A Chambermaid's Diary

embe

t them. Ah! I can boast of having seen interiors and faces, and dirty souls. And the end is not yet. Judging from the really extraordinary and dizzy way in which I have rolled, here and there, successively, from houses to employment-bureaus, and from employment-bu

dlesome and fastidious character. Ah! the explanations and the commentaries that she insisted upon, the whys and the becauses. I do not know whether Madame is stingy; at any rate she is hardly ruining herself with her letter-paper. It is bought at the Louvre. I am not rich, but

te, which is not far from the country, is called the Priory. This

elf what further is going to happen to me here. Doubtless nothing good, and the usual worries. To worry is the clearest of our privileges. For every one who succeeds,-that is, for every one who marries a

ly indecorous, and even horrible, I wish to relate it. Moreover, I charitably warn my readers that it is my intention, in writing this diary, to keep nothing back, in relation either to myself or to others. On the contrary, I intend to put in

here

of a certain M. Rabour, in Touraine. The conditions accepted, it was agreed that I should take the t

xit, I found, outside, a sort of coachman wi

Rabour's new

es

you a

have a

gage ticket, and

m "Monsieur Louis" in a tone of friendly respect. Louis looked for my trunk in th

ill you

handsome liveries. I dote on nothing so much as on white leather knee-breeches tightly fitting nervous thighs. And how lacking in elegance he was, this Louis, without driving-gloves, with a full suit of grayish-blue drugget that was too big for him, and a flat cap of glazed leather, ornamented with a

tures. Oh! how ridiculous he was! For my part, with much dignity I surveyed the landscape, which had no special feature; simply fields, trees, and

st you have brought a

ng, and still more at the singular tone in which he put it to me. "Why do y

nge look whose two-fold expression of keen irony and, indeed, of

ow nothing. You are a good on

ongue, and the horse

ood man was a little silly, that he did not know how to talk with women, and that he had been ab

at the Paris employment-bureau, God knows after how many indiscreet questions as to my private habits and tastes, which ought to have made me distrustful. But in vain does one see and endure things stronger and stronger; they never teach you anything. The governess had not pleased me at the employment-bureau; here she instantly disgusted me. She seemed to me to have the air of an

eft me, saying that she was going to notify Monsieur, that

. "I have taken you, it is true, but then

, varnished, shone like mirrors. No clap-trap, no heavy hangings, no embroidered stuffs, such as are seen in certain Paris houses; but

out of a band-box, freshly shaven, and as pink as a doll. Very erect, very sprightly, very inviting, in fact, he hopp

our name,

ine, Mo

oo long. I will call you Marie, if you are willing. That is a very nice name, too, and it is short. And besides, I have c

eal name. I was not too much astonished, having already borne

e you if I call you Mari

tainly, M

od character; very

hout seeming to undress me with his eyes, after the fashion of men generally. Scarcely had he looked a

rt silence, during which it seemed to me

ames, Mo

hild, oth

ue he licked his lips,

had astounded me. Then that had a meaning? On a more pressing interrogation I finally answ

ieur, I ha

aze

Mons

highly

es, Mon

And of yell

of that kin

have some; I wil

you, Mo

good! B

inking that he was about to faint, I was on the point of shouting, of calling for help. But the crisis quieted down, a

uch less mine. I have a great respect for women, Marie, and cannot endure that. So I will black your shoes, your little shoes, your dear little shoes. I will take care of them. Listen to me. Every ev

d a prodigious asto

ask of you; it is a very natural thing,

his pocket two louis,

u your wages every month. But between ourselves, Marie, I shall often make you little presents. And wh

As he spoke his eyelids rapidly rose

do you not walk? Walk a little, that I may see them

sing fingers, unlaced them. And, while kissing, kneading, and caressing

e them to me directly, directly, directly

ally living or dreaming. Of Monsieur's eyes I saw nothing but two little white

y and shut himself up with t

rness to me, in showing me over the house. "Try to

was not disarranged. There was not the slightest trace of shock, of agony, of clinched hands striving to strangle Death. And I should have thought him asleep, if his face had not been violet, frightfully violet, the sinister violet of the egg-plant. And,-terrifying spectacle,

capable. But a man like Monsieur? Oh! indeed, is it not ridiculous all the same that such types exist? And where do th

