Pot Luck Read online

  ‘Nothing, mamma. Monsieur Auguste knocked my arm with the window. I was so hot.’

  And she blushed deeper still. There were some suppressed smiles and scandalized pouts among the audience. Madame Duveyrier, who for a month had been trying to keep her brother out of Berthe’s way, turned pale, especially as the incident had completely spoilt the effect of her chorus. However, after the initial surprise there was a burst of applause. Congratulations were showered upon her, as well as compliments for the vocalists. How well they had sung! What pains she must have taken to make them sing with such precision! It was as well done as at any theatre! But under all this noisy praise she could not help hearing the whispering that went round: the girl had been too greatly compromised, an engagement was inevitable.

  ‘Well! He’s hooked!’ said Trublot as he rejoined Octave. ‘What a fool! Couldn’t he have squeezed her while we were all bellowing! I thought he would have taken that opportunity. You know, at parties where there’s singing you can pinch a lady, and if she cries out it doesn’t matter, because nobody can hear!’

  Berthe, who had regained her composure, was laughing again, while Hortense was looking at Auguste with a sullen air, and, in their triumph, one could detect the mother’s tuition, her lessons regarding undisguised contempt for men. All the male guests had now invaded the drawing-room, mingling with the ladies and talking in loud voices. Monsieur Josserand, greatly agitated by the episode involving Berthe, had drawn nearer to his wife. He listened uneasily as she thanked Madame Dambreville for all her kindness to Léon, in whom she had undoubtedly wrought a most beneficial change. But his uneasiness increased when he heard her refer again to her daughters. She pretended to talk in a low voice to Madame Juzeur, while intending Valérie and Clotilde, who were standing close by, to overhear her.

  ‘Yes! Her uncle wrote to me today; Berthe is to have fifty thousand francs. It’s not much, of course, but it’s a lump sum, in hard cash you know!’

  This lie absolutely disgusted her husband. He could not help lightly touching her on the shoulder. She looked up at him; the expression on her face was so resolute that he lowered his eyes. Then, as Madame Duveyrier turned around, she smiled and asked with an air of concern about her dear father.

  ‘Oh! papa must have gone up to bed,’ replied Clotilde, quite won over. ‘He works so hard!’

  Monsieur Josserand said that Monsieur Vabre had indeed retired, so that his mind would be perfectly clear in the morning. And he mumbled a few words about ‘a most remarkable intellect, extraordinary faculties,’ while wondering at the same time where on earth the dowry would come from, and what sort of figure he would cut on the day the marriage contract had to be signed.

  A great noise of chairs being pushed back filled the drawing-room. The ladies trooped into the dining-room, where tea was served. Madame Josserand sailed in victoriously, surrounded by her daughters and the Vabre family. Soon, amid the disordered array of chairs, only the group of grave debaters remained. Campardon had got hold of Father Mauduit. The Calvary of Saint-Roch, it seemed, needed certain repairs. The architect declared that he was perfectly ready to undertake them, as the Évreux diocese gave him very little to do. He had only to construct a pulpit there and put in heating apparatus, as well as new ovens in the Bishop’s kitchen; besides, these were all things his surveyor could attend to. The priest accordingly promised to submit the matter for consideration at the next meeting of the directors. Then they both joined the others, who were complimenting Duveyrier on the drawing up of a judgment of which he confessed himself the author. The presiding judge, who was his friend, got him certain jobs, at once easy and showy, which would help to enhance his reputation.

  ‘Have you read this new novel?’ asked Léon, as he turned over the pages of a copy of the Revue des Deux Mondes,* which lay on the table. ‘It’s well written, but it’s another adultery story; they really are going too far!’

  They began to talk about morality. Some women, said Campardon, were perfectly blameless. Everybody agreed with him. Moreover, the architect observed, married life was easy enough if you knew how to give and take. Théophile Vabre remarked that that depended on the woman, without explaining himself further. They were anxious to have Doctor Juillerat’s opinion, but he simply smiled and declined to express one; he thought that virtue was a question of health. Duveyrier, meanwhile, had remained silent, lost in thought.

