She accepted. Auguste’s offer suited her all the more because Céline had a rendezvous with Anatole in a café on the Rue Lecourbe, and consequently the sisters would have to part company at the corner of the Boulevard des Invalides.
Auguste had prepared himself for the battle. He’d dressed suitably, wearing his Sunday-best hat, a small bowler the colour of amadou; he’d purchased a cravat with pink stripes and yellow blobs, and he’d decided to buy the young girl a glass of something special in a café along the way. Certainly, she’d appreciate these efforts, and by not taking her to a bar, he’d have the air of a young man who’d been well brought up.
The young girl was a bit intimidated, but she was indeed grateful to him for this attention. At first, she didn’t want to order anything they’d never drunk before, fearing that it might be too expensive, but he made her ask for a glass of Malaga wine. This seemed to him the
ne plus ultra
of luxury.
It was ‘absinthe hour’. The café was stuffed with people and they were beginning to light the candelabras. Désirée’s eyelids were stinging and she was leaning back awkwardly on the leather bench as her short legs barely touched the floor. Auguste asked for a small stool; she blushed, telling him: ‘No, no, I don’t need one.’ All the same, when she had it under her feet, she reflected that Céline, who was drinking cheap vermouth with Anatole, was certainly not so luxuriously seated, and she savoured the well-being of her comfortably positioned body, and the languorous atmosphere warmed by pipe smoke.
A little dazed, eyes blinking, she was watching a woman who was resting her head on a man’s shoulder. A big girl, she was poking out her tongue and scratching him playfully with her fingers. Every now and then she’d swallow a mouthful of absinthe and roll cigarettes between her nicotine-stained thumbs. Soon, Désirée saw her only through a fog of smoke, she was getting tipsy, though not from drinking. It was so hot and there was such a pervasive smell of alcohol, her brain was wandering. The café exulted and bawled with that abandon of men who get together, away from their wives, in order to amuse themselves. The waiter, hair dishevelled, his worn-out socks scrunched into over-sized slip-ons, teetered trays of glasses on his palms; to the left of Auguste a man lit his pipe and, his eyes raised to the ceiling, blew smoke rings while dusting off scattered bits of tobacco on his trousers; they could hear the shouts of the piquet players: ‘Ten, in clubs! Twenty, in diamonds!’, then there was the irritating clack of dominoes being shuffled; a man seated on a chair was leaning forward, his legs spread wide, and spitting; a soldier of the line, a silver chain attached to the top buttonhole of his greatcoat, was shouting his head off: ‘Alphonse, a beer!’, then there was the clatter of saucers, a dog barking, and the ‘hello!’ of a drinker who, having returned to his stool, had saluted a new arrival with a wave and then immediately stuck his nose in his cards again. Auguste had taken Désirée’s hand and was squeezing it gently. She let him do it, bewildered by the clamour of voices. He was afraid of pinching her fingers with their rings of silver and carnelian. She roused herself. ‘Oh, what dirty paws I’ve got!’ she said, trying to pull her tiny hand away; but Auguste kept hold, contending that she was lying and that it was his own that were dirty. ‘But then, when you work,’ he added, ‘you can’t expect to have fingers like glassine paper,’ and he told her something very curious. He’d gone down the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs recently and he’d seen some leather gloves in the window of a perfumery. The label next to them read: ‘Venetian night gloves.’ They both laughed at the thought that there were women in the world who wore gloves to go to sleep. He added that these gloves seemed as stiff as bits of wood, and she jokily replied that they wouldn’t be very handy for scratching yourself when you had an itch.
On the floor were spent books of matches, the old brands made with playing cards on the cover, and a mess of yellow sand onto which a wet umbrella was dripping. Désirée was wearing new boots with quite high heels and she wanted to go and fold up the umbrella so the young man could see her pretty shoes. He did admire them, in fact he even became a bit risqué, saying he’d really like to be taking those boots off, a remark which earned him two smacks on the head. He invited her to have another glass of Malaga, but she refused. ‘This wine goes straight to your head, I’ve got to be careful.’ Auguste protested that it was as mild as milk, but she persisted in not drinking any more. As he didn’t have much money, he didn’t insist.
