Complete Works of Emile Zola (649 page)

“The little morning gossip,” said Trublot on all fours under the bed, still searching.” Just listen to it.”

It was Lisa, who was leaning out of the window of the Campardons’ kitchen to speak to Julie, two storeys below her.

“So it’s come off then this time!”

“It seems so,” replied Julie, raising her head. “You see, she did all she could to catch him. Hippolyte came from the drawing-room so disgusted, that he almost had an attack of indigestion.”

“If we were only to do a quarter as much!” resumed Lisa.

But she disappeared a moment, to drink some broth that Victoire brought her. They got on well together, nursing each other’s vices, the maid hiding the cook’s drunkenness, and the cook facilitating the maid’s outings, from which the latter returned quite worn out, her limbs aching, her eyelids blue.

“Ah! my children,” said Victoire leaning out in her turn, her elbows touching Lisa’s, “you’re young. When you’ve seen what I’ve seen! At old Campardon’s, there was a niece who had been well brought up, and who used to go and look at the men through the key-hole.”

“Pretty goings-on!” murmured Julie with the horrified air of a lady. “Had I been in the place of the little one of the fourth floor, I’d have boxed Monsieur Auguste’s ears, if he’d touched me in the drawing-room! He’s a fine fellow!”

At these words, a shrill laugh issued from Madame Juzeur’s kitchen. Lisa, who was opposite, searched the room with a glance, and caught sight of Louise, whose precocious fifteen years took a delight in listening to the other servants.

“She’s spying on us from morning to night, the chit,” said she. “How stupid it is to thrust a child upon us! We sha’n’t be able to talk at all soon.”

She did not finish. The sound of a suddenly opened window chased them away. A profound silence ensued. But they ventured to look out again. Eh! what! what was the matter? They had thought that Madame Valérie or Madame Josserand was going to catch them.

“No fear!” resumed Lisa. “They’re all soaking in their washhand basins. They’re too busy with their skins, to think of bothering us. It’s the only moment in all the day when one can breathe freely.”

“So it still goes on the same at your place?” asked Julie, who was paring a carrot.

“Still the same,” replied Victoire. “It’s all over, she’s no more use.”

“But your big noodle of an architect, what does he do then?”

“Takes up with the cousin, of course!”

They were laughing louder than ever, when they beheld the new servant, Françoise, in Madame Valérie’s kitchen. It was she who had caused the alarm, by opening the window. At first there was an exchange of politeness.

“Ah! it’s you, mademoiselle.”

“Why, yes, mademoiselle. I am trying to make myself at home, but this kitchen is so filthy!”

Then came scraps of abominable information.

“You will be more than constant, if you remain there long. The last one had her arms all scratched by the child, and madame worked her so hard, that we could hear her crying from here.”

“Ah well! that won’t last long with me,” said Françoise. “Thanks all the same, mademoiselle.”

“Where is she, your missus?” asked Victoire curiously.

“She’s just gone off to lunch with a lady.”

Lisa and Julie stretched their necks, to exchange a glance. They knew her well, the lady. A funny sort of lunch, with her head down and her feet in the air! Was it possible, to lie to that extent! They did not pity the husband, for he deserved more than that; only, it was a disgrace to humanity, that a woman should not behave herself better.

“There’s Dish-cloth!” interrupted Lisa, discovering the Josserands’ servant overhead.

Then a host of vulgar expressions were bawled from the depths of this hole, as obscure and infected as a sewer. All, with their faces raised, violently yelled at Adèle, who was their butt, the dirty awkward creature on whom the entire household vented their spite.

“Hallo! she’s washed herself, it’s evident!”

“Just throw your fish bones into the yard again, and I’ll come up and rub ‘em in your face!”

Thoroughly bewildered, Adèle looked down upon them from above, her body half out of the window. She ended by answering:

“Leave me alone, can’t you? or I’ll water you.”

But the yells and the laughter increased.

“You married your young mistress, last night, didn’t you?
Eh! it’s you, perhaps, who teach her how to hook the men?”

“Ah! the heartless thing! she stops in a place where they don’t give you enough to eat! On my word, it’s that which exasperates me against her! You’re such a fool, you should send ‘em to blazes!”

