Books: Monsieur, Madame and Bebe, v2
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Gustave Droz >> Monsieur, Madame and Bebe, v2
"Well, when one seeks to make a conquest--"
"How pretty you look, pet!"
"Is it true that you think me charming, pretty, and a pet this evening?
Well, then," lowering her eyes and smiling at her bracelets, "in that
case I do not see why--"
"What is it you do not see, dear?"
"I do not see any reason why you should not come and give me just a
little kiss."
And as the kiss was prolonged, she said to me, amid bursts of laughter,
her head thrown back, and showing the double row of her white teeth:
"I should like some pie; yes, some brie! You will break my Bohemian
glass, the result of my economy. You always cause some mishap when you
want to kiss me. Do you recollect at Madame de Brill's ball, two days
before our marriage, how you tore my skirt while waltzing in the little
drawing-room?"
"Because it is difficult to do two things at once-to keep step and to
kiss one's partner."
"I recollect, too, when mamma asked how my skirt had got torn, I felt
that I was blushing up to my ears. And Madame D., that old jaundiced
fairy, who said to me with her Lenten smile, 'How flushed you are
tonight, my dear child!' I could have strangled her! I said it was the
key of the door that had caught it. I looked at you out of the corner of
my eye; you were pulling your moustache and seemed greatly annoyed--you
are keeping all the truffles for yourself; that is kind--not that one;
I want the big black one there in the corner-it was very wrong all the
same, for--oh! not quite full--I do not want to be tipsy--for, after all,
if we had not been married--and that might have happened, for you know
they say that marriages only depend on a thread. Well, if the thread had
not been strong enough, I should have remained a maid with a kiss on my
shoulder, and a nice thing that would have been."
"Bah! it does not stain."
"Yes, Monsieur, it does, I beg your pardon. It stains so much that there
are husbands, I believe, who even shed their blood to wash out such
little stains."
"But I was joking, dear. Hang it!--don't you think--yes, certainly, hang
it!"
"Ah! that's right, I like to see you angry. You are a trifle jealous,
dear--oh! that is too bad; I asked you for the big black one, and you
have gone and eaten it."
"I am sorry, dear; I quite forgot about it."
"It was the same at the Town Hall, where I was obliged to jog your elbow
to make you answer 'Yes' to the Mayor's kind words."
"Kind!"
"Yes, kind. I thought him charming. No one could have been more
graceful than he was in addressing me. 'Mademoiselle, will you consent
to accept for your husband that great, ugly fellow standing beside you?'"
(Laughing, with her mouth full.) "I wanted to say to him, 'Let us come to
an understanding, Mr. Mayor; there is something to be said on either
side.' I am choking!"--she bursts out laughing-- "I was wrong not to
impose restrictions. Your health, dear! I am teasing you; it is very
stupid. I said 'Yes' with all my heart, I can assure you, dear, and I
thought the word too weak a one. When I think that all women, even the
worst, say that word, I feel ashamed not to have found another." Holding
out her glass: "To our golden wedding--will you touch glasses?"
"And to his baptism, little mamma."
In a low voice: "Tell me--are you sorry you married me?"
Laughing, "Yes." Kissing her on the shoulder, "I think I have found the
stain again; it was just there."
"It is two in the morning, the fire is out, and I am a little--you won't
laugh now? Well, I am a little dizzy."
"A capital pie, eh?"
"A capital pie! We shall have a cup of tea for breakfast tomorrow, shall
we not?"
CHAPTER XVIII
FROM ONE THING TO ANOTHER
SCENE.--The country in autumn--The wind is blowing without--MADAME,
seated by the fireside in a large armchair, is engaged in needlework
--MONSIEUR, seated in front of her, is watching the flames of the
fire--A long silence.
Monsieur--Will you pass me the poker, my dear?
Madame--(humming to herself)--"And yet despite so many fears." (Spoken.)
Here is the poker. (Humming.) "Despite the painful----"
Monsieur--That is by Mehul, is it not, my dear? Ah! that is music--I saw
Delaunay Riquier in Joseph. (He hums as he makes up the fire.) "Holy
pains." (Spoken.) One wonders why it does not burn, and, by Jove! it
turns out to be green wood. Only he was a little too robust--Riquier.
A charming voice, but he is too stout.
Madame--(holding her needlework at a distance, the better to judge of the
effect)--Tell me, George, would you have this square red or black? You
see, the square near the point. Tell me frankly.
Monsieur--(singing) "If you can repent." (Spoken without turning his
head.) Red, my dear; red. I should not hesitate; I hate black.
