‘Well, some are and some aren’t. You might say they’re a pretty mixed lot, Monsieur Lanlaire. You can’t just pick and choose, you see. And besides, Monsieur Porcellet wouldn’t let me take any from his wood, so it meant going a long way to find them, a very long way. Why, I had to go as far as the forest of Raillon, more than fifteen miles from here. That’s the honest truth, Monsieur Lanlaire.’
While the old man was talking the master sat down beside him. Cheerfully, almost jokingly, he patted him on the back, and exclaimed:
‘Fifteen miles! Get along with you, you old devil. You’re still strong, still a young man.’
‘Not as young as all that, Monsieur Lanlaire … not by a long chalk!’
‘Go on with you,’ Monsieur Lanlaire insisted. ‘Strong as a horse, and always cheerful into the bargain … they don’t make your kind any longer, Pantois. You’re as tough as nails.’
The old man shook his bald head, which was the colour of old wood, and repeated: ‘Not as young as all that … my legs are beginning to go, Monsieur Lanlaire, and I’m losing the strength in my arms. And my back, oh my damned back! I’ve lost all my strength. And then the wife being sick and always in bed … and the price of medicine being what it is! Life isn’t easy, you know. Not at all easy. If only you didn’t grow old … that’s the worst part of it, you know, Monsieur Lanlaire. That’s the worst of all.’
Monsieur Lanlaire smiled and, making a vague gesture, replied philosophically:
‘Well, of course. But what d’you expect, old man? That’s life. We can none of us expect to be as strong as we used to be. That’s how things are.’
‘Sure enough, and the only thing is to make the best of it.’
‘There you are.’
‘The end’s the end, and that’s that. That’s the truth, isn’t it Monsieur Lanlaire?’
And after a pause, he added in a melancholy tone of voice: ‘We all have our worries, though, Monsieur Pantois.’
‘True enough …’
They fell silent. Marianne was cutting up herbs. In the garden night was falling. The two huge sunflowers that you could see through the open door were losing their colour, drowned in shadow. And old Pantois was still eating. His glass was empty. Monsieur Lanlaire filled it, and suddenly descending from his metaphysical heights he asked,
‘And what are they fetching this year, rose bushes?’
‘The roses, Monsieur Lanlaire? Well, this year, taking them by and large, rose trees are worth about twenty-two francs a hundred. It’s a bit dear, I know. But I can’t make it any less, and that’s God’s truth!’
Like a generous man who feels himself to be above all questions of money, Monsieur Lanlaire interrupted the old fellow, who was on the point of entering into detailed explanations to justify himself.
‘That’s all right, Monsieur Pantois … I quite understand. Have I ever bargained with you? I tell you what, I’ll give you twenty-five francs a hundred instead of twenty-two. How’s that?’
‘Oh you’re too good, Monsieur Lanlaire.’
‘No, no, I’m simply being fair. I’m all on the side of the labouring man, damn it all!’
And banging his fist on the table he went on: ‘What did I say? Twenty-five francs? Hell, no. I’ll pay you thirty francs … you understand, Monsieur Pantois, thirty francs?’
The old man raised his poor, astonished, grateful eyes towards Monsieur Lanlaire.
‘I heard all right … It’s a real pleasure to work for you, Monsieur Lanlaire. You know what work is …’
Monsieur Lanlaire cut short his thanks, and went on:
‘And I’ll pay you …now let’s see … today’s Tuesday. I’ll pay you on Sunday. How does that suit you? I’ll bring it over to you … it will be an excuse for a little shooting. Agreed?’
The light of gratitude shining in the old man’s eyes died away. He was troubled and upset, and had stopped eating.
‘Well, yes, but …’ he said timidly. ‘But if you could manage to settle up tonight? That’ll help me a lot, Monsieur Lanlaire. And I’d be satisfied with twenty-two francs.’
‘You’re joking, Monsieur Pantois,’ the master replied with superb assurance. ‘Of course I’ll pay you straight away, if that’s what you want, good God. I was only thinking that it might be an excuse to come over and see you.’
He felt in his trouser pockets, patted his jacket and waistcoat and then, with an appearance of surprise, exclaimed: ‘Well, there now! It looks as though I haven’t got any change on me, nothing but confounded 1,000-franc notes.’ And, with a forced and really sinister laugh, he asked: ‘I wouldn’t mind betting you haven’t got change for 1,000 francs, Monsieur Pantois?’