o me here. Here, evidently, they are of another sort. B

ue eyes, an audacious mouth, and, finally, an original manner and a turn of mind, very lively and languishing at once, that pleases men. I might have succeeded. But, in addition to the fact that, by my own fault, I have missed some astonishing opportunities, which probably will never come to me again, I have been afraid. I have been afraid, for one never knows where that will lead you. I have rubbed against so many miseries in that sphere of life; I have received so many distressing confidences. And those tragic calvaries from the Depot to the Hospital, which one does not always esc

olds me back at the edge of the worst abysses. Ah! if there were no religion; if, on evenings of gloom and moral distress, there were no prayer in the churches; if it were not for the Holy

stedness and their pleasure. I am too amorous,-yes, I am too much in love with love, to draw any profit whatever out of love

f weariness in my whole body; my stomach is becoming impaired, my memory is weakening; I am growing more irritable and nervous. Just now, when looking in the glass, I discovered that my face had a really tired look, and that my complexion-that amber complexion of which I was so proud-had taken on an almost ashen hue. Can I be growing old already? I do not wish to grow old yet. In Paris it is difficult to

elegance. And then, as a rule, they are nice the first day, these camels. While all is new, all is beautiful. That is a well-known song. Yes, and the next day the air changes into another one equally well known. Especially as Madame has very cold, hard eyes, which do not please me,-the eyes of a miser, full of keen suspicion and spying inquiry. Nor do I like her dr

ock and key, to count every evening her grapes and her lumps of sugar, and to put marks o

y mouths that have spoken to me, among so many looks that have searched my soul, I shall find

nd how many things and corners it contains! Oh! no, thank you, to keep it in order as it should be, four servants would not suffice. Besides the ground floor, which in itself is very important,-for there are two little pavilions, in the form of a terrace, which constitute additions and continuations,-it has two stories, in which I shall have to be forever going up and

showing me something

l. This is very pretty, my girl. This is very r

d, between our mistresses and us? Do I call her "little mother"? And then Madame has always on her lips the words "very expensive." It is provoking. Everything that belongs to her, even paltry articles that cost four sous, are

e, and that it can be repaired only in England. Ta

hey make about nothing! And when I think that it

eak beneath your feet; low and dark passage-ways, whose floors, instead of being covered with soft carpets, consist of badly-laid tiles, of a faded red color, and glazed, glazed, slippery, slippery. The too thin partitions, made of too dry planks, make the chambers as sonorous as the inside of a violin. Oh! it is all hollow and provincial. It surely is not furnished in the Paris fashion. In all the rooms old mahogany, old worm-eaten stuffs, old worn-out faded rugs, and arm-chairs and sofas, ridiculou

a woman in nothing. But she has regular features, pretty hair naturally blonde, and a beautiful skin; in fact, she has too much color, as if she were suffering from some internal malady. I know this type of woman, and I am not to be deceived by the brilliancy of their complexion. They are pink on the surface, yes, but within they are rotten. They cannot stand up straight, they cannot walk, they cannot live, except by the aid of girdles, trusses, pess

ed up and mummified,-a rare thing with blondes. Not such women as Madame does beautiful music, like that of "Faust",-oh! that "Faust"!-cause to fall with languor and swoon voluptuously in the arms of a handsome man. Oh, no indeed! She does not belong to that class of very ugly women into whose face

this?" and "Do you know how to do that?" or again: "Are you in the habit of breaking things? Are you careful? Have you a good memory? Are you orderly?" There is no end to it. And also: "Are you clean? I am very particular about cleanliness; I pass over many things, but I insist upon cleanliness." Does

are necessary to a woman who takes proper care of herself. And what a scant supply she has of bibelots, bottles, and all those private an

have so often served in the Rue Christophe-Colomb, or a man of elegance, like M. de Janzé. Ah, M. de Janzé! There was a man for you! Yet he is sympathetic. His thick and curly hair, his bull neck, his calves that look like a wrestler's, his thick, intensely red, and smiling lips, testify to his strength and good humor. He is not indifferent.

t without impudence, something of an undressing look, but without brutality. It is evident that Monsieur is not accustomed to such chambe

ou are the ne

, and then, modest and mutinous at once,

es, Mon

e stam

That's very good,

thing to say,-but, being neither eloquent or at his ease, he did not find anything

rom Paris,

Mons

good, that'

owing

is you

ine, Mo

ds,-a mannerism o

name; in fact, a pretty name. Provided Madame doe

a tone of digni

adame's di

oubtedly. But it

uddenly, he sat down in a chair, stretched out his legs, and, putting into his lo

call you Célestine,-will you help me to take o

ly not,

ded boots are very difficult to

take off his boots, which were damp and covered with mud, I was perfectly conscious that the perfumes of my neck were exciting his n