Madame--Yes, but if I make that red it will lead me to-- (She reflects.)
Monsieur--Well, my dear, if it leads you away, you must hold fast to
something to save yourself.
Madame--Come, George, I am speaking seriously. You know that if this
little square is red, the point can not remain violet, and I would not
change that for anything.
Monsieur--(slowly and seriously)--My dear, will you follow the advice of
an irreproachable individual, to whose existence you have linked your
fate? Well, make that square pea-green, and so no more about it. Just
look whether a coal fire ever looked like that.
Madame--I should only be too well pleased to use up my pea-green wool; I
have a quantity of it.
Monsieur--Then where lies the difficulty?
Madame--The difficulty is that pea-green is not sufficiently religious.
Monsieur--Hum! (Humming.) Holy pains! (Spoken.) Will you be kind enough
to pass the bellows? Would it be indiscreet to ask why the poor pea-
green, which does not look very guilty, has such an evil reputation? You
are going in for religious needlework, then, my dear?
Madame--Oh, George! I beg of you to spare me your fun. I have been
familiar with it for a long time, you know, and it is horribly
disagreeable to me. I am simply making a little mat for the
confessional-box of the vicar. There! are you satisfied? You know what
it is for, and you must understand that under the present circumstances
pea-green would be altogether out of place.
Monsieur--Not the least in the world. I can swear to you that I could
just as well confess with pea-green under my feet. It is true that I am
naturally of a resolute disposition. Use up your wool; I can assure you
that the vicar will accept it all the same. He does not know how to
refuse. (He plies the bellows briskly.)
Madame--You are pleased, are you not?
Monsieur--Pleased at what, dear?
Madame--Pleased at having vented your sarcasm, at having passed a jest on
one who is absent. Well, I tell you that you are a bad man, seeing that
you seek to shake the faith of those about you. My beliefs had need be
very fervent, principles strong, and have real virtue, to resist these
incessant attacks. Well, why are you looking at me like that?
Monsieur--I want to be converted, my little apostle. You are so pretty
when you speak out; your eyes glisten, your voice rings, your gestures--
I am sure that you could speak like that for a long time, eh? (He kisses
her hand, and takes two of her curls and ties them under hey chin.) You
are looking pretty, my pet.
Madame--Oh! you think you have reduced me to silence because you have
interrupted me. Ah! there, you have tangled my hair. How provoking you
are! It will take me an hour to put it right. You are not satisfied
with being a prodigy of impiety, but you must also tangle my hair. Come,
hold out your hands and take this skein of wool.
Monsieur--(sitting down on a stool, which he draws as closely as possible
to Madame, and holding up his hands) My little Saint John!
Madame--Not so close, George; not so close. (She smiles despite
herself.) How silly you are! Please be careful; you will break my wool.
Monsieur--Your religious wool.
Madame--Yes, my religious wool. (She gives him a little pat on the
cheek.) Why do you part your hair so much on one side, George? It would
suit you much better in the middle, here. Yes, you may kiss me, but
gently.
Monsieur--Can you guess what I am thinking of?
Madame--How do you imagine I could guess that?
Monsieur--Well, I am thinking of the barometer which is falling and of
the thermometer which is falling too.
Madame--You see, cold weather is coming on and my mat will never be
finished. Come, let us make haste.
Monsieur--I was thinking of the thermometer which is falling and of my
room which faces due north.
Madame--Did you not choose it yourself? My wool! Good gracious! my
wool! Oh! the wicked wretch!
Monsieur--In summer my room with the northern aspect is, no doubt, very
pleasant; but when autumn comes, when the wind creeps in, when the rain
trickles down the windowpanes, when the fields, the country, seem hidden
under a huge veil of sadness, when the spoils of our woodlands strew the
earth, when the groves have lost their mystery and the nightingale her
voice--oh! then the room with the northern aspect has a very northern
aspect, and--
Madame--(continuing to wind her wool)--What nonsense you are talking!
Monsieur--I protest against autumns, that is all. God's sun is hidden
and I seek another. Is not that natural, my little fairhaired saint, my
little mystic lamb, my little blessed palmbranch? This new sun I find in
you, pet--in your look, in the sweet odor of your person, in the rustling
of your skirt, in the down on your neck which one notices by the lamp-
light when you bend over the vicar's mat, in your nostril which expands
when my lips approach yours--
Madame--Will you be quiet, George? It is Friday, and Ember week.
Monsieur--And your dispensation? (He kisses her.) Don't you see that
your hand shakes, that you blush, that your heart is beating?
