So that I too, my stomach turned by drink, and my heart moved by Marianne's tears, began to sob like a Madeleine. All the same, she is not a bad girl.
But I am getting tired here; I am getting tired; I am getting tired.
I should like to get a place in the house of some member of the demi-monde, or else in America. _____
VI
October 1.
Poor Monsieur!
I believe that I was too sharp with him the other day, in the garden.
Perhaps I went further than I should.
He is such a simpleton that he imagines that he has given me serious offence, and that my virtue is impregnable.
Oh! his humiliated, imploring looks, which never cease to ask my pardon!
Although I have become more teasing and agreeable, he says no more to me about the matter, and cannot make up his mind to try a new direct attack,—not even the classic device of a button to be sewed on a pair of pantaloons.
A clumsy device, but one that does not often fail of its effect.
My God! how many such buttons have I sewed on!
And yet it is plain that he desires me,—that he is dying of desire, more and more. The least of his words betrays a confession, an indirect confession of his desire; and what a confession!
But he is also more and more timid; he is afraid to come to a decision.
He fears that it might bring about a definite rupture, and he no longer trusts in my encouraging looks.
On one occasion, approaching me with a strange expression, with a sort of haggard look in his eyes, he said to me:
"Celestine ... you ... you ... black ... my shoes ... very well ... very ... very ... well ... Never ... have ... my ... shoes ... been blacked ... like that."
Then I expected the button trick.
But no! Monsieur gasped and slobbered as if he had eaten a pear that was too big and juicy.
Then he whistled for his dog, and started off.
But here is something stronger.
Yesterday Madame had gone to market,—for she does her own marketing. Monsieur had been out since dawn, with his gun and his dog.
He came back early, having killed three thrushes, and immediately went up to his dressing-room to take a tub and dress, as usual.
Oh, for that matter, Monsieur is very clean, and he is not afraid of water.
I thought it a favorable opportunity to try something that might at last put him at his ease with me.
Leaving my work, I started for the dressing-room, and for a few seconds I stood there listening, with my ear glued to the door.
Monsieur was walking back and forth in his room. He was whistling and singing: Et allez donc, Mam'zelle Suzon!... Et ron, ronron ... petit patapon ... A habit that he has of mingling a number of refrains when singing.
I heard chairs moving about, cupboards opening and closing, and then the water streaming into the tub, and the "Ahs" and "Ohs" and "Fuuiis" and "Brrrs" which the shock of the cold water wrung from Monsieur.
Then, suddenly, I opened the door.
Monsieur stood facing me, shivering, with wet skin, and the sponge in his hands running like a fountain. Oh! his head, his eyes! he seemed to stand transfixed.
I think I never saw a man so astounded.
Having nothing with which to cover his body, with a gesture instinctively modest and comical he used the sponge as a fig-leaf.
It required great strength of will on my part to suppress the laugh which this spectacle loosened within me.
I noticed that Monsieur had thick tufts of hair on his shoulders, and that his chest was like a bear's.
But my! he is a fine man, all the same.
Naturally, I uttered a cry of alarmed modesty, as was proper, and closed the door again violently.
But, once outside the door, I said to myself:
"Surely he will call me back; and what is going to happen then?"
I waited some minutes.
Not a sound,—except the crystalline sound of a drop of water falling, from time to time, into the tub.
"He is reflecting," thought I; "he does not dare to come to a decision; but he will call me back." In vain. Soon the water streamed again.
Then I heard Monsieur wiping and rubbing himself, and clearing his throat; old slippers dragged over the floor; chairs moved about, and cupboards opened and closed. Finally Monsieur began again to sing: Et allez donc, Mam'zelle Suzon!... Et ron, ronron ... petit patapon ...
"No, really, he is too stupid!" I murmured, in a low voice, furiously spiteful.
And I went back to the linen-room, firmly resolved to take no further pity on him.
In the afternoon Monsieur kept revolving around me, in an absent-minded way.
He joined me in the yard, whither I had gone to throw some refuse on the muck-heap.
And as I, for the sake of laughing a little at his embarrassment, apologized for what had happened in the morning, he whispered:
"That is nothing, that is nothing; on the contrary."
He tried to detain me, stammering I know not what.