Pot Luck Page 41

  But the next moment she regretted this cruel remark and, putting her arms round her sister, kissed her and declared that she never meant to say such a thing. Then they both fell silent. Yet they did not go to sleep, but continued the story with eyes wide open in the dark.

  Next morning Monsieur Josserand felt unwell. He had carried on working at his wrappers until two o’clock, although for months he had complained of depression and gradual loss of strength. However, he got up and dressed, but just as he was starting for his office he felt so exhausted that he sent a messenger-boy with a note informing Bernheim Brothers of his indisposition.

  The family were just about to have breakfast. They usually breakfasted, without a tablecloth, in the dining-room, which still reeked of the previous night’s dinner. The ladies appeared in dressing-gowns, wet from their basins and with their hair tied up in knots. Seeing that her husband was going to stay at home, Madame Josserand decided not to keep Berthe hidden any longer, for she was already sick at all this mystery; besides, she expected that at any moment Auguste would come up and make a scene.

  ‘What! Have you come to have breakfast with us? What’s wrong?’ cried the father in surprise on seeing his daughter, her eyes puffy from lack of sleep and her bosom squeezed into Hortense’s undersized dressing-gown.

  ‘My husband wrote to say he’s going to stay in Lyons,’ she replied, ‘so I thought I’d spend the day with you.’

  The sisters had agreed on the story between them. Madame Josserand, who maintained her rigid, governess-like air, forbore to contradict. But Berthe’s father eyed her uneasily, as if aware that something was wrong. As the story seemed to him somewhat unlikely, he was about to ask how the shop would manage without her when Berthe came and kissed him on both cheeks in her old carefree, coaxing way.

  ‘Is it really true? You’re not hiding anything?’ he whispered.

  ‘What an idea! Why should I hide anything from you?’

  Madame Josserand merely shrugged her shoulders. What was the use of all these precautions? To gain an hour perhaps, not more. It wasn’t worthwhile. Sooner or later the news would have to be broken to him. However, breakfast passed off merrily. Monsieur Josserand was delighted to find himself once more with his two girls; it seemed like old times when, scarcely awake, they used to amuse him by describing their dreams. For him they still had their fresh, sweet aroma of adolescence as, with their elbows on the table, they dipped their bread in their coffee and laughed with their mouths full. All the past came back too as, facing them, he beheld their mother’s rigid countenance, her enormous body bursting through an old green silk dress, which she now wore in the mornings without a corset.

  The breakfast was marred, however, by an unfortunate episode. Madame Josserand suddenly addressed the maid:

  ‘What are you eating?’

  For some time she had been watching Adèle who, wearing slippers, plodded heavily round the table.

  ‘Nothing madam,’ she replied.

  ‘What do you mean, nothing? You’re chewing something; I’m not blind. Your mouth’s quite full. It’s no good drawing in your cheeks! I can see anyway. You’ve got something in your pocket too, haven’t you?’

  Adèle, in her confusion, sought to withdraw; but Madame Josserand caught hold of her by the skirt.

  ‘For the last quarter of an hour I’ve been watching you take something out of here and stuff it in your mouth, after hiding it in your hand. It must be something very nice. Let’s see what it is.’

  Thrusting her hand into the girl’s pocket, she pulled out a handful of stewed prunes, with all the syrup dripping from them.

  ‘What is this?’ she cried furiously.

  ‘Prunes, madam,’ said Adèle, who, seeing that she had been found out, became insolent.

  ‘Oh! So you like eating my prunes, do you? That’s why they go so quickly. Well I never! Prunes! And in your pocket too!’

  Then she accused her of drinking the vinegar. Everything disappeared in the same way; you couldn’t even leave a cold potato about without being sure it would never be seen again.

  ‘You’re an absolute pig, my girl.’

  ‘Give me something to eat then,’ replied Adèle boldly; ‘then I’ll leave your cold potatoes alone.’

  This was the climax. Madame Josserand rose, majestic, terrible.

  ‘Hold your tongue! Don’t you dare answer me like that! I know what it is: it’s the other servants who’ve spoilt you. No sooner does one get some simpleton of a girl fresh from the country into one’s house than all the other sluts in the place put her up to all sorts of tricks. You no longer go to church; and now you’ve begun to steal!’

  Spurred on by Lisa and Julie, Adèle was not going to give in.