Madame--George, will you have done, sir? (She pulls away her hand,
throws herself back in the chair, and avoids her husband's glance.)
Monsieur--Your poor little heart beats, and it is right, dear; it knows
that autumn is the time for confidential chats and evening caresses, the
time for kisses. And you know it too, for you defend yourself poorly,
and I defy you to look me in the face. Come! look me in the face.
Madame--(she suddenly leans toward hey husband, the ball of wool rolling
into the fireplace, the pious task falling to the ground. She takes his
head between her hands)--Oh, what a dear, charming husband you would be
if you had--
Monsieur--If I had what? Tell me quickly.
Madame--If you had a little religion. I should only ask for such a
little at the beginning. It is not very difficult, I can assure you.
While, now, you are really too--
Monsieur--Pea-green, eh?
Madame--Yes, pea-green, you great goose. (She laughs frankly.)
Monsieur--(lifting his hands in the air)--Sound trumpets! Madame has
laughed; Madame is disarmed. Well, my snowwhite lamb, I am going to
finish my story; listen properly, there, like that--your hands here, my
head so. Hush! don't laugh. I am speaking seriously. As I was saying
to you, the north room is large but cold, poetic but gloomy, and I will
add that two are not too many in this wintry season to contend against
the rigors of the night. I will further remark that if the sacred ties
of marriage have a profoundly social significance, it is--do not
interrupt me--at that hour of one's existence when one shivers on one's
solitary couch.
Madame--You can not be serious.
Monsieur--Well, seriously, I should like the vicar's mat piously spread
upon your bed, to keep us both warm together, this very evening. I wish
to return as speedily as possible to the intimacy of conjugal life. Do
you hear how the wind blows and whistles through the doors? The fire
splutters, and your feet are frozen. (He takes her foot in his hands.)
Madame--But you are taking off my slipper, George.
Monsieur--Do you think, my white lamb, that I am going to leave your poor
little foot in that state? Let it stay in my hand to be warmed. Nothing
is so cold as silk. What! openwork stockings? My dear, you are rather
dainty about your foot-gear for a Friday. Do you know, pet, you can not
imagine how gay I wake up when the morning sun shines into my room. You
shall see. I am no longer a man; I am a chaffinch; all the joys of
spring recur to me. I laugh, I sing, I speechify, I tell tales to make
one die of laughter. Sometimes I even dance.
Madame--Come now! I who in the morning like neither noise nor broad
daylight--how little all that suits!
Monsieur--(suddenly changing his tone)--Did I say that I liked all that?
The morning sun? Never in autumn, my sweet dove, never. I awake, on the
contrary full of languor and poesy; I was like that in my very cradle.
We will prolong the night, and behind the drawn curtain, behind the
closed shutter, we will remain asleep without sleeping. Buried in
silence and shadow, delightfully stretched beneath your warm eider-down
coverlets, we will slowly enjoy the happiness of being together, and we
will wish one another good-morning only on the stroke of noon. You do
not like noise, dear. I will not say a word. Not a murmur to disturb
your unfinished dream and warn you that you are no longer sleeping; not a
breath to recall you to reality; not a movement to rustle the coverings.
I will be silent as a shade, motionless as a statue; and if I kiss you--
for, after all, I have my weaknesses--it will be done with a thousand
precautions, my lips will scarcely brush your sleeping shoulder; and if
you quiver with pleasure as you stretch out your arms, if your eye half
uncloses at the murmur of my kiss, if your lips smile at me, if I kiss
you, it would be because you would like me to, and I shall have nothing
to reproach myself with.
Madame--(her eyes half closed, leaning back in hey armchair, her head
bent with emotion, she places her hands before his mouth. In a low
voice)--Hush, hush! Don't say that, dear; not another word! If you knew
how wrong it was!
Monsieur--Wrong! What is there that is wrong? Is your heart of marble
or adamant, that you do not see that I love you, you naughty child? That
I hold out my arms to you, that I long to clasp you to my heart, and to
fall asleep in your hair? What is there more sacred in the world than to
love one's wife or love one's husband? (Midnight strikes.)
Madame--(she suddenly changes hey expression at the sound, throws her
arms round her husband, and hurriedly kisses him thrice)--You thought I
did not love you, eh, dear? Oh, yes! I love you. Great baby! not to
see that I was waiting the time.
Monsieur--What time, dear?
Madame--The time. It has struck twelve, see. (She blushes crimson.)
Friday is over. (She holds out her hand for him to kiss.)
Monsieur--Are you sure the clock is not five minutes fast, love?
