Complete Works of Emile Zola (673 page)

Just as September was drawing to a close, and the lodgers were on the point of returning home, a wild idea came to Octave in the midst of his torment. Rachel had asked permission to sleep out on one of the Tuesdays that her master would be at Lyons, in order to enable her to attend the wedding of one of her sisters in the country; and it was merely a question of passing the night in the servant’s room, where no one in the world would think of seeking them. Berthe, feeling deeply hurt at the suggestion, at first displayed the greatest repugnance; but he implored her with tears in his eyes; he talked of leaving Paris where he suffered too much; he confused and wearied her with such a number of arguments, that, scarcely knowing what she did, she ended by consenting. All was settled. The Tuesday evening, after dinner, they took a cup of tea at the Josserands’, so as to dispel any suspicions. Trublot, Gueulin, and uncle Bachelard were there; and, very late in the evening, Duveyrier, who occasionally came to sleep at the Rue de Choiseul, on account of business which he pretended he had to attend to early in the morning, even put in an appearance. Octave made a show of joining freely in the conversation of these gentlemen; then, when midnight struck, he withdrew, and went and locked himself in Rachel’s room, where Berthe was to join him an hour later when all the house was asleep.

Upstairs, the arrangement of the room occupied him during the first half hour. He had provided himself with clean bed linen, and he proceeded to remake the bed, awkwardly, and occupying a long while over it through fear of being overheard. Then, like Trublot, he sat down on a box and tried to wait patiently. The servants came up to bed, one by one; and through the thin partitions the sounds of women undressing themselves could be heard. One o’clock struck, then the quarter, then the half hour past. He began to feel anxious; why was Berthe so long in coming?
She must have left the Josserands’ about one o’clock at the latest; and it could not take her more than ten minutes to go to her rooms and come out again by the servants’ staircase. When two o’clock struck, he imagined all sorts of catastrophes. At length, he heaved a sigh of relief, on fancying he recognised her footstep. And he opened the door, in order to light her. But surprise rooted him to the spot. Opposite Adèle’s door, Trublot, bent almost double, was looking through the key-hole, and jumped up, frightened by that sudden light.

“What! it’s you again?”murmured Octave with annoyance.

Trublot began to laugh, without appearing the least surprised at finding him there at such a time of night.

“Just fancy,” explained he very softly, “that fool Adèle hasn’t given me her key, and she has gone and joined Duveyrier in his room. Eh? what’s the matter with you? Ah! you didn’t know Duveyrier slept with her. It is so, my dear fellow. He really is reconciled with his wife, who, however, only resigns herself to him now and then; so he falls back upon Adèle. It’s convenient, whenever he comes to Paris.”

He interrupted himself, and stooped down again, then added between his clenched teeth.

“What a confounded brainless girl that Adèle is! If she had only given me her key, I could have made myself comfortable here.”

Then, he returned to the loft where he had been previously waiting, taking Octave with him, who, moreover, desired to question him respecting the finish of the evening at the Josserands’. But, for some time, Trublot would not allow him to open his mouth. He was highly irate with Duveyrier, and in the obscurity, black as ink, and the close atmosphere beneath the low-lying beams, he was continually recurring to him. Yes, the dirty animal had at first wanted Julie;
only she had taken a fancy to little Gustave down in the country. So that, snuffed out on this side, and not daring to take Clémence, because of Hippolyte, the counsellor had no doubt thought it preferable to pick up with some one outside his own home. And no one knew where or how he had jumped upon Adèle — behind some door no doubt, in a draught; and that big slut would certainly never have dared to have been impolite to the landlord.

“For a month past, he has not missed a single one of the Josserands’ Tuesdays at home,” said Trublot. “It’s very awkward. I must discover Clarisse for him, so that he may leave us in peace.”

Octave was at length able to question him as to the wind-up of the party. It seemed that Berthe had left her mother’s shortly after midnight, looking very composed. No doubt, she was now in Rachel’s room. But Trublot, delighted at the meeting, would not let him go.