  ‘If I was such a simpleton you shouldn’t have taken advantage of it. It’s too late now.’

  ‘Leave the room! And leave the house!’ cried Madame Josserand, pointing with a tragic gesture to the door.

  She sat down, quivering, while the maid, without hurrying, shuffled about in her slippers and munched another prune before going back to her kitchen. She was dismissed in this way once a week; it no longer alarmed her in the least. At the table an awkward silence prevailed. After a while Hortense observed that it was not a bit of good dismissing her one day and keeping her on the next. Of course she stole things, and had grown insolent, but they might as well have her as anybody else, for she at least condescended to wait upon them, whereas any other maid would not put up with them for a week, even though she treated herself to the vinegar and stuffed her pockets full of prunes.

  There was a charming intimacy about their breakfast, despite this episode. Monsieur Josserand, in the tenderest of moods, spoke of poor Saturnin who had had to be taken away the previous evening while he was out; he believed the tale they had told him about an attack of raving madness in the middle of the shop. Then, when he complained of never seeing Léon, Madame Josserand, who had fallen silent, curtly remarked that she was expecting him that very day. He was probably coming to lunch. A week before the young man had broken off his relations with Madame Dambreville who, to keep her promise, wanted him to marry a stale, swarthy widow. He, however, had decided to marry a niece of Monsieur Dambreville’s, a creole of great wealth and beauty who had only arrived at her uncle’s house the previous September, after the death of her father in the West Indies. So there had been terrible scenes between the two lovers. Consumed by jealousy, Madame Dambreville refused to give her niece to Léon, feeling it impossible to be supplanted by so fascinating a flower of youth.

  ‘How’s the marriage proceeding?’ asked Monsieur Josserand discreetly.

  At first the mother answered in carefully chosen phrases, because of Hortense. She now worshipped her son, a fellow who was sure to succeed; and at times she threw his triumph in the face of his father, saying that, thank God, he at least took after his mother and would never let his wife go barefoot. She slowly built up steam.

  ‘Basically, he’s just about had enough of it! But it’s all right; the whole thing hasn’t done him any harm. But if the aunt won’t give him the niece, too bad! He’ll cut off all supplies. I think he’s right!’

  For decency’s sake, Hortense began to drink her coffee, pretending to hide behind her cup, while Berthe, who could now listen to everything, looked somewhat disgusted at her brother’s success. They all rose from table, and Monsieur Josserand, feeling much better, was talking jauntily of going on to the office after all when Adèle brought in a card. The lady was waiting in the drawing-room.

  ‘What? Is it her, at this hour of the morning?’ cried Madame Josserand. ‘And me without my corset on! Never mind. It’s time I gave her a piece of my mind.’

  It was indeed Madame Dambreville. The father and his two daughters remained chatting in the dining-room, while the mother made for the drawing-room. Before pushing the door open she uneasily surveyed her old green silk dress, tried to button it, removed stray threads that had got on to it from the floor, and with a tap dro
ve her immense bosom back into place.

  ‘You’ll excuse me, dear lady,’ said the visitor with a smile, ‘I was passing and thought I’d call to see how you were.’

  Corseted and coiffed, her toilet was perfect in every detail, and her easy manner suggested the amiable lady of fashion who had just dropped in to wish a friend good morning. Her smile, however, was tremulous, and lurking beneath her worldly suavity one could feel the deep anguish that shook her whole being. At first she talked of a thousand trivial matters, avoiding any mention of Léon’s name, but at last she furtively drew from her pocket a letter of his which she had just received.

  ‘A terrible letter, quite terrible!’ she murmured, as her voice, changing, became choked with tears. ‘Why is he so angry with me, dear madam? He won’t even come near us now.’

  She held out the missive with a shaking hand. Madame Josserand coolly took it and read it.

  It was to break matters off; three lines, most cruelly concise.

  ‘Well,’ she said, handing back the note. ‘I dare say it isn’t Léon’s fault.’

  Madame Dambreville began forthwith to sound the praises of this widow, a woman not yet thirty-five, a most worthy person, fairly well-off, and of such energy that she would not rest until she had got her husband a place in the Ministry. She had kept her promise, she said, after all; she had found a good match for Léon; so why should he be angry with her? Then, without waiting for an answer, in a sudden nervous impulse she mentioned Raymonde, her niece. Could it really be possible? A little thing of sixteen, a raw creature who knew nothing of the world.

  ‘Why not?’ Madame Josserand kept repeating in reply to each question. ‘Why not, if he’s fond of her?’

  ‘No, no! He’s not fond of her, he can’t be fond of her!’ Madame Dambreville cried, losing all self-control. ‘Listen to me!’ she exclaimed; ‘all I ask from him is a little gratitude. I made him; it’s thanks to me that he got his position in the High Court, and as a wedding present he’ll get a promotion. Madam, I implore you, tell him to come back, ask him to do me that pleasure. I appeal to his heart, to your heart as a mother, to all that is noble in you.’

  She clasped her hands and her voice faltered. There was a pause, as they both sat facing each other. Then all at once she burst into tears, sobbing hysterically:

  ‘Not with Raymonde; oh, no, not with Raymonde!’

  It was the fury of passion, the cry of a woman who refuses to grow old, who clings to her last lover at that burning moment before old age arrives. She seized hold of Madame Josserand’s hands, bathed them in tears, confessing all to her, the mother, humiliating herself before her, repeatedly saying that she, and she alone, could influence her son, declaring that she would serve her devotedly if only she would restore Léon to her. Doubtless she had not come there to say all this; on the contrary, she had resolved to reveal nothing; but her heart was breaking, she could not help it.

  ‘Please, my dear! You make me feel quite ashamed,’ replied Madame Josserand rather angrily. ‘My girls might hear you. I know nothing, and I don’t want to know anything. If you’ve had any differences with my son, well, you’d better make it up between you. I’ll never interfere.’

  However, she overwhelmed her with advice. At her time of life she ought to be resigned. In God she would find great succour. But she must give up her niece, if she wished to offer an expiatory sacrifice to Heaven. Besides, this widow would not suit Léon at all; he required a pleasant-looking wife to preside at his dinner-table. And she spoke admiringly of her son, full of maternal pride, enumerating his good qualities and showing him to be worthy of the loveliest of brides.

  ‘Just think, my dear friend, he’s not yet thirty. I’d hate to seem unkind, but you could be his mother, you know. Oh! he knows what he owes you, and I’m deeply grateful myself. You’ll always be his guardian angel. But, you know, when it’s over, it’s over. Surely you didn’t think you could keep him for ever, did you?’

  Then, as the unhappy woman refused to listen to reason, wishing simply to get her lover back at once, the mother lost her temper.

  ‘That’s quite enough, madam, you’d better be off! I really can’t help you. The boy wants an end to it and that’s all there is to it! Look after yourself! I’d be obliged to remind him of his duty if he again yielded to your importunities, because, I ask you, what point would there be for either of you now? He’ll be here very soon; and if you counted on my …’

  Of all these words Madame Dambreville only heard the last phrase. She had been pursuing Léon for a whole week without ever getting to see him. Her face brightened as she uttered the heartfelt cry:

  ‘If he’s coming, I’ll stay!’

  She sank into an armchair, gazed vacantly into space, and fell completely silent, stubborn as an animal that even blows cannot force to budge. Regretful at having said too much, and exasperated at the presence of this great millstone in her drawing-room which she dared not try to remove, Madame Josserand at last withdrew, leaving her visitor to herself. Moreover, a noise in the dining-room made her uneasy; she fancied she heard Auguste’s voice.

  ‘Upon my word, madam, such behaviour is unheard of!’ she exclaimed, as she slammed the door violently. ‘It shows an appalling lack of tact!’

  As it happened, it was indeed Auguste, who had come upstairs to make some arrangements with his wife’s parents on terms which he had been planning the evening before. Monsieur Josserand, growing more and more chirpy, had given up all idea of the office; he was bent on fun, and just as he was proposing to take his daughters out for a walk Adèle announced Madame Berthe’s husband. This sent a tremor round the room; the young wife turned pale.

  ‘What! Your husband?’ said the father. ‘I thought he was in Lyons. So you didn’t tell me the truth? I knew there was something wrong. I’ve felt it for the last two days!’

  Then, as she rose to go, he stopped her.

  ‘Tell me: have you been quarrelling again? About money, eh? Perhaps about the dowry of ten thousand francs we haven’t paid him yet?’

