For a few minutes Kimberly remained silent. Then, as mounting emotion gripped the hearts of those seated around the table, he concluded:
‘That is why I dipped the point of my golden knife in the preserves prepared by the Hawaiian virgins, in honour of a betrothal more magnificent than any known to this century, so ignorant of beauty.’
Dinner was over … The guests rose from the table in religious silence, but in the drawing-room everyone crowded round Kimberly to congratulate him. And, as the glances of the women converged upon him, lighting up his made-up face, they seemed to crown him with an ecstatic halo.
‘Oh, how I should love Pinggleton to paint my portrait) Madame de Rambure exclaimed passionately. ‘I would give everything I’ve got for such happiness.’
‘Alas, Madame,’ replied Kimberly, ‘since the sublimely unhappy occasion I have just described, it appears that Frederic Ossian Pinggleton has given up painting portraits of human beings, however charming, and now only portrays souls!’
‘He is perfectly right … I should love him to paint my soul!’
‘And what sex would it be?’ Maurice Fernancourt enquired sarcastically, obviously jealous of Kimberly’s success.
To which the latter replied simply:
‘Souls, my dear Maurice, have no sex. They only have …’
‘Hair on their chests!’ Charrigaud whispered, but so quietly that the only person who could hear him was the psychological novelist, to whom at that moment he was offering a cigar. And as he led him off to the smoking-room, he muttered:
‘Really, my dear fellow, it was all I could do not to start talking smut, at the top of my voice, in front of everyone. I was absolutely fed up with their souls, and the perverted love affairs and their magic Hawaiian jam. Yes, indeed, just to be able to talk filth for a quarter of an hour, to smother oneself with good, black, stinking muck, would be simply marvellous … and so restful … It would be some compensation for having to listen to all this nauseating tripe … Don’t you agree?’
But the shock had been too powerful, and the effect of Kimberly’s narration could not easily be shaken off. Nobody showed the slightest interest in vulgar terrestrial matters. Even Viscount Lahyrais, clubman, sportsman, gambler and cheat, felt as though he was beginning to sprout wings, and everyone felt the need to be alone in order to prolong or realize their dream … Despite all Kimberly’s efforts, as he wandered about asking people if they had ever drunk sable’s milk—‘simply delicious, my dear’—the conversation could not be revived, and one after the other, the guests excused themselves and departed. By eleven o’clock the last of them had gone.
At last, finding themselves once more alone, the Charrigauds regarded one another for some time with bitter hostility before exchanging their impressions. At last Charrigaud exclaimed:
‘Well, of all the miserable flops …’
‘It was all your fault,’ Madame bitterly reproached him.
‘Well, I like that …’
‘Yes, absolutely … You didn’t make the slightest effort. All you could do was to roll those filthy bread pellets, and nobody could get a word out of you. You made an utter fool of yourself … It was humiliating.’
‘You can talk,’ retorted Charrigaud. ‘What about that horrible green dress? And your everlasting smile? And the brick you dropped with Sartorys? I suppose that was my fault, too? And of course it was I who went on about the wretched Pinggleton, and ate Hawaiian jam, and painted people’s souls? I, who was the lilywhite pederast?’
‘Oh, I doubt if you’re even capable of that!’ screamed Madame, beside herself with rage.
And they went on abusing each other at length, until at last Madame Charrigaud, having put away the silver and half-empty bottles in the sideboard, decided to go up to bed, and locked herself in her room.
Left to himself, Charrigaud continued to wander around the house in a state of extreme agitation, until suddenly, catching sight of me in the dining-room, where I was tidying things up a bit, he came towards me, and putting his arm around me, said:
‘Célestine, do you want to be very nice to me? Would you like to give me real pleasure?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well then, my dear, just shout at me at the top of your voice, ten, twenty, a hundred times, “Shit”.’
‘Really, sir! … What a strange idea … I should never dare!’
‘But do dare, Célestine, do dare, I implore you.’
And when at last I had laughingly done as he asked, he said:
‘Célestine, you’ve no idea how much good you have done me … what immense pleasure you have given me. Why, just to be able to look at a woman who isn’t a soul, to touch a woman who isn’t a lily! … Give me a kiss!’
As if I’d think of such a thing, for heaven’s sake.
But the next day, when they read in La Figaro a pompous account of their dinner-party, praising their elegant taste, and their witty and distinguished connections, they forgot all about their quarrel and could talk of nothing else but their great success. And they set their hearts on achieving still more illustrious conquests, attaining yet greater heights of snobbery.
‘What a charming woman Countess Fergus is!’ said Madame at lunch time, as they were finishing up the food left over from the dinner-party.
‘And so spiritual,’ Charrigaud added.
‘And Kimberly! Have you ever met such a marvellous conversationalist? … And such exquisite manners!’