“It’s idiotic, keeping me waiting so long,” continued he. “Besides, I’m almost asleep as it is. My governor has put me into the liquidation department, and I’m up all night three times a week, my dear fellow. If Julie were only there, she would make room for me. But Duveyrier only brings Hippolyte up from the country. And, by the way, you know Hippolyte, that tall ugly chap! Well! I just saw him going to join Louise, that frightful brat of a foundling whose soul Madame Juzeur wishes to save. Eh? it’s a fine success for Madame! Anything you like except that! An abortion of fifteen, a dirty bundle picked up on a doorstep, a fine morsel for that bony fellow with damp hands and the shoulders of a bull! As for me, I don’t care a button, and yet it disgusts me all the same.”

That night, Trublot, who was greatly bored, was full of philosophical reflections. He added almost in a whisper:

“Well you know! like master, like man. When landlords set the example, its scarcely surprising if the servants’ tastes are not exactly refined. Ah! everything’s decidedly going to the dogs in France!”

“Good-bye,” said Octave, “I’m off.”

But Trublot still detained him, enumerating the servants’ rooms where he might have slept, as the summer had emptied nearly the whole of them; only the worst was that they all double-locked their doors, even when they were merely going to the end of the passage, they had such a fear of being robbed by each other. There was nothing to be done with Lisa. As for Victoire, ten years ago she might have been passable. And he especially deplored Valérie’s mania for changing her cook. He counted the last half-dozen she had had on his fingers. There was a regular string of them: one who had insisted on chocolate of a morning; one who had left because her master did not eat cleanly; one whom the police had come for, just as she was putting a piece of veal to the fire;
one who could not touch a thing without breaking it, she was so strong; one who engaged a maid to wait upon her; one who went out in madame’s dresses, and who slapped madame’s face, the day when madame ventured to allude to the matter. All those in a month! Not giving one sufficient time to pinch them in their kitchen!

“And then,” added he, “there was Eugénie. You must have noticed her, a fine tall girl, a regular Venus, my dear fellow! and no joking this time: people turned round in the street to look at her. So that for ten days, the house was quite topsy-turvy. The ladies were furious. The men could scarcely contain themselves: Campardon’s tongue hung out; Duveyrier had the idea of coining up here every day to see if the roof leaked. A real revolution, a flame which blazed in the confounded house from the cellars to the loft. As for me, I mistrusted her. She was too stylish! It ended by Eugénie being sent about her business the day when madame found out, by means of her sheets, which were as black as soot, that she was joined every morning by the charcoal-dealer of the Place Gaillon; regular nigger’s sheets, the washing of which cost an awful sum!”

At length, Octave was able to get free. He was on the point of leaving Trublot in the profound obscurity of the loft, when the latter suddenly expressed his surprise.

“But you, what are you doing amongst the maids?
Ah! rascal, you come here too!”

And he laughed with delight, and promising to keep Octave’s secret, sent him off, wishing him a pleasant night of it.

When Octave found himself back in Rachel’s room, he experienced a fresh deception. Berthe was not there. Anger got the better of him now: Berthe had humbugged him, she had promised him merely to get rid of his importunities. Whilst he was chafing there, she was sleeping, happy at being alone, occupying the whole breadth of the conjugal couch. Then, instead of returning to his room and going to sleep himself, he obstinately waited, throwing himself all dressed as he was on the bed, and passing the night in forming projects of revenge. Three o’clock chimed out in the distance. The snores of robust maid-servants arose on his left; while on his right there was a continual wail, a woman moaning with pain in the fever of a sleepless night. He ended by recognising the boot-stitcher’s voice. The wretched woman was lying suffering all alone in one of those poverty-stricken closets next to the roof.

Just as day was breaking, Octave fell asleep. A profound silence reigned; even the boot-stitcher no longer moaned, but lay like one dead. The sun was peering through the narrow window, when the door opening abruptly awoke the young man.

It was Berthe who, urged by an irresistible desire, had come up to see if he was still there; she had at first scouted the idea, then she had furnished herself with pretexts, the need for going to the room and putting everything straight, in case he had left it anyhow in his rage. Moreover she no longer expected to find him there. When she beheld him rise from the little iron bedstead, ghastly pale and menacing, she stood dumbfounded; and she listened with bowed head to his furious reproaches. He pressed her to answer, to give him at least some explanation. At length, she murmured:

“At the last moment, I could not do it. It was too indelicate. I love you, oh! I swear it. But not here, not here!”