  ‘Yes, yes, that’s right!’ stammered Berthe, as she shook him aside and escaped.

  Hortense got up too and ran after her sister, whom she joined in her bedroom. The rustle of their skirts left behind a sort of shiver of fear for their father, who suddenly found himself seated alone at table in the middle of the silent dining-room. All the signs of illness came back, his ghastly pallor, his desperate weariness of life. The hour he dreaded, which he awaited with shame and anguish, had come: his son-in-law was going to mention the insurance, and he would have to admit the dishonesty of the scheme to which he had consented.

  ‘Come in, come in, my dear Auguste,’ he said in a choked voice. ‘Berthe has just told me all about your quarrel. I’m not very well, so they’re spoiling me. I’m terribly sorry I can’t give you that money. I should never have promised, I know.’

  He faltered on, like some guilty person making a clean breast of it. Auguste listened to him in surprise. He had already been informed about the bogus insurance but had never dared claim the payment of the ten thousand francs for fear that that terrible Madame Josserand might first of all send him to old Vabre’s tomb to get his own paternal inheritance of ten thousand francs. But since the subject had been raised, he took it up and began to air his grievances.

  ‘Yes, yes, sir,’ he said, ‘I know everything; you completely took me in with all your fine tales and promises. As to not getting the money, that wouldn’t matter so much; it’s the hypocrisy of the whole thing that enrages me! Why all that nonsense about an insurance that never existed! Why pretend to be so tender-hearted and sympathetic, offering to advance sums which, as you said, would only come to you three years afterwards, when all the while you hadn’t got a sou! There’s only one word for such behaviour!’

  Monsieur Josserand was on the point of retorting, ‘It wasn’t me; they did it!’ But a sense of family shame restrained him, and he hung his head in acknowledgment of the dirty trick, while Auguste went
on:

  ‘Besides, everybody was against me; Duveyrier, with that crooked notary, behaved shamefully as well, because I asked them to insert a clause in the contract guaranteeing the payment of the insurance money, but they told me to shut up. If I had insisted on that you would have been guilty of forgery sir, yes, forgery!’

  At this accusation the father, white as a sheet, rose and was about to reply, offering to work hard for the rest of his life if only he might purchase thereby his daughter’s happiness, when Madame Josserand rushed in like a whirlwind, lashed to fury by Madame Dambreville’s stubbornness. She no longer paid any attention to her old green silk dress, the bodice of which was split by her heaving bosom.

  ‘Eh? What’s that?’ she cried. ‘What’s that about forgery? You, sir? You’d better go to Père-Lachaise first, sir, and see if your father’s cash-box is open yet!’

  Auguste was expecting this, but nevertheless he was dreadfully annoyed. However, with head erect, she went on with amazing self-possession:

  ‘We’ve got your ten thousand francs. Yes, they’re quite safe, in that drawer over there. But we’re not going to let you have them until Monsieur Vabre comes back to give you your inheritance. What a family! The father a gambler who swindles us all, and the brother-in-law a thief who steals the inheritance!’

  ‘Thief? Thief?’ spluttered Auguste, beside himself with rage. ‘The thieves are here, madam!’

  With burning cheeks they stood facing each other, and Monsieur Josserand, extremely upset by turbulent scenes of this sort, strove to separate them. He begged them to be calm. His whole frame quivered, and he was obliged to sit down.

  ‘At any rate,’ said Auguste, after a pause, ‘I won’t have a tramp in my house. You can keep your money and your daughter, too. That’s what I came to tell you.’

  ‘You’re changing the subject,’ coolly remarked Madame Josserand. ‘Very well, we’ll talk about that presently.’

  But the father, powerless to rise, looked at them aghast. He no longer understood what they meant. What were they saying? Tramp! Who was the tramp? Then, as, listening to them, he learned that it was his daughter, his heart was torn as by a gaping wound through which all that remained to him of existence ebbed away. Good God! So his daughter would be his death! For all his weaknesses she was to serve as punishment, she whom he had never known how to educate! Already the thought that she was living in debt and always quarrelling with her husband saddened him in his old age, and revived within him all the petty worries of his own life. And now she was an adulteress, having sunk to that lowest grade of infamy for a woman. The idea was revolting to his simple, honest soul. He grew cold as ice, listening, mute, while the others wrangled.