen francs sixty she had put on the chest of drawers; but then he wanted to give her a cup of tea, and, after struggling with a kettle and spirit lamp, he was obliged to go downstairs to buy some sugar. Midnight was striking as he was pouring out the tea.
‘I must be going,’ Denise kept saying.
And Pauline would reply: ‘In a minute … The theatres don’t close so early.’
Denise felt awkward in this bachelor’s room. She had seen her friend undress as far as her petticoat and corsets, and she was watching her turn down the bed, opening it, patting the pillows with her bare arms; and these preparations for a night of love-making upset her, and made her feel ashamed, reawakening in her wounded heart the memory of Hutin. Days like this one were certainly not good for her. Finally, at a quarter past midnight, she left them. But she left in embarrassment when, in reply to her innocently wishing them a good night, Pauline thoughtlessly exclaimed: