Pot Luck Read online

  ‘When she was little, she had such round little legs! She was so fat and rosy and happy! She used to crawl about on the floor. Then whack! whack! whack! she would kick me in the stomach. I really liked that! Oh, I liked it so much!’

  In this way Octave got to know everything about Berthe’s childhood, her babyish accidents, her playthings, her growth as a charming, uncontrolled creature. Saturnin’s empty brain treasured up trivial details which he alone remembered, such as the day she pricked herself and he sucked the blood, and the morning he held her in his arms when she wanted to climb on to the table. But he always harked back to the great drama of the young girl’s serious illness.

  ‘Ah, if you’d only seen her! I spent the nights all alone with her. They beat me to make me go to bed. But I’d creep back barefoot. All by myself. It made me cry, she was so white. I used to touch her to see if she was getting cold. Then they left me alone, because I nursed her better than they did; I knew about her medicines, and she took whatever I gave her. Sometimes, when she complained a lot, I laid her head on my breast. It was so nice being together. Then she got well, and I wanted to go back to her, but they beat me again.’

  His eyes sparkled, he laughed and cried, just as if it had all happened the day before. From these broken phrases of his the whole history of his strange attachment could be pieced together: his half-witted devotion at the little patient’s bedside after all the doctors had given her up; his body and soul devoted to his beloved sister, who lay there dying, and whom he nursed in her nakedness with a mother’s tenderness—all his affection and all his desires had been arrested there, checked forever by this drama of suffering from which he had never recovered. Ever since that time, despite the ingratitude which had followed the recovery, Berthe was everything to him, a mistress in whose presence he trembled; at once a daughter and a sister whom he had saved from death; his idol, whom he jealously adored. He thus pursued her husband with the wild hatred of a thwarted lover, never short of abusive remarks when unburdening himself to Octave.

  ‘His eye’s bunged up again! What a bother that headache of his is! Did you hear him shuffling about yesterday? Look! There he is, peering out of the window. The fool! Oh, you dirty brute, you dirty brute!’

  Auguste could hardly move without angering him. Then he would make horrible proposals.

  ‘If you like, we’ll bleed him together like a pig!’

  Octave tried to calm him. Then, on his quiet days, Saturnin would go from Octave to Berthe, delighted to repeat what one had said about the other, running errands for them, and turning himself into a perpetual bond of tenderness. He would willingly have flung himself down as a carpet at their feet.

  Berthe had made no further allusion to the present. She did not seem to notice Octave’s trembling attentions, treating him quite straightforwardly as a friend. Never before had he taken such pains with his dress, and he was forever gazing caressingly at her with his eyes the colour of old gold, whose velvety softness he thought irresistible. But she was only grateful to him for the lies he told on her behalf when helping her to escape from the shop. The two thus became accomplices, and he facilitated her goings-out with her mother, putting her husband off the scent if he showed the slightest suspicion. Her mania for such excursions finally made her absolutely reckless, and she relied entirely upon his guile for protection. If, on her return, she found him behind a pile of goods, she rewarded him with the hearty handshake of a comrade.

  One day, however, she had a great shock. She had just come back from a dog-show when Octave beckoned her to follow him downstairs into the basement, where he gave her an invoice which had been presented during her absence—sixty-two francs for embroidered stockings. She turned quite pale, and exclaimed:

  ‘Good heavens! Did my husband see this?’

  He hastened to reassure her, telling her what trouble he had had to get hold of the bill from under Auguste’s nose. Then, in an embarrassed tone, he was obliged to add discreetly:

  ‘I paid it.’

  She made a show of looking in her pockets and, finding nothing, merely said:

  ‘I’ll pay you back. I’m so obliged to you, Monsieur Octave! I really would have died if Auguste had seen that!’

  This time she took hold of both his hands, and for a moment held them tightly in her own. But the sixty-two francs were never mentioned again.

  She had an ever-increasing desire for freedom and pleasure—all that, as a girl, she had expected marriage to give her, all that her mother had taught her to extract from a man. She carried within her an appetite as yet unappeased, taking her revenge for her needy youth spent under the paternal roof; for all the inferior meat; for all the economy in butter, which enabled her to buy boots; for all the shabby dresses that had to be patched up a dozen times; for the falsehood of their social position, maintained at the price of squalid misery and filth. Most of all she now desired to make up for those three winters spent traipsing about in ball-slippers through all the mud of Paris, trying to catch a husband; evenings of deadly dullness during which she strove to appease her empty stomach with draughts of syrup, bored to tears by having to show off all her virginal airs and graces to stupid young men, inwardly exasperated at being obliged to affect ignorance of everything while knowing all; and all those homecomings in pouring rain without a cab, the chill discomfort of her ice-cold bed, and the maternal smacks that gave her cheeks a glow. At the age of twenty-two she had still despaired of getting married, humble as a hunchback, looking at herself in her nightgown in the evenings to see if anything was missing. But now she had at last got a husband and, like the sportsman who brutally dispatches with a blow the hare he has breathlessly pursued, so towards Auguste she showed no mercy, treating him like a fallen foe.

  Thus, little by little, the breach grew ever wider between the couple, despite the efforts of the husband, who wished to lead a placid existence. He made desperate attempts to preserve the drowsy monotony of his little home, closing his eyes to small irregularities, and even tolerating grosser ones, living in constant dread of making some appalling discovery which would drive him mad with fury. Berthe’s lies respecting little gifts which, as she claimed, were tokens of sisterly or motherly affection he now accepted, nor did he even grumble overmuch if she went out in the evening. Thus Octave was able to take her twice to the theatre, accompanied by Madame Josserand and Hortense—delightful jaunts, which made the ladies agree that Octave knew how to live.

  Hitherto, at the slightest word, Berthe would always throw her virtue in her husband’s face. He should consider himself lucky, for, in her opinion, as in that of her mother, a husband was entitled to show ill-temper only when his wife had proved herself unfaithful. Such chastity as hers, genuine enough at first when greedily indulging her appetite for frivolous amusement, cost her no great sacrifice. She was cold by nature, self-love predominating over passion; rather than being virtuous, she preferred to have her pleasures all to herself. After all her rebuffs as a marriageable young lady who thought that men had no interest in her, she was simply flattered by Octave’s attentions; but she took care to profit thereby in various ways, calmly taking pecuniary advantage of it, for she had been trained to worship money. One day she allowed Octave to pay a five hours’ cab fare for her; another time, when just going out, she induced him to lend her thirty francs behind her husband’s back, saying that she had forgotten her purse. She never repaid anything. The young man was of no consequence, she argued; she had no designs upon him; she merely made use of him, without premeditation, just as her pleasure or circumstances required. Meanwhile she posed as a martyred wife who rigorously fulfilled all her duties.

  One Saturday a frightful quarrel occurred between the young couple, with respect to a deficit of twenty sous in Rachel’s household accounts. As Berthe used to pay this account, Auguste always gave her enough money to meet the weekly household expenses. That evening the Josserands were coming to dinner, and the kitchen was full of provisions—a rabbit, a leg of mutton, and cau
liflowers. Near the sink squatted Saturnin, polishing his sister’s shoes and his brother-in-law’s boots. The quarrel began with a long enquiry respecting the twenty-sou piece. What had become of it? How could one lose twenty sous? Auguste wanted to check the bill, to see if it had been added up correctly. Meanwhile Rachel, hard of face but supple of figure, was calmly spitting her leg of mutton, her mouth shut but her eyes on the watch. At last Auguste disbursed the sum of fifty francs, and was on the point of going downstairs when he suddenly turned back, tormented by the thought of the lost coin.

  ‘It must be found,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you borrowed it from Rachel and forgot all about it.’

  Berthe was greatly offended at this. ‘So you think I fiddle the accounts, do you? Thank you, that’s very nice.’

