Pot Luck Page 12

  ‘No, no, not that! It’s wrong.’

  But he kept repeating, in his excitement:

  ‘Nobody will know; I’ll never tell.’

  ‘No, no, Monsieur Octave! Please don’t spoil the happiness I have in knowing you. It won’t do us any good, and I had such wonderful dreams!’

  Then, without another word, he felt that he must have his revenge upon womankind and said crudely to himself: ‘you’re going to get it now!’ As she would not go into the bedroom with him he roughly pushed her backwards across the table. She gave in, and he took her there, midway between the dirty plate and the novel, which, when the table shook, fell on to the floor. The door had not even been shut; the solemn silence of the staircase pervaded all. Lilitte lay sleeping peacefully in her cot.

  When Marie and Octave got up, she with her rumpled petticoats, they had nothing to say to each other. Mechanically she went and looked at her daughter, picked up the plate, and then put it down again. He remained silent, feeling equally ill at ease, for it had happened so unexpectedly. He recalled how he had formed the brotherly plan of making husband and wife fall into each other’s arms. In order to break the awful silence, he muttered at length:

  ‘So you didn’t shut the door!’

  She looked out on to the landing, and stammered:

  ‘That’s true, it was open.’

  She seemed to walk with difficulty, and on her face there was a look of disgust. Octave began to think that there was nothing particularly exciting in an adventure of this sort with a helpless, lonely, empty-headed woman. She had not even had any pleasure from it.

  ‘Oh, dear! The book has fallen on the floor!’ she continued, as she picked the volume up.

  One of the corners of the cover was bent. This brought them together again; it was a relief. They began to talk again. Marie appeared distressed.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault. I put a paper cover on it, so it wouldn’t get dirty. We must have knocked it off the table by accident.’

  ‘It was there, then?’ asked Octave. ‘I didn’t notice it. It doesn’t bother me, but Campardon thinks such a lot of his books.’

  They kept handing the book to each other, trying to put the corner straight. Their fingers touched, yet neither felt a thrill. As they thought of the consequences, they were both dismayed at the accident which had befallen the beautiful volume of George Sand.

  ‘It was bound to end badly,’ said Marie, with tears in her eyes.

  Octave felt obliged to console her. He would invent some story or other. Campardon wouldn’t eat him. And as they were about to separate, their feeling of uneasiness returned. They would have liked to say something pleasant to each other, but somehow the words stuck in their throats. Fortunately, at that moment they heard a step on the stairs; it was Monsieur Pichon coming home. Silently Octave took her in his arms again, and kissed her on the mouth. Again she complacently submitted, her lips icy cold as before. When he had noiselessly got back to his room, he thought to himself, as he took off his coat, that apparently she didn’t like that either. So whatever was it that she wanted? And why did she go tumbling into men’s arms? Women were certainly very strange.

  The next day, after lunch at the Campardons’, as Octave was explaining once more how he had clumsily knocked the book on to the floor, Marie came in. She was going to take Lilitte to the Tuileries gardens, and had called to ask if they would let Angèle go with her. She smiled at Octave with perfect self-possession, and glanced innocently at the book lying on a chair.

  ‘Of course,’ said Madame Campardon, ‘I’d be delighted. Angèle, go and put your hat on. I know she’s quite safe with you.’

  Looking like modesty personified in her simple dark woollen dress, Marie talked about her husband, who had come home with a cold the night before; and she also mentioned the price of meat, which was becoming so expensive that soon people would not be able to afford any at all. Then, after she had left, taking Angèle with her, they all leant out of the window to see them go off. Marie gently pushed Lilitte’s pram along with her gloved hands, while Angèle, who knew they were watching, walked beside her with downcast eyes.

  ‘Doesn’t she look nice!’ exclaimed Madame Campardon. ‘So ladylike, so respectable!’

  Then, slapping Octave on the back, her husband said:

  ‘In a family, education is everything, my dear boy—everything!’

  V

  At the Duveyriers’ that evening there was a reception and a concert. Octave had been invited for the first time, and at about ten o’clock he was just finishing dressing. He was in a sombre mood, and felt quite annoyed with himself. How had he failed to bring off his affair with Valérie—a woman so well connected? And Berthe Josserand, ought he not to have thought more carefully before refusing her? As he was tying his white tie, the thought of Marie Pichon became positively unbearable to him. Five months in Paris, and only that pathetic little adventure to show for it! He almost felt ashamed, for he was well aware of the uselessness of such a connection. As he pulled on his gloves he vowed that he would no longer waste his time in such a way. Now that he had at last entered society he was resolved to act, for opportunities were certainly not lacking.

  Marie was looking out for him at the end of the corridor. As Pichon was not there, he had to go in for a moment.

  ‘You’re so smart!’ she whispered.

  They had never been invited to the Duveyriers’, and she was quite in awe of them. But she was jealous of no one; for this she had neither the strength nor the will.

  ‘I’ll wait for you,’ she said, looking up at him. ‘Don’t stay too late; and you must tell me afterwards what it was like.’

  Octave was obliged to kiss her hair. Though a relationship had been established between them which depended on his inclination, it was not really an intimate one. At last he went downstairs, and she, leaning over the banisters, watched him until he disappeared.

  At the same moment quite a drama was being enacted at the Josserands’. According to Madame Josserand, the party at the Duveyriers’ would decide the match between her daughter Berthe and Auguste Vabre. Despite a number of vigorous onslaughts during the past fortnight, the latter was still hesitating, evidently exercised by doubts as to the dowry. So Madame Josserand, in order to strike a decisive blow, had written to her brother announcing the projected marriage, and reminding him of his promises, hoping that his reply would give her something she could use to her advantage. And, as the whole family stood round the dining-room stove, dressed up and ready to go downstairs at nine o’clock, Monsieur Gourd brought up a letter from uncle Bachelard which had been left lying under Madame Gourd’s snuffbox since the last delivery.

  ‘Ah, at last!’ cried Madame Josserand, tearing open the envelope.

  The girls and their father anxiously watched her as she read. Adèle, who had been obliged to dress the ladies, was moving about in her clumsy fashion as she cleared away the dinner-service. Madame Josserand turned very pale.

  ‘Not a word!’ she stuttered, ‘not a single clear sentence! He says he’ll see later on, when they get married. And he sends his love to everybody! The rotten old humbug!’

  Monsieur Josserand, in evening clothes, had sunk into a chair. Hortense and Berthe, whose legs ached, sat down as well; the one in blue, the other in pink, in those eternal frocks of theirs which they had refurbished once again.

  ‘Bachelard can’t be relied upon; I’ve always said so,’ murmured Monsieur Josserand. ‘He’ll never give us a penny.’

  Standing there in her flaming red dress, Madame Josserand read the letter again. Then she burst forth:

  ‘Oh, men! men! Just look at him, for example. You’d think he was an idiot, to judge by the life he leads. But, no, not a bit of it! He may look like one, but he perks up as soon as you mention money. Oh, men!’

  Then she turned towards her daughters, to whom this lesson was addressed.

  ‘You know, I’m really beginning to wonder why you girls are so obsessed with getting married
! Ah, if you’d been worried to death by it, as I have! No one who loves you for yourself, or brings you a fortune without haggling over it! A millionaire uncle who lives on you for twenty years and then refuses even to give his niece a dowry! And a husband who’s useless—oh yes, sir, useless!’

  Monsieur Josserand bowed his head.

  Adèle, not even listening, finished clearing the table. Madame Josserand suddenly turned on her.

  ‘What are you doing, spying on us? Go back to the kitchen at once!’

  Then came her peroration.

  ‘Those beasts have everything and we get nothing—not even a crust if we’re starving! The only thing they’re fit for is to be taken in! Just mark my words!’

  Hortense and Berthe nodded, as though profoundly impressed by the wisdom of their mother’s pronouncements. She had long since convinced them of the absolute inferiority of men, whose sole function in life was to marry and to pay. There was a long silence in the smoky dining-room, pervaded now by the smell of the food which Adèle had been obliged to leave. Sitting about in their finery, the Josserands forgot the Duveyriers’ concert as they reflected on life’s perpetual disappointments. From the adjoining room came the sound of Saturnin, whom they had sent to bed early, snoring.

