Our dinner was a very gay affair; Lirat displayed a charming disposition; he was full of original ideas, without extremes or paradoxes, on art. He had again found his normal self, as in the better days of his life. Several times I had a notion to tell him that I had seen Juliette. A kind of shame held me back; I had not the courage.
“Work, work, my little Mintié,” he said to me, when we were parting. “To create, always to create, to draw from one’s sinews or from one’s brains no matter what … be it only a pair of rubbers. There is nothing outside of that!”
Six days later I went again to Juliette and gradually I formed the habit of calling regularly and spending an hour before dinner. The disagreeable impression left on me at the time of my first visit had vanished. Little by little, without suspecting it, I grew so used to the red tapestry in her parlor, to the terra cotta statue of Cupid, to Juliette’s childish prating, even to Spy who had become my friend, that whenever I passed a day without seeing her, it seemed as though a great void had been created in my life.
Not only did the things which at first had shocked me no longer do so, but, on the contrary, they now moved me, and each time Juliette talked to Spy or attended to him with exaggerated care, it was a positive pleasure to me, appearing as an added proof of the simplicity and affectionate qualities of her heart. In the end I, too, began to speak this dog language. One evening, when Spy was sick, I grew uneasy and, removing the covers and quilts which covered him, I gently murmured: “Baby Spy has a hurt; where does it hurt our little baby?” Only the image of the singer, rising near Juliette, somewhat disturbed the tranquility of our meetings, but I only had to close my eyes for a moment or turn away my head, and the image would instantly disappear. I persuaded Juliette to tell me her life. Until now she had always refused.
“No! no!” she would say.
And she would add with a smile, looking at me with her large, sad eyes:
“What will we gain, my friend?”
I insisted, I begged.
“It is your duty to reveal it to me and my duty to know it.”
At last, conquered by this argument which I never tired of using in various and appealing forms, she consented. Oh, with what sadness!
Her home was in Liverdun. Her father was a physician and her mother, who led a frivolous life, had left her husband. As for Juliette, she had been placed in the home of the Sisters. Her father came home drunk every evening, and there were terrible scenes, for he was very ill-natured. The scandal grew to such proportions that the Sisters sent Juliette away, not wishing to keep the daughter of a wicked woman and a drunkard in their house. Ah, what a miserable life it was! Always locked up in her room and sometimes beaten by her father for no cause whatever! One night, very late, the father entered Juliette’s room. “How shall I express it to you!” Juliette said blushing. “Oh, well, you understand. …” She jumped out of bed, shouted, opened the window. But the father was frightened and went away. The next morning Juliette left for Nancy, planning to live by working. It was here she had met Charles.
While she was talking in a gentle, even voice I took her hand, her beautiful hand which I pressed with feeling, at the sad points of the story. I was indignant over the action of her father. And I cursed the mother for abandoning her child. I felt the stirrings of a self-sacrificing devotion, and a vindictive desire to avenge her wrongs. When she had finished I wept with burning tears. … It was an exquisite hour.
Juliette received very few people; some of Malterre’s friends, and two or three of Malterre’s feminine friends. One of them, Gabrielle Bernier, a tall, pretty blonde woman, always entered the house in the same fashion.
“Good morning, Monsieur, good morning, dearie. Don’t trouble yourself, I’ll be gone in a minute.”
And she would sit down on the brace of the armchair, smoothing her muff with a brusque motion of her hand.
“Just think of it, I have just had another scene with Robert. If you only knew what sort of a man he is! He comes to my house and says whimpering: ‘My dear little Gabrielle, I must leave you, my mother told me so this morning, she won’t give me any more money.’ ‘Your mother! I wish I had a chance to answer her. Well, you can tell your mother in my name, that whenever she is ready to give up her lovers, I’ll quit you that very day. But in the meantime, she’ll have to dig into her pockets alright.’ And I don’t believe it’s true either—a dirty trick like that! I think it’s Robert who has cooked it up! We are going to the Ambigu tonight. Are you going?”
“Thank you.”
“Well, I must be off! Don’t trouble yourself. Good day, Monsieur; good day, dearie.”
Gabrielle Bernier irritated me very much.
“Why do you receive such women?” I would say to Juliette.
“What harm is there, my friend? She amuses me.”
Malterre’s friends, on the other hand, spoke of races and high life; they always had club and women stories to tell and never tired of discussing theatrical matters. It seemed to me that Juliette took an exaggerated pleasure in these conversations, but I excused her, ascribing it to excessive politeness. Jesselin, a very rich young man, considered a serious fellow, was the leader of the circle and all bowed before his evident superiority. “What will Jesselin say? We must ask Jesselin. Jesselin did not advise that.” He was very much sought after. He had traveled widely and knew better than anyone else the
