‘Have you any others?’ he asked after a short silence during which it seemed to me that his eyes had become strangely brilliant.
‘Other names, sir?’
‘No, my dear, boots,’ and he kept licking his lips with the tip of his pointed tongue in the way cats do.
I did not answer immediately. I was amazed by this reference to boots, which reminded me of what that rascally coachman had said to me. What was behind it? After M. Rabour had put the question again I managed to reply, but I was flustered and my voice sounded hoarse like it does when you have to confess to the priest that you have committed sins of the flesh.
‘Yes, sir, I have some others.’
‘Polished ones?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Properly polished?’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Good, good. Have you a brown pair?’
‘No, sir.’
‘But you must have brown ones. I shall give you a pair.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Good, good. Not another word.’
I was frightened, for a troubled look had come into his eyes, which were bloodshot with excitement, and drops of sweat were running down his forehead. Thinking he was going to faint, I was on the point of calling for help, but the crisis passed over and after some minutes he managed to say in a quieter voice, though there were still traces of froth at the corners of his mouth:
‘It was nothing … it’s all over … You must understand, my dear … I am a bit of a crank. But at my age that’s not extraordinary, is it? For one thing, you see, I don’t think it’s right for women to have to clean boots, especially not mine. I have a great respect for women, Marie, and I won’t allow it. So
I
shall clean yours … your dear, sweet little boots.
I
shall look after them. Now, listen carefully. At night, before you go to bed, you will bring your boots to my room and put them on the little table beside my bed, and in the morning, when you come to draw the curtains, you will take them away again.’
And as I appeared utterly amazed, he added:
‘Come now, that’s not such a tremendous thing to ask, is it? After all, it’s quite natural, and if you’re very good …’ He quickly took a couple of louis from his pocket and handed them to me.
‘If you’re really nice, really obedient, I shall often give you such little presents. The housekeeper will pay you your wages each month. But I shall often give you little presents, ‘Marie … just between you and me. And what do I expect in return? Come now, it’s nothing so extraordinary. Is it really so extraordinary, my God?’
He was getting worked up again, and all the time he was speaking his eyelids kept fluttering like leaves in a gale.
‘Why don’t you say anything Marie? Speak to me … Don’t just stand there—walk about a little so that I can see your little boots moving, coming to life …’ He suddenly knelt down, kissed my boots, stroked them feverishly with his finger-tips, and began to unlace them. Then, still kissing and caressing them, he said in a plaintive voice like a child about to burst into tears:
‘Oh, Marie, Marie, your little boots. Let me take them at once, at once. I want them now, straight away. Give me them!’
I felt completely powerless, stupified with amazement scarcely knowing whether I was really alive or simply dreaming. All I could see of Monsieur Rabour’s eyes were two little white globes, streaked with red, and his whole mouth was covered with a kind of white froth. In the end he took my boots off to his bedroom, where he shut himself up for the next couple of hours.
‘The master is very pleased with you,’ said the housekeeper, as she showed me over the house. ‘You must try to keep things that way. You’ll find you have a good place here.’
Four days later, when I went to his room at the usual time to draw the curtains, I almost fainted with horror. Monsieur Rabour was dead. He was lying on his back in the middle of the bed, his body almost completely naked, and one could sense immediately the stiffness of a corpse. The bedclothes were scarcely disturbed. There was no sign of a struggle, not the slightest trace of a convulsive death agony, of clenched hands straining to fight off death. Except for the hideous colour of his face, the sinister purple of aubergines, you would have thought he was asleep. But a ghastly sight, worse even than his face, made me tremble with fear. Clenched between his teeth was one of my boots, so firmly gripped that, having tried in vain to prise it loose, I was obliged to cut away the leather with a razor.
Now I don’t profess to be a saint. I have known plenty of men and experienced at first-hand all the crazy and filthy things they are capable of. But men like this! No, really, such types shouldn’t be allowed to exist. What on earth makes them want to think up such horrible things, when it’s so nice, so simple to make love properly like everyone else?
I feel pretty sure that nothing of this kind is going to happen to me here. They are obviously quite a different sort of people. Though whether they will turn out to be any better remains to be seen.
