I have said that I would speak of M. Xavier. The memory of this boy pursues me, runs continually through my head. Among so many faces his is one of those that come back most frequently to my mind. Sometimes with regret, sometimes with anger. All the same, he was prettily droll and prettily vicious, M. Xavier, with his irregular features and his blond and brazen face. Ah! the little rascal! Really one may say of him that he belonged to his epoch.

One day I was engaged as chambermaid by Mme. de Tarves, in the Rue de Varennes. A nickel-plated establishment, an elegant retinue, and handsome wages. A hundred francs a month, with washing, and wine, and everything, included. The morning that I arrived at the house, in a highly satisfied state of mind, Madame had me shown into her dressing-room. An astonishing room, hung with cream silk, and Madame, a tall woman, extremely made up, her skin too white, her lips too red, her hair too blond, but nevertheless pretty, rustling,—with an imposing presence, and style! So much was not to be gainsaid.

I already possessed a very keen eye. Even from rapidly passing through a Parisian interior, I was able to judge of its habits and morals, and, although furniture lies as well as faces, I was rarely mistaken. In spite of the sumptuous and decent appearance of this establishment, I felt at once the disorganization that prevailed there, the broken ties, the intrigue, the haste, the feverish life, the private and hidden filth,—not sufficiently hidden, however, to prevent me from detecting the odor, always the same! Moreover, in the first looks exchanged between new and old servants there is a sort of masonic sign, generally spontaneous and involuntary, which immediately informs you regarding the general spirit of the establishment. As in all other professions, servants are very jealous of each other, and they defend themselves ferociously against new-comers. Even I, who am so easy in my ways, have suffered from these jealousies and hatreds, especially on the part of women who were enraged at my beauty. But, for the contrary reason, men—I must do them this justice—have always welcomed me cordially.

In the look of the valet de chambre who had opened the door for me at the house of Mme. de Tarves I had clearly read these words: “This is a queer box ... with ups and downs ... nothing like security ... but plenty of fun, all the same. You can come in, my little one.” So, in making my way to the dressing-room, I was prepared, to the extent of these uncertain and summary impressions, for something peculiar. But I must confess that I had no idea of that which really awaited me.

Madame was writing letters at a little jewel of a desk. A large skin of white astrachan served as a carpet for the room. On the cream silk walls I was astonished to see engravings of the eighteenth century, more than licentious, almost obscene, not very far from the very old enamels representing religious scenes. In a glass cabinet a quantity of old jewels, ivories, miniature snuff-boxes, and gallant little Saxon porcelains, deliciously fragile. On a table, toilet articles, very rich, of gold and silver. A little yellow dog, a ball of silky and shiny hair, was asleep on a long chair, between two mauve silk cushions.

Madame said to me:

“Célestine, is it not? Ah! I do not like that name at all. I will call you Mary, in English. Mary, you will remember? Mary, yes; that is more suitable.”

That is in the order of things. We servants have not a right even to a name of our own, because in all the houses there are daughters, cousins, dogs, and parrots that have the same name that we have.

“Very well, Madame,” I answered.

“Do you know English, Mary?” “No, Madame. I have already told Madame so.”

“Ah! to be sure. I regret it. Turn a little, Mary, that I may look at you.”

She examined me from every point of view, front, back, and profile, murmuring from time to time:

“Well, she is not bad; she is rather good-looking.”

And suddenly:

“Tell me, Mary, have you a good figure ... a very good figure?”

This question surprised and disturbed me. I did not grasp the connection between my service in the house and the shape of my body. But, without waiting for my reply, Madame said, talking to herself, and surveying my entire person from head to foot, through her face-à-main:

“Yes, she seems to have a good figure enough.”

Then, addressing me directly, she exclaimed, with a satisfied smile:

“You see, Mary, I like to have about me only women with good figures. It is more suitable.”

I was not at the end of my surprises. Continuing to examine me minutely, she cried, suddenly:

“Oh! your hair! I desire you to do your hair otherwise. Your hair is not done with elegance. You have beautiful hair; you should make the most of it. A fine head of hair is a very important matter. See, like that; something in that style.”

She disheveled a little the hair on my forehead, repeating:

“Something in that style. She is charming. See, Mary, you are charming. It is more suitable.”

And, while she was patting my hair, I asked myself if Madame was not a little off.

