Lirat became grave. He put his hand on my shoulder and, looking at me wistfully:
“My dear child!” he said to me in a trembling voice, “why do you tell me all that?”
“Because it is the truth, my dear Lirat! … because I love you and I want to remain your friend. … Show me that you are my friend no matter what happens … Here now, come to have dinner with us this evening, as we used to in the past, in my own house. Oh, please come!”
“No,” he said.
And this “no” was relentless, final, curt, like a gunshot.
Lirat added:
“But you come often! … And whenever you feel like crying … the sofa is there … you know. … The tears of poor devils are quite known to it.”
When the door was shut behind me, it seemed that something huge and heavy had closed itself upon my past, that walls higher than the sky and darker than the night had separated me forever from my decent life, from my dreams of art. There was anguish in my whole being. … For a minute I stood there, stupefied, with swinging arms, with eyes inordinately distended, staring at that prophetic door behind which something had just come to a close, something had just died.
VI
Juliette was not long in wearying of this beautiful apartment where she had promised herself so much peace and happiness. Having arranged her wardrobes and put her knickknacks in order, she did not know what to do next and was surprised at this discovery. The tapestry no longer excited her admiration, reading afforded her no distraction. She passed from one room to another, without knowing what to do, what to busy her mind with, yawning, stretching herself. She shut herself up