CHAPTER XIX
A LITTLE CHAT
MADAME F----- MADAME H------
(These ladies are seated at needlework as they talk.)
Madame F--For myself, you know, my dear, I fulfil my duties tolerably,
still I am not what would be called a devotee. By no means. Pass me
your scissors. Thanks.
Madame H--You are quite welcome, dear. What a time those little squares
of lace must take. I am like yourself in respect of religion; in the
first place, I think that nothing should be overdone. Have you ever-
I have never spoken to any one on the subject, but I see your ideas are
so in accordance with my own that--
Madame F--Come, speak out, dear; you trust me a little, I hope.
Madame H--Well, then, have you--tell me truly--ever had any doubts?
Madame F--(after reflecting for a moment)--Doubts! No. And you?
Madame H--I have had doubts, which has been a real grief to me. Heavens!
how I have wept.
Madame F--I should think so, my poor dear. For my own part, my faith is
very strong. These doubts must have made you very unhappy.
Madame H--Terribly so. You know, it seems as if everything failed you;
there is a vacancy all about you--I have never spoken about it to my
husband, of course--Leon is a jewel of a man, but he will not listen to
anything of that kind. I can still see him, the day after our marriage;
I was smoothing my hair--broad bands were then worn, you know.
Madame F--Yes, yes; they were charming. You will see that we shall go
back to them.
Madame H--I should not be surprised; fashion is a wheel that turns.
Leon, then, said to me the day after our wedding: "My dear child, I shall
not hinder you going to church, but I beg you, for mercy's sake, never to
say a word to me about it."
Madame F--Really, Monsieur H. said that to you?
Madame H--Upon my honor. Oh! my husband is all that is most--or, if you
prefer it, all that is least--
Madame F--Yes, yes, I understand. That is a grief, you know. Mine is
only indifferent. From time to time he says some disagreeable things to
me on the question, but I am sure he could be very easily brought back to
the right. At the first illness he has, you shall see. When he has only
a cold in the head, I notice the change. You have not seen my thimble?
Madame H--Here it is. Do not be too sure of that, dear; men are not to
be brought back by going "chk, chk" to them, like little chickens. And
then, though I certainly greatly admire the men who observe religious
practices, you know me well enough not to doubt that--I think, as I told
you, that nothing should be exaggerated. And yourself, pet, should you
like to see your husband walking before the banner with a great wax taper
in his right hand and a bouquet of flowers in his left?
Madame F--Oh! no, indeed. Why not ask me at once whether I should like
to see Leon in a black silk skull cap, with cotton in his ears and a holy
water sprinkler in his hand? One has no need to go whining about a
church with one's nose buried in a book to be a pious person; there is a
more elevated form of religion, which is that of--of refined people, you
know.
Madame H--Ah! when you speak like that, I am of your opinion. I think,
for instance, that there is nothing looks finer than a man while the host
is being elevated. Arms crossed, no book, head slightly bowed, grave
look, frock coat buttoned up. Have you seen Monsieur de P. at mass?
How well he looks!
Madame F--He is such a fine man, and, then, he dresses so well. Have you
seen him on horseback? Ah! so you have doubts; but tell me what they
are, seeing we are indulging in confidences.
Madame H--I can hardly tell you. Doubts, in short; about hell, for
instance, I have had horrible doubts. Oh! but do not let us speak about
that; I believe it is wrong even to think of it.
Madame F--I have very broad views on that point; I never think about it.
Besides, my late confessor helped me. "Do not seek too much," he always
said to me, "do not try to understand that which is unfathomable." You
did not know Father Gideon? He was a jewel of a confessor; I was
extremely pleased with him. Not too tedious, always discreet, and, above
all, well-bred. He turned monk from a romantic cause--a penitent was
madly in love with him.
Madame H--Impossible!
Madame F--Yes, really. What! did you not know about it? The success of
the monastery was due to that accident. Before the coming of Father
Gideon it vegetated, but on his coming the ladies soon flocked there in
crowds. They organized a little guild, entitled "The Ladies of the
Agony." They prayed for the Chinese who had died without confession,
and wore little death's heads in aluminum as sleeve-links. It became
very fashionable, as you are aware, and the good fathers organized, in
turn, a registry for men servants; and the result is that, from one thing
leading to another, the community has become extremely wealthy. I have
even heard that one of the most important railway stations in Paris is
shortly to be moved, so that the size of their garden can be increased,
which is rather restricted at present.
Madame H--As to that, it is natural enough that men should want a place
to walk in at home; but what I do not understand is that a woman, however
pious she may be, should fall in love with a priest. It is all very
well, but that is no longer piety; it is--fanaticism. I venerate
priests, I can say so truly, but after all I can not imagine myself--you
will laugh at me--ha, ha, ha!
