by Guy Endore
“But I don’t understand what Father Pitamont has to do with this,” Mme Didier expostulated, completely at sea.
The nephew was suddenly resolved. Now was the time to break with Napoleon, who was at the moment off on a visit to the Pope, and throw this juicy bit of scandal into the public pot. He was so taken by his resolution that he forgot the matter at hand, and rose from his chair by the aid of his stick, determined to seek out the editor of La Solidarité.
Mme Didier, however, would not let him go until she had learned what all this business meant. And when she had heard, again she would not let him depart until she had sworn him not to say a word of it to anyone. Her reason was that the child was hysterical and that it would never do to believe her until the matter had been more fully investigated. His reason was simpler: all or at least most of his money came from his aunt, and further, he hoped to inherit from her some day. He could not afford to be a political pamphleteer without his aunt’s support.
Mme Didier, however, herself went to the chapel and, seeing no one about, boldly knocked at the door to the sacristy. Receiving no answer, she entered. Father Pitamont was asleep on a couch. Asleep, he no longer looked the holy man she had usually taken him to be. He seemed old and coarse. His heavy features, particularly his bushy eyebrows, joined together by a heavy growth of hair above his nose, lent him a strange, almost beastly expression. In that moment, Mme Didier almost believed, but restrained herself for fear of doing him an injustice.
Feeling the weight of her glance upon him, he opened his eyes. “Why, madame, it is you,” he exclaimed and rose at once.
Cutting short his greeting, she plunged quickly into her story. He nodded his head as if the matter were grave and interesting, but of no special concern to him.
“A young girl of about fourteen, you say?” he asked, as if he were trying to recall whether he had perhaps not seen such a girl somewhere.
At that moment, Mme Didier spied her bénitier, the vessel which she had given Josephine to hold the precious holy water. It was lying on the floor near the couch. At once he saw it too. How could he have forgotten to remove that! Throwing aside the rôle he had assumed, he cast himself at her feet. But she rose hastily and ran out, overcome with horror.
She disregarded the advice of her nephew, and made no complaint to the police, but went instead to the bishop and laid her case before him. With the result that Father Pitamont was called to account. The bishop, however, contented himself with transferring the culprit to another parish. There he had soon made a bad reputation for himself. The truth was that he could no longer hold himself in check. His temptations led him ever further astray into the world of sin. At night he slipped out of his cassock and, dressed in civilian clothes, frequented the most disreputable haunts of the city.
One night Mme Didier, leaving the theater late with her nephew, caught sight of him entering a voiture de place, gallantly helping in a young lady first. The broad expression of pleasure on his face, the extreme of fashion in which the young lady was clad—lacy décolleté without shoulder-straps, leaving her shoulders and bosom bare down to just above the line of her nipples, long tight skirt flaring at the ankles—all this left little doubt as to the nature of the commerce that obtained between these two. Mme Didier shuddered. Her nephew had the kindness to make no comment. Subsequently she learned that Pitamont had been reported to his superiors again and again and was finally requested either to make a lengthy retreat among the forever silent Trappists, or lay down his frock. Pitamont expressed his decision by disappearing suddenly along with some valuable articles belonging to the church to which he was last attached.*
“We are well rid of him,” thought Mme Didier. In truth she was far from being rid of Father Pitamont, although she never saw him again.
Her nephew, Aymar Galliez, had of late given up his own rooms and moved over to his aunt’s apartment. This was partly to save money, and partly to be near his aunt, for his badly healed wounds left him a prey to fits of melancholy in which he could not bear solitude.
He was sitting at his favorite place near the window one day, and making an occasional note on a pad of paper. He had the itch to distinguish himself in the field of literature but was not quite sure of the form of the great work which he proposed to write. So many fine things were appearing lately, in all lines. Only recently the younger Dumas had electrified Paris with his Dame aux Camélias and a revolution in writing was taking place. Those in the know were all talking excitedly about the new way of writing. The password was realism.
He was being annoyed by the constant entry and exit of Josephine. “What the deuce can that girl be wanting in here every minute?” he asked himself irritably. For like all melancholic natures, much as he hated solitude, he was irritated by the presence of others. But after a while he became interested in the girl herself, wondering if here were not the subject for an incisive little sketch: a young girl seduced by a priest and thereupon rejected by her legitimate suitor. Or perhaps one might have the girl fall in love with the priest and he abandon his religion in order to marry her. But that was all old stuff, he had read countless things of the sort. The trouble with literature was that every subject had been done. There was nothing new for the pen to tackle.
As his thoughts ran on so, he almost forgot the girl. Gradually, however, he began to notice her strange demeanor. There could be no doubt of it, she was trying to attract his attention. Though ostensibly engaged in straightening the room and tidying up, she turned toward him every few moments, looked at him with big eyes, then suddenly looked away as if abashed. Meanwhile her body contorted itself in a positively indecent fashion. Her torso was in constant sinuous motion like the body of a snake. Her breast rose and fell as she sighed audibly.
