Céline tried to cheer her up, to shake her out of this torpor, this apathetic remorse that left her slumped in a chair, her eyes dead, her limbs numb. One day when Vatard, more worried than ever by his daughter’s pallor, asked Céline to go and find the doctor she replied simply: ‘It’s not worth it, there’s nothing he can do. What Désirée needs is a husband, a pharmacist can’t cure maladies like that.’ Vatard held his tongue, but he too became pensive and depressed.
As for Auguste, he started to get his confidence back, to think that he should have been braver, more forceful. His friends at the workshop, who were aware of the situation, urged him to be firmer with her. ‘You’re not tough enough!’ said one. ‘She’s going to have some fun with you when you’re married!’ added another. ‘Shake ’er like you would a plum tree, and if need’s be mess ’er face up a bit!’ cried old Chaudrut. And they all reeled off their own experiences, mistresses they’d knocked into submission. ‘A couple of slaps like you’d give a crying child and that was that, it was plain sailing afterwards.’
Auguste refused to go along with these arguments, but after a lot of indecision, a lot of struggle, he decided to speak firmly to her, to give her a piece of his mind if necessary. However, as timid people tend to do when they want to appear brave, he completely overstepped the mark that evening.
Désirée was stunned, so stunned she couldn’t find anything to say. Indignant, she turned her back and, without paying him any further attention, got ready to go back home.
Auguste had to stop himself calling her back or following her; then he had a sudden rush of blood to the head and darted off down the boulevard in pursuit. Désirée was walking quickly. He stopped and begged her not to go any further; started off again and caught up with her. He asked her to forgive him, but she continued to ignore him. He tried to take her arm, she pulled it away. He became insistent, pleading with her loudly. Passers-by stopped and sniggered at them.
She said to him drily: ‘Leave me alone, can’t you see people are looking at us?’ So he started walking beside her in silence. When they arrived in front of her house he murmured in a trembling voice: ‘Désirée, I’m begging you, listen to me, come tomorrow evening, you’ll see.’ The door slammed behind her.
He felt a chill run through him. It seemed to him as if his whole life was crumbling in front of that door. His dying love flared up again even stronger; he returned home, oblivious, with the hesitant, tottering steps of a man who’d drunk too much, and once in bed fell into a dull sleep, disturbed by terrified awakenings and depressing thoughts.
All the next day at the workshop he experienced bouts of trembling, of lethargy; he wanted to shout, to implore her on his knees, to beat her. Désirée seemed the same as normal. She was working the machines, chattering, sewing as usual. Except he noticed that she affected not to see him.
That evening he set off to meet Désirée feeling very agitated. He kept repeating to himself: ‘She won’t come and it’s my fault, I was wrong.’ And he wanted to take Chaudrut and the rest of his friends into a corner and strangle them, one after the other, to pay them back for their stupid advice; then he tried to think of some words of apology, some expression of his admiration; he prepared several funny stories to make her laugh if she was reluctant to forgive him. He jingled the money he had in his pocket, thinking to offer her some almond biscuits and beer.
And he cheered up again, thinking: ‘This has all been a silly mistake, we love each other, we’ll resume our pleasant evenings like before…’ but then he stopped short, his heart pounding, suddenly convinced she was going to leave him in the lurch once more.
He began walking again, his head down. The tall blonde met him while she was on her shift and, seeing his unhappy face, she asked: ‘Your love life not going very well, eh?’ He choked, feeling the need to pour out his anxieties and his hopes to someone, to reassure himself that Désirée would come. The woman listened to him, but said nothing. He pressed her: ‘If you were in her place, wouldn’t you come?’ She murmured: ‘I don’t know.’ She seemed not to want to tell him what she would have done. He noticed this and pleaded with her to speak. Finally, she said in a low voice: ‘If you hadn’t followed her yesterday, she’d be here already; but now, damn, I don’t know; she knows you’re keen on her, but it all depends on her personality; as for me, I really couldn’t tell you.’
All of a sudden Désirée appeared. She had stopped on the pavement opposite and was staring in astonishment at Auguste talking with this woman. She crossed the road and stood in front of them. The tart brazenly looked her straight in the face and then, without saying a word, she turned on her heels and went further off to rustle up some custom with her billowing white petticoats.
