"Let me give you my address, at any rate. When your heart speaks,—well, you will have only to come. Oh! I am perfectly confident. And to-morrow I am going to announce you to the president of the republic."
We had finished drinking.
The old woman settled for the two glasses, and took from a little black pocket-book a card, which she slyly slipped into my hand.
When she had gone, I looked at the card, and I read:
MADAME REBECCA RANVET
Millinery
At Mme. Paulhat-Durand's I witnessed some extraordinary scenes.
As I cannot describe them all, unfortunately, I select one to serve as an example of what goes on daily in this house.
I have said that the upper part of the partition separating the ante-room from the bureau consists of a strip of glass covered with transparent curtains.
In the middle of the strip is a casement-window, ordinarily closed.
One day I noticed that, by some oversight, of which I resolved to take advantage, it had been left partly open. Putting a small stool upon the bench, I stood upon it, and thus succeeded in touching with my chin the frame of the casement-window, which I softly pushed. I was thus enabled to look into the room, and here is what I saw.
A lady was seated in an arm-chair; a chambermaid was standing in front of her; in the corner Mme. Paulhat-Durand was distributing some cards among the compartments of a drawer. The lady had come from Fontainebleau in search of a servant. She may have been fifty years old. In appearance a rich and rough bourgeoise, dressed soberly, provincial in her austerity.
The maid, puny and sickly, with a complexion that had been made livid by poor food and lack of food, had nevertheless a sympathetic face, which, under more fortunate circumstances, would perhaps have been pretty.
She was very clean and trim in a black skirt. A black jersey moulded her thin form, and on her head she wore a linen cap, prettily set back, revealing her brow and her curly brown hair.
After a detailed, sustained, offensive, aggressive examination, the lady at last made up her mind to speak.
"Then," said she, "you offer yourself as ... what? As a chambermaid?"
"Yes, Madame."
"You do not look like one. What is your name?"
"Jeanne Le Godec."
"What did you say?"
"Jeanne Le Godec, Madame." The lady shrugged her shoulders. "Jeanne," she exclaimed. "That is not a servant's name; that is a name for a young girl. If you enter my service, you do not expect, I suppose, to keep this name Jeanne?" "As Madame likes." Jeanne had lowered her head, and was leaning with her two hands on the handle of her umbrella. "Raise your head," ordered the lady; "stand up straight. Don't you see you are making a hole in the carpet with the point of your umbrella? Where do you come from?" "From Saint-Brieuc." "From Saint-Brieuc!" And she gave a pout of disdain that quickly turned into a frightful grimace. The corners of her mouth and eyes contracted, as if she had swallowed a glass of vinegar. "From Saint-Brieuc!" she repeated. "Then you are a Breton? Oh! I do not like the Bretons. They are obstinate and dirty." "I am very clean, Madame," protested the poor Jeanne. "You say so. However, we haven't reached that yet. How old are you?" "Twenty-six." "Twenty-six? Not counting the nursing months, no doubt? You look much older. It is not worth while to deceive me." "I am not deceiving Madame. I assure Madame I am only twenty-six. If I look older, it is because I have been sick a long time." "Oh! you have been sick?" replied the bourgeoise, in a voice of sneering severity. "Oh! you have been sick a long time? I warn you, my girl, that the place, though not a very hard one, is of some importance, and that I must have a woman of very good health." Jeanne tried to repair her imprudent words. She declared: "Oh! I am cured, quite cured." "That is your affair. Moreover, we haven't reached that yet. You are married or single, which? What are you?" "I am a widow, Madame." "Ah! You have no child, I suppose?" And, as Jeanne did not answer directly, the lady insisted, more sharply: "Say, have you children, yes or no?" "I have a little girl," she confessed, timidly. Then, making grimaces and gestures as if she were scattering a lot of flies, she cried: "Oh! no child in the house; no child in the house; not under any consideration. Where is your little girl?" "She is with my husband's aunt." "And what is this aunt?" "She keeps a wine-shop in Rouen." "A deplorable calling. Drunkenness