And, seeing him approach her, she drew back, afraid that he might wish to take advantage of the opportunity. Eight o’clock was striking, the servants had all gone down, even Trublot had departed. Then, as he tried to take hold of her hands, saying that when one loves a person, one accepts everything, she complained that the closeness of the room made her feel unwell, and she slightly opened the window. But he again tried to draw her towards him, overpowering her with his importunities. At this moment a turbid torrent of foul words ascended from the inner courtyard.

“Pig! slut! have you done? Your dish-cloth’s again fallen on my head.”

Berthe, turning ghastly pale, and quivering from head to foot, released herself, murmuring:

“Do you hear those girls? They make me shiver all over. The other day, I thought I should have been ill. No, leave me alone, and I promise to see you, on Tuesday next, in your room.”

The two lovers, standing up and not daring to move, were compelled to hear everything.

“Show yourself a moment,” continued Lisa, who was furious, “so that I may shy it back in your ugly face!”

Then, Adèle went and leant out of her kitchen window.

“There’s a fuss about a bit of rag! To begin with, I only used it for washing-up with yesterday. And then it fell out by accident.”

They made peace together, and Lisa asked her what they had had for dinner at her place the day before. Another stew! What misers! She would have ordered chops for herself, if she had been in such a hole! She was for ever inciting Adèle to sneak the sugar, the meat, the candles, just to show that she could do as she liked; as for herself, never being hungry, she left Victoire to rob the Campardons, without even taking her share.

“Oh!” said Adèle, who was gradually becoming corrupted, “the other night I hid some potatoes in my pocket. They quite burnt my leg. It was jolly, it was jolly! And, you know, I like vinegar, I do. I don’t care, I drink it out of the cruet now.”

Victoire came and leant out in her turn, as she finished drinking some cassis mixed with brandy, which Lisa treated her to now and then of a morning, to pay her for concealing her day and night escapades. And, as Louise thrust out her tongue at them, from the depths of Madame Juzeur’s kitchen, Victoire was at once down upon her.

“Wait a bit! you street foundling; I’ll shove your tongue somewhere for you!”

“Come along then, old swiller!” retorted the little one. “I saw you yesterday bringing it all up again in your plate.”

At this, the rush of foul words again rebounded from wall to wall of the pestiferous hole. Adèle herself, who was mastering the Paris gift of the gab, called Louise a filthy drab, whilst Lisa yelled out:

“I’ll make her shut up, if she bothers us. Yes, yes, little strumpet, I’ll tell Clémence. She’ll settle you. But, hush! here’s the man. He’s a nice dirty beast, he is!”

Hippolyte just then appeared at the Duveyriers’ window, blacking his master’s boots’. The other servants, in spite of everything, were very polite to him, for he belonged to the aristocracy, and he despised Lisa, who in her turn despised Adèle, with more haughtiness than rich masters show to masters in difficulties. They asked him for news of Mademoiselle Clémence and Mademoiselle Julie. Well! really, they were almost bored to death there; but they were pretty well. Then, jumping to another subject, he asked:

“Did you hear that girl, last night, wriggling about with her stomach-ache? Wasn’t it annoying?
Luckily she’s going to leave soon. I had half a mind to call out to her.”

This allusion to the boot-stitcher’s condition caused them to pass all the ladies of the house in review.

At first they talked of Madame Campardon, who at least had nothing more to fear; then of Madame Juzeur, who took her precautions; next of Madame Duveyrier, who was disgusted with her husband; and of Madame Valérie, who went and got her children away from home. And at each recital bursts of laughter arose in blasts from the squalid hole.

Berthe had again turned pale. She waited, no longer even daring to leave the room, her eyes cast down with shame, like one to whom violence was being offered in Octave’s presence. He, exasperated with the servants, felt that they were becoming too filthy, and that he could not again take her in his arms; his desire was giving place to a weariness and a great sadness. But suddenly the young woman started. Lisa had just uttered her name.

“Talking of enjoying oneself, there’s one who seems to me to go in for a rare dose of it! Eh! Adèle, isn’t it true that your Mademoiselle Berthe was up to all manner of tricks at the time you used to wash her petticoats!”