In the meantime, some guitar players came in. They twanged mandolins with their fingers and scraped at the red boxes resting against their thighs. They played that unbearable music invented by the Italians, stopping after each piece in order to pass around a hat; Auguste, in a generous mood, gave them three sous. Désirée began to fear her lover was a bit of a spendthrift. He reassured her, claiming that it was the joy of being close to her that was making him do such foolish things, but to himself he thought that it would have been even better to tell her that the musicians looked so poor he didn’t have the heart not to give them anything: women, as long as it’s not one of their own sex who is the object, are always sensitive to acts of altruism. Then they chatted about music. Désirée admitted to him that she adored sentimental songs, those songs that touch a person’s soul, about little birds taking flight, about trees growing and lovers weeping; as for him, he preferred patriotic songs, those that stir you and where it’s a question of the tricolour flag or of Alsace. He knew one called
The Child’s Letter
, a song so sad it brought tears to your eyes. At any rate, neither of them disliked farces such as
I Wouldn’t Dare
or
I’m from Châlons
, which were very amusing, though it goes without saying they weren’t very poetic.
What’s more, Désirée was very familiar with the repertoire of the café-concerts and she confessed to him that on Sunday evenings she often frequented the Gaité dance hall. ‘Oh, you can have a great time at that place!’Alphonse was really funny when singing
The Butcher’s Apprentice
, and there was a young man with a waxed moustache who even closed his eyes in a swoon when he sang:
Oh, how your memory bewitches me, dear!
Alas, my poor heart can’t chase it away;
Ah, let me, I pray,
Shed one final tee…aaar!
Auguste spoke to her about the Bobino, which he claimed was a better show, but she said she’d never been there because the seats were too expensive; so he offered to take her there whenever she wanted. She refused at first, then accepted. So, he was now officially allowed to court her! He cavorted down the road, but she wouldn’t let him take her all the way to her door. He became bold, stopped Désirée in a dark corner where the streetcleaners stored their brooms, then, after having looked at her voraciously for a few minutes, he squeezed her tight and gave her a peck on the cheek with his dry mouth, and as she was running off, wagging a finger at him, he ran his tongue over his lips, like a cat savouring the smell on its chops of some tasty morsel it’s just eaten.
Désirée spread a towel over the folded shirts and her father sat down brusquely on the suitcase, which still refused to close. It was an old trunk covered in peeling boarskin and fitted with brass locks that were in need of some oil. Then Désirée and Céline threw themselves on the lid of the case, and jumped up and down on it. Vatard fiddled with the latch, turned the key with a grating noise, strapped on the belts and said: ‘That’s settled then girls, you take good care of your mother now; anyway, Ma Teston will come by in the evenings to keep her company; I’ll write to you as soon as I’m safe and sound.’
Suddenly, overcome by an access of emotion, he kissed his daughters. His sister, Mme Cabouat, was dying in Amiens and he was leaving in order to witness her last breath…and her last will and testament. He hadn’t left his corner of Paris for fifteen years and was preparing for this trip as if it were a journey fraught with danger and peril. He kissed his children on the forehead again, caressed his fat Eulalie’s pomaded braids, and, wanting to bring the tender embraces of parting to an end, grabbed his suitcase, hoisted it onto his shoulder and left for the Gare du Nord.
When he had disappeared around a bend in the road, Désirée left the window and gave the floor a cursory sweep. Céline, leaning against the wall, lost her fretful look and suddenly gave vent to her feelings, her loosened tongue working like the paddle of a waterwheel. Yes, she was going to dump Anatole! A replacement had been found, a tall youth, bearded and slim, who was neither handsome nor ugly; he was a distinguished man who dressed in new, immaculately brushed suits and a shiny black stovepipe hat, who had a ring set with a turquoise, and a fob watch. He also sported kidskin boots buttoned at the ankle, and smoked cigars that probably cost at least two sous apiece.
Anyway, it was just a case of making a decision and then finishing with Anatole one way or another. Once she’d had a bit of a whirl with her new man, she’d tell Anatole, who seemed to suspect something already because he was constantly prowling around the neighbourhood, to clear off. A slap and that would probably be it. A sore cheek, and she’d be rid of him. The sole difficulty to figure out was this: how to cover up her face sufficiently well so that it wouldn’t get bruised black and blue?
