The folding machines started up their ebb and flow over reams of paper. ‘Hey, Céline!’ shouted the girl who was suffering with toothache, ‘he was proper posh, that bloke you were walking out with last night!’
Céline played dumb and pretended not to understand the significance of this remark, but the other girl, goaded by a sort of envious desire to tease, went on: ‘What I’m saying is true, and the proof is that old Chaudrut saw you as well.’And the old man, who was holding a pair of paper shears, nodded his head. ‘A respectable gentleman, a lad from a decent family by God, and that’s saying a lot these days! But that’s no reason to look the other way and walk past people as if you didn’t recognise them.’
Ma Teston gaped in bewilderment. ‘Well, why not?’ she said. ‘After all, Céline’s not doing anything wrong; why should she be like the rest of you and waste her youth on a bunch of factory layabouts who’ll fritter away everything she earns?’
‘Hey, now then, you!’ cried Chaudrut, ‘don’t you start knocking the working man.’
‘All layabouts, just like you!’ replied Ma Teston.
‘Come on now, Ma…’ groaned the supervisor, ‘leave Chaudrut in peace.’
‘What I find surprising,’ sneered the girl, picking at her stumps with the tip of a pin, ‘is that when a fancy man like that is paying, why you don’t make him pay for some new dresses into the bargain!’
Céline was stung.
‘Well obviously I’m going to get some, and dresses like you’ll never have! Anyway, you can’t talk, the only man who’d keep you is Private Punter! And one more thing, you know instead of annoying others you’d really do better to stick your head in the press, at least that might flatten all the wadding they’ve stuffed your gums with!’
Ma Teston’s face creased with laughter, and her eyes rolled up into her head. ‘There, that told you,’ she said.
But the supervisor threatened the girl that she’d kick her out the door if she replied. ‘Now that’s enough!’ she shouted, ‘my word, it’s worse than the market in here.’
Désirée, who wasn’t interested in all these disputes, was scratching her leg, on which a flea was prancing about. She stopped suddenly with a jolt; Auguste had just arrived in the back room and he appeared to have a black patch over his eye. Disconcerted, she leaned forward a little to have another look, but the young man seemed determined to remain in the shadows because he persisted in turning his back to the light and hiding behind a press. So she got up and then she saw plainly that he had a black eye.
She went over to him and said in a low voice: ‘Now then, what have you done to yourself? Come out into the courtyard, I’ve got to speak to you right away, Papa’s back and I can’t come and meet you this evening.’
He said, ‘Oh,’ and lowered the hand covering his face.
‘So were you beaten up then?’ she went on, ‘your eye looks like a rotten apple.’
He claimed to have fallen over and excused himself for not going outside with her, seeing as he had a lot of urgent work he needed to finish before he left.
‘That’s fine,’ retorted the young girl drily, pursing her lips, and as Chaudrut was going past doing up the drawstring of his smock, she asked him what had caused Auguste’s eye to be battered like that. He swore on the ashes of his late wife that he didn’t know anything about it; she only learned the truth once she was out in the courtyard.
It had happened when the scrap paper merchant arrived; the supervisor had called the men together and the whole group had gone down to the storeroom, where the waste paper was kept. Auguste was with them. When they got down there and opened the door to the storeroom, the only daylight filtering in was through a basement window, and in its yellow glow the gigantic pile of paper scraps looked like a mountain of pale, curly sauerkraut. Old Potier complained that the light wasn’t good enough and insisted on seeing the quality of the merchandise he was going to buy first. So Auguste had gone back upstairs with Alfred to look for some more lamps. He owed money to this workmate. That very morning, while knocking back a glass of Kir, Alfred had pulled eight or nine corks from his pocket and said to himself: ‘By God, I’ve drunk nothing since yesterday evening!’ Inasmuch as so many dead corks represented so many bottles put away, this was the low water mark of his boozing. Meanwhile, he was broke and his hangover was turning nasty. He demanded that Auguste, who had only thirty-five centimes in his pocket, give him back the two francs he’d loaned him to take Désirée to the Folies-Bobino. The argument had lasted all the while they were looking for candles; once they were back in the storeroom and busy sorting out the pile of scraps and off-cuts to put them in sacks and weigh them, the quarrel had started again and ended with the sound thrashing that Auguste had received.
It was the foreman who recounted the story to Désirée; trembling, she went back and sat at her place.
