by Guy Endore
Once he came alone. Then she was so shy that he could not get a single clear response from her. Finally he arose to go. But she threw herself toward the door as if to bar his way, and taking his hand in hers she begged: “Don’t go! Don’t go yet!”
She slung her arms around his body and cuddled up close. He put his hands on her shoulders and said gently: “Why, Josephine, pull yourself together.”
She did not answer but continued to cling to him. Then still holding her by the shoulders he sought to push her away. Only her head went back and her eyes looked up into his. Without knowing why, he bent and kissed her chastely on the lips.
Kiss me again, her eyes begged. He obeyed. Then her tongue darted out of her mouth and pushed itself between his lips. Her hot moist tongue stirred him to the depths of his bowels. Weak with sudden lust, he subsided on the bed with her.
Downstairs before her office stood Mère Kardec like the threat of doom, arms akimbo, glaring straight ahead. Aymar shrank within himself as he came in sight of her. He thought she was about to say something to him, but not a sound came from her firm lips. She had no intention of saying anything, as a matter of fact, but he, conscious of his guilt, slunk away like a whipped cur.
On his way home he came to the decision that there was only one way out for him and that was never to go to see Josephine again. Having so determined, his conscience was soothed and his ego revived from the chilling shower Mère Kardec had administered.
At home, across the table, Mme Didier said: “You look exhausted, my poor Aymar. You shall not go there again.”
He controlled his great fright. “On the contrary,” he assured her, “I feel exceedingly well. And if the long walk there and back has exhausted me I shall sleep all the better.”
And after a moment, he added. “It is you who are looking peaked, my aunt. Why don’t you run away to the country for a while? You should not have given up your plans for a vacation this year.” She objected that with conditions as they were and what with Josephine and the fact that in any case she would not return to her village where she had usually spent her summers, all this made a vacation in the country impossible. He argued with her persuasively, and so well, as a trained pamphleteer like himself could do, that she capitulated.
Two days later he had the pleasure of seeing his aunt and Françoise off to the South. A moment after the train had pulled out he was in a fiacre and on his way to Josephine.
This time there were no preliminaries. They clutched at each other like two struggling in dark water and about to be engulfed.
He could not suppress a feeling of joy when he learned that Mme Didier was feeling very poorly and had been advised by the doctor to extend her stay in the Midi as long as possible. What kind of a monster am I? he asked himself and gazed at himself in horror. He shut himself up in his room, determined to write, to work on that great opus of his, to which he had not put a hand for weeks. He looked out of his window, down on the hot August boulevard. Men and women, horses and cabs, drenched in the sun, hastened by in both directions. What was the meaning of all this? His mind was empty of any thoughts. The whole world had no meaning. Nothing but hot dust, eye-searing colors, people who did not know what they were about.
He changed his mind about not going, and at once the world took on order and meaning. When he was out on the street, hastening like everyone else, then he found that the streets were not so hot as he had feared. A cool breeze was blowing. It was a balmy day with a climate such as one imagines is eternal in Paradise.
“Why do you never say a word about Josephine in your letters?” his aunt reproached him. “Don’t you ever go to see her? You know I wanted you to watch out for her.”
He saw that he had made a big mistake. She must not be suspicious. And there was Mère Kardec who could have told her that he had been there every day and sometimes twice.
“I remembered your injunction concerning Josephine,” he wrote, slyly. “I have been to see her often. When I go to see my friend Le Pelletier as I do now and then, or when I go to see the group at the Café Palissot, then since I am passing by there anyhow, I usually drop in to see how she is faring. Indeed she has been quite well up until now.”
The facts were true enough. The implication was a clever lie. He detested himself for stooping to such procedure. No longer could he have shouted “That damn Father Pitamont, that devil in priest’s garb!” He felt himself to be as low, as rascally, nay, even lower than Pitamont. At the club it was noticed that he no longer inveighed so fiercely against priest and capitalist. He had come to the consoling thought that “we are all sinners together.” That was the only excuse he could find for himself.
As for Josephine, now that she had him, she would not let him go. She could not bear his absence, and when he had to go she would make him swear to return at such and such a definite time, insisting that she would throw herself out of the window if he were but a minute late.
The child she carried troubled her much by its liveliness and prevented her from sleeping at night. But when Aymar was around she forgot completely about it. The small pleasure which she had had at first on finding herself treated as Madame and with no work to do had palled on her. There was for her only one satisfaction in life and that was being with Aymar.
Late in October, Mme Didier returned. Aymar promptly settled into a melancholia from which nothing could arouse him. Apathetically he listened to Mme Didier’s tales of her experiences in the South. Twice he ventured to make a visit to Josephine, but his nerves were so jumpy from fear of exposing the whole sordid connection that he stopped completely thereafter. The last time, indeed, he saw Françoise mounting the stairs as he was coming down. Fortunately, she had not seen him yet and he had time to step into a dark recess, which she passed unsuspectingly. Shattered by this experience, he took to bed for a whole day.
Josephine, realizing that now everything was over, and unable to deceive herself long with the pleasant thought that after the birth of the child she would be able to return to the old conditions, demeaned herself like one gone insane and threatened so often to commit suicide that at last Mère Kardec transferred her to a room where the window was barred and took the additional precaution of leaving a nurse in the room both day and night.