Adèle’s eyes filled with tears.

“You can only talk nonsense,” stammered she. “It’s not my fault if I don’t get enough to eat.”

And the voices swelled, unpleasant words commenced to be exchanged between Lisa and the new servant, Françoise, who stuck up for Adèle, when the latter, forgetting the abuse heaped upon her, and yielding to party instinct, called out:

“Look out! here’s madame!”

The silence of the tomb ensued. They all immediately plunged back into their kitchens; and from the dark chasm of the narrow courtyard all that ascended was the stench of the dirty sinks, like the exhalation of the hidden abominations of the families, stirred up there by the spite of the hirelings. It was the sewer of the house, the shames of which it carried off, whilst the masters were still lounging in their slippers, and the grand staircase unfolded the solemnity of its flights, in the silent suffocation of the hot air stove. Octave recalled the blast of uproar he received full in the face, when entering the Campardons’ kitchen, the day of his arrival.

“They are very nice,” said he simply.

And, leaning out in his turn, he looked at the walls, as though annoyed at not having at once read through them, behind the imitation marble and the mouldings bright with gilding.

“Where the devil has she stowed them away?
”
repeated Trublot who had searched everywhere for his white kid gloves.

At length, he discovered them at the bottom of the bed itself, flattened out and quite warm. He gave a last glance in the glass, went and hid the key in the place agreed upon, right at the end of the passage, underneath an old sideboard left behind by some lodger, and led the way downstairs, accompanied by Octave. After passing the Josserands’ door, on the grand staircase, he recovered all his assurance, with his overcoat buttoned up to the neck to hide his dress clothes and white tie.

“Good-bye, my dear fellow,” said he raising his voice. “I felt anxious, so I just looked in to hear how the ladies were. They passed a very good night. Good-bye.”

Octave watched him with a smile as he went downstairs. Then, as it was almost lunch time, he decided to return the key of the loft later on. During lunch, at the Campardons’, he particularly watched Lisa, who waited at table. She had her usual clean and agreeable look; but, in his mind, he could still hear her defiling her lips with the most abominable words. His knowledge of women had not deceived him with respect to that girl with the flat chest. Madame Campardon continued to be enchanted with her, surprised that she did not steal anything, which was a fact, for her vice was of a different kind. Moreover, the girl seemed very kind to Angèle, and the mother entirely trusted her.

It so happened, that on that day Angèle disappeared when the dessert was placed on the table, and she could be heard laughing in the kitchen. Octave ventured to make an observation.

“You are perhaps wrong, to let her be so free with the servants.”

“Oh! there is not much harm in it,” replied Madame Campardon, in her languid way, “Victoire saw my husband born, and I am so sure of Lisa. Besides, how can I help it?
the child gives me a headache. I should go crazy, if I heard her jumping about me all day.”

The architect, gravely chewed the end of his cigar.

“It is I,” said he, “who make Angèle pass two hours in the kitchen, every afternoon. I wish her to become a good housewife. It teaches her a great deal. She never goes out, my dear fellow, she is continually under our sheltering wing. You will see what a jewel we shall make of her.”

Octave said no more. On certain days, Campardon appeared to him to be very stupid; and as the architect pressed him to go and hear a great preacher at Saint-Roch, he refused, obstinately persisting in remaining indoors. After telling Madame Campardon that he would not dine with them that evening, he was returning to his room, when he felt the key of the loft in his pocket. He preferred to go down and return it at once.

But on the landing an unexpected sight attracted his attention. The door of the room let to the highly distinguished gentleman, whose name was never mentioned, happened to be open; and this was quite an event, for it was invariably shut, as though barred by the silence of the tomb. His surprise increased: he was looking for the gentleman’s work-table, and in its stead had discovered the corner of a big bedstead, when he beheld a slim lady dressed in black, her face hidden behind a thick veil, come out of the room, whilst the door closed noiselessly behind her.

Then, his curiosity being roused, he followed the lady downstairs, to find out if she were pretty. But she hastened along with an anxious nimbleness, scarcely touching the Wilton carpet with her tiny boots, and leaving no trace in the house, save a faint odour of verbena. As he reached the vestibule, she disappeared, and he only beheld Monsieur Gourd standing under the porch, cap in hand and bowing very low to her.

When the young man had returned the doorkeeper his key, he tried to make him talk.

“She looks very lady-like,” said he.”Who is she?”

“A lady,” answered Monsieur Gourd.

And he would add nothing further. But he was more communicative regarding the gentleman on the third floor. Oh! a man belonging to the very best society, who had taken that room to come and work there quietly, one night a week.

“Ah! he works!” interrupted Octave. “What at, pray?”

“He was kind enough to ask me to keep his room tidy for him,” continued Monsieur Gourd, without appearing to have heard the question. “And, you know, he pays money down. Ah! sir, when one waits on people, one soon knows whether they are decent. He is everything that is most respectable: it is easily seen by his clothes.”

He was obliged to jump on one side, and Octave himself had to enter the doorkeepers’ room for a moment, in order to let the carriage of the second floor people, who were going to the Bois, pass. The horses pawed the ground, held back by the coachman the reins high; and, when the big closed landau rolled under the vaulted roof, one beheld through the windows two handsome children, whose smiling faces almost hid the vague profiles of the father and mother. Monsieur Gourd drew himself up, polite, but cold.

“They don’t make much noise in the house,” observed Octave.

“No one makes any noise,” said the doorkeeper, curtly.

“Each one lives as he thinks best, that’s all. There are people who know how to live, and there are people who don’t know how to live.”

The second floor tenants were judged severely, because they associated with no one. They appeared to be well off, however; but the husband wrote books, and Monsieur Gourd mistrusted him, curling his lip with contempt; more especially as no one knew what the family was up to in there, with its air of requiring nobody, and being always perfectly happy. It did not seem to him natural.

Octave was opening the vestibule door, when Valérie returned. He drew politely on one side, to allow her to pass before him.

“Are you quite well, madame?”

“Yes, sir, thank you.”

She was out of breath; and as she went upstairs he looked at her muddy boots, thinking of that lunch, with her head down and her feet in the air, which the servants had spoken of. She had no doubt walked home, not having been able to find a cab. A hot unsavoury odour came from her damp skirts. Fatigue, a placid weariness of all her flesh, made her at times, in spite of herself, place her hand on the balustrade.

“What a disagreeable day, is it not, madame?
”

“Frightful, sir. And, with that, the atmosphere is very close.”

She had reached the first-floor landing, and they bowed to each other. But, with a glance, he had seen her haggard face, her eyelids heavy with sleep, her unkempt hair beneath the bonnet tied on in haste; and as he continued on his way upstairs, he reflected, annoyed and angry. Then, why not with him?
He was neither more stupid nor uglier than the others.

When before Madame Juzeur’s door, on the third floor, his promise of the evening before recurred to him. He felt curious about that little woman, so discreet and with eyes like periwinkles. He rang. It was Madame Juzeur herself who answered the door.

“Ah! dear sir, how kind of you! Pray walk in.”

There was a softness about the lodging which smelt a bit stuffy: carpets and hangings everywhere, seats as yielding as down, with the warm unruffled atmosphere of a chest padded with old rainbow coloured satin. In the drawing-room, to which the double curtains imparted the peacefulness of a church, Octave was invited to seat himself on a broad and very low sofa.

“Here is the lace,” resumed Madame Juzeur, reappearing with a sandal-wood box full of finery. “I am going to make a present of it to some one, and I am curious to know its value.”

It was a piece of very fine old Brussels. Octave examined it carefully, and ended by valuing it at three hundred francs. Then, without waiting further, as their hands were both handling the lace, he bent forward and kissed her fingers, fingers as delicate as a little girl’s.

“Oh! Monsieur Octave, at my age! you cannot think what you are doing!” murmured Madame Juzeur, prettily, without getting angry.

She was thirty-two, and pretended she was quite old. And she made her usual allusion to her misfortunes; good heavens! yes, after ten days of married bliss, the cruel man had gone off one morning and had not returned, nobody had ever discovered why.

“You can understand,” continued she, gazing up at the ceiling, “that all is over for the woman who has gone through this.”