Auguste didn’t even have time to open his mouth. Désirée immediately yelled at him that she wasn’t going to continue a relationship with a man who amused himself with sluts like that woman there!
He declared that she was mistaken, that this woman was a kind girl, that he’d been talking with her to kill time, that he knew neither her name nor where she lived; it was true she engaged in an indecent occupation, but in fact she wasn’t ill-mannered or vulgar like all the other women of her type.
‘She’s acting like that just to get money out of you,’ Désirée said drily.
But he denied that she had even invited him up to her room; then, thinking that Désirée would be won over by how considerate the girl was, he added: ‘She’s very friendly, I can assure you; look, the proof is that whenever you didn’t come, she would always stick up for you.’
This cut Désirée’s self-esteem to the quick. She was terribly annoyed to learn that this streetwalker knew all about their personal life, and took her side even when she was in the wrong. This sort of complicity disgusted her. Confronted with her haughty anger, Auguste was stunned: this meeting, which was supposed to bring them together, was driving them further apart. After the blow to her feelings caused by his outrageous advances and his lack of faith in her, this blow to her pride made Désirée completely intractable.
He eventually realised that he’d been stupid, and the next day, irritated with himself, he angrily reproached Chaudrut, who’d been bragging about his own love affairs: ‘You’re to blame for our quarrels with all your idiotic ideas!’ he shouted, while the old man, preparing an absinthe, just shook his bald head without interrupting the list of blunders his workmate was accusing him of.
‘You must be a right ninny to make such a mess of things,’ he said finally to Auguste. ‘You should’ve let her think you were having a bit of fun with that other girl, denying it half-heartedly all the while. Désirée would have tried to get you back then. That way, after two days of quarrelling, you’d have had a whole week of peace. And by damn, a week with a woman without any hailstorms, that’s worth the effort. You shouldn’t be stupid like that, when your feelings build up, you should let ’em out, not hang onto ’em. Me, I’ve known some bad-tempered shrews in my time – not counting my own dear dead wife – who’d as soon give you a slap as a slice of bread if you let them. “Just a minute Eugénie, let the common man have his say…here’s my vote!” And I’d give her a whack round the ballot box! She’d snivel a bit, of course, but she’d go back to the kitchen and you wouldn’t hear another peep out of her. Do as I do, for God’s sake. Don’t let yourself stew, give the stove a kicking, and be quick about it! Now, I’m telling you this, you know, but it’s all the same to me, you can argue like architects about it, both of you, it doesn’t bother me, I’m only saying this because I hate to see a grown man taken advantage of by some snotty-nosed girl who’s barely old enough; it pains me, it’s more than I can bear…but that’s enough of my preaching, the Mass is ended; I reckon it’s time to make her dance to your tune.’ And he left, leaving the young man to pay for his absinthe in exchange for his good advice.
‘Oh, let it sort itself out how it will,’Auguste said to himself, uncertain as to which course of action he should follow and whose side he should take. He felt a great weariness of spirit. All these petty struggles, the disappointments, the unfriendliness, the moody looks, the snubs, were sapping his energy, his resilience. He was like a man who, after passionately coveting an object, ends up one fine day, before he’s even possessed it, no longer wanting it.
He missed the days when, lusting after a mistress, he went with his friends to indulge himself in the whorehouses of the Montrouge quarter. What peace of mind he felt then. What an existence free of cares and worries. Oh, certainly, after leading a life like that for a while, after drinking from the same glass as everyone else for several months, he had had enough of it. He’d had urges and inclinations for other kinds of women, he’d yearned for a girl who was kind and good, he’d dreamed of a nice small bedroom, a housewife whose every thought would be directed at him. But where had all these desires, all these obsessions led him? To the infinite boredom of a chaste relationship, to personal insults, to the pangs of a passion intensified by difficulties, then spurned, undermined and worn out by daily squabbles, by the continual clash of personalities. Now he found himself more lonely, more dejected, more disoriented than ever. He was drifting along with the current now, he could see that, but he didn’t even have the courage anymore to grab onto a branch. A single idea had remained afloat amid the wreckage, an obsessive
idée fixe
: marriage. He wanted at any price to find a haven, a harbour where he could run aground; he dreamed of a long rest after all these squalls, and such thoughts obsessed him, especially since he’d been to see a friend who’d just got married. He was really happy. He had no worries about his future. They’d married simply because they liked each other. The husband earned no more than five francs per day and the wife only brought in two. But they were neither less comfortable, nor less content for all that. Auguste envied them from the bottom of his heart, and he cursed that species of working-class aristocrat, men like Vatard who, because they have a few sous saved up and a daughter eager to work, would only let her marry someone who was an outstanding worker, and so the more he thought about it, the less he saw a future for his love affair with Désirée.