‘Yes, one really oughtn’t to make fun of him … After all, his vices are his own affair … nothing to do with us.’
‘But of course … Why, if one were to start criticizing everybody …’
And for the rest of the day, in the linen-room, I have been amusing myself recalling all the ridiculous things that used to go on in that household … Madame’s increasing passion for notoriety, to the point where she was ready to sleep with the first lousy journalist who promised to write an article praising one of her husband’s books or to insert a paragraph about her clothes or her salon. And Charrigaud’s smug complacency, knowing all about these goings-on, yet doing nothing about them. He would simply say, with complete cynicism, that at least it was much cheaper than fixing things up through the office. He had lost all sense of decency, and described such behaviour as ‘salon politics’ or ‘social diplomacy’.
Anyhow, now I must write to Paris for his latest book … though its bound to be rotten …
10 NOVEMBER
People have stopped talking about little Clara. As was expected, the case has been dropped. Joseph and the forest of Raillon will keep their secret for ever. From now on, the death of this poor little human creature will be as completely forgotten as that of a blackbird killed in a thicket. Her father goes on breaking stones by the roadside as though nothing had ever happened, and the town, after a moment’s excitement and exhilaration, has resumed its normal appearance—a little drearier than usual because of the wintry weather. People stay at home more than ever, cooped up indoors by the bitter cold; and though now and then one catches a glimpse of pale, sleepy faces behind the frozen window panes, outside in the streets one scarcely meets anyone but an occasional ragged tramp or shivering dog.
This morning Madame sent me to do some shopping at the butcher’s, and I took the dogs with me. While I was there, an old woman came into the shop and timidly asked for some meat:
‘Just a small piece, enough to make some soup for the boy … He’s ill.’
From a large copper bowl filled with offcuts and waste, the butcher fished out a wretched bit of meat, mostly bone and fat, and, having weighed it, briskly announced:
‘Fifteen sous.’
‘Fifteen sous for that?’ exclaimed the old woman. ‘Lord have mercy, that’s impossible! And how do you expect me to make soup with that?’
‘Suit yourself,’ said the butcher, throwing the lump of scrag back into the basin. ‘But don’t forget, I shall be sending your bill today, and if it’s not paid tomorrow, I shall have
to put the bailiffs on you!’
‘Let’s have it, then,’ said the old woman resignedly.
When she had left the shop the butcher explained to me:
‘The fact of the matter is you’d never make any profit on a side of beef if the poor people stopped buying what you have to trim off … The trouble is, they’re getting so fussy these days, the sods!’
And, cutting off two nice slices of lean meat, he threw them to the dogs … Obviously, a wealthy customer’s dogs are not poor people!
At the Priory, various things have been happening, comedy succeeding tragedy … Fed up with the captain’s exasperating behaviour, Monsieur Lanlaire, urged on by Madame, has appealed to the local J.P. He is claiming damages for the smashing of his cloches and frames, and all the mess he has made of the garden. From all accounts, the meeting between these two old enemies at the magistrate’s office was an epic encounter. They blackguarded each other like bargees. Naturally the captain denied on oath that he had ever thrown stones or anything else into the Lanlaire’s garden, and insisted that, on the contrary, it was Lanlaire who had thrown them into his …
‘Have you got any witnesses? Where are they, then? You’re afraid of producing them,’ bawled the captain.
‘Witnesses?’ Monsieur Lanlaire retorted. ‘What more evidence do you need? What about the stones and all the other muck you keep showering on my property? All the old hats and worn-out slippers I’m forever picking up, and that everyone knows belong to you? …’
‘You’re lying.’
‘And you’re a dirty, good-for-nothing scoundrel …’
But since Monsieur Lanlaire was unable to produce any reliable witnesses, the magistrate, who in any case is a friend of the captain’s, insisted upon him withdrawing the charge.
‘And allow me to tell you, moreover,’ concluded the magistrate, ‘it is most improbable, indeed quite inadmissible, that a distinguished soldier, an intrepid officer, promoted from the ranks on the field of battle, would amuse himself by throwing stones and old hats on to your property like any street arab …’
‘Exactly,’ roared the captain … ‘Why, the man’s nothing but a miserable Dreyfusard … He’s trying to insult the army …’
‘What, me?’
‘Yes, you. All you want, you dirty Jew, is to bring dishonor on the army … Long live the army!’