When she saw that he was looking at her, she ceased. But a moment later she came up to him and, picking up a piece of paper from the floor, she asked: “Is this yours?” And when he thanked her she continued: “Shall I open the window a little more?” And again: “Are the curtains blowing in your way?” All of which he found most annoying. In leaning across his little table to reach the curtains and tie them back, she brought her young body up against his face. He breathed the warmth of her flesh. Despite himself he felt a powerful compulsion. Thoroughly disturbed, he found some excuse or other to dismiss the girl, and remained for a long time incapable of concentrating on his literary endeavors.
* The report of this theft to the police uncovered the whole tale and thus came to the knowledge of Favre, who included it among the various cases in the chapter: “Suffer little children to come unto me…”
Chapter Three
One day as he was hobbling out, the door to the kitchen opened and Aymar heard himself called softly by Françoise: “M Aymar! Psst!”
He turned around. She beckoned him mysteriously to come into the kitchen and when he had followed her call, she first closed the door, and then whispered to him: “Do you know what terrible things are happening here?”
“Why, no,” he said innocently.
“I mean about Josephine.”
“Why, what’s the trouble with her?” He had wanted to say: “Why, what’s the trouble with her again?” but had restrained himself, not being quite sure that Françoise had been informed of the Pitamont affair, Mme Didier having been so anxious to keep the matter quiet.
“Her conduct is…how shall I say, monsieur…c’est une dévergondée!”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that the butcher’s boy, the concierge’s young son, the greengrocer himself, everybody, simply everybody has had her. And if they have not had her, then it was only because they were decent enough to refuse. Yes, monsieur, I never thought that would happen to this house. A young country girl. Why, when she came here she acted as if she didn’t know A from B. Monsieur, the whole neighborhood is talking about it!”
“Are you sure of this?” said Aymar, though he himself was convinced at once. “How do you know that this is not simply malici
ous gossip?”
She then told him how she had seen things with her own eyes. How she had caught the girl and the concierge’s son up in the garret in a manner that left no doubt. Thereafter she had forbidden the girl to leave the house, but she had run away. Of course, people would say there was another girl ruined by the wicked city, but she knew better. That girl must have brought those habits with her from the country.
Aymar let her talk on, wondering himself. Could it be that that first display of bewilderment and grief and shame had been mere acting on Josephine’s part? No. Impossible. The girl had been pure before. It was Father Pitamont who had unleashed this beast in her body. The mayor of Mme Didier’s own home village would never have recommended a girl with a bad character.
“What I want you to tell me, monsieur, is how I shall break the news to Madame. I’m afraid to go to her with all this trouble. She has had sorrow enough, poor Madame.”
“Leave that to me,” Aymar consoled her. “I’ll take care of everything.”
“Yes, but do it at once. For who knows what may happen? Last night I woke up and found her gone from our bed. I waited, thinking she had gone out for only a moment. But when she didn’t come back, I got out of bed and looked for her. I must tell you, monsieur, that she was not in the house at all. She had unlocked the door and gone out. It must be Jeannot the concierge’s son who unlocked the door downstairs for her. I fell asleep again and when I woke up she was back in bed and denied that she had ever been out. What shall we do with such a creature?”
“Leave it to me,” Aymar said again, and wondered what he could do.
But that evening Josephine waited on them at the dinner table as usual. And as usual she brought herself annoyingly into contact with Aymar. Nevertheless, her girlish face expressed nothing but purity and innocence. How could those tender, immature lineaments have expressed anything else? When she had retired to the kitchen and was busy with her own meal and with the washing of the dishes, Aymar opened up on his aunt.
“Do you see any change in Josephine since that terrible event?”
“Fortunately, no. She seems to have gotten over it and I hope will soon have completely forgotten it.”
“Do you really think she was an innocent thing when she came here?”
“Why, yes, of course. What makes you ask?”
“Just so.”
She pursued a pleasant thought of her own: Josephine had been the cause of the seduction and Father Pitamont had fallen to her wiles. But at the very moment she thought thus, she realized that it couldn’t be so. Pitamont’s subsequent actions did not endorse this view. “Why do you ask?” she repeated.
“Her behavior has not been irreproachable of late.” He understated the matter, entering the thin edge of the wedge before he pounded home.
“What has she done?” Mme Didier asked.
He told her in a few words, reducing the case to its minimum and omitting all embellishments likely to cause Mme Didier to worry too much. Mme Didier remained in thought for a while and then decided sagely that Josephine should be put in a room somewhere where she would be safe and watched over and where she would remain until the mayor of her village acted upon her case. “Pull the bell for Françoise and we’ll see if she knows of some good house where we can keep the girl.”
Françoise appeared and listened to her mistress’ decision. Meanwhile she fidgeted about and cast certain glances at M Galliez, as if to say, There is something else I must tell you about. Until Aymar could not help exclaiming:
“Come right out with it, Françoise!”
Françoise sucked in her breath as if to gather courage; then jerking back her head with self-righteousness (she certainly wasn’t to blame for anything), she delivered herself of this: “Josephine is pregnant.”
There was a moment of deep silence, then particulars were demanded. Since when? Françoise couldn’t say, but from what Josephine had told her it might be two, three months.
