A Chambermaid's Diary

obe

nflowers that mounted guard at the kitchen-door. There is nothing left in the devastated flower-beds,-nothing but a few sorry-looking geraniums here and there, and five or six clusters of asters, whose blue flowers-the dull bl

ys we have been living in a thick fog, a brown fog that smelt of soot and that did not dissipate even in the afternoon. Now

squeaking hinges, is deafening. In spite of the urgent need of repairs, I have had all the difficulty in the world in getting Madame to order the plumber to come to-morrow morning. And I do not dare yet to ask for a stove, although, being very chilly, I feel that I shall not be able to live in this mortal room

But I am beginning to be so stupid that I am accommodating myself to this ennui, as if it were a natural thing. Even the deprivation of love does not cause me too much embarrassment, and I endure without too painful struggles this chastity to which I am condemned, or to which, rather, I have condemned myself,-for I have abandoned Monsieur, I have dropped Monsieur finally. Monsieur bores me, and I am angry with him for having

ly turning the leaves of old hunting-books. You should see him when I go in at night to close the blinds or attend to his fire. Then he rises, coughs, sneezes, clears his throat, runs against the furniture, upsets objects, and tries in all sorts of stu

, we exchanged the fo

esti

desires

unkind to me; why ar

very well that I am a

! c

ty thi

come,

sibly di

stine! Come, Céles

ah

longer amuses me to upset his he

ring, at night, for hours, with Marianne and Joseph,-this strange Joseph who does not go out any more, and seems to find pleasure in remaining with us. The idea that Joseph perhaps is in love with me,-well, that flatters me. Yes, indeed, I have got to that point. And then I read, and read,-novels, novels, and more novels. I have reread Paul Bourget. His books do not excite my enthusiasm as they used to. In fact, they tire me, and I consider them

and it is in this way that I can best measure the extent of my solitude. In vain have I written to my old comrades, and especially to Monsieur Jean, urgent and disconsolate letters; in vain have I implored them to

ver with me, and that it is not true that an accidental fall means irreparable ruin. That is why, alone in my room, while, on the other side of my partition, Marianne's snoring represents to me the dis

giving him too much of life. And during the five years since he died,-died of me,-this will be the first time that I have not gone, on the sixth of October, to cover his grave with the usual flowers. But of these flowers, which I shall not carry to his grave, I will make a more durable bouquet, which will adorn and perfume his beloved memory b

g for a week in search of a place, I was introduced to an old lady in mourning. Never had I met a face more engaging, a look mor

for you have an intelligent face, frank and gay, which pleases me greatly. I am in need of a person worthy of trust and capable of devotion. Devotion! Ah! I know that I am asking a thing that it is

e soul of my childhood reborn within me. All my spite, all my hatred, all my spirit of rebellion, I forget as by a miracle, and toward the people who speak to me in a human fashion I feel no sentiments save those of sa

s venerable lady in mourning, I alr

si

gay place that I o

iasm that did not escape h

dame. Anything that Madam

e. I was ready

a kind and tender

my family, with the exception of a grandson, who now, he also, is threa

dicated it to me by placing upon her chest her old hand, glove

, in whom I have placed my last hopes. For, when he is gone, I

She wiped them away with h

d for at least an hour in a very warm bed. That is what I want of you in the first place, my child. But understand me well; what I specially want is youth, grace, gaiety, life. In my house it is these things that are most lacking. I have two very devoted servants, but they are old and sad, and possessed of manias. Georges cannot endure them. And I myself, with my old white head and my perpetual wearing of mourning,-I feel that I am an af

ing the sort of saint of whom this disconsolate gran

n sea-baths perhaps, the continual companionship of a pretty face, a fresh young laugh, something to

e depths of my being. "And Madame may be su

and that we should start on the next day but one for Houlgate, whe

eemingly burned by the flaming gaze! What an intense focus of thought, of passion, of sensibility, of intelligence, of inner life! And to what an extent already had the red flowers of death invaded his cheeks! It seemed as if it were not of disease, as if it were not of death, that he was dying, but of an excess of life, of the fever of life that was in him, gnawing