and debauchery,—that is a pretty example for a little girl! However, that concerns you, that is your affair. How old is your little girl?" "Eighteen months, Madame." Madame gave a start, and turned violently in her arm-chair. This was too much for her; she was scandalized. A sort of growl escaped from her lips. "Children! Think of it! Children, when one cannot bring them up, or have them at home! These people are incorrigible; the devil is in their bodies!" Becoming more and more aggressive, and even ferocious, she addressed herself to Jeanne again, who stood trembling before her gaze. "I warn you," said she, enunciating each word separately, "I warn you that, if you enter my service, I will not allow you to bring your little girl to my house. No goings and comings in the house; I want no goings and comings in the house. No, no. No strangers, no vagabonds, no unknown people. One is exposed quite enough with the ordinary run of callers. Oh! no, thank you!" In spite of this declaration, which was not very prepossessing, the little servant dared to ask, nevertheless: "In that case, Madame surely will permit me to go and see my little girl, once a year,—just once a year!" "No." Such was the reply of the implacable bourgeoise. And she added: "My servants never go out. It is the principle of the house,—a principle on which I am not willing to compromise. I do not pay domestics that they may make the round of doubtful resorts, under pretence of going to see their daughters. That would be really too convenient. No, no. You have recommendations?" "Yes, Madame."
She drew from her pocket a paper in which were wrapped some recommendations, yellow, crumpled, and soiled; and she silently handed them to Madame, with a trembling hand. Madame, with the tips of her fingers, as if to avoid soiling them, and with grimaces of disgust, unfolded one, which she began to read aloud: "'I certify that the girl J'...." Suddenly interrupting herself, she cast an atrocious look at Jeanne, who was growing more anxious and troubled. "'The girl'? It plainly says 'girl.' Then you are not married? You have a child, and you are not married? What does that mean?" The servant explained. "I ask Madame's pardon. I have been married for three years, and this recommendation was written six years ago. Madame can see the date for herself." "Well, that is your affair." And she resumed her reading of the recommendation.
"... 'that the girl Jeanne Le Godec has been in my service for thirteen months, and that I have no cause of complaint against her, on the score of work, behavior, and honesty.'
Yes, it is always the same thing. Recommendations that say nothing, that prove nothing. They give one no information. Where can one write to this lady?"
"She is dead."
"She is dead. To be sure, evidently she is dead. So you have a recommendation, and the very person who gave it to you is dead. You will confess that has a somewhat doubtful look."
All this was said with a very humiliating expression of suspicion, and in a tone of gross irony.
She took another recommendation.
"And this person?
She is dead, too, no doubt?"
"No, Madame. Mme. Robert is in Algeria with her husband, who is a colonel."
"In Algeria!" exclaimed the lady. "Naturally. How do you expect anybody to write to Algeria?
Some are dead, others are in Algeria. The idea of seeking information in Algeria!
This is all very extraordinary."
"But I have others, Madame," implored the unfortunate Jeanne Le Godec.
"Madame can see for herself. Madame can inform herself."
"Yes, yes!
I see you have many others. I see that you have been in many places,—much too many places. At your age, that is not very prepossessing!
Well, leave me your recommendations, and I will see. Now something else. What can you do?"
"I can do housework, sew, wait on table."
"Are you good at mending?"
"Yes, Madame."
"Do you know how to fatten poultry?"
"No, Madame. That is not my business."
"Your business, my girl," declared the lady, severely, "is to do what your masters tell you to do.
You must have a detestable character."
"Why, no, Madame. I am not at all inclined to talk back."
"Naturally. You say so; they all say so; and they are not to be touched with a pair of tongs. Well, let me see, I believe I have already told you that the place, while not particularly hard, is of some importance. The servants rise at five o'clock."
"In winter too?"
"In winter too. Yes, certainly. And why do you say: