The Diary of a Chambermaid (22 page)

Looking at me with a contented expression, he says:

‘That’s very nice of you, Célestine … You’re a good woman, a tidy woman. And I don’t mind telling you, tidiness is worth a fortune. And when a woman’s nice into the bargain and good-looking, what more could a man want?’

Until lately, we have only been able to talk in snatches. At night, in the kitchen with Marianne, conversation can only be quite general … There’s never any intimacy between us, and even when I do find him alone it’s almost impossible to get him to speak. He doesn’t like long discussions, probably for fear of compromising himself. A couple of words here, a couple of words there, sometimes friendly, sometimes churlish, and that’s all. But if he doesn’t say much, his eyes are certainly not silent. They are continually looking me up and down, enveloping me, peering into my innermost depths, as though they were trying to turn my soul upside down to find out what is underneath it.

Yesterday was the first time we have had a long conversation. It was in the evening. The Lanlaires were already in bed, and Marianne had gone up to her room earlier than usual. I did not feel like reading or writing, and was bored with being on my own. Still obsessed by the thought of little Clara, I went over to the stable where I found Joseph seated at a little table, sorting seeds by the dim light of a lantern. His friend the verger was also there, standing beside him with a pile of brightly covered pamphlets under his arm. With his huge round eyes under the deep arch of his eyebrows, his flattened skull, and yellowish, coarsely-grained skin, he looked just like a toad; and when he moved, he seemed to hop like a toad as well. The two dogs were asleep under the table, rolled up in a ball, with their heads hidden in their fur.

‘Oh, so it’s you, Célestine,’ said Joseph.

The verger tried to conceal the pamphlets, but Joseph reassured him:

‘You can say what you like in front of Célestine … She’s a sensible woman.’

Then, returning to their interrupted conversation, he went on: ‘So that’s understood then, old man? Bazoches … Courtain … Fleur-sur-Tille … and you’ll see they’re delivered tomorrow, during the daytime? Try to get some subscribers … But, above all, make sure you call at every house, even if they’re Republicans. Maybe they’ll try to kick you out, but don’t worry … just stick to your guns. If you manage to win over even one of the sods, that’s always something. And don’t forget, for every Republican you get a franc.’

The verger nodded his head by way of agreement. Then, having re-adjusted the pamphlets under his arm, he set off for home, accompanied as far as the gate by Joseph. When the latter returned he saw from my face that I was curious.

‘Oh,’ he said casually, ‘only a few songs and pictures and some anti-Semitic propaganda we are distributing. I’ve got an arrangement with the clerical gentry … I work for them. And why not? Of course, we have the same outlook … but I admit, they also pay well.’

He sat down again at the little table. The two dogs, having woken up and sniffed about the room, had now settled down again, further away.

‘Yes,’ he repeated, ‘the pay isn’t at all bad … These parsons, you know, have got plenty of money all right.’

And as though he were afraid he might have said too much, he added:

‘I’m only telling you this, Célestine, because you’re a good woman … a sensible woman … Because I trust you. But it’s strictly between you and me, you understand?’

After a silence, he said: ‘What a good idea of yours it was, to come here this evening … Real nice … very flattering.’

I had never known him so friendly and chatty. I leant across the table towards him and, stirring the seeds he had been sorting out with the tip of my finger, and said flirtatiously:

‘Well, as soon as we’d finished supper, you went off before we’d had time for a bit of a natter … Would you like me to help you sort your seeds?’

‘Thank you, Célestine, but it’s all done.’

He scratched his head and said, irritably:

‘Blast it, I ought to go and see to the frames, or the mice will have the lot … No, I’m damned if I will … I’ve got to talk to you, Célestine …’

He got up, closed the door which he’d left half open, and led me into the saddle room. For a moment I felt scared. Suddenly I could see little Clara, whom I’d forgotten about, lying in the undergrowth, horribly pale and covered with blood … But the look in Joseph’s eyes wasn’t evil. Indeed, it was as though he was shy, though we could scarcely see one another in the dark room, which was lit only by the wavering sinister light from the lantern. Up to this point, Joseph had been speaking hesitantly, but now his voice became grave and assured.