ter-was opposite M. Georges's, across a passage-way, and was hung with light cretonne. From its windows one looked out into a little garden, where were growing some sorry-looking spindle-trees and some sorrier-looking rose-bushes. To express in words my joy, my pride, my emotion, and the pure and new elevation of mind that I felt at being thus treated and petted, admitted, like a lady, to comfort, to luxury, and to a share in that thing so vainly coveted which is called the family; to explain how, by a simple wave of the wand of that miraculous fairy, kindness, there came instantly an end to the recollection of my past hu

es to the poor grandmother, who was in a state of perpetual des

ill save him. I swear to y

in the shelter of the tents, awaiting the bathing hour,-the hour of "the little dip in the sea," as M. Georges gaily called it. For he was gay, always gay; never did he speak of his illness, never of death. I really believe that in all those days he never once uttered the terrible word death. On the other hand, he was much amused by my chatter, provoking it if necessary; and I, confiding in his eyes, reassured by his heart, won by his indulgence and his grace, told him everything that came into my mind,-farces, follies, and songs. My little childhood, my little desires, my little misfortunes, and my dreams, and my rebellions, and my various experiences with

ed me to read him the poems of Victor Hugo, of Baudelaire, of Verlaine, of M?terlinck. Often he closed his eyes, and lay mo

can listen better so. I hear your voi

he rhythms, the lines that had excited in him the greatest enthusiasm, and he tried-oh! how I loved him for that!-to

pise it, because they have too much pride. To love poetry it is enough to have a soul,-a little soul, naked, like a flower. Poets speak to the souls of the simple, of the sad, of the sick. And that is

orges, you are m

hat you have said these beautiful things

e revelation of something unknown in me, and which yet was I. And to-day, in spite of worse falls, thoroughly reconquered as I am by all that is bad and embittered in me, if I have kept this passionate fondness for reading, and somet

of which I was now the queen and the fairy. They attributed to me, they attributed to the intelligence of my care, to the vigilance of my devotion, and, more still perhaps, to my constant gaiety, to my youth so full of charm, to my surprising influence over Georges, this incomparable m

e took my hands, caressed them, kissed

I ... when I saw you

formed,-journeys to the land o

leave us; never

eve that I deserved it. If, as many others would have done in m

as to happ

olled stifling clouds, thick red clouds, through which the storm could not break. M. Georges had not gone out, even to the terrace, and we had remained i

"And, besides, I feel that yo

d at once come back into the room, where he had sought to divert himself for a moment by drawing, as it seemed to

on't know what is the matter with me. And you,-there i

e a vast expanse of water. Fishing-boats in the distance, fleeing from the ever-threatening storm, were r

ually moving about, to find something with which to occupy his mind. Of cour

o? Why do you enervate y

aske

e on one of those little

ke of talking. Why say usel

, the sight of the sea becoming utterly unend

do not wish to look at it. Everything is horrible to-day

ntly chi

having well. If your grandmother were to come in and se

imself a little

u call me 'Monsieur Georges'?

call you 'Mons

ges' for short

not; I could

e had

Are you, then, still

e day passed off, half in enervation, half in silen

r him to sleep, and in a bed sleepless nights are so long! He on his long chair, I sitting near a little table on which, veiled by a shade, was burning a lamp that shed a soft, pink light about us, we said nothing. Although his eye

y he sa

little while, Célesti

anifested an effusive and enthusiastic friendship, which

ll nearer,"

h

e me you

rust I allowed him to take

ty your eyes are! And how pretty you a

east, he had never told me so with such an air. Surprised and, in reality, charmed by thes

ch good it does me to have you near me, how it warms me. See, I am no long

t my waist, he obliged me to sit down be

uncomfort

that trembling which is given to the voice of all men by the violent desire of love. I was very much moved, and I was very cowardly; my head was whirlin

s, I am very uncomfor

d not leav

beg of yo

g gentleness of which I

id. What are you

ine, and I felt his warm breath with its ins

th an inexpressibl

rges, let me go. You will make your

gility of his members. I simply tried-and how carefully!-to put away his hand,

aving very badly, Monsi

race soon weakened. For a few seconds he breathed with g

ourself sick. You will listen to nothing. And all will have to be begun over again. Great progress we shall make in th

chair, and, as I replaced beneath his head the

are right; I a

pardon, Monsieur Georges

ould you love me? It would cure me to love you. Since you have been here beside me, and since the beginning of my desire for you; since you have been here with your youth, and your freshness, and your eyes, and your hands,-your little silky hands, whose attentions are th

directions. An impulse rushed me toward him, a sacred duty held me back. And in a silly fashion, because I was not since

of these ugly things. It makes you sick

e rep

fear to poison your mouth with the poisons of mine; you are afraid of contracting my d

of these words str

ldly; "what you say is horrible and wicked. And

and burning. I bent over him; his br

rrible, h

onti

love that I have drunk, it is the revulsion of your life that has set a new blood flowing beneath my skin. It is because I have so hoped and longed and waited for your kiss that I have begun to live again, to be strong,-for I am strong now. But I a

hings which you are sa

on, while I

hat one is sick when one has love. You do not know that love is life,-eternal life. Yes, yes, I understand

? Was it simply the impulsive and savage love that suddenly took possession of me? I do not know. Perhaps it was all of these together. What I

afraid I am of you! See, th

med to penetrate the deepest sores of his chest, to lick them, to drink from them, to draw out of them a

as to happ

, first and only, an imperative, spontaneous movement of protest against the base sentiments that Georges-through strategy, p

to impregnate my lungs with it, to saturate with it all my flesh. And, even though you were really sick, even though your disease were contagious and fatal to any o

is embrace and put away this kiss. But there it is, you see! When a man holds me in his arms, my skin at once begins to burn, and my head to turn and turn. I become drunk; I becom

sion of his eyes in presence of the mystery, at last unveiled, of woman and of love! But, the intoxication passed, when I saw the poor and fragi

r Georges! I have made you

at dazzled gratitude, he rolled against me, as if in search o

py. Now I

y weakness in my d

o me, you see, that, if I were left alone, I could not end

short though it was, it lacerated my soul. After having relieved and cured him, was I going t

ppy. And besides, I am not sick, I am not sick. You will see how soundly I shall sleep against you

should ring for me to-n

her will not ring. I wi

gling our kisses, our bodies, our souls, in an embrace, in an endless possession. We were in haste to enjoy, in compensation for th

same joy and of the same disease. Deliberately I sacrificed his life and mine. With a wild and bitter exaltation I breathed and drank in death, all the death, from his mouth; and I besmeare

give!

urderous avidity, as I would have

specimen. And the joy that had regained possession of the house changed very speedily into dismal sorrow. The grandmother began again to pass her days in the salon, crying, praying, on the alert for sounds, and, with her ear glued to the door that separated her from

hy? And what th

id to

you cannot pass all your nights by Georges's side.

l, seeming to think that, having already worked one miracle, I c

nd that it had worked such ravages in so short a time. Not for a moment did they or anyone susp

ever complain, but his soul continually poured itself out in effusions of gratitude. He spoke

t death is not a high price to pay for the superhuman happiness which you have given me. I was lost; death was in me; nothing could pr

, in an unspeakable horror of my crime, of my murder. There was nothing left me but the hope, the consolat

as to happ

large bay-window in his room, and there, lying on his long chair, beside the window, protected from the air by warm coverings, he had breathed for at least four hours, and deliciously, the iodic emanations from the offing. The life-giving sun, the good sea odors, the deserted beach, now occupied again by the shell-fishermen, delighted him. Never had

are all my poems, and far

is gaze, which had become a glowing fireplace, in which the soul continually kindled a flame of surprising and supernatural intensity. That evening, the evening of the sixth of October, he seemed no longer to be suffering. Oh! I see him still, stretched u

s modesty and mine-a screen behind which I could, undress. But often I did not lie upon the couch; Monsie

verish; the spots at the points of his cheek-bones were a little redder. Seeing me sitting at

ke me sad, and to give me pain? Why do you

shaken

, to kill you? Do you wish me to suffer all

ten that I wanted to die with him

ieur Georges! Have pity

on my lips. Deat

gasping. "I have never lov

te revealed my image, red and bloody. I was mad, and, running about the room in bewilderment, it was my impulse to call for aid. But the instinct of self-preservation, the fear of responsibilities, of the revelation of my crime, and I know not what el

e ante-room, and listen. Not a sound. Everybody in the house was asleep. Then I returned to the bedside. I raised Georges's body, as light as a feather, in my arms. I lifted up his head, maintaining it in an upright position in my hands. The b