Désirée was amazed. That her sister should dump a drunk like Anatole was only natural, but that Céline should have a rich man for a lover, that was beyond her. ‘So what does he do then, this gentleman?’ Her sister replied that he must work in an office, because his fingernails were trimmed and his hands were white. He might, however, be a house painter as his thumb was sometimes stained pink and green. ‘Perhaps he paints pictures,’ suggested Désirée, but Céline didn’t think so, her gentleman didn’t have long hair and didn’t wear a velvet jacket.
Whatever he was, the younger girl thought that all these changes were hardly proper. She didn’t see anything immoral in living with a working man without having stood in front of some fat mayor first, it was simply a bit naïve, but that her sister should act like a tart and let herself be taken in by an aristo, that really and truly was a stain on the family honour. Désirée thought Céline was making a mistake but said only that she was still too young to understand anything about men, and she decided not to speak about her own news, to wait and surprise her when she was all dressed up to go out in her new hat.
Except that another difficulty presented itself. Désirée couldn’t put her mother to bed by herself. Her arms weren’t strong enough and the poor woman weighed a ton. Until her father came back, Céline would be obliged not to go out in the evening, or at least not to leave her room, until mother had been rolled under the bedcovers. All this wasn’t very convenient because, to be blunt, when a girl wants to beguile a man, there have to be occasions when he gets to see a wiggle of the hips, a languid smile, a suggestive look, all the usual tricks of the trade. Consequently, Cécile came to think of Ma Teston as her guardian angel, a female messiah who every evening would announce the coming of the moment, anticipated since the morning, when she could let her hair down and talk dirty in one of the nearby dives.
But in the mean time, since the departure of their father, waiting at home wasn’t much fun. They were all missing the stout man, the sputter of his smouldering pipe and the splat of his saliva in the spittoon. They were all disoriented, especially Céline, who didn’t like darning linen and who would spend her time twiddling her thumbs, pacing between table and window, and leaning over the balustrade casting glances down the Rue Vandamme.
Their building was situated on the corner of that street and the Rue du Château, so naturally it sprouted the red railings and sheet-metal blue grapes of a wine-merchant’s. The girls’bedroom was at the back of the apartment, with a view of the tracks of the Western train line. At this spot the line, overlooked by a wooden tower embellished with clocks, was cut by a suspension bridge with six-foot high grating and, underneath, by a level-crossing for vehicles.
When they were younger, the two girls had found all this movement, this teeming life of machines, very entertaining. Now that they were accustomed to the noise, they were aware of only one unbearable inconvenience, that of having copious amounts of coal dust and black smoke in their room.
They had often noticed when combing their hair that the teeth of the comb would squeak as it dragged from their heads those specks of soot that nestle in the hair and beards of men who lean out of carriage doors when a train sets off. They were forced to rake their hair with a fine-tooth comb every day the good Lord sent; but Vatard remained deaf to their complaints. The inconveniences of the apartment were the very reason the rent was so cheap. As for him, he was perfectly accustomed to the screeches and the whistle blasts; besides, his window opened onto the Rue Vandamme. ‘A little dust in your ears won’t kill you now, will it?’ he’d reply. ‘You’ll just have to scrub a bit harder with the soap, that should do it!’
‘Hey, how about a game of beggar-my-neighbour?’ suggested Céline, spreading out a pack of cards on the table that were greasy enough to season noodles. But she didn’t even have time to separate the red cards from the black, when there was a sudden pounding on the door and it burst open. They sat there speechless; it was Anatole.
‘Well, what is it?’ he growled, ‘why are you staring at me like someone who’s just seen a ghost? That’s not very polite is it? Exactly, yes, it’s me, Anatole, better known as the Handsome One. I found out from the wineseller below that your father had left. Since you don’t like to entertain me when he’s here, I thought I’d come round now he’s not.’
Désirée snapped out of her stupor and, fearing they’d wake her mother who was dozing in an armchair, head slumped on her shoulder, led Anatole and Céline into her room. As soon as the door was closed, Anatole, who’d been drinking like a fish and who seemed in the mood for some fun, kissed his sweetheart on the forehead, bowed to Désirée and, leaning with his elbow on the windowsill, exclaimed: ‘Very nice!’