‘There is something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about, Célestine, for several days now,’ he began. ‘You see, it’s like this. I’m fond of you … You’re a good woman … a sensible woman. I feel I’m really getting to know you …’

I thought it best to put on a friendly, teasing smile, and replied:

‘You must admit you’ve taken long enough about it … What used to make you so disagreeable to me always? You’d never speak to me except to chivvy me … Do you remember how you used to bawl me out, just for walking on a path after you’d been raking it? … A regular old misery you were.’

Joseph laughed, and shrugged his shoulders.

‘Ah well … But damn it all, you can’t be expected to tell what people are like straight away … especially women. They’re the devil to understand. And after all you do come from Paris! But now I’ve got to know you.’

‘If you know me so well, then tell me what sort of a person I am.’

Tight-lipped and with a serious expression, he declared:

‘What sort of person? … Why, the same sort as me, Célestine.’

‘As you?’

‘Oh, not to look at, of course … But, at the very bottom of our hearts, you and me, we’re just the same … That’s a fact, and I know what I’m talking about.’

There was a moment’s silence. Then he went on in a gentler voice:

‘I’m fond of you, Célestine … And besides …’

‘And besides?’

‘I’ve also got a bit of money put away … Not much, but damn it all a man doesn’t expect to work in decent situations for forty years without managing to put a bit by, does he?’

‘Certainly not,’ I replied, more and more amazed at what Joseph was saying and the way he was behaving. ‘How much have you saved, then?’

‘Oh, a tidy bit.’

‘Yes, but how much? … Show me.’

With a superior smile, Joseph replied:

‘Why, you don’t really imagine I keep it here, do you? Oh no! That’s nicely tucked away where it can do a bit of breeding on its own …’

‘All right. But how much does it come to?’

Then in a low voice, almost a whisper, he said:

‘Maybe 15,000 francs … maybe a bit more …’

‘Crikey! You’ve done pretty well for yourself, haven’t you?’

‘… or maybe a bit less.’

Suddenly, both the dogs raised their heads and sprang towards the door, barking. Seeing that I was frightened, Joseph reassured me.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, giving both animals a hearty kick in the ribs. ‘It’s only someone in the road. Listen! Yes, that’s Rose coming home. I recognize her step.’

And sure enough, a few moments later, I heard the sound of footsteps and a gate being shut. The dogs stopped barking.

I was sitting on a stool in a corner of the saddle room. Joseph was walking up and down with his hands in his pockets, occasionally knocking the harness or the wooden partition with his elbow … We had stopped talking. I was feeling horribly ill at ease, wishing I had never come, while Joseph was obviously worried by something he still wanted to tell me. After a few minutes he made up his mind:

‘There’s something else I ought to tell you, Célestine … I come from Cherbourg, and Cherbourg’s a pretty tough place, full of soldiers and sailors, and those damned lascars, always ready for a bit of fun. But it’s a good place for business. Well, I happen to know that at this moment there’s a pretty good opening at Cherbourg … a small café, in the best possible position, near the port … The soldiers are drinking a lot these days … all the patriots are out on the streets … shouting and bawling, and getting up a thirst … This would be just the time to set up there. I reckon anyone could make money hand over fist … The only thing is you’d need a woman … a nice, sensible sort of woman … a woman that knew how to doll herself up a bit and could take a joke … You know what they’re like, these army blokes … easy going, always ready for a laugh and a bit of fun .. . getting tight whenever they can . .. fond of a bit of sex and ready to pay for it … Well, what do you think about it, Célestine?’

‘Me?’ I exclaimed, completely bewildered.

‘Yes, you. How do you fancy the proposition?’

‘Me?’

I hardly understood what he was getting at, and was so everwhelmed with surprise that I couldn’t think of anything else to say. But he insisted:

‘Well, of course you … Who else do you think would do for the café You’re a sensible woman … You know how to run things .. . You’re not one of those stuck-up dames that can never take a joke … and you’re a true patriot! Besides, you’re pretty and charming … Your eyes are enough to drive the whole Cherbourg garrison crazy. That’s true, isn’t it? Ever since I got to know you properly and realized all the things you could do, the idea has continually been running in my head.’

‘And what about you?’

‘Me as well, naturally … We’d get married on a proper friendly basis …’

‘So that’s it,’ I exclaimed indignantly. ‘You want me to become a whore so as to earn money for you?’

Joseph merely shrugged his shoulders, and replied quite calmly:

‘Everything would be absolutely on the level, Célestine … You know that, surely?’