Her first thought was this: ‘He’s a fighter, thank goodness for that!’ But then, even admitting that Auguste hadn’t looked to pick a quarrel with his workmate, any man who cops a beating like that is either not very brave or not very strong, and she found it humiliating to have a boyfriend who, when forced to fight, couldn’t thrash anyone else. Then again, that swollen eyelid made her feel sorry for him, and she wanted to cry; Auguste hadn’t said anything, but it must have hurt him a lot. He must be feeling really embarrassed too. She could imagine how galling it must be for a man to be seen by the girl he loves in such a state. She remembered now the foreman’s mocking smile when he’d admitted that Auguste had borrowed money to take her out. In fact, maybe she was to blame; she really should have known that he earned very little and that the evenings they’d spent together had cost him dear. It’s true that if she’d used her own purse – which wasn’t very full since her father demanded ten francs a week from her for food, laundry and lodging – to help pay for these amusements, she’d never have been able to look her best for her boyfriend by buying herself a new hairnet and a headscarf.
She thought at first of going to find Alfred and paying him the two francs, then she reflected that this would compromise her too much and would make Auguste look foolish, and, besides, two francs was a considerable sum. All the same, the poor boy hadn’t got a sou; perhaps he didn’t even have enough for a cigarette. She wanted to know, for with that stupid kindness that wishes hardship on others so as to be able to help them out, she’d have been pleased if he didn’t have enough to roll a cigarette so she could buy a packet and give it to him.
Whatever the cause, she was seized with tenderness and she reproached herself for the harsh tone in which she’d just spoken to him. She couldn’t bear it. Auguste was alone in his corner; she got up and, not knowing how to show him that she wasn’t angry with him, she went over and without raising her eyes offered him her cheek.
Auguste was also very moved; he kissed her gently, but as the kiss became prolonged, Désirée, red as a cherry, escaped back to her seat, and when the supervisor asked her what she’d done to make her face so flushed, she replied that her ears were burning.
Céline had watched the whole scene. She was still wondering if she should try and speed things up or let them be; she was still wondering if, before talking to Auguste about marriage, it wouldn’t be better to consult her father. Ever since she’d succeeded in storming the defences of her painter, all her moods, all her whims, had disappeared, and she was full of indulgence for her sister’s affair. If the sight of happy couples had previously made her hopping mad, now they seemed to deserve her special interest. She still wasn’t very satisfied with Auguste; there was something timid and cold about him that she found awkward. He was lacking in fun and energy, but, when all was said and done, she had nothing to reproach him with; he’d always behaved very properly towards her, paying for her drinks as well as those of her sister when they happened to be together. He took Désirée’s side when they squabbled, but that was natural, everyone defended their own interests; anyway, Céline was like all women who, having nothing more to desire for themselves, take an interest in the affairs of others, who love to get mixed up in things that don’t concern them, to dabble in the tangled web of people’s lives, tangling them up even more and then trying all the harder to unravel them the less seriously it affects them.
All things considered, it would perhaps have been wiser to let Auguste mope around without seeing her for a few months; but on the other hand her sister might go a bit mad, meet up with him anyway and come a cropper. The kiss she’d just given him made her uneasy. She concluded that it was better to sort it out now, to go over to Auguste and ask him the question straight; she could thrash it out with her father later.
Céline had such a strange look when she came over to him that Auguste feared something was wrong, and went out with her into the street straightaway. They didn’t say a word on the pavement; then Céline led him to a bar and there, hunched between some pots of laurel, they looked at each other with a slightly embarrassed air, stirring the cloudy water of their absinthes with perforated steel spoons.
Despite her self-assurance, Céline didn’t quite know how to broach the subject. She started down a different track, talking about the little girl in the workshop, saying that children were very nice, and that if she were married she’d like to have some.
Auguste remained silent; firstly, because Céline’s sudden enthusiasm for the joys of motherhood was of little consequence to him, and secondly, because his eye was hurting him.
‘Is it true,’ she continued, ‘that you got punched because of my sister?’
He replied that it wasn’t precisely because of her; it was a matter between Alfred and him; besides, he’d been hit when he wasn’t expecting it; even so, if his friends hadn’t held him back his opponent would have had a hard time of it, but he’d get his own back all the same!
Céline patiently listened to him venting his threats and his complaints.
‘All this is so stupid,’ she replied, ‘everyone in the workshop is convinced that Désirée is the cause of this fight; it’s damaging her reputation, they’re all staring at her and making comments. Oh, damn it, look, I’m going to ask you straight out, no more beating round the bush. Do you want to marry her, yes or no?’