Célestine, but

eyes, I assumed a

Mons

it can hardl

Monsi

t of friendly reprimand,-friendly to the point of encouragement,-for his familiarity. Did he underst

smell awfully go

, and kept silence. Timid as he is, and knowing nothing of the tricks of women, Monsieur was dist

accustomed to the

there but three hours. I had to bite my lips to keep from laughing.

me. In his very vulgarity he reveals a certain pow

and to leave him with a good impres

unter. Has Monsieur ha

his head. "I hunt for the sake of walking,-for the sake o

r finds it t

he gallantly co

nd it tiresome. For now,

stupid and

esti

nsi

my slippers? I

eur, it is

under the stairs, in a litt

of this type. He is not shrewd; he surrende

did say concerned local matters and people of little or no interest to me. But I gathered that they have very little company. Moreover, it was plain that their thoughts were not on what they were saying. They were watching me, each according to the ideas that prompted him or her, each moved by a different curiosity; Madame, severe and stiff, contemptuous even, more and more hostile, and dreaming already of all the dirty tricks

thout paint and without veils, forgetting that some one is hovering around them, listening and noting their defects, their moral humps, the secret sores of their existence, and all the infamies and ignoble dreams that can be contained in the respectable brain

is everything, that Monsieur trembles before Madame like a little child. Oh! he hasn't a merry time of it, the poor man! Surely he sees, hears, and suffers all sorts of things. I fancy that

ke the use o

to ignore the fact that the rema

hear, Cé

well,

he was following the flight of a wasp which had been lingering over a plate of fruit. And there was now a dismal silence in this dining-room, which the twilight had just invaded, and some

mp, Cél

r than ever in the silence an

I should not have to ask you for

can be repaired only in England,-I had a

es that you so love, and of which you are so deprived. You shall breathe them, I promise you; you shall breathe th

care, as I placed the lamp upon the table, to sli

fat, soft, flabby, sprawling, a neck emerging in a triple cushion from a dirty neckkerchief which looks as if she wiped her kettles with it, two enormous and shapeless breasts rolling beneath a sort of blue cotton camisole covered with grease, her too short dress disclos

at and round as sausages. Really, that is scarcely proper. The fire in the stove renders the atmosphere of the room stifling; odors of old grease, of rancid sauces, of continual fryings, circulate in the air. While

er. Nothing else. Earthen plates, with cracked enamel, and which s

o complain. But neither did I wish to eat. D

ou eat?" ask

not hu

tone; then Marianne grunted: "Perha

but with a stiff and

ten truffles. Not everybo

shut

ter detail. His stiff, grizzled hair, his low forehead, his oblique eyes, his prominent cheek-bones, his broad, strong jaw, and his long, fleshy, turned-up chin, give him a strange character that I cannot define. Is he a simpleton? Is he a rascal? I cannot tell. Yet it is curious that this man holds my attention as he does. After a time this obsession lessens a

Sprawling on her chair, her sleeves rolled up and revealing bare arms, her cap set a little awry upon her uncombed hair, she asked me where I came from, where I had been, if I had had good places, and if I was against the Jews. And we t

o idea how far behind the times they are in the country. They know nothing, they see nothing, they understand nothing; the most natural thing abashes them. And yet, he with his awkward re

aris, from I know not where," remarked

with a toss of his

ur

gain. Marianne rose heavily, and took the

uch a handsome fellow, Monsieur Jean, so gay, so nice, so delicate, so artful, when at night he read aloud to us from the "Fin de Siècle" or told us salacious and touching stories, o

t want

ardrobe which does not close and where I have not room enough to arrange my things. No other light than a tallow candle that smokes and runs down into a brass candlestick. It is pitiful. If I wish to continue to write this diary, o

on the mantel I will place my painted porcelain virgin, together with my little boxes, my bric-à-br

eeps in the out-buildings, might visit Marianne to-night. But no. For a long time Marianne turned about in her room, coughing, hawking,

wo o'clock, and my light is going out. I, too, am obl

ll grow in this h