A Chambermaid's Diary. Octave MirbeauЧитать онлайн книгу.
the poor old man, and drinking with him!
"What's this?" she exclaimed, her lips all white.
Monsieur stammered, and hemmed and hawed.
"It is some sweet-briers; you know very well, my pet; some sweet-briers. Father Pantois has brought me some sweet-briers. All the rose-bushes were frozen this winter."
"I have ordered no sweet-briers. We need no sweet-briers here."
This was said in a cutting tone. Then she made a half-circuit of the room, and went out, slamming the door and showering insults. In her anger she had not noticed me.
Monsieur and the poor old puller of sweet-briers had risen. Embarrassed, they looked at the door through which Madame had just disappeared. Then they looked at each other, without daring to say a word. Monsieur was the first to break this painful silence.
"Well, then, on Sunday, father Pantois."
"On Sunday, Monsieur Lanlaire."
"And take good care of yourself, father Pantois."
"You also, Monsieur Lanlaire."
"And thirty francs, mind you. I do not take back what I said."
"You are very good."
And the old man, trembling on his legs, and with back bent, went away, and disappeared in the darkness.
Poor Monsieur! he must have received his lecture! And, as for father Pantois, if ever he gets his thirty francs—well, he will be lucky.
I do not wish to justify Madame, but I think that Monsieur is wrong in talking familiarly with people that are too far beneath him. It is not dignified.
I know very well that he doesn't lead a gay life, to be sure, and that he takes such opportunities as offer. That is not always convenient. When he comes back late from a hunt, dirty and wet, and singing to keep up his courage, Madame gives him a warm reception.
"Ah! it is very nice of you to leave me alone all day!"
"But you know very well, my pet. … "
"Be still."
She sulks for hours and hours, her forehead stern, her mouth ugly. He follows her about everywhere, trembling and stammering excuses.
"But, my pet, you know very well. … "
"Let me alone; you make me tired."
The next day, naturally, Monsieur does not go out, and Madame exclaims:
"Why do you wander about thus in the house, like a soul in torment?"
"But, my pet. … "
"You would do much better to go out, to go hunting, the devil knows where! You annoy me; you unnerve me. Go away."
So that he never knows what to do, whether to go or stay, to be here or elsewhere. A difficult problem. But, as in either case Madame scolds, Monsieur has taken the course of going away as often as possible. In that way he does not hear her scold.
Ah! it is really pitiful.
The other morning, as I was going to spread a little linen on the hedge, I saw him in the garden. Monsieur was gardening. The wind having blown down some dahlias during the night, he was refastening them to their props.
Very often, when he does not go out before lunch, Monsieur works in the garden; at least, he pretends to be occupying himself with something or other in his platbands. It is always time gained from the ennui of the household. During these moments there are no scenes. Away from Madame, he is no longer the same man. His face lightens up, his eyes shine. Naturally gay, his gaiety comes to the surface. Really, he is not disagreeable. In the house, indeed, he rarely speaks to me now, and, though still bent on his idea, seems to pay no attention to me. But outside he never fails to address me a pleasant little word, after making sure, however, that Madame cannot be spying him. When he does not dare to speak to me, he looks at me, and his look is more eloquent than his words. Moreover, I amuse myself in exciting him in all ways, although I have taken no resolution concerning him.
In passing by him, in the path where he was working, bent over his dahlias, with bits of string between his teeth, I said to him, without slackening my pace:
"Oh! how hard Monsieur is working this morning!"
"Yes, indeed," he answered; "these confounded dahlias! You see. … "
He invited me to stop a minute.
"Well, Célestine, I hope you are getting accustomed to the place, now?"
Always his mania! Always the same difficulty in engaging in conversation! To please him, I replied with a smile:
"Why, yes, Monsieur, certainly; I am getting accustomed here."
"I am glad to hear it. It is not bad here; really, it is not bad."
He quite straightened up, gave me a very tender look, and repeated: "It is not bad," thus giving himself time to think of something ingenious to say to me.
He took from his teeth the bits of string, tied them at the top of the prop, and, with legs spread apart, and his two palms resting on his hips, with a knowing look, and frankly obscene eyes, he cried:
"I'll bet, Célestine, that you led a gay life in Paris? Say, now, didn't you?"
I was not expecting this. And I had a great desire to laugh. But I lowered my eyes modestly, with an offended air, and, trying to blush, as was proper under the circumstances, I exclaimed, in a tone of reproach:
"Oh! Monsieur!"
"Well, what?" he insisted; "a pretty girl like you—with such eyes! Oh! yes, you must have had a gay time. And so much the better. For my part, I am for amusement; yes, I am for love."
Monsieur was becoming strangely animated. And, on his robust, muscular person I recognized the most evident signs of amorous exaltation. He was on fire; desire was flaming in his eyes. I deemed it my duty to pour a good shower of cold water on this fire. In a very dry tone, and at the same time very loftily, I said:
"Monsieur is mistaken. Monsieur thinks that he is speaking to his other chambermaids. Monsieur must know, however, that I am a good girl."
And with great dignity, to show exactly to what extent this outrage had offended me, I added:
"It will serve Monsieur right, if I go to complain to Madame directly."
And I made a pretence of starting. Monsieur quickly grasped me by the arm.
"No, no," he stammered.
How did I ever say all that without bursting? How did I ever succeed in burying in my throat the laugh that was ringing there? Really, I don't know.
Monsieur was prodigiously ridiculous. Livid now, with mouth wide open, his whole person bearing a two-fold expression of annoyance and fear, he remained silent, digging into his neck with his nails.
Near us an old pear tree twisted its pyramid of branches, eaten by lichens and mosses. A few pears hung within reach of his hand. A magpie was chattering ironically at the top of a neighboring chestnut tree. Crouching behind the border of box, the cat was pawing at a bumble-bee. The silence was becoming more and more painful for Monsieur. At last, after efforts that were almost sorrowful—efforts that brought grotesque grimaces to his lips—Monsieur asked:
"Do you like pears, Célestine?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
I did not disarm; I answered in a tone of lofty indifference.
In the fear of being surprised by his wife, he hesitated a few seconds. And suddenly, like a thieving child, he took a pear from the tree, and gave it to me—oh! how piteously! His knees bent, his hand trembled.
"There, Célestine, hide that in your apron. You never have any in the kitchen, do you?"
"No, Monsieur."