One thing does really worry me, however. Perhaps I should have chucked up this beastly job for good … taken the plunge and swapped a skivvy’s life for a tart’s, like so many of the girls I have known; girls who have ‘fewer advantages’ than me, even if I do say it myself. Though I am not what you’d call pretty, I have got something better than that: an appeal, a style, that plenty of society women and plenty of tarts have often envied me. A bit on the tall side, perhaps, but slim and well-made, with lovely fair hair and fine, deep blue eyes, saucy and enticing, and a bold mouth—and on top of that a sort of originality, a turn of mind at once lively and languorous, that men like. I could have been a success. But, apart from the fact that through my own fault I have missed some stunning opportunities that probably won’t occur again, I’ve always been afraid; afraid, because you never know how things are going to turn out. I’ve come across so much wretchedness amongst such women … listened to such heartbreaking confidences! All those tragic visits to the hospital, that no one can hope to escape for ever. And, in the end, the sheer hell of St Lazare. The very thought of it is enough to give you the shivers. Besides, who knows whether I should have had as much success as a tart as I’ve had as a chambermaid? We have a special kind of attraction for men, that does not depend merely upon ourselves, however pretty we may be. It’s partly a question, I realize, of the surroundings we live in—of the background of luxury and depravity, of our mistresses and the desire that they arouse. When men fall for us, it is partly our mistresses, and even more their mystery, that they are in love with.
And there’s another thing. In spite of the free and easy life I have led, I have always fortunately had a very sincere religious feeling, that has saved me from going too far, held me back from the brink of the abyss. Oh, if it weren’t for religion, for being able to go and pray in church on those dreary evenings when you feel morally down and out, if it weren’t for the Blessed Virgin and St Anthony of Padua and all the rest of them, life would certainly be a great deal more miserable, that’s certain. Without them, the devil alone knows what would become of you, or how far you would let yourself go.
Besides, and this is more serious, I haven’t the slightest defence against men. I should always be sacrificing myself to my own open-heartedness and their pleasure. I am altogether too pleasure-loving … Yes, I enjoy making love too much to be able to make a living from it. I can’t help it, but I couldn’t ask a man for money when he had just given me such happiness, opened the radiant gates of ecstasy for me. They only have to begin talking to me, the monsters, and directly I feel the warmth of their breath and the pricking of their beard on the back of my neck, it’s no use. I just go as limp as a rag, and they can do what they like with me …
So, here I am, at The Priory … waiting for what? Heavens above, I haven’t the slightest idea. The most sensible thing would be not to think about it, but just wait and see what turns up. That way, perhaps, things work out best in the long run. Provided that tomorrow, at one word from the mistress and pursued by the pitiless bad luck that never leaves me, I don’t have to chuck up the job once again. That would be a pity. For some time now I’ve been getting pains in the back of my stomach, my whole body feels worn out. My digestion’s upset, and I’m losing my memory, and I’ve been getting more and more nervy and irritable. Just now, looking at myself in the glass, my face seemed to have a really fagged-out look and my complexion—the high complexion I’m so proud of—was as white as a sheet. Can it be that I’m getting old already? I don’t want that to happen. But in Paris it’s so difficult to look after oneself properly. There’s no time for anything. Life is too feverish, too hurried—one is always in contact with too many people, too many things, too much pleasure, too many surprises. Yet you have to keep going just the same. Here, everything is so peaceful … And the silence! The air you breathe ought to be healthy and do you good. Oh if only I could relax a little, even if it does mean being bored to tears.
But the fact is I don’t feel at all sure of myself. True, the mistress is quite nice to me. She was good enough to compliment me on my appearance, and to congratulate herself on the references she had received; though I don’t like to think what she’d say if she knew they were false, or at best, just an act of kindness. What surprised her most is that I am so elegant. Of course, to begin with, they’re nearly always pleasant to you, the bitches. The newer the better, as they say. But before long the atmosphere begins to change—and that’s another story we also know. Besides, she has cold, hard eyes that I don’t fancy at all … the eyes of a miser, and as suspicious as a policeman’s. I don’t like her lips, either: thin and dry and covered with a white film. Nor the sharp, cutting way she has of speaking, that makes even a friendly word sound almost insulting or humiliating. All the time she was cross-questioning me, enquiring about my aptitudes and my past life, she was watching me like an old custom’s officer, with that calm, sly impertinence they all have.
‘Sure enough,’ I said to myself, ‘she’s another of these lockers-up. I bet she counts how many lumps of sugar and how many grapes are left and, before she goes to bed, marks all the bottles. Oh well, it’s just the same for a change!’
Still, I must wait and see, and not allow myself to be too much influenced by first impressions. Among so many mouths that have spoken to me, so many eyes that have tried to peer into my soul, perhaps—who can tell?—I shall one day find a friendly mouth and compassionate eyes. Anyhow, it costs nothing to go on hoping.
As soon as I arrived, still dazed after travelling for four hours in a third-class railway carriage, and without anyone in the kitchen even thinking of offering me a slice of bread and butter, Madame took me all over the house, from the cellars to the attics, to show me ‘what was expected of me.’ She certainly doesn’t mean to waste either her time or mine. Oh, what a huge house it is, and every nook and cranny stuffed with furniture. To look after it properly would need at least four servants. In addition to the very large ground floor, which is extended on either side of the terrace by two little pavilions, there are two more storeys, so that I shall be continually running up and downstairs. Madame, who has a small sitting-room near the dining-room, has had the brilliant idea of putting the linen-room, where I shall be working, right under the rafters, next to our bedrooms. And then all the cupboards and wardrobes and drawers and storerooms, packed with every kind of junk—you can have the lot as far as I’m concerned, for I shall never be able to find my way about.
Every few seconds Madame would point to something and say: ‘You must take great care of that, my girl… That’s very pretty, my girl … That’s very rare, my girl … That cost a great deal, my girl.’
Of course she couldn’t just use my name. Instead, she kept on with her everlasting ‘my girl this … my girl that,’ in that overbearing, hurtful tone of voice that is so disheartening, and sets such a distance, so much hatred, between us and our mistresses. After all, I don’t call her ‘my good woman.’ And then this beastly habit she has of insisting that everything is ‘very expensive.’ It’s infuriating. Everything that belongs to her, even the most miserable tuppenny-ha’penny things, is ‘very expensive.’ These women are so houseproud, you never know what they will find to boast about next … It’s pitiful … After explaining to me how an oil lamp worked, just an ordinary lamp like any other, she insisted:
‘You know, my girl, this lamp cost a great deal of money, and if it needs repairing it has to be sent to England. So treasure it like the apple of your eye.’
I should like to have replied: ‘So what, old girl? How about your chamber-pot? Did that cost a great deal? Do you have to send that to London when it gets cracked?’
No, really, they’ve got a nerve, making such a fuss about nothing. And when I think that it’s simply to humiliate and impress you!
After all, the house isn’t all that grand … nothing to write home about, really. From the outside, standing amongst big clumps of trees and with the garden sloping gently down to the river and laid out in huge rectangular lawns, it does have a certain distinction. But inside … it’s old and rickety and gloomy, and smells as though the windows were never opened. I can’t understand how anybody can live in it. Nothing but poky little rooms, awkward wooden stairs that shake and creak when you tread on them and where you could easily break your neck, and long dark passages where, instead of fine, thick carpets, there are only badly-laid red tiles, polished again and again till they’re as slippery as ice. The walls between the rooms are too thin, made of wood so dried out that the rooms echo like the inside of a violin. Proper country style. And the furniture certainly isn’t up to Paris standards. Room after room filled with old mahogany, old moth-eaten curtains, old worn-out, faded carpets, ridiculously uncomfortable armchairs and old worm-eaten sofas with no springs. How they must make your shoulders ache and take the skin off your backside! Just imagine, and me so fond of bright colours, and huge, springy divans where you can stretch out voluptuously on piles of cushions, and all the pretty furniture you can get nowadays, so luxurious and rich and gay. All this dreary gloom makes me feel melancholy. I’m afraid I shall never get used to such a lack of comfort and elegance, to all these crumbling antiques and old-fashioned designs …