  This was the starting-point; heated words soon followed. Auguste, despite his willingness to pay dearly for peace, became aggressive, exasperated at the sight of the rabbit, the leg of mutton, and the cauliflowers—the pile of provisions that his wife was going to thrust under her parents’ noses. He looked through the account-book, exclaiming at every item. It was incredible! She must be in league with the servant to make a profit on the shopping.

  ‘What!’ cried Berthe, beside herself with anger, ‘you accuse me of being in league with the servant? It must be you, sir, who pays her to spy on me! Yes, I can always sense her behind my back; I can’t move without her looking at me. She can look through the keyhole as much as she likes when I’m changing my underclothes; I don’t do anything I’m ashamed of, and I couldn’t care less about all your detectives! But don’t you dare accuse me of being in league with my own servant!’

  For a moment this unexpected onslaught completely dumbfounded Auguste. Still holding the leg of mutton, Rachel turned round, and with hand on heart protested.

  ‘Oh madam, how could you believe such a thing? And about me, who respects madam so much!’

  ‘She’s mad!’ exclaimed Auguste, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Don’t trouble to defend yourself, my good girl. She’s mad!’

  Suddenly a noise behind his back startled him. It was Saturnin, who had hurled away one of the half-polished shoes and was coming to his sister’s aid. With a terrible expression on his face and his fists clenched, he stammeringly declared that he would throttle the dirty beast if he dared once more to say that she was mad. Auguste, terrified, sought refuge behind the cistern, exclaiming:

  ‘This is really too much! I can no longer say a word to you without this fellow interfering! It’s true I took him in, but he must leave me alone. He’s another wonderful present from your mother! She was terrified of him, so she saddled me with him, preferring to let me be murdered in her place. I’m so grateful to her! Look, he’s got hold of a knife. For God’s sake, stop him!’

  Berthe disarmed her brother and pacified him with a look, while Auguste, who had turned deadly pale, continued muttering angrily. Always waving knives about! So easy to get hurt. With a madman one got no redress whatever. In short, it was not right to keep a brother like that as a bodyguard, ready to jump on one’s husband at any minute, paralysing him if he sought to give vent to his just indignation, and forcing him to swallow his shame.

  ‘Look here, sir! You have absolutely no tact!’ cried Berthe scornfully. ‘A gentleman doesn’t discuss these things in the kitchen!’

  She withdrew to her room, slamming the door behind her. Rachel had gone back to her spit as if she had heard nothing of this quarrel between her master and mistress. Like a maid who, though aware of everything that went on, knew her place, she did not look at Berthe as she left the room; and when Auguste stamped about for a while she remained utterly impassive. Very soon, however, he rushed out after his wife, whereupon Rachel, impassive as before, put the rabbit on to boil.

  ‘Please understand, my dear,’ said Auguste, on joining Berthe in her bedroom, ‘I wasn’t referring to you when I made that remark. It was intended for that girl who’s robbing us. Those twenty sous will have to be found somehow.’

  Berthe was trembling with nervous exasperation as she glared at him, pale and resolute.

  ‘How much longer are you going to bother me with your twenty sous? It’s not twenty sous I want—it’s five hundred francs a month. Yes, five hundred francs to dress on. You talk about money in the kitchen in front of the maid! All right then, I’ll talk about money too! I’ve been holding back for a long time … I want five hundred francs!’

  He stood aghast at this demand. Then she launched into the great tirade which her mother had directed at her father every fortnight for the last twenty years. Did he want her to go barefoot? When a man married a woman, he should at least manage to clothe and feed her properly. She would rather beg than resign herself to such a poverty-stricken existence. It wasn’t her fault if he was incapable of managing his business; yes, incapable, lacking in ideas and enterprise, knowing only how to split pennies into four. A man whose ambition should have been to make a fortune as quickly as possible, so as to dress her up like a queen, and make the people at the Ladies’ Paradise die of jealousy! But not a bit of it! With such a feeble brain as his, bankruptcy was certain. In this tirade one could see her veneration, her furious appetite for money, the religion of lucre, as taught to her by her own family when she saw to what base tricks they would stoop merely to appear to possess it.