And now the babe within her never stopped squirming and kicking and gave Josephine not a second’s peace.
Chapter Four
One day late in December, to be precise on the twenty-third, Mme Didier and Aymar sat at the dinner table and ate with little appetite and conversed desultorily. Aymar ate out of some vague sense of duty, while Mme Didier had, ever since her girlhood, been accustomed to eat whatever was set before her and finish it down to the last particle, a trait that the French are fond of instilling in their children, perhaps to give the lie to the notion that the French are a race of gourmets.
Suddenly Mme Didier spoke up: “You know, I am beginning to be worried.”
“What about?”
“Of course you will think me superstitious.”
“No fear,” said Aymar ironically. “You? Superstitious? Never!”
“Now don’t make fun, Aymar. I have seen a good deal more of the world than you have.”
“What, for example?”
“Do you believe in Christmas?”
“Of course I do,” said Aymar. “Everybody believes that Christmas comes on the twenty-fifth of this month, and they are one and all right.”
“If you will stop your silly jesting, I’ll go on.”
“Do go on, I’ve always wanted to know about Christmas.”
“Do you believe that the animal world is conscious of the coming of Christmas?”
In spite of himself, Aymar smiled: “Are you going to tell me that the cattle kneel in their stalls on Christmas night?”
“That is precisely what I am going to tell you. And more, that I have seen it with my own eyes.”
“Of course you have seen it. Anyone going into a stable any night of the year can see some o
r, if he is lucky, all of the cattle kneeling.”
“I knew you were going to say that. But it isn’t true. And what is more I went one night, as the birth of our Saviour was approaching, and heard the bees sing in their hives.”
“Bees always sing in their hives.”
“Come, Aymar, in the dead of winter bees certainly don’t sing in their hives.”
“And you say you heard them?”
“If you can’t get me one way, you will have me another. Is that it, Aymar?”
Disconcerted because she had worsted him, he remained silent for a moment and then brought the conversation back to the beginning. “And so that is why you are worried?”
“No, of course not. What worries me is that Josephine is about to be delivered, and as like as not it may be at the very hour of Our Lord’s birth.”
“Why should that distress you? I should think, on the contrary, that you would see reason to rejoice.”
“It is because I am superstitious, if you like me to put it that way. But let me tell you this. I knew a man who came to no good end, and it had always been said of him that he was doomed from the beginning, for he had been born on Christmas Eve.”
“And naturally everybody did his little bit to make it come true,” said Aymar bitterly.
“Do you number me among those?” Mme Didier reproached him, and went on rapidly: “And in our village and in other villages where the people are God-fearing, the wives stay away from their husbands during most of the month of March and a week or so of the month of April, in order that they may not have children born on that day.”
“Now, will you tell me what sense you can see in that practice?”
“I spoke only of superstition, my dear Aymar, but if you wish me to speak of sense, which is more rightly your province, I suppose, then I have this to say: When people believe in a thing, they like to show their respect for it. I have noticed that the first thing the revolutionaries do, after they have torn down a lot of old statues, is erect a lot of new ones, and after they have ruled out a lot of old holidays, institute a lot of new ones. I don’t suppose that would strike you as being superstitious?”
“That is neither here nor there,” said Aymar.
“Very well,” Mme Didier continued, “but you will grant that people like to show their respect for what they believe in, and those who believe in the beautiful and gentle life of Christ like to honor him. Now, tell me, can they practice any finer act of homage than the renunciation of carnal conception during that period when the Virgin Mary conceived immaculately? Tell me, must not even such as you admire therein a refinement of taste and a delicacy of worship which has no parallel in your modern boisterous attachment to one political leader after another?”
“It is not lacking in beauty,” Aymar admitted. “But what does it mean?”
“It means as much as all your cockades and colors and speeches,” Mme Didier retorted. “What do you mean? How many times in my life has blood been shed here in France in order that people should be happier, in order that there should be no more poor? I cannot see that anyone is any better off for all this fighting.”
“You have told me that you see no meaning in politics, but you still haven’t told me what sense there is to worrying about a child being born on Christmas eve.”
“Aymar, my dear nephew, is it not already enough of evil that Josephine should bear the child of a priest? Is that not already enough of an insult to heaven that a priest should be guilty of such misconduct, without adding to this sad birth the characteristic of being a mockery of the birth of Christ?”
In spite of himself Aymar was moved. “That’s a Mother Goose story,” he said irritably.
“In my opinion,” Mme Didier continued, “Josephine was an innocent little girl, but when the devil tempted Father Pitamont, he did not spare her. The devil is in her now and I see it every time I go there. She is dangerous.”
“Nonsense,” said Aymar, but he was startled nevertheless. Somewhat unnerved and more than a little vexed, he wished to stop the conversation and therefore rose with the excuse that he had to get back to his writing.
He retired to his room and lit his Quinquet lamp. But he had no desire to work on the story he had chosen to tell, namely, that of a young man who strives to lead the world on to happiness for all and who succeeds only in losing his life.
Annoyed, he pushed away the sheets of paper. “The world is too big to be cramped up in a book,” he said. Then he wondered: Why had he no ability to stick to what he had decided to do? After all, the idea wasn’t a bad one and people didn’t expect you to put the world into a volume. This was now the tenth or twelfth idea he had thrown into the discard. Every time a new book appeared and drew to itself the plaudits of the critics, then he found it to be on a subject he had once thought of doing himself, an idea that he had rejected for one paltry reason or another.
He leaned over on his desk and restedhis head on his outstretched arms. So Josephine was going to have a baby in a day or so? What did she look like, now, with her body swollen to term? He could not picture her. In fact he could not call her face to mind. What is it I have loved? he asked himself distractedly, if her image has already faded? What he had loved was a softness and a clinging warmth, a gentleness and a vivacity. And now she would have a baby and moan like those others he had heard as he climbed the steps of Mère Kardec’s Maison d’Accouchement. He found himself thinking of that baby, thinking of it with fondness and wishing that it were his own. Wishing that he and the baby and Josephine were one family.
Late the following night, Françoise returned from Mère Kardec’s.
“Well?” Mme Didier asked.
“Not a sign yet,” she reported to her mistress.
“Very well, Françoise, come, hurry up or we shall not find places for the midnight mass. And you, Aymar, you are not coming?”
“I think not, my aunt,” he mumbled, his mind occupied with a bold scheme. While they were secure in the packed church, he would slip over to Mère Kardec’s and be back before they returned.
No sooner were they well off than he had hastened out toward the Maison d’Accouchement. Well known to all the servants, he had no trouble in being admitted despite the lateness of the hour and went upstairs as fast as his bad legs could carry him.
A woman bustling out of Josephine’s room with a large pail of red-tinted water caused him to stop in dismay. The first thought that struck him was that Josephine had died in agony. When the woman came back with her pail filled with fresh water, he appealed to her for a word of news, but she only smiled at him and entered, closing the door rapidly, before he could get a distinct view of what was inside. He had caught, however, a glimpse of Mère Kardec and a man, the doctor evidently, for though Mère Kardec was an accomplished midwife, she always called in a doctor.
Aymar waited without for what seemed to him hours. In vain his mind strove to interpret the sounds he heard, sharp phrases, the swishing of water, and feet moving back and forth. Suddenly there was a piercing scream, a long drawn-out blood-curdling yell that wound and wound, growing shriller and shriller, stopping suddenly with a deep dark gurgle as though all that vast sound were being sucked back and down into a waste-pipe. The silence that followed was so intense that the shivering Aymar could hear the responses of the people in the church across the street. Even the tinkling of the bell announcing the miracle of the transubstantiation of the wafer and wine into flesh and blood could be heard distinctly. And precisely then another sound came from the room, the strangest, queerest squeaking and mewling. Thereafter came that same medley of rapid commands, the splashing of water, the clatter of pottery, all dull and low as if heard through a dream.
Suddenly the door was pulled back and a tall man stepped out. Aymar pressed himself against the wall as if he would have liked to sink into it. But the tall man had seen him. “So you’re the fortunate father?”
“Yes,” Aymar stuttered.
“Well, let me be the first to congratu
late you on the birth of a son.”
“Is she dead?” Aymar breathed.
“Who? The mother?” he chuckled with professional satisfaction. “Never had an easier case. Slipped out like a kitten. Work would be a round of pleasure for me if they were all as easy.”
“But that scream…”
“Bound to be a little pain, of course. Better not to see her now. She’s sleeping. Come back in the morning.” And with an amicable pat on the shoulder, he dismissed Aymar from his mind and hurried down the stairs.
And Aymar, recalling all of a sudden how little time he had if he wished to get back before Mme Didier and Françoise returned from midnight mass, scuttled down after him.
He had barely sat down in his favorite chair before the window when there was a noise at the door and Françoise and Mme Didier entered.
“It was marvelous,” said Mme Didier.
Aymar’s natural question stuck in his throat. All he brought forth was a gurgle. Mme Didier began to look at him suspiciously. He pulled himself together and asked: “What was?”
“The mass, of course,” she answered. “The sermon was so moving, so touching. One could have fancied oneself actually present at the birth… Why, what is the matter with you, Aymar? Why, your face is the color of cheese!”
“I’m a little tired,” he said as calmly as he could. “I think I’ll go to bed.”
“You’re evading me,” said Mme Didier severely. “Tell me now, where does it hurt you? What you need is a good tisane or some rhubarb.”
“No, no,” he protested, “I’ll be all well in the morning.” She shook her head. “You don’t take care of yourself,” she declared. “I’ll have to watch you more carefully.” He shuddered. “Perhaps,” she pursued, “you might have a vacation yourself. You know you haven’t been out of Paris for over a year, and this city, with more gas lamps every day, is becoming really poisonous. No wonder everybody, especially women, are always fainting. When I was a girl, a woman was considered as strong as a man. Here I am forgetting all about you, thinking of my girlhood. Positively, I’m getting to radoter like an old woman. Wait, I’ll go fetch you some rhubarb.”