Auguste went scarlet and his black eye grew darker. He stuttered: ‘Why yes, of course, I like her a lot, but even so, I need a bit more time to think about it…’
‘Think about what?’ cried Céline. ‘Come on, let’s not mince words, let’s get straight to the point. Here’s the situation: Désirée is not bad looking, she’s got one eye that isn’t very straight perhaps, but no matter; first of all, as my painter said after he met her, a slightly wonky eye is like a well-placed beauty spot on a girl’s face; it draws your attention.’ Auguste had the bewildered look of a man who didn’t understand. Céline hurried on, fearing that he might demand an explanation that she felt absolutely incapable of giving him. The remark had so surprised her the day he made it that she’d kept it in her head, and rolled it around without comprehending what a beauty spot on a face could possibly have in common with her sister’s eye. She went on: ‘I don’t need to sing the praises of my family, but Désirée is an outstanding worker who sometimes earns twenty francs per week. Given these circumstances she doesn’t lack for suitors, believe me, so it isn’t for want of choice that I’m speaking to you now. What do you have to offer, anyway? Good behaviour and your two arms, all of which makes no more than forty centimes an hour; pretty thin gruel! But that’s not important if you love each other. Listen to me closely: Papa is back, as Désirée must have told you. Your meetings are at an end. My sister’s not going to be seduced; I’m there to see to that. It’s no use looking at me like that; me, I’m built different to her, if I’ve erred it’s because I enjoy it, I’m not any less respectable a girl for all that. What did you say? That you know it? By God, there’s no special merit in knowing it, it’s simply a fact. Come now, wouldn’t it be nice: a little family with children, a pretty bedroom with walnut furniture, white curtains, a bed full of loving, wine in the cupboard, and, if you’re careful, a roast every Sunday? That’s worth thinking about, eh? father’s a good man; mother won’t interfere; the sister you already know, wild but not wicked; it remains to be seen whether Papa will say no. Now that’s another matter, but I’ll take care of it. First of all I need to know where I stand with you – only, hurry up. I need an answer before I go, and I’m leaving in three minutes.’
Auguste was sweating buckets. He mumbled an unenthusiastic ‘Yes’.
‘Then everything will be fine,’ Céline went on, ‘we’ll start things moving. How much for the absinthe?’ Auguste didn’t try to stop her, he only had three sous left, the purchase of a packet of tobacco having seen off four others, and besides, as Céline said when she held out the money, ‘No need to feel embarrassed with me, we’re family now.’
He was very bewildered. He’d certainly have preferred to remain single, preferred to have Désirée as a mistress rather than as a wife straightaway, but he knew perfectly well that was impossible. Not that she’d hidden her thoughts on the subject, but all the same, he’d have liked to have prolonged the situation as it was, trusting to chance or whatever. On the other hand, it wasn’t much of a life always being broke; now Désirée was a good match, and moreover it would please his mother who, like most old, infirm women was longing to see her son get married. He pondered all these considerations, arguing in his head: ‘I’ve said yes. I’m going to take the plunge, but what will it be like?’ And, in spite of everything, the idea that he was going to lose his freedom annoyed him. For a moment, he began to hope that Vatard would oppose the marriage, but then, a minute later, when he imagined the picture painted by Céline – a bright, clean bedroom, Désirée in a white apron doing the dusting, house-proud – he was afraid of being refused.
Buffeted from left and right, not wanting to, but also wanting to as well, he ended up feeling very confused. He’d only drunk one absinthe, diluted in sugar and water, but he felt stupidly drunk. Nevertheless one thought made it through the fog of his mind, and it succeeded in convincing him that he hadn’t been wrong in saying yes. Rumours were circulating around the Débonnaire workshop, it was being said that the boss had argued with the foreman and was probably going to fire him. If this story were true, who would take his job? No one in the workshop was capable of replacing him. The new foreman would be chosen from another firm and, as always in these cases, he’d bring people he knew with him. Ineffectual workers would be chucked out and replaced by others, who would certainly not be any better, but would at least be friends of the foreman. Auguste couldn’t ignore the fact that if such an event occurred, he ran a strong risk of being laid off. The prospect of finding himself on the street without a job sent a chill down his spine. But if he married Désirée, he’d be untouchable, the supervisor liked her and Ma Teston was well in with the boss.