  ‘Dear me!’ he murmured at last, ‘those novelists do exaggerate; adultery is very rare among the well-educated classes. A woman from a good family has in her soul a flower …’

  He spoke of noble feelings, and uttered the word ‘ideal’ with such fervour that his eyes were dimmed. He applauded Father Mauduit when the latter spoke of the necessity of religious beliefs for wives and mothers. The conversation was thus brought back to religion and politics, to the point where these gentlemen had left it. Never would the Church disappear, because it was the foundation of family life as well as the natural support of governments.

  ‘As a kind of police, it is,’ muttered the doctor.

  Duveyrier did not like politics being discussed in his house, and contented himself by remarking, as he glanced across at the dining-room where Berthe and Hortense were stuffing Auguste with sandwiches:

  ‘Gentlemen, one thing is certain: religion makes marriage moral.’

  At the same moment Trublot, seated on a sofa, was leaning over and whispering to Octave.

  ‘By the way,’ he asked, ‘would you like me to get you invited to a lady’s at whose house you can have a good time?’

  As his companion wanted to know what kind of lady, he added, pointing to Duveyrier:

  ‘His mistress.’

  ‘Surely not!’ exclaimed Octave in amazement.

  Trublot slowly opened and shut his eyes. It was so. When you married a woman who was disobliging, who appeared disgusted by all your little needs, and who thumped on the piano to the point of making all the dogs in the neighbourhood quite ill, you had to go elsewhere to get a little fun.

  ‘Let us make marriage moral, gentlemen; let us make it moral,’ repeated Duveyrier, stiffly, with his inflamed face, in which Octave now thought he could detect the traces of disordered blood, the result of secret vices.

  The gentlemen were called away to the dining-room, and Father Mauduit, who remained alone for a moment in the middle of the empty drawing-room, watched the crush of guests from a distance. His fat, sensitive face wore a sad expression. As confessor to these ladies and their daughters, he knew them all intimately, like Doctor Juillerat, and he had finally been obliged to concern himself with outward appearances only, as a sort of master of ceremonies covering this corrupt bourgeoisie with the cloak of religion, trembling at the certain prospect of a final collapse, whenever the canker should be exposed to the light of day. Feelings of revulsion sometimes troubled him, for his faith as priest was ardent and sincere. But his smile soon returned, as he took the cup of tea brought to him by Berthe and chatted to her for a moment, so as to cover by his priestly office the scandal of the window incident. Thus he again became a man of the world, content merely to exact decorous behaviour from his penitent flock, the members of which had strayed far from the fold, and who would have compromised the Deity himself.

  ‘Well, these are fine goings-on!’ murmured Octave whose respect for the house had received another shock.

  Then, seeing that Madame Hédouin was going to fetch her cloak from the anteroom, and wishing to get there before her, he followed Trublot, who was also about to leave. He thought he might see her home. She declined his offer, as it was barely midnight and she lived so close by. Then, as a rose fell from the bouquet on her breast, he picked it up with an injured air and made a show of keeping it as a souvenir. For a moment her beautiful eyebrows contracted. Then she said, in her calm, self-possessed way:

  ‘Please open the door for me, Monsieur Octave. Thank you.’

  When she had gone downstairs, Octave, in his embarrassment, looked about for Trublot.
But, as he had done at the Josserands’, Trublot had just disappeared. He must have slipped away again by the servants’ staircase.

  So, somewhat put out, Octave went up to bed still holding the rose. Upstairs, he saw Marie leaning over the banisters, just where he had left her; she had been waiting to hear his step, and had run to see him coming up. She invited him in, saying:

  ‘Jules hasn’t come home yet. Did you enjoy yourself? Were there any pretty dresses?’

  But she did not let him answer. She had just noticed the rose and, with childish gaiety, exclaimed:

  ‘Is that flower for me? You thought of me, then. How very kind of you!’

  Her eyes filled with tears, and she blushed deeply. Moved by a sudden impulse, Octave kissed her tenderly.

  At about one o’clock the Josserands, in their turn, returned home. On a chair in the hall Adèle had placed a candlestick and some matches. None of them spoke as they came upstairs, but on entering the dining-room, from which they had departed in such despair, they yielded to a sudden burst of mad merriment, wildly seizing each other’s hands and dancing a sort of savage dance round the table. Even Monsieur Josserand was caught up in the frenzy; the mother cut capers, and the girls uttered little inarticulate cries, while the candle on the table flung their huge dancing shadows on to the walls.