When she had finished, being satisfied with my hair, she asked:

“Is that your prettiest gown?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“It is not much, your prettiest gown. I will give you some of mine which you can make over. And your underwear?”

She raised my skirt, and turned it up slightly.

“Yes, I see,” said she; “that will not do at all. And your linen, is it suitable?”

Vexed by this invasive inspection, I answered, in a dry voice:

“I do not know what Madame means by suitable.”

“Show me your linen; go and get me your linen. And walk a little ... again ... come back ... turn round ... she walks well, she has style.”

As soon as she saw my linen, she made a face:

“Oh, this cotton cloth, these stockings, these chemises,—horrible! And this corset! I do not wish to see that in my house. I do not wish you to wear that in my house. Wait, Mary; help me.”

She opened a pink lacker wardrobe, pulled out a large drawer full of fragrant garments, and emptied its contents, pell-mell, on the carpet.

“Take that, Mary; take it all. You will see there are some stitches to be taken, some repairs to be made, some little places to be mended. You will attend to that. Take it all; there is a little of everything; there is enough there to fit you out with a pretty wardrobe, a suitable trousseau. Take it all.”

Indeed, there was everything,—silk corsets, silk stockings, silk and fine linen chemises, loves of drawers, delicious ruffs, and ornamented petticoats. A strong odor, an odor of peau d’Espagne, of jasmine, of well-groomed woman, in short, an odor of love, rose from these piled-up garments whose soft, faded, or violent colors glistened on the carpet like a basket of flowers in a garden. I could not get over it; I stood thoroughly stupefied, contented and embarrassed at once, before this pile of pink, mauve, yellow, and red stuffs, in which there still were ribbons of brighter shades and delicate bits of lace. And Madame stirred up these old things that were still so pretty, these undergarments that were scarcely worn, showed them to me, selected for me, and advised me, indicating her preferences.

“I like the women in my service to be coquettish, elegant; I like to have them smell good. You are a brunet; here is a red skirt that will become you marvelously. Moreover, all these things will become you very well. Take them all.”

I was in a state of profound stupefaction. I knew not what to do; I knew not what to say. Mechanically, I repeated:

“Thank you, Madame. How good Madame is! Thank you, Madame.”

But Madame did not leave me time to get a clear idea of my own thoughts. She talked and talked, by turns familiar, shameless, maternal, pandering, and so strange!

“It is like cleanliness, Mary, care of the body, private toilets. Oh! I insist upon that, above all things. On this point I am exacting,—exacting to the point of mania.”

She entered into intimate details, insisting always on this word “suitable,” that came back continually to her lips apropos of things that were scarcely so,—at least, to my thinking. As we finished our sorting of the garments, she said to me:

“A woman, no matter what woman, should always be well kept. For the rest, Mary, you will do as I do; this is a point of capital importance. You-will take a bath to-morrow. I will show you.”

Then Madame took me to her room, showed me her closets, her hangings, the place for everything, familiarized me with the service, all the time making remarks that seemed to me queer and not natural.

“Now,” said she, “let us go to M. Xavier’s room. That, too, will be in your charge. M. Xavier is my son, Mary.”

“Very well, Madame.”

M. Xavier’s room was situated at the other end of the vast apartment. A coquettish room, hung in blue cloth with yellow trimmings. On the walls colored English engravings representing hunting and racing scenes, teams, châteaux. A cane-holder stood in front of a panel,—a real panoply of canes, with a hunting-horn in the middle, flanked by two mail-coach trumpets crossed. On the mantel, among many bibelots, cigar-boxes, and pipes, a photograph of a pretty boy, very young and still beardless, with the insolent face of a precocious dude and the uncertain grace of a girl,—the whole producing an effect that pleased me.

“That is M. Xavier,” said Madame.

I could not help exclaiming, undoubtedly with too much warmth:

“Oh! what a handsome boy!”

“Well, well, Mary!” exclaimed Madame.

I saw that my exclamation had not offended her, for she had smiled.

“M. Xavier is like all young people,” she said to me. “He is not very orderly. You must be orderly for him; and his room must be perfectly kept. You will enter the room every morning at nine o’clock; you will bring him his tea; at nine o’clock, you understand, Mary? Sometimes M. Xavier comes home late. Perhaps he will not receive you well in the morning, but that makes no difference. A young man should be awakened at nine o’clock.”