In the end, they nearly came to blows, and it was all the magistrate could do to separate them. Next day, Monsieur Lanlaire installed two permanent witnesses in the garden, behind a kind of wooden screen with holes cut in it so that they could watch what was going on. But it was a complete waste of money, for the captain got to hear of it and temporarily interrupted his stone-throwing …
I have talked to the captain once or twice over the hedge, for in spite of the cold he still spends all day working furiously in his garden. At present he’s busy covering all his rose trees with grease-paper bags. He tells me all his troubles. Rose is suffering from an attack of influenza, on top of her asthma. Bourbaki has died … He got congestion of the lungs from drinking too much brandy. Really, he’s out of luck. That villain Lanlaire must have cast a spell upon him. But he’s determined to get the better of him, to rid the neighbourhood of him once and for all, and he has a marvellous plan that he wants me to put into practice.
‘This is what you ought to do, Mademoiselle Célestine. You ought to issue a writ against Lanlaire, in the courts at Louviers, accusing him of indecent behaviour and attempted rape. It’s a splendid idea …’
‘But Monsieur Lanlaire has never tried to rape me, captain …’
‘So what? You don’t have to worry about that!’
‘Oh, but I couldn’t.’
‘What do you mean, couldn’t? Nothing could be simpler … Just issue the writ, and call Rose and me as witnesses. We’ll bear you out, and solemnly swear we saw everything that happened … everything. After all, a soldier’s word counts for something, you know, particularly these days. It’s not just dog shit! … Besides, don’t you see, if you do this it will be easy to get the little Clara case reopened, and then we can involve Lanlaire in that, too … It’s a splendid idea. Think about it, Mademoiselle Célestine, think about it.’
Oh, but I have so many other things to think about just now, far too many things … Joseph is pressing me to make up my mind. We can’t wait much longer, he says. He has just heard from Cherbourg that the little café is to be sold next week … But I’m worried and upset… I want to, and yet I don’t. One day I like the idea, and the next day I don’t … The truth is, I’m frightened … I’m afraid Joseph is trying to get me mixed up in some really terrible business, and I can’t make up my mind to go in with him. He doesn’t try to force me, but he keeps putting forward arguments, tempting me with promises of freedom, of having fine clothes and being able to lead a secure and happy life.
‘After all, I must buy the place … I can’t afford to lose a chance like this … And supposing there’s a revolution? Just think, Célestine … Why, we’d make a fortune straight away … There’s nothing like revolution for stepping up the café business, you mark my words!’
‘Buy it, then. If it’s not me, you can always get someone else…’
‘No, no, it’s got to be you … I don’t want anyone else. You’ve got right under my skin … But you don’t trust me, do you?’
‘No, Joseph, it’s not that …’
‘Yes it is. You are suspicious about me.’
How I had the courage to ask him at that moment, I simply don’t know, but I did all the same.
‘Well then … tell me something. Was it really you who raped little Clara?’
Instead of being shocked by my question, Joseph remained extraordinarily calm. He merely shrugged his shoulders and, hitching up his trousers, replied quite simply:
‘There you are, you see … I knew that’s what you were thinking about. I know everything that goes on in your mind.’
He spoke quite gently, but there was such a terrible look in his eyes that I was unable to utter a word.
‘It’s nothing to do with little Clara,’ he went on. ‘It’s you we’re talking about.’
He took me in his arms like he did the other evening …
‘Why not come in with me, and we’ll run the place together?’
Trembling from head to foot I managed to stammer out:
‘But I’m afraid … I’m afraid of you, Joseph. Why am I afraid of you?’
He held me cradled in his arms and, without attempting to justify himself, perhaps pleased that he was able to frighten me, he said in a fatherly tone of voice:
‘All right, all right, if that’s what’s worrying you … We’ll talk things over later … tomorrow.’
There is a Rouen paper going the rounds of the town, with an article in it that is causing considerable scandal amongst the devout. It is an amusing, rather bawdy account of something that happened quite recently at Port-Lançon, a pretty little place only a few miles from here. And the joke of it is, everybody knows the people concerned. It has given them something else to talk about for a day or two … Yesterday somebody brought Marianne a copy, and in the evening, after dinner, I began reading the famous article aloud. But no sooner had I begun than Joseph got up, very dignified and stern, even rather annoyed, and declared that he doesn’t like dirty stories and can’t stand people attacking religion.
‘You’ve no business to be reading it, Célestine. It’s not right.’
And off he went to bed. As the story is worth preserving, I am copying it into my diary. Anyhow, I may as well try to cheer up these dismal pages with a good laugh … So here it is.
The Dean in charge of the parish of Port-Lançon was a sanguine, active man, who had a great reputation in the neighbouring villages for his eloquence. Non-Christians and freethinkers used to attend his church on Sundays simply to hear him preach, excusing themselves because of his gifts as an orator.
‘Of course we don’t agree with what he says, but
it’s a pleasure to listen to a man like him all the same.’
And they only wished their Deputy, who never uttered a word, had the Dean’s ‘damned gift of the gab’. He was able to drive his point home. One of his pet subjects was the defects of lay education.
The Diary of a Chambermaid Page 20