He could see now the end of the cul-de-sac he’d gone down. He must either retrace his steps or bang his head against the wall. Find a more lucrative job than the one he had? It was no use even pretending any more. He’d tried, using every possible means, to succeed as a deliveryman at the bookbindery…a fine job that! Sixty francs a fortnight, plus the profits from whatever horse manure he sold, some undeclared tips, the odd discount on fodder, and a few small commissions on the side from publishers to deliver their prospectuses to the post office on Sundays. But he had failed at everything.
Some day or other his salary might increase a little, but that would be all. Working as hard as he could he received, on average, four francs and eighty centimes per day. So he was making almost as much as his friend. He would spend his time comparing his friend’s situation to his own. He often went back to see this friend, spending the evening with his in-laws and his wife’s sister, a fair-haired eighteen-year-old who had pretty lips and teeth as white as freshly cracked brazil nuts, which would suddenly be revealed whenever she laughed her pretty laugh as she beat the whole table at whist.
He had ample time now, moreover, to visit this household which, with the self-satisfied serenity of its happy occupants, soothed the anxieties and fears that oppressed him.
For the last few days, Désirée hadn’t been coming to the workshop. Her mother was going to have her lungs tapped, and distressed at the thought of the needle that had to puncture her diaphragm Vatard and his two daughters were too busy moaning and groaning.
Consequently, Auguste’s evenings were no longer taken up by meetings with Désirée, and little by little the habit he’d got into of going down to the embankment in all weathers changed into the nightly custom of going to his friend’s house, where he found a roaring fire in the hearth, a brimming glass of wine, and laughter on everyone’s lips. He was settling in now at their place, flirting with Irma, his friend’s sister-in-law, a dizzy little thing who would sing her head off whether kidding around or sewing, who would tease him about his melancholy air, and who was always in a happy mood, whatever the weather.
This warmth of well-being, this unified front against misery, this cushioning of any thought of unhappiness, strengthened his resolve to set up his own household. Marriage, which he’d previously only conceived of with Désirée for a wife, he now coveted for its own sake. His lover no longer came naturally to mind when he daydreamed about this state he had so often envied. Not having any other respectable and desirable girl before his eyes but little Irma, he inevitably associated her with his future projects, telling himself that, after all, she fulfilled just as well as Désirée the necessary conditions to make his life agreeable and pleasant.
She was even prettier and more fresh-faced than Désirée, but in spite of everything he still preferred Vatard’s daughter. He would admit it to himself and then become very philosophical, consoling himself with this melancholy proverb: ‘When you don’t get what you want, you take what you can get.’ And he was certain of having Irma if he wanted her. His friend had one day given him a clear hint that he wasn’t displeasing to the young girl, and that, consequently, he had every chance of being accepted if he presented himself to her.
Nevertheless, he still hesitated, held back by memories of Désirée that he couldn’t shake off, though the last ties binding him to her were beginning to loosen. He felt happy at the thought that they would soon fall away, and he told himself, not without a certain bitterness stirred by the recollection of the awkward situations he’d had to put up with: ‘I don’t want any more meetings, any more dilly-dallying like before; either I marry Irma straight away or I won’t marry her at all.’ What he dreaded most was seeing Désirée again. He had, nonetheless, a good reason for breaking up with her. He could simply say to her: ‘It was your sister who suggested marriage to me; I said yes, your father said no. Has he or has he not changed his mind? As for me, I can’t wait until he dies or until the wind starts blowing in another direction and he swings round to my side.’