She showed me where M. Xavier kept his linen, his cravats, his shoes, accompanying each detail with some remark like this:

“My son is a little sharp, but he is a charming child.”

Or else:

“Do you know how to fold pantaloons? Oh! M. Xavier is especially particular about his pantaloons.”

As for the hats, it was agreed that I need pay no attention to them, the glory of their daily ironing belonging to the valet de chambre.

I found it extremely odd that, in a house where there was a valet de chambre, Madame should select me to serve M. Xavier.

“It is funny, but perhaps it is not very suitable,” I said to myself, parodying the word which my mistress was constantly repeating apropos of no matter what.

It is true that everything seemed odd to me in this odd house.

In the evening, in the servants’ hall, I learned many things.

“An extraordinary box,” they explained to me. “It is very astonishing at first, and then you get used to it. Sometimes there isn’t a sou in the whole house. Then Madame goes, comes, runs, goes away and comes back again, nervous, tired, her mouth filled with high words. As for Monsieur, he never leaves the telephone. He shouts, threatens, begs, and raises the devil through the instrument. And the process-servers! It has often happened that the butler had to give something out of his own pocket, on account, to furious tradesmen who were unwilling to supply anything more. On one reception day the electricity and gas were cut off. And then, suddenly, there comes a rain of gold. The house is overflowing with wealth. Where does it come from? That nobody knows exactly. As for the servants, they wait months and months for their wages. But they are always paid at last; only after what scenes, after what insults, after what squabbles! It is incredible.”

Well, indeed, a nice place I had tumbled into! And such was my luck, for the one time in my life when I had good wages.

“M. Xavier has not yet come in to-night,” said the valet de chambre.

“Oh!” exclaimed the cook, looking at me persistently, “perhaps he will return now.”

And the valet de chambre related that that very morning a creditor of M. Xavier had come again to raise a row. It must have been a very dirty matter, for Monsieur had sung small, and had been obliged to pay a heavy sum,—at least four thousand francs.

“Monsieur was in a pretty rage,” he added; “I heard him say to Madame: ‘This cannot last; he will disgrace us; he will disgrace us.’”

The cook, who seemed very philosophical, shrugged her shoulders.

“Disgrace them?” said she, with a chuckle; “little they care about that. It is the having to pay that bothers them.”

This conversation made me ill at ease. I understood vaguely that there might be some relation between Madame’s garments, Madame’s words, and M. Xavier. But exactly what?

“It is having to pay that bothers them!”

I did not sleep at all well that night, haunted by strange dreams and impatient to see M. Xavier.

The valet de chambre had not lied. A queer box, indeed!

Monsieur was in the pilgrimages,—I don’t know exactly what,—president, director, or something of that sort. He picked up pilgrims where he could, among the Jews, the Protestants, the vagabonds, even among the Catholics; and once a year he took these people to Rome, to Lourdes, to Paray-le-Monial, not without gaining notoriety and profit, of course. The pope didn’t see through it, and religion triumphed. Monsieur occupied himself also with charitable and political works: “The League against Secular Education,” “The League against Obscene Publications,” “The Society of Amusing and Christian Libraries,” “The Society for the Collection of Congreganist Sucking-Bottles for the Nursing of Working People’s Children.” And any number of others. He presided over orphan asylums, alumnæ, convents, clubs, employment-bureaus. He presided over everything. Oh! the trades that he had! He was a plump little man, very lively, very neat, very clean-shaven, whose manners, at the same time sugary and cynical, were those of a shrewd priest full of the devil. Sometimes the newspapers contained references to him and his works. Naturally, some of them extolled his humanitarian virtues and his high apostolic sanctity; others treated him as an old rascal and a dirty scoundrel. In the servants’ hall we were much amused over these quarrels, although it is rather chic and flattering to be in the service of masters who are talked about in the newspapers. Every week Monsieur gave a grand dinner, followed by a grand reception, which were attended by celebrities of all sorts, academicians, reactionary senators, Catholic deputies, recalcitrant priests, intriguing monks, and archbishops. There was one especially to whom they paid especial attention, a very old Assumptionist, Father something or other, a sanctimonious and venomous man, who was always saying spiteful things with a contrite and pious air. And everywhere, in every room, there were portraits of the pope. Ah! he must have seen some tall things in that house, the Holy Father.

For my part, Monsieur was not to my liking. He did too many things, he loved too many people. And yet nobody knew half the things that he did and half the people that he loved. Surely he was a sly old dog.

On the day after my arrival, as I was helping him to put on his overcoat in the ante-chamber, he asked me:

“Do you belong to my society,—the Society of the Servants of Jesus?”

“No, Monsieur.”

“You must join it. It is indispensable. I am going to enter your name.”

“Thank you, Monsieur. May I ask Monsieur what this society is?”

“An admirable society, which takes in girl mothers and gives them a Christian education.”

“But, Monsieur, I am not a girl mother.”

“That makes no difference. There are also women just out of prison; there are repentant prostitutes; there is a little of everything. I am going to enter your name.”

He took from his pocket some carefully-folded newspapers, and handed them to me.

“Hide these; read them when you are alone. They are very curious.”

And he chucked me under the chin, saying with a slight clack of his tongue:

“Ah! she is a queer little one,—yes, indeed, a very queer little one!”

When Monsieur had gone, I looked at the newspapers that he had left with me. They were the “Fin de Siècle,” the “Rigolo,” the “Petites Femmes de Paris.” Dirty sheets, indeed!

Oh! the bourgeois! What an eternal farce! I have seen many of them, and of the most different kinds. They are all alike. For instance, I was once a domestic in the house of a republican deputy. He spent his time in railing at the priests. A blower, indeed! you should have seen him. He would not hear a word about religion, or the pope, or the good sisters. If people had listened to him, they would have overturned all the churches and blown up all the convents. Well, on Sunday he went to mass, secretly, in far-away parishes. At the slightest ailment he sent for the priests, and all his children were brought up by the Jesuits. He would never consent to meet his brother after the latter’s refusal to marry in church. All hypocrites, all cowards, all disgusting, each in his own way.

Madame de Tarves was also in the charity line: she too presided over religious committees and benevolent societies, and organized charity sales. That is to say, she was never at home, and things in the house went on as they could. Very often Madame returned late, coming from the devil knows where. Oh! I know these returns; they directly acquainted me with the sort of works in which Madame was engaged, and with the queer capers that were cut in her committees. But she was nice with me. Never an abrupt word, never a reproach. On the contrary, she treated me familiarly, almost like a comrade; and so far did she carry this that sometimes, she forgetting her dignity and I my respect, we talked nonsense together and said risqués things. She gave me advice as to the arrangement of my little affairs, encouraged my coquettish tastes, deluged me with glycerin and peau d’Espagne, covered my arms with cold cream, and sprinkled me with powder. And during these operations she was continually saying:

“You see, Mary, a woman must be well groomed. Her skin must be white and soft. You have a pretty face; you must learn how to set it off. You have a very fine bust; you must give it its full value. Your legs are superb; you must be able to show them. It is more suitable.”

I was content. Yet within I still was not free from anxiety and obscure suspicions. I could not forget the surprising stories that they told me in the servants’ hall. There, when I praised Madame and enumerated her kindnesses toward me, the cook said:

“Yes, yes, that’s all right; but wait and see what follows. What she wants of you is to be intimate with her son, that he may be kept in the house more, and thus may cost these curmudgeons less money. She has already tried that with others. She has even induced friends of hers to come here,—married women,—young girls,—yes, young girls, the trollop! But M. Xavier does not fall in with this. He prefers to roam elsewhere. You will see; you will see.”

And she added, with a sort of hateful regret:

“If I were in your place, how I would blackmail them! I would not hesitate, be sure.”

These words made me slightly ashamed of my comrades in the servants’ hall. But, to reassure myself, I preferred to believe that the cook was jealous of Madame’s evident preference for me.

I went every morning at nine o’clock to open M. Xavier’s curtains and carry him his tea. It is queer; I always entered his room with my heart beating and a strong feeling of apprehension. It was a long time before he paid any attention to me. I turned this way and that, prepared his things for him, arranged his garments, trying to look pretty and show myself off to advantage. He spoke to me only to complain, in the growling voice of one who is half awake, of being disturbed too early. I was put out by this indifference, and I redoubled the silent tricks of coquetry which I had carefully planned. I was expecting every day something that did not happen; and this silence on the part of M. Xavier, this disdain for my person, irritated me to the last degree. What should I have done, if that which I expected had happened? I did not ask myself. I simply wanted it to happen.

M. Xavier was really a very pretty boy, even prettier than his photograph. A light blond mustache—two little arcs of gold—set off his lips better than in his portrait, their red and fleshy pulp inviting a kiss. His light blue eyes, dusted with yellow, were strangely fascinating, and his movements were characterized by the indolence, the weary and cruel grace, of a girl or young deer. He was tall, slender, very supple, ultra-modern in his elegance, and wonderfully seductive through his evident cynicism and corruption. In addition to the fact that he had pleased me from the first, his resistance, or, rather, his indifference, caused my desire to quickly ripen into love.

One morning I found M. Xavier awake, and sitting on the edge of the bed. I remember that he wore a white silk shirt with blue dots. I modestly started to withdraw, but he called me back:

“Oh! what is the matter? Come in. You are not afraid of me, are you?”

With his two hands clasped over his leg, and his body swaying to and fro, he surveyed me for a long time with the utmost effrontery, while I, with slow and graceful movements, and blushing a little, placed a tray on the little table near the mantel. And, as if he then really saw me for the first time, he said:

“Why, you are a very stylish girl. How long, then, have you been here?”

“Three weeks, Monsieur.”

“Well, that’s astonishing!”

“What is astonishing, Monsieur?”

“That I have never noticed that you were so beautiful. Come here!” said he.

I approached, trembling a little. Without a word he took me by the waist, and forced me to sit down beside him.

“Oh! Monsieur Xavier,” I sighed, struggling, but not very vigorously. “Stop, I beg of you. If your parents were to see you?”

But he began to laugh:

“My parents! Oh! my parents, you know,—I have supped on them.”

This was a phrase that he was continually using. When one asked him anything, he answered: “I have supped on that.” And he had supped on everything.

To gain a little time I asked him:

“There is one thing that puzzles me, Monsieur Xavier. How does it happen that one never sees you at Madame’s dinners?”

“You certainly don’t expect me, my dear ... oh! no, you know, Madame’s dinners tire me too much.”

“And how is it,” I insisted, “that your room is the only one in the house in which there is not a picture of the pope?”

This observation flattered him. He answered:

“Why, my little baby, I am an Anarchist, I am. Religion, the Jesuits, the priests,—oh! no, I have enough of them. I have supped on them. A society made up of people like papa and mama? Oh! you know ... none of that in mine, thank you!”

Now I felt at ease with M. Xavier, in whom I found, together with the same vices, the drawling accent of the Paris toughs. It seemed to me that I had known him for years and years. In his turn he asked me:

“Tell me, are you intimate with papa?”

“Your father!” I cried, pretending to be scandalized. “Oh! Monsieur Xavier! Such a holy man!”

His laugh redoubled, and rang out loudly:

“Papa! Oh! papa! Why, he is intimate with all the servants here. Then you are not yet intimate with papa? You astonish me.”

“Oh! no,” I replied, laughing also. “Only he brings me the ‘Fin de Siècle,’ the ‘Rigolo,’ the ‘Petites Femmes de Paris’.”

That set him off in a delirium of joy, and, shaking more than ever with laughter, he cried:

“Papa! Oh! he is astonishing!”

And, being now well started, he continued in a comical tone:

“He is like mama. Yesterday she made me another scene. I am disgracing her,—her and papa. Would you believe it? And religion, and society, and everything! It is twisting. Then I declared to her: ‘My dear little mother, it is agreed; I will settle down to a regular life on the day when you shall have given up your lovers.’ That was a hot one, eh? That shut her up. Oh! no, you know, they make me very tired, these authors of my being. I have supped on their lectures. By the way, you know Fumeau, don’t you?”

“No, Monsieur Xavier.”

“Why, yes ... why, yes ... Anthime Fumeau?”

“I assure you that I do not.”

“A fat fellow, very young, very red-faced, ultra-stylish, the finest teams in Paris. Fumeau ... an income of three millions. Tartlet the Kid? Why, yes, you know him.”

“But I tell you that I do not know him.”

“You astonish me! Why, everybody knows him. Don’t you know the Fumeau biscuit? The young fellow who had a judicial adviser appointed for him two months ago? Don’t you remember?”

“Not at all, I swear to you, Monsieur Xavier.”

“Never mind, little turkey. Well, I played a good one on Fumeau last year,—a very good one. Guess what? You do not guess?”