  At last, Berthe spoke.

  ‘So that’s the end of that! Shall we go and take our things off?’

  At this, Madame Josserand’s energy came flooding back. What! Take their things off! And why, pray? Were they not respectable people? Was an alliance with their family not as good as with any other? The marriage should come off all the same; she would rather die. And she quickly gave each of them their parts. The girls were told to be particularly nice to Auguste, and not to let go of him until he had taken the plunge. Monsieur Josserand was entrusted with the task of gaining the sympathies of old Vabre and Duveyrier, by always agreeing with everything they said—assuming that this would not place too great a strain on his intellect. As for herself, she would take care of the women; she wished to leave nothing to chance, and knew well how to win them all over. Then, collecting her thoughts and casting a last glance round the dining-room, as if to make sure that no weapon had been forgotten, she assumed the terrible mien of a warrior leading forth his daughters to be massacred, as in a loud voice she cried:

  ‘Let’s go down!’

  And down they went. In the solemn atmosphere of the staircase, Monsieur Josserand felt very uneasy. He foresaw many things, all too unpleasant for such a strait-laced, decent man as himself.

  The Duveyriers’ apartment was already crowded as they entered. The enormous grand piano filled one side of the panelled drawing-room; the ladies were seated before it in rows, as if at the theatre, against a dense black background of men in evening dress, which extended through the door of the dining-room to the parlour beyond. The chandelier and the candelabra and the six bracket-lamps standing on side-tables lit up in a quite dazzling fashion the white and gold apartment, exhibiting in all their crudeness the red silk hangings and furniture. It was extremely hot; and the regular movement of fans dispersed the pungent aroma of bodices and bare shoulders.

  Just at that moment Madame Duveyrier was about to sit down at the piano. With a gesture, Madame Josserand smilingly bade her hostess not to trouble herself. Leaving her daughters among the men, she took a chair between Valérie and Madame Juzeur. Monsieur Josserand had found his way to the parlour, where Monsieur Vabre, the landlord, was asleep in his customary corner of the sofa. Here too, in a group, were Campardon, Théophile and Auguste Vabre, Doctor Juillerat, and Father Mauduit; while Trublot and Octave had just fled together from the music to the far corner of the dining-room. Near them, behind the sea of black coats, stood Duveyrier, tall and thin, watching his wife at the piano and waiting for silence. In his buttonhole, in a neat little rosette, he wore the ribbon of the Legion of Honour.

  ‘Hush! hush! Quiet!’ murmured various sympathetic voices.

  Then Clotilde Duveyrier attacked one of Chopin’s most difficult nocturnes. Tall and good-looking, with splendid auburn hair, she had a long face, pale and cold as snow. In her grey eyes the music had ignited a flame—an exaggerated passion on which she lived without any other need, either of the flesh or the spirit. Duveyrier continued looking at her; then, after the first few bars, his lips began to twitch nervously and he withdrew to the far end of the dining-room. On his clean-shaven face, with its pointed chin and crooked eyes, large red blotches showed the unhealthy state of his blood—a festering mass of scrofula just beneath the skin.

  Trublot, examining him, quietly observed:

  ‘He doesn’t like music.’

  ‘Nor do I,’ replied Octave.

  ‘Ah! but it’s not as unpleasant for you as it is for him. He was always lucky, you know. He’s no cleverer than anyone else, but he was helped along by everybody. He comes from an old bourgeois family; his father’s an ex-chief justice. He was called to the bar as soon as he passed his exams; got appointed assistant judge at Reims; then transferred to Paris, to the High Court of Appeal; and was decorated and made a judge by the age of forty-five. Pretty impressive, isn’t it? But he doesn’t like music; that piano has been the bane of his life. Well, you can’t have everything!’

  Meanwhile, Clotilde was rattling off the most difficult passages with tremendous sang-froid. She handled her piano as a circus-rider would her horse. Octave was interested only in the furious working of her hands.

  ‘Just look at her fingers,’ he said; ‘it’s amazing! It must really hurt after a quarter of an hour of that sort of playing!’