Then he came over to me, seized me by the hands, squeezing them so hard that I could have screamed with pain, and murmured:

‘I’m crazy to have you there, Célestine, in the café. Don’t you realize, you’ve got right under my skin?’

And, seeing that I was nonplussed and rather frightened by this outburst and could neither move nor speak, he continued:

‘Besides, maybe it’s more than 15,000 francs … more like 18,000, I wouldn’t wonder. No one knows how much the capital has increased. And then think of all the other things you could have … jewels and such-like. Mark my words, you could be really happy in that little café.’

He took me in his arms and held me like a vice. I could feel his body against mine, trembling with desire. If he had wanted to, he could have taken me there and then, and I wouldn’t have made the least effort to resist. But he went on telling me about his dream:

‘A pretty little café, nice and clean, everything shining … There would be a great big mirror, and in front of it a fine-looking woman serving at the bar, dressed in Alsatian costume, with a silk blouse and broad velvet ribbons … Well, Célestine? . .. Just you think about it, and we’ll discuss it again, some other time … We’ll discuss it again.’

I couldn’t think of anything to say … It was something I’d never dreamt of. And yet I didn’t feel the least hatred for the man, or horror at his cynicism, though he was talking to me with the same lips that had kissed little Clara’s bloody wounds, and was holding me to him with the same hands that had embraced and strangled her in the forest.

‘We’ll talk about it again some other time … I know I’m old and ugly, but when it comes to fixing a woman, Célestine, you mark my words, I know what I’m up to … But well talk about it again.’

Fixing a woman indeed! A pretty sinister way of putting it … Is it a threat or a promise, I wonder?

Today Joseph has remained as silent as usual. You’d never imagine there had been anything between us last night. He comes and goes, works, eats, reads his paper, just as though nothing had happened. I look at him and wish I could detest him … wish I could see his ugliness for what it is … Wish I could feel such profound disgust for him that I’d never go near him again. But it just isn’t like that. No, the funny thing is that this man makes me shudder and yet he doesn’t disgust me … And this is terrible, because I know it was he who killed little Clara in the forest, and raped her.

Nothing delights me so much as coming across the name of someone I’ve worked for in the papers. I experienced this pleasure as keenly as ever this morning when I read in
Le Petit Journal
that Victor Charrigaud has just published a new book, that it is a great success and that everyone is talking about it. It is called
From Five to Seven,
and it is causing a scandal … in the proper sense of the word. According to the article, it is a collection of studies of society, brilliant and slashing, which, beneath their lightness of touch, hide a profound philosophy … Of course they were bound to say that! And it goes on to praise Charrigaud, not simply for his talent, but especially because of his elegance, his distinguished connections and his salon … Oh, but I could tell you something about that
salon
of his. I was parlour-maid at the Charrigaud’s for eighteen months and, God knows, I don’t think I ever came across such a bunch of rotters!

Everyone knows Victor Charrigaud by name. He has already published a series of best sellers. He is extremely witty and extremely talented, but he had the misfortune to achieve success too early, and, with it, a fortune. His early work showed great promise. Everyone was struck by his powers of observation, his considerable satirical gift, and the relentless irony that enables him to unmask human folly. He was looked upon as one of those lively, unfettered minds for whom the social conventions represent nothing but cowardly evasions; a shrewd and generous spirit, who, instead of stooping to the humiliating level of prejudice, boldly aspired to the purest and noblest ideals. At least, this is what one of his friends used to tell me about him, a painter who had fallen for me and whom I sometimes used to visit. It is to him I owe, not only the foregoing opinion, but also the details that follow about the writings and life of this illustrious man.

Of all the human follies so mercilessly exposed by Charrigaud, the one he particularly concentrated on was snobbishness. In his lively, well-informed conversation, even more than in his books, he exposed this form of moral cowardice, and the intellectual sterility that lies behind it, with a savagely picturesque precision, a rough and ready philosophy, and brilliantly scathing witticisms which, as they rapidly passed from mouth to mouth, at once became classics … A whole amazing psychology of snobbishness could have been elaborated from the closely observed sketches, and the brilliant, curiously living portraits that his prodigious originality poured out in an inexhaustible stream … Thus one would have thought that if anyone was to escape this moral influenza, which has such a powerful grip on society, it would have been Victor Charrigaud, for who else was so effectively protected from the contagion by that admirable antiseptic—irony … But human nature is a continual surprise, compounded as it is of contradictions and folly …