“How do you expect me to guess, since I do not know him?”

“Well, it was this, my little baby. I introduced Fumeau to my mother. Upon my word! What do you think of that for a discovery? And the funniest part of it is that in two months mama succeeded in blackmailing Fumeau to the tune of three hundred thousand bones. What a godsend that, for papa’s works! Oh! they know a thing or two; they are up to snuff! But for that, the house would have gone up. We were over head and ears in debt. The priests themselves were refusing to have anything to do with us. What do you say to that, eh?”

“I say, Monsieur Xavier, that you have a queer way of treating the family.”

“What do you expect, my dear? I am an Anarchist, I am. I have supped on the family.”

That morning Madame was even nicer than usual with me.

“I am well satisfied with your service,” she said to me. “Mary, I raise your wages ten francs.”

“If she raises me ten francs every time,” thought I to myself, “that will not be bad. It is more suitable.”

Oh! when I think of all that! I, too, have supped on it.

M. Xavier’s fancy did not last long; he had quickly “supped on me.” Not for a moment, moreover, was I able to keep him in the house. Several times, on entering his room in the morning, I found the bed undisturbed and empty. M. Xavier had been out all night. The cook knew him well, and she had told the truth when she said: “He prefers to roam elsewhere.” He pursued his old habits, and went in search of his customary pleasures, as before. On those mornings I felt a sudden pain in my heart, and all day long I was sad, sad!

The unfortunate part of it all is that M. Xavier had no feeling. He was not poetical, like M. Georges. He did not vouchsafe me the slightest attention. Never did he say to me a kind and touching word, as lovers do in books and plays. Moreover, he liked nothing that I liked; he did not like flowers, with the exception of the big carnations with which he adorned the buttonhole of his coat. Yet it is so good to whisper to each other things that caress the heart, to exchange disinterested kisses, to gaze for eternities into one another’s eyes. But men are such coarse creatures; they do not feel these joys,—these joys so pure and blue. And it is a great pity. M. Xavier knew nothing but vice, found pleasure only in debauchery. In love all that was not vice and debauchery bored him.

“Oh! no, you know, that makes me very tired. I have supped on poetry. The little blue flower ... we must leave that to papa.”

To him I was always an impersonal creature, the domestic to whom he gave orders and whom he maltreated in the exercise of his authority as master, and with his boyish cynical jests. And he often said to me, with a laugh in the corner of his mouth,—a frightful laugh that wounded and humiliated me:

“And papa? Really, you are not yet intimate with papa? You astonish me.”

Once I had not the power to keep back my tears; they were choking me. M. Xavier became angry at once:

“Oh! no, you know, that is the most tiresome thing of all. Tears, scenes? You must stop that, my dear; or else, good evening! I have supped on all that nonsense.”

For my part I feel an immense and imperative need of that pure embrace, of that chaste kiss, which is no longer the savage bite of the flesh, but the ideal caress of the soul. I need to rise from the hell of love to the paradise of ecstasy, to the fullness, the delicious and candid silence, of ecstasy. But M. Xavier had supped on ecstasy.

Nothing pained me so much as to see that I had not left the slightest trace of affection, not the smallest tenderness, in his heart. Yet I believe that I could have loved the little scoundrel,—that I could have devoted myself to him, in spite of everything, like a beast. Even to-day I think regretfully of his impudent, cruel, and pretty phiz, and of his perfumed skin. And I have often on my lips, from which, since then, so many lips ought to have effaced it, the acid taste, the burning sensation of his kiss. Oh! Monsieur Xavier! Monsieur Xavier!

One evening, before dinner, when he had returned to dress,—my! but how nice he looked in evening dress!—and as I was carefully arranging his affairs in the dressing-room, he asked me, without embarrassment or hesitation, and almost in a tone of command, precisely as he would have asked me for hot water:

“Have you five louis? I am in absolute need of five louis to-night. I will return them to you to-morrow.”

That very morning Madame had paid me my wages. Did he know it?

“I have only ninety francs,” I answered, a little ashamed,—ashamed of his question, perhaps, but more ashamed, I think, at not having the entire sum that he asked.

“That makes no difference,” said he; “go and get me the ninety francs. I will return them to you to-morrow.”

He took the money, and, by way of thanks, said in a dry, curt tone that froze my heart: “That’s good!” Then, putting out his foot with a brutal movement, he commanded insolently:

“Tie my shoes. And be quick about it; I am in a hurry.”

I looked at him sadly, imploringly:

“Then you are not to dine here this evening, Monsieur Xavier?”

“No, I dine in town. Make haste.”

As I tied his shoes, I moaned:

“And you will not return to-night? I shall cry all night long. It is not nice of you, Monsieur Xavier.”

His voice became hard and thoroughly wicked.

“If you lent me your ninety francs that you might say that, you can take them back. Here, take them!”

“No, no,” I sighed. “You know very well that it was not for that.”

“Well, then, don’t bother me.”

He had quickly finished dressing, and he started off without kissing me and without saying a word.

The next day nothing was said about returning the money; and I did not wish to claim it. It gave me pleasure to think that he had something of me. And now I understand the women who kill themselves with toil, the women who sell themselves to passersby, at night, on the sidewalks, the women who steal, and the women who kill, in order to get a little money with which to procure indulgences for the little man whom they love. That is what has happened to me, in fact. Or has it really happened to me in the degree that I say? Alas! I do not know. There are moments when, in presence of a man, I feel so soft, so soft, without will, without courage, so yielding ... yes, so yielding!

Madame was not slow in changing her manner toward me. Instead of treating me nicely, as she had done before, she became severe, exacting, fault-finding. I was only a blockhead; I never did anything right; I was awkward, unclean, ill-bred, forgetful, dishonest. And her voice, which at first had been so sweet, so much like the voice of a comrade, now became as sour as vinegar. She gave me orders in a blunt and humiliating tone. No more gifts of underwear, no more cold cream and powder, no more of the secret counsels and private confidences that had so embarrassed me at first. No more of that suspicious comradeship which at bottom I felt not to be kindness, and which caused me to lose my respect for this mistress who raised me to the level of her own vice. I snapped at her sharply, strong in my knowledge of all the open or hidden infamies of the house. We got to quarreling like fish-wives, hurling our week’s notice at each other’s heads, like dirty rags.

“What, then, do you take my house for?” she cried. “Do you think you are working for a fast woman?”

Think of her cheek! I answered:

“Oh! your house is a clean one, indeed! You can boast of it. And you? Let us talk about it; yes, let us talk about it! You are clean, too! And what about Monsieur? Oh! la! la! And do you think they don’t know you in the neighborhood, and in Paris? Why, you are notorious, everywhere. Your house? A brothel. And, in fact, there are brothels which are not as dirty as your house.”

And so these quarrels went on; we exchanged the worst insults and the lowest threats; we descended to the vocabulary of the street-walkers and the prisons. And then, suddenly, everything quieted down. M. Xavier had only to show signs of a reviving interest in me,—fleeting, alas!—when straightway began again the suspicious familiarity, the shameful complicities, the gifts of garments, the promises of doubled wages, the washing with Simon cream,—it is more suitable,—and the initiations into the mysteries of refined perfumes. M. Xavier’s conduct toward me was the thermometer by which Madame regulated her own. The latter’s kindness immediately followed the former’s caresses. Abandonment by the son was accompanied by insults from the mother. I was the victim, continually tossed back and forth, of the enervating fluctuations to which the intermittent love of this capricious and heartless boy was subject. One would have thought that Madame must have played the spy with us, must have listened at the door, must have kept tabs for herself on the different phases of our relations. But no. She simply had the instinct of vice, that’s all. She scented it through walls and souls, as a dog inhales in the breeze the far-away odor of game.

As for Monsieur, he continued to dance about among all these events, among all the hidden dramas of this house, alert, busy, cynical, and comical. In the morning he disappeared, with his face of a little pink and shaven faun, with his documents, with his bag stuffed with pious pamphlets and obscene newspapers. In the evening he reappeared, cravated with respectability, armored with Christian Socialism, his gait a little slower, his gestures a little more oily, his back slightly bent, doubtless under the weight of the good works done during the day. Regularly every Friday he gave me the week’s issues of indecent journals, awaiting just the right occasion for making his declaration, and contenting himself with smiling at me with the air of an accomplice, caressing my chin, and saying to me, as he passed his tongue over his lips:

“Ho, ho, she is a very queer little one, indeed!”

As it amused me to watch Monsieur’s game, I did not discourage him, but I promised myself to seize the first exceptionally favorable opportunity to sharply put him where he belonged.