  ‘At last, it’s settled!’ exclaimed Madame Josserand, sinking breathlessly into a chair.

  But in a sudden fit of maternal tenderness, she immediately jumped up again, ran over to Berthe, and planted a kiss on both cheeks.

  ‘I’m very, very pleased with you, my darling. You’ve rewarded me for all my efforts. My sweet child! It really is true this time.’

  Her voice broke with genuine emotion, as, in her flame-coloured dress, she collapsed at the very moment of victory, finally overwhelmed by the fatigues of her terrible campaign which had lasted for three winters. Berthe was obliged to protest that she was not feeling unwell, for her mother thought that she was looking pale, and paid her all sorts of little attentions. She even insisted on making her a cup of lime-blossom tea. When Berthe had gone to bed, her mother, barefoot, went to tuck her in, as if she were a little girl again.

  Meanwhile, with his head on the pillow, Monsieur Josserand awaited his wife’s return. She blew out the candle and stepped over him to lie down on her side, nearest the wall. He was again troubled by uneasy thoughts, his conscience disturbed by the promise of a dowry of fifty thousand francs. And he ventured to express his scruples out loud. Why make a promise if you don’t know if you can keep it? It was not honourable.

  ‘Not honourable, indeed!’ cried Madame Josserand in the darkness, her voice taking on again its usual ferocity of tone. ‘It isn’t honourable, sir, to let your daughters turn into old maids; yes, old maids—that was probably what you wanted! Good heavens! We’ve got lots of time to sort things out; we must talk it over, and get her uncle to make up his mind. In any case, my family, I would have you know, sir, has always acted honourably.’

  VI

  The next day, which was a Sunday, Octave lay for an extra hour in the warm sheets of his bed. He had awoken in the mood of lazy good-humour that accompanies the mental clearness that morning brings. Why should he be in any hurry? He was completely at home at the Ladies’ Paradise, he was losing his provincial ways, and he was absolutely certain that one day Madame Hédouin would become his and would make his fortune; but it would require prudence, a long series of gallant tactics, the anticipation of which appealed greatly to his voluptuous feeling for women. As he dropped off to sleep again, making plans and giving himself six months in which to succeed, the vision of Marie Pichon served to soothe his impatience. A woman of that sort was very handy; he had only to stretch out his arm if he wanted her, and she did not cost him a penny. While waiting for the other one, surely no better arrangement than this was possible. As he reflected on her cheapness and utility, he became quite tenderhearted towards her; her good nature began to seem quite charming to him, and he resolved to treat her henceforth with greater kindness.

  ‘Good heavens! It’s nine o’clock!’ he said, as the clock, striking, made him wide-awake. ‘I really must get up.’

  A fine rain was falling, so he decided not to go out all day. He would accept an invitation to dine with the Pichons, an invitation he had been refusing for some time, dreading another encounter with the Vuillaumes. That would please Marie; and he would find an opportunity to kiss her behind the door. As she liked books, he even thought of taking her a whole parcel-full as a surprise—some that he had left in one of his trunks in the attic. When he had dressed he went downstairs to Monsieur Gourd to get the key to the attic, which was used by the different tenants for storing superfluous and cumbersome articles.

  Down below, on such a damp morning as this, it was stifling on the heated staircase, where vapour dimmed the imitation marble walls, long mirrors, and mahogany doors. Under the porch, a poorly clad woman, Mother Pérou, whom the Gourds paid four sous an hour for doing the heavy work of the house, was scrubbing the pavement as the icy blast from the courtyard blew straight at her.

  ‘Now then, old girl, make sure you scrub that properly; I want to find it absolutely clean!’ cried Monsieur Gourd, who, warmly wrapped up, was standing at the door of his lodge.

  As Octave arrived, he spoke to him about Mother Pérou in that brutally domineering way which shows the mad longing for revenge which ex-servants have when they, in their turn, are waited upon.