  ‘Five hundred francs?’ said Auguste, at last. ‘I’d rather shut up shop.’

  She looked at him coldly.

  ‘You refuse? Very well then, I’ll just run up bills.’

  ‘What? More debts, you wretched woman!’

  He suddenly caught her by the arms and pushed her violently against the wall. Choking with passion, she uttered no cry but rushed forward and threw the window open as if she meant to jump into the street. But she came back, and in her turn pushed him out of the room, stammering:

  ‘Go away, or I’ll do myself an injury!’

  She noisily bolted the door in his face. For a moment, hesitating, he stood and listened. Then he hurried downstairs to the shop, again seized with terror at the sight of Saturnin, whose eyes gleamed in the darkness. The noise of their brief struggle had brought him out of the kitchen.

  Downstairs, Octave was selling some foulard to an old lady. He immediately noticed Auguste’s agitation, and watched him out of the corner of his eye as he restlessly paced up and down in front of the counters. As soon as the customer had gone, Auguste’s feelings brimmed over.

  ‘My dear fellow, she’s going mad!’ he said, without naming his wife. ‘She’s locked herself in. Could you possibly go up and speak to her? I’m afraid something might happen, I really am!’

  Octave pretended to hesitate. It was such a delicate matter! However, out of pure devotion he agreed. Upstairs, he found Saturnin keeping guard outside Berthe’s door. Hearing footsteps, the madman grunted menacingly. But on recognizing Octave his face brightened.

  ‘Oh yes, you!’ he murmured. ‘You’re all right. She mustn’t cry. Be nice to her and comfort her. And stay with her, you know. There’s no fear of anybody coming. I’m here. If the servant tries to peep, I’ll hit her.’

  He squatted down on the floor, guarding the door. As he still had one of Auguste’s boots in his hand, he began polishing it just to pass the time.

  Octave knocked. No answer, not a sound. Then he called out his name. The bolt was at once drawn back. Berthe, opening the door slightly, asked him to come in. Then she nervously bolted it again.

  ‘I don’t mind you,’ she said, ‘but I won’t have him!’

  She paced up and down in a state of fury, from the bed to the window, which was still open. She muttered disjointed phrases: he could entertain her parents himself, if he wanted: yes, and explain her absence to them as well, for she wouldn’t sit down to table—not she; she’d rather die first! No, she preferred to go to bed. She excitedly threw back the coverlet, tapped the pillows, and turned down the sheets, being so forgetful of Octave’s presence as to begin unhooking her dress. Then s
he went off at a tangent about something else.

  ‘Would you believe it? He beat me, yes, beat me! And just because I was ashamed of always going about in rags and asked him for five hundred francs.’

  Octave, standing in the middle of the room, tried to find something conciliatory to say. She shouldn’t let herself get upset like that. Everything would turn out all right. Then he timidly ventured to make an offer of help.

  ‘If you’re worried about a bill, why not ask your friends? I’d be very happy to help. Just a loan, you understand. You could pay me back later.’

  She looked at him. After a pause, she replied:

  ‘No, it would never do. What would people think, Monsieur Octave?’

  So firm was her refusal that there was no further discussion about money. Her anger seemed to have subsided. Breathing heavily, she bathed her face and became very pale, very calm, looking quite weary with her large, resolute eyes. As he stood there before her he felt overcome by amorous bashfulness, stupid though he felt such emotion to be. Never before had he loved with such ardour; the very strength of his desire gave an awkwardness to his charms as a suave shopman. While uttering vague noises about the advisability of making it up, he was really debating in his own mind whether he should not take her in his arms. But the fear of another rebuff made him hesitate. She sat mute, watching him with her resolute air and slightly contracted brow.