Georges!

ries. He did not hear them. He heard not

Georges!

is head; his head fell back heavily upon the pillow. I pl

Georges!

ss, and of myself, was too much for me. And, crushed with grief, crushed with t

minated all others,-that of removing every accusing sign. I washed my face, I redressed myself, and-yes, I had the frightful cour

ht I suffered all the to

I began my work of destruction on that poor flesh. And the roaring of the wind through the trees in the ga

tinually thanking me for my devotion, for my heroism, of calling me her "daughter, her dear little daughter," and of embracing me with madly effusive tenderness. Many times during the fortnight in which I consented to call upon her, in obedience to her request, I had an intense desire to confess, to accuse myself, to tell her everything that was lying so heavily on my soul and often stifling me. But what would have

rade, a valet, with whom I had served for six months in the same house. It was fully two years since I had seen him. After our first greetings, I

claimed, happy at seeing me a

, full of fun, and fond o

e dine tog

ay from me a multitude of sad images, a mu

he exc

ertain rascally joy, a sort of crapulous security, as if I were resuming a lost habit. To tell the truth, I recognized myself, I recognized my own life and my own soul in those dissipated eye

having drunk too much Saumur wine. In the darkness of the hall, as the French army was marching across the illuminated screen amid the

!" he whispered. "Oh

stupid. He was tapping his shoes with the end of his cane; I, with head lowered, my elbows pressed

evoir!" I s

d, "let me go up with

ncertain fashion, for the

with you? Heart troubles

staircase, its slimy banister, its vile atmosphere, its fetid odors, it seemed like a house for the accommodation of tra

oulgate villas or to the warm and richl

e is sometimes!

f front, its liaisons as quickly ended as begun, and its sudde

where, by suggestion, I suffered from pains and lacerations; I examined the discharges from my throat, in which I saw red streaks; and I gave myself a fever, by frequent counting of my pulse. It seemed to me, as I looked in the glass, that my eyes were growing hollow, and that my cheeks were growing pinker, with that mortal pink that colored Monsieur Georges's face. One night, as I was

white roses. I slackened my pace, not wishing to pass them and be recognized. Hidden behind the wall of a high monument, I waited until the poor and sorrowful old woman had placed her flowers, told her beads, and dropped her tears upon her grandson's grave. They came back with the same feeble steps, through the smaller path, brushing against the wall of the vault on the other side of which I was hiding. I concealed myself still more, that I might not see them, for it seemed to me that it was my remorse, the phantoms of my remorse, tha

e dead; perhaps they are dead quite. After having wandered on for days and nights,

, when I think of the matter again, and realize that she never suspected anything, that she never saw anything, that she never understood anything, this seem

he saw me, he left his work, and came to the hedge to talk. He is no longer angry with me for the murder of his ferret. He even seems very gay. B

grimy hands. "Ah! the dirty thing will scratch no more compost from my garden-frames; it will no longer ravage my seed-plot

for a moment. And suddenly, his eyes s

d? The dirty creatures! Oh! I would give you a

h

know? Kléber? m

. We

te him. Al

t very goo

asted like

funeral sermon that

a wood-pile. He is engaged in taming him. He calls him Bourbaki. Ah! that's

en beefsteak, mutton stew, salt bacon, gruyère cheese, and preserves. He is as

wheelbarrow full of stones, old sardine-boxes, and a h

!" calls t

to town, and that Joseph has gone on an errand, he takes from the wheelbarrow each of the stones,

Take that,

ll upon a freshly-worked bed, where J

too! And here is ano

y finds expression in a sort of hooting and disorderly gestures. Then, turni

for sure! You must come and see me, when Ros

ed! He has