  ‘She’s a lazy old thing! I can’t do anything with her! I’d like to have seen her at the duke’s! They never stood any nonsense there! I’ll kick her out if she doesn’t give me my money’s worth; that’s all I’m concerned about! But what was it you wanted, Monsieur Mouret?’

  Octave asked for the key. Then the porter, without hurrying, went on explaining that he and Madame Gourd, if they had wanted to, could have lived in their own house at Mort-la-Ville, but Madame Gourd adored Paris, in spite of her swollen legs which prevented her from even getting as far as the pavement. They were just waiting until they had a decent income, forever longing for the time when they would be able to retire on the little fortune they were slowly accumulating.

  ‘I don’t need to knock myself out working, you know,’ he said, drawing up his majestic figure to its full height. ‘I don’t need to work any longer for my daily bread. The key to the attic, I think you said, Monsieur Mouret? Where did we put the key to the attic, my dear?’

  Madame Gourd, cosily ensconced in an armchair, was drinking her coffee out of a silver cup before a wood fire, which brightened the whole room with its blaze. She had no idea where the key was—in one of the drawers, perhaps. And, while dipping her toast in the coffee, she did not take her eyes off the door of the servants’ staircase at the other end of the courtyard, which looked bleaker and gloomier than ever in the rain.

  ‘Look! There she is!’ she said suddenly, as a woman appeared in the doorway.

  Monsieur Gourd immediately stood in front of his lodge to block the woman’s path. She slackened her pace, looking uneasy.

  ‘We’ve been looking out for her all morning, Monsieur Mouret,’ continued Gourd, under his breath. ‘We saw her go by last night. She’s come from that carpenter upstairs—the only working-man in the house, thank God! If the landlord only listened to me, he’d keep the room empty—it’s just a servant’s room, after all. For a hundred and thirty francs a year, it’s really not worth having filthy goings-on in your house …’

  Interrupting himself, he asked the woman roughly:

  ‘Where have you come from?’

  ‘From upstairs, of course!’ she replied without stopping.

  Then he burst out:

  ‘We won’t have any women here, you know! The man who brings you here has been told that already. If you stay the night here again I’ll fetch the police, and we’ll soon see if you carry on with your dirty games in a decent house.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid!’ said the woman. ‘It’s my home, and
I’ll come back when I like.’

  And she went off, pursued by the righteous wrath of Monsieur Gourd, who talked of going upstairs to fetch the landlord. Did you ever hear of such a thing? A creature like that among respectable folk, in a house where not the faintest suspicion of immorality would be tolerated! It seemed as if the carpenter’s garret was the cesspool, so to speak, of the house, a den of iniquity, the surveillance of which offended all his delicate instincts and prevented him from sleeping at night.

  ‘And the key, where is it?’ Octave ventured to repeat.

  But the porter, furious that a lodger should have seen his authority questioned in this way, set on poor Mother Pérou again, in his desire to show how he could command obedience. Did she take him for a fool? She had just splashed his door again with her broom. If he paid her out of his own pocket it was because he did not want to soil his hands, and yet he always had to clean up after her! He’d be damned if he would ever give her another job just for charity’s sake. She could starve first. Worn out by her work, which was too hard for her, the old woman, without answering, went on scrubbing with her skinny arms, struggling to keep back her tears, so great was the respect and fear which this large gentleman in smoking-cap and slippers inspired in her.

  ‘Now I remember, my dear,’ cried Madame Gourd from the armchair in which she spent her days, warming her fat body. ‘I hid the key under some shirts so that the servants wouldn’t always be going up there. Do give it to Monsieur Mouret.’

  ‘A fine lot, too, those servants!’ muttered Monsieur Gourd, whose many years in service had left him with a hatred for menials. ‘Here’s the key, sir, but please let me have it back, because you can’t leave anywhere unlocked or the maids get in and misbehave.’

  Not wishing to cross the wet courtyard Octave went up the front stairs, and only took the back stairs when he got to the fourth floor, as the communicating door was close to his room. At the top was a long passage, with two turnings at right angles; it was painted in light yellow, with a darker dado of ochre, and, as in hospital corridors, the doors of the servants’ rooms, also painted in yellow, were positioned at regular intervals. It was as cold as ice under the zinc roofing, bare and clean, with the stale smell of paupers’ lodging-houses.