Seeing that Monsieur Lanlaire was laughing, old Pantois thought it was only proper for him to do the same, and he replied gaily:
‘Ha, ha, ha! Why I’ve never so much as seen one of those confounded notes.’
‘Right then, I’ll see you on Sunday!’ Monsieur Lanlaire concluded. He poured himself out some cider, and was clinking glasses with Monsieur Pantois, when Madame, whom no one had heard approaching, entered the kitchen like a gust of wind. Oh, you should have seen her face when she caught sight of the master, seated beside the poor old man and drinking with him!
‘What’s the meaning of this?’ she said, her lips white with anger.
Monsieur Lanlaire could only stammer and stutter: ‘It’s the rose trees … You know, my love … Monsieur Pantois has brought me some rose trees. All of ours were taken by the frost …’
‘I didn’t order any rose trees. We don’t need rose trees here,’ she said in a cutting tone of voice.
And that was all. Then she turned on her heel and went out, slamming the door. In her anger she had not even noticed me. The master and the poor old man, who had both risen to their feet, remained awkwardly staring at the door through which Madame had just disappeared. Then they looked at each other, still not daring to say a word. Monsieur Lanlaire was the first to break this painful silence.
‘Right, then, till Sunday, Monsieur Pantois.’
‘Till Sunday, Monsieur Lanlaire.’
‘And see you take care of yourself, Monsieur Pantois.’
‘And you, Monsieur Lanlaire.’
‘Thirty francs then … I shan’t go back on my word …
‘That’s very kind of you, sir.’
And the old man, with his bowed back and trembling legs, opened the door and was swallowed up in the darkness of the garden.
The poor master … I bet he was in for a good dressing-down. And as for old Pantois, if he ever gets those thirty francs, well, he’ll be lucky.
I’m not saying that Madame was right, but I think it was wrong of the master to be on such familiar terms with someone so much beneath him. That’s not the way to behave.
I quite realize he doesn’t have much of a life either, and has to make the best he can of it, which is not always so easy. If he gets home late from shooting, soaked through and covered with mud and whistling to keep his courage up, he can be sure the mistress will be waiting for him.
‘This is a nice way to behave, leaving me alone all day like this …’
‘But you know, darling …’
‘Shut up.’
And she sulks at him for hours on end, hard-faced and with a nasty expression on her mouth, while he runs after her, trembling with fear and murmuring excuses: ‘But darling, you know very well…’
‘Leave me alone for heaven’s sake! You’ll drive me mad!’
So naturally, next day the master stays at home. But that doesn’t suit her either.
‘Why can’t you find something to do, instead of roaming about the place like a lost soul?’
‘But darling …’
‘You’d be much better out of doors. Why don’t you go shooting? You exasperate me. You get on my nerves. For goodness sake, be off with you!’
With the result that he never knows what to do, whether to go out shooting or stay at home. It’s difficult for him, but as Madame does nothing but nag him whichever he does, he clears out as often as possible. That way, at least he doesn’t have to listen to her shouting at him … Really, you can’t help feeling sorry for him!
The other morning, as I was going to spread some washing on the hedge, I saw him in the garden. He was actually gardening … during the night the wind had blown down some dahlias, and he was staking them.
Quite often, when he doesn’t go shooting before lunch Monsieur Lanlaire does some gardening—at least he pretends to be doing something, messing about in the flower beds. It means he escapes for a bit from the boredom of being indoors, and there’s no one to row at him. As soon as he gets away from Madame, he’s another man, his whole face lights up and his eyes shine. His naturally gay nature gets the upper hand. Really he’s not at all an unpleasant man. Though he scarcely talks to me any more indoors, and pretends not to notice me, outside he never fails to say a pleasant word or two … once he’s made sure, of course, that Madame isn’t spying on us. If he’s afraid to speak, he just looks at me with eyes that are more eloquent than words. It amuses me to excite him in every sort of way, and, though I’ve not yet definitely made up my mind about him, to make a real appeal to his feelings. As I passed him in the alley, he was working, stooped over his dahlias, with his mouth full of raffia. I said to him without stopping: ‘I see you’re hard at work this morning, sir.’
‘Yes,’ he replied ‘These damned dahlias, you see …’ He was inviting me to stop for a minute.
‘Well, Célestine, I hope that by this time you’ve begun to settle down!’
Always the same question, always the same difficulty in finding something to talk about. To please him, I replied with a smile:
‘Oh yes, sir, I’m certainly beginning to.’
‘Fine! That’s not so bad … not bad at all.’