Madame F--Not at all. Ha, ha, ha! what a child you are!
Madame H--(working with great briskness)--Well, I can not imagine that
they are men--like the others.
Madame F--(resuming work with equal ardor)--And yet, my dear, people say
they are.
Madame H--There are so many false reports set afloat. (A long silence.)
Madame F--(in a discreet tone of voice)--After all, there are priests who
have beards--the Capuchins, for instance.
Madame H--Madame de V. has a beard right up to her eyes, so that counts
for nothing, dear.
Madame F--That counts for nothing. I do not think so. In the first
place, Madame de V.'s beard is not a perennial beard; her niece told me
that she sheds her moustaches every autumn. What can a beard be that can
not stand the winter? A mere trifle.
Madame H--A mere trifle that is horribly ugly, my dear.
Madame F--Oh! if Madame de V. had only moustaches to frighten away
people, one might still look upon her without sorrow, but--
Madame H--I grant all that. Let us allow that the Countess's moustache
and imperial are a nameless species of growth. I do not attach much
importance to the point, you understand. She has a chin of heartbreaking
fertility, that is all.
Madame F--To return to what we were saying, how is it that the men who
are strongest, most courageous, most manly--soldiers, in fact--are
precisely those who have most beard?
Madame H--That is nonsense, for then the pioneers would be braver than
the Generals; and, in any case, there is not in France, I am sure, a
General with as much beard as a Capuchin. You have never looked at a
Capuchin then?
Madame F--Oh, yes! I have looked at one quite close. It is a rather
funny story. Fancy Clementine's cook having a brother a Capuchin--an
ex-jeweller, a very decent man. In consequence of misfortunes in
business--it was in 1848, business was at a stand-still--in short,
he lost his senses--no, he did not lose his senses, but he threw himself
into the arms of Heaven.
Madame H--Oh! I never knew that! When? Clementine--
Madame F--I was like you, I would not believe it, but one day Clementine
said to me: "Since you will not believe in my Capuchin, come and see me
tomorrow about three o'clock; he will be paying a visit to his sister.
Don't have lunch first; we will lunch together." Very good. I went the
next day with Louise, who absolutely insisted upon accompanying me, and I
found at Clementine's five or six ladies installed in the drawing-room
and laughing like madcaps. They had all come to see the Capuchin.
"Well," said I, as I went in, when they all began to make signs to me and
whisper, "Hush, hush!" He was in the kitchen.
Madame H--And what was he like?
Madame F--Oh! very nice, except his feet; you know how it always gives
one a chill to look at their feet; but, in short, he was very amiable.
He was sent for into the drawing-room, but he would not take anything
except a little biscuit and a glass of water, which took away our
appetites. He was very lively; told us that we were coquettes with our
little bonnets and our full skirts. He was very funny, always a little
bit of the jeweller at the bottom, but with plenty of good nature and
frankness. He imitated the buzzing of a fly for us; it was wonderful.
He also wanted to show us a little conjuring trick, but he needed two
corks for it, and unfortunately his sister could only find one.
Madame H--No matter, I can not understand Clementine engaging a servant
like that.
Madame F--Why? The brother is a guarantee.
Madame H--Of morality, I don't say no; but it seems to me that a girl
like that can not be very discreet in her ways.
Madame F--How do you make that out?
Madame H--I don't know, I can not reason the matter out, but it seems to
me that it must be so, that is all, . . . besides, I should not like
to see a monk in my kitchen, close to the soup. Oh, mercy! no!
Madame F--What a child you are!
Madame H--That has nothing to do with religious feelings, my dear; I do
not attack any dogma. Ah! if I were to say, for instance--come now, if I
were to say, what now?
Madame F--In point of fact, what really is dogma?
Madame H--Well, it is what can not be attacked. Thus, for instance,
a thing that is evident, you understand me, is unassailable, . . . or
else it should be assailed, . . in short, it can not be attacked. That
is why it is monstrous to allow the Jewish religion and the Protestant
religion in France, because these religions can be assailed, for they
have no dogma. I give you this briefly, but in your prayer-book you will
find the list of dogmas. I am a rod of iron as regards dogmas. My
husband, who, as I said, has succeeded in inspiring me with doubts on
many matters--without imagining it, for he has never required anything of
me; I must do him that justice--but who, at any rate, has succeeded in
making me neglect many things belonging to religion, such as fasting,
vespers, sermons, . . . confession.