  Then they both began talking about women, without paying any further attention to her performance. On seeing Valérie, Octave felt rather embarrassed. How should he behave? Speak to her, or pretend not to see her? Trublot put on an air of great disdain; there was not a single woman there that took his fancy; and, when his companion protested that there was surely somebody to suit his taste, he sagely remarked:

  ‘Well, take your pick, and you’ll soon see what they’re really like, eh? Not that one at the back there, with feathers; or the blonde one in the mauve dress; or that old one, although at least she’s nice and plump. I tell you, it’s absurd to look for anything good in society. Lots of airs and graces, but no fun!’

  Octave smiled. He had to make his way in the world; he could not afford simply to follow his taste like Trublot, whose father was so rich. The long rows of women set him thinking, and he asked himself which of them he would choose for his fortune or his pleasure if he could take one of them away. Suddenly, as he was casting his eye over them, he exclaimed in surprise:

  ‘Hullo! There’s my employer’s wife! Does she come here?’

  ‘Yes; didn’t you know that?’ said Trublot. ‘In spite of the difference in their ages, Madame Hédouin and Madame Duveyrier are old school-friends. They were quite inseparable, and used to be called “the polar bears”, because they were always twenty degrees below zero. Another pair of figureheads! I’d be sorry for Duveyrier if that’s the only hot-water bottle he’s got for the winter!’

  Octave, however, had become quite serious. It was the first time he had seen Madame Hédouin in an evening dress; it was low-cut, showing her neck and arms; her dark hair was plaited across her forehead, and in the heat and glare of the drawing-room she seemed the realization of his desires. A superb woman—vibrantly healthy and quite beautiful, who would be an advantage to any man. A host of different schemes were already forming in his mind, when the loud noise of clapping awoke him from his dream.

  ‘Thank God! It’s over!’ said Trublot.

  Everyone was congratulating Clotilde. Rushing forward, Madame Josserand seized her by both hands, as the men went on talking and the women plied their fans with greater vigour. Duveyrier then ventured to retreat to the parlour, and Trublot and Octave followed him. Surrounded by petticoats, the former whispered:

  ‘Look over there, on your right! The hooking business has begun.’

  Madame Josserand was settin
g Berthe on young Vabre, who had imprudently gone up to the ladies to pay his respects. That evening his headache was better, and he only felt a slight ache in his left eye; but he dreaded the end of the party as there was going to be singing—the worst thing for him.

  ‘Berthe, tell Monsieur Auguste about the remedy you copied for him out of that book—a wonderful cure for headaches!’

  Having started them off, Madame Josserand left them standing near the window.

  ‘Good heavens! They’re going in for chemistry now!’ murmured Trublot.

  In the parlour Monsieur Josserand, anxious to please his wife, was sitting in a state of great embarrassment before Monsieur Vabre, for the old fellow was asleep and he did not like to disturb him. But when the music stopped Monsieur Vabre opened his eyes. He was a short, stout man, quite bald, with two tufts of white hair on his ears, a red face, flabby lips, and goggle eyes. After a polite enquiry as to his health, Monsieur Josserand started the conversation. The exnotary, whose four or five ideas were always expressed in the same order, began by mentioning Versailles, where, for forty years, he had had a practice. Then he spoke of his sons, and once more lamented their incapacity to carry on the business, so that he had decided to sell it and live in Paris. Then came the whole history of his house, the building of which had been the romance of his life.

  ‘I sank three hundred thousand francs in it, sir. A magnificent speculative opportunity, so my architect said. But it’ll be hard work getting my money back, especially as all my children have come to live here for nothing, without the slightest intention of paying me. In fact, I’d never get a quarter’s rent if I didn’t ask for it myself on the fifteenth. I enjoy my work, though, I’m glad to say.’

  ‘Do you still need to work a lot?’ asked Monsieur Josserand.

  ‘Absolutely!’ replied the old man, with desperate energy. ‘Work, to me, is life.’

  Then he proceeded to explain the huge amount of work he did. Every year, for the last ten years, he had gone through the official catalogue of the Salon* writing on a slip beside the name of every painter the pictures he exhibited. He alluded to this wearily, distressfully; a year was not long enough for such arduous work; sometimes it proved too much for him. For instance, when a female artist got married and exhibited under her husband’s name, how could he possibly know this?