“Why, she has been here only three months!” Mme Didier exclaimed.
“Oui, madame,” said the obedient Françoise.
“It’s that damned Fa…” A look from his aunt made Aymar cut his sentence short.
“Bring her in, Françoise, I’ll talk to her alone,” said Mme Didier.
A moment later Josephine came in. Simply clad, demure, the bloom of rustic innocence still on her cheeks. Only when she happened to look up did her dark, blazing eyes belie her modesty and humility.
“My poor child,” said Mme Didier, and put her hands on Josephine’s shoulders. “Do you know that you are going to have a baby?”
“Oui, madame.”
“And you are so young.”
“Oui, madame.”
“You poor thing.”
“Is it because I go with the boys, like Françoise says, madame?”
“Oh, child, why do you do that?”
“I like it so, madame. Must I really stop? I’ve tried very hard not to do it, but I can’t stop myself. At home I saw all the animals do it and no one ever stopped them.”
“But, Josephine, my child, we are not animals. You never saw human beings do such things, did you?”
“No, madame. There was only mamma and myself at home…”
“Yes, to be sure,” said Mme Didier and bit her lip.
“Don’t men and women do it ever?”
“Hush.”
“But Father Pitamont was the first to do it to me.”
“Hush! Hush! Was he really the first?”
“Yes, madame.”
“You unfortunate wretch. What shall we do with you now?”
“Françoise says you will send me away because I am bad. Don’t send me away.”
“I shall find a nice home for you.” She was thinking of the Duchess of Angoulême’s home for wayward girls. But a second’s thought brought her to the decision not to attempt to put the girl in a home. She wanted as little explaining as possible in the case. The best thing to do was to take the matter upon herself completely, give Josephine as good a room to stay in as could be found and let things take their natural course. All wounds heal over in time, and those that are not healed are covered by the grave.
Josephine seemed to have quite resigned herself to her fate. It was only for the first few days that she suffered from lack of her nightly escapades. Here in the room they had found for her there was no running away at night or indeed at any time, but to compensate for that there was nothing to do, and in all the years of her life Josephine had been busy from early morn to night, not only at the little poverty-stricken farm where she had lived with her widowed mother, but also at Mme Didier’s where under the stern direction of Françoise there was a constant succession of tasks to keep her actively at work all day long.
This sudden leisure was the first ray of sunlight in her short and bleak existence. She lolled around, doing nothing, and was quite happy at it. She sat by, the window and pretended she was M Galliez. Sat silently thus for hours.
Mealtimes she enjoyed the fullest. Not that she was a glutton, but being waited upon was to her such a novel experience that she could never have enough of it. And being called Madame by the girl who brought in her tray, a young girl much like what she herself had been but a few days before! Josephine did her best to act like Mme Didier.
Being thus, by turns, Mme Didier and then M Galliez, Josephine had really quite a nice time of it. And when every second day or so Françoise came to see her, she could not prevent herself from putting on little airs before Françoise, who was still Françoise, whereas she, Josephine, was now Madame, and feeling herself thoroughly in her rôle, it annoyed her considerably that once in front of the servant-girl, Françoise should speak quite openly of “our mistress.” Josephine felt she had been humbled.
Occasionally (but rarely, being a woman of great weight) Mère Kardec ascended to the top floor of her Maison d’Accouchement to visit her most curious patient, a young girl who was not to give birth for some five months. Mère Kardec was a s
tern-visaged person, square hewn as if a stone carver had left her unfinished. She asked no questions. Her fortune had been acquired by her absolute lack of curiosity. The women who came to her house could be sure of being well taken care of. Mère Kardec sent a constant stream of children out to her relations in Brittany, and the mothers who left her place need never concern themselves about the matter again, beyond paying the required sums. A countess with a name known all over Europe might come to Mère Kardec’s and register as whatever she pleased and have twins if nature so ordained, and Mère Kardec would make it right with the authorities, and never a word of it would go beyond her doors. A thousand romances on the brink of scandal or tragedy had come for salvation here behind the inconspicuous exterior of her house. Even the Almanach de Gotha must have its cesspool or sewerage system.
When Mère Kardec entered Josephine’s room, she unloosened her dour visage and emitted a greeting to which she expected no answer. If one came, as in the present case, when polite words came tripping from Josephine’s tongue, Mère Kardec paid no attention. She passed her hand over the furniture to see if the servants were cleaning properly, she jabbed at the bed to see if the feather mattress had been well shaken up, and looked under the bed for those fluffy accumulations of feathers, hair and dust that tend to gather there. Having satisfied herself as to this, she asked curtly about the satisfactoriness of the food, and without waiting for more than a sentence of the answer, she excused herself and walked out.
To make up for these cold visits, there was the weekly call by Mme Didier herself, accompanied by M Galliez. Aymar sat down at once by the window. Sometimes he was much shaken by the arduous walk up the many flights of stairs, and this not only because the climb was difficult, but because the hall was often full of the horrible moans of women in labor. He sat by the open window and wiped his brow with his kerchief. Josephine could not take her eyes off his pale, thin face, his long delicate fingers, his silken handkerchief moistened with perspiration.