One afternoon I was greatly surprised to see him enter the linen-room, where I sat alone, musing sadly over my work. In the morning I had had a painful scene with M. Xavier, and was still under the influence of the impression it had left on me. Monsieur closed the door softly, placed his bag on the large table near a pile of cloth, and, coming to me, took my hands and patted them. Under his blinking eyelid his eye turned, like that of an old hen dazzled by the sunlight. It was enough to make one die of laughter.

“Célestine,” said he, “for my part, I prefer to call you Célestine. That does not offend you, does it?”

I could hardly keep from bursting.

“Why, no, Monsieur,” I answered, holding myself on the defensive.

“Well, Célestine, I think you charming! There!”

“Really, Monsieur?”

“Adorable, in fact; adorable, adorable!”

“Oh! Monsieur!”

His fingers had left my hand, and were caressing my neck and chin with fat and soft little touches.

“Adorable, adorable!” he whispered.

He tried to embrace me. I drew back a little, to avoid his kiss.

“Stay, Célestine, I beg of you. I do not annoy you, do I?”

“No, Monsieur; you astonish me.”

“I astonish you, you little rogue. I astonish you? Oh! you don’t know me.”

His voice was no longer dry. A fine froth moistened his lips.

“Listen to me, Célestine. Next week I am going to Lourdes; yes, I conduct a pilgrimage to Lourdes. Do you wish to come to Lourdes? I have a way of taking you to Lourdes. Will you come? Nobody will notice anything. You will stay at the hotel; you will take walks, or do what you like. And I will meet you in the evening.”

What stupefied me was not the proposition in itself,—for I had been expecting it a long time,—but the unforeseen form which Monsieur gave it. Yet I preserved all my self-possession. And, desirous of humiliating this old rake, of showing him that I had not been the dupe of Madame’s dirty calculations and his own, I lashed him squarely in the face with these words:

“And M. Xavier? Say, it seems to me that you are forgetting M. Xavier? What is he to do while we are amusing ourselves in Lourdes, at the expense of Christianity?”

An indirect and troubled gleam, the look of a surprised deer, lighted in the darkness of his eyes. He stammered:

“M. Xavier?”

“Why, yes!”

“Why do you speak to me of M. Xavier? There is no question of M. Xavier? M. Xavier has nothing to do with this.”

I redoubled my insolence.

“On your word? Oh! don’t pretend to be ignorant. Am I hired, yes or no, to be company for M. Xavier? Yes, am I not? Well, I am company for him. But you? Oh! no, that is not in the bargain. And then, you know, my little father, you are not my style.”

And I burst out laughing in his face.

He turned purple; his eyes flamed with anger. But he did not think it prudent to enter into a discussion, for which I was terribly armed. He hastily picked up his bag, and slunk away, pursued by my laughter.

The next day, apropos of nothing, Monsieur made some gross remark to me. I flew into a passion. Madame happened along. I became mad with anger. The scene that ensued between us three was so frightful, so low, that I cannot undertake to describe it. In unspeakable terms I reproached them with all their filth and with all their infamy. I demanded the return of the money that I had lent M. Xavier. They foamed at the mouth. I seized a cushion, and hurled it violently at Monsieur’s head.

“Go away! Get out of here, at once, at once!” screamed Madame, threatening to tear my face with her nails.

“I erase your name from the membership of my society; you no longer belong to my society, lost creature, prostitute!” vociferated Monsieur, stuffing his bag with thrusts of his fists.

Finally Madame withheld my week’s wages, refused to pay the ninety francs that I had lent M. Xavier, and obliged me to return all the rags that she had given me.

“You are all thieves,” I cried; “you are all pimps!”

And I went away, threatening them with the commissary of police and the justice of the peace.

“Oh! you are looking for trouble? Yes, well, you shall have it, scoundrels that you are!”

Alas! the commissary of police pretended that the affair did not concern him. The justice of the peace advised me to let it drop. He explained:

“In the first place, Mademoiselle, you will not be believed. And that is as it should be. What would become of society if a servant could be right against a master? There would be no more society, Mademoiselle. That would be anarchy.”

I consulted a lawyer; he demanded two hundred francs. I wrote to M. Xavier; he did not answer me. Then I counted up my resources. I had three francs fifty left—and the street pavement.