He stood up to his full height and looking at me very tenderly, repeated, ‘Not bad at all,’ thus giving himself time to think of something more interesting to say. He removed the raffia from his mouth, tied it around one of the canes and, standing with his legs apart and both hands on his hips, and with a frankly lascivious look in his eyes, exclaimed: ‘I wouldn’t mind betting you Célestine, that you used to get up to some nice tricks in Paris, what? Didn’t you, now?’
This was quite unexpected, and I could scarcely help laughing. But I modestly dropped my eyes and, pretending to be annoyed and trying to blush in a seemly manner, I exclaimed with a reproachful air: ‘Oh, sir!’
‘What’s wrong?’ he insisted. ‘A fine-looking girl like you … and with those eyes! You used to have some fun all right, don’t tell me. Damn it, I’m all for people amusing themselves. I believe in love!’
He was getting strangely worked up. I recognized the signs of physical excitement. He was on fire … his eyes were blazing with desire. I thought it was about time to cool him off a bit, and, in a dry but at the same time very lofty tone of voice I said:
‘You’re mistaken, sir. You’re not talking to your other chambermaids. You should realize that I’m a decent girl, sir.’ And in a very dignified voice, just to show how much his behaviour had upset me, I added:
‘It would serve you right, sir, if I were to complain to the mistress …’ and I made as though to leave him.
He quickly caught hold of my arm and muttered: ‘No, no.’
How I managed to get through all this without exploding, how I managed to stifle the laughter that was almost choking me I really don’t know. Monsieur Lanlaire looked absolutely absurd. Livid, his mouth wide open, his whole appearance expressing simultaneously stupefaction and fear, he was reduced to silence and could only scratch the back of his neck.
Nearby there was an old pear tree, with twisted branches covered with lichen and moss, from which a few pears hung within reach. From the top of a chestnut tree a single magpie was chattering ironically. Crouched behind the boxwood border the cat was playing with a bumble bee. For Monsieur Lanlaire the silence was becoming more and more painful. At last, after the most strenuous efforts, efforts that caused him to pull the most grotesque faces, he asked:
‘Do you like pears, Célestine?’
‘Yes, sir.’ But I did not lower my guard, and my reply expressed a haughty indifference. Afraid of being caught by his wife, he hesitated for a moment, then suddenly, like a boy stealing apples, picked a pear and handed it to me. Oh, it was pathetic! His legs were almost giving way under him, and his hand was trembling.
‘Here, Célestine, hide that in your apron … She doesn’t let you have these in the kitchen, does she?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Right, well I’ll give you some more … some time … Because … because … I want you to be happy here.’
The sincerity and strength of his feeling, his awkwardness, his clumsy gestures, his frightened words, and also his male strength, all this touched me. I softened the expression of my voice, veiled the hardness of my eyes, and in a voice that was at once ironical and caressing, I said:
‘Oh, sir! What if Madame were to see you?’
He was still agitated, but as we were separated from the house by a thick screen of chestnut trees he pulled himself together, and seeing that I had become less severe, he explained boastfully, making extravagant gestures with his hands.
‘So what? … Madame indeed? What do I care about Madame? After all, she’s no right to be always plaguing me … I’ve had just about enough of Madame, more than enough …’
Gravely I said: ‘You shouldn’t say such things, sir. You’re not being fair. The mistress is a very kind woman.’
‘Very kind?’ he exclaimed. ‘Her? Oh my God! But don’t you realize she’s spoilt my whole life? I’m not a man any more. I’m just nothing at all … no one around here gives a damn for me, and all because of my wife. She’s a … she’s a … yes, Célestine, she’s a cow, a cowl’
I began to lecture him, speaking gently, hypocritically praising Madame’s energy and orderliness, all her domestic virtues. But my praises of her only exasperated him more.
‘No, no, she’s a cow, a cow!’
However I managed to calm him down. Poor master! It was simply marvellous how easy it was to do anything I liked with him. With a mere glance I could transform his wrath into tenderness. Presently he stammered: ‘Oh you’re so kind … you’re so nice! You must be such a good woman, whereas that cow …’
‘Come, come, sir!’
He stopped short. Heartbroken, shamefaced, completely at a loss, he just didn’t know what to do with his hands or eyes. He stood staring at the ground, at the old pear tree, at the garden, without seeing a thing. Utterly defeated, he began untying the raffia from the cane, stooped once more over the fallen dahlias, and in a suppliant, infinitely sad voice, murmured: