"Oh! you naughty girl!" and "It is over, do I not tell you it is over?" And they went away to have a little fete at the restaurant, and the next day arose very late, much fatigued. I at once understood the farce that the two poor actors were playing for themselves. And, when they threatened to leave each other, I knew very well that they were not sincere.
They were riveted to each other,—he by his interest, she by her vanity.
Monsieur clung to Madame's money, Madame held fast to Monsieur's name and title.
But, as in reality they detested each other, precisely because of this dupe's bargain that bound them, they felt the need of saying so to each other from time to time, and of giving to their disappointment, their spite, and their contempt an expression as base as their souls.
"What are such lives good for?" said I to William.
"For Baby!" answered William, who, under all circumstances, found the accurate and final word.
For immediate and material proof he drew from his pocket a magnificent cigar, pinched that very morning, carefully cut off the tip, and then, lighting it with satisfaction and tranquillity, declared, between two fragrant whiffs:
"One should never complain of the stupidity of his masters, my little Celestine. It is the only guarantee of happiness that we servants have. The more stupid the masters, the more fortunate the servants. Go and get me the fine champagne."
Half stretched out in a rocking-chair, with legs cocked up and crossed, with the cigar in his mouth, and a bottle of old Martell within reach of his hand, he slowly and methodically unfolded the "Autorite," and said, with admirable good nature:
"You see, my little Celestine, one must be stronger than the people whom one serves. That is the whole secret. God knows whether Cassagnac is a terrible man. God knows whether his ideas suit me to a T, and whether I admire this tall devil. Well, do you know?
I would not like to be his servant,—not for anything in the world. And what I say of Cassagnac I say also of Edgar.
Remember this, and try to profit by it.
To serve in the houses of intelligent people who are 'on to us' is to be duped, my little pet."
And, enjoying his cigar, he added, after a silence:
"When I think that there are servants who pass their lives in running down their masters, in annoying them and threatening them! What brutes! When I think that there are some who would like to kill them! Kill them!
And what then?
Do we kill the cow that gives us milk, and the sheep that gives us wool? No, we milk the cow, and shear the sheep ... skilfully ... gently."
And he silently plunged into the mysteries of conservative politics.
Meanwhile Eugenie was prowling around the kitchen, amorous and flabby. She did her work mechanically, like a somnambulist, far from the people up-stairs, far from us, far from herself, with no eye for their follies or ours, and with silent words of sorrowful admiration always on her lips.
"Your little mouth, your little hands, your big eyes!"
All this often saddened me,—I don't know why,—saddened me to the point of tears. Yes, this strange house, in which all the beings in it, the silent old butler, William, and myself, seemed to me disquieting, empty, and dismal, like phantoms, sometimes filled me with unspeakable and oppressive melancholy. The last scene that I witnessed was particularly droll.
One morning Monsieur entered the dressing-room at the moment when Madame was trying on a new corset in my presence, a frightful mauve satin corset with yellow flowerets and yellow silk lacings.
Madame's taste will never choke her.
"What?" said Madame, in a tone of gay reproach.
"Is that the way one enters women's rooms, without knocking?"
"Oh! women?" chirped Monsieur.
"In the first place, you are not women."
"I am not women?
What am I, then?"
Monsieur rounded his lips,—My! what a stupid air he had!—and very tenderly, or pretending tenderness, he buzzed:
"Why! you are my wife, my little wife, my pretty little wife. There is no harm in entering the room of one's little wife, I suppose."
When Monsieur played the imbecile lover, it was because he wanted to get some money out of Madame. She, still suspicious, replied:
"Yes, there is harm."
And she minced:
"Your little wife? Your little wife? It is not so sure that I am your little wife."
"What! It is not so sure?"
"Indeed, one never knows.
Men are so queer."
"I tell you, you are my little wife,—my dear, my only little wife ... ah!"
"And you ... my baby ... my big baby ... his little wife's only big baby ... na!"
I was lacing Madame, who, with bare arms raised, was looking into the mirror.
And I had a great desire to laugh.
How they tired me with their "little wife" and their "big baby"!
What a stupid air they both had!
After picking up skirts, stockings, and towels, and disturbing brushes, jars, and bottles, Monsieur took a fashion journal which was lying on the dressing-table, and sat down on a sort of plush-covered stool. He asked:
"Is there a rebus in this number?"
"Yes, I think there is a rebus."
"Have you guessed it?"
"No, I have not guessed it."
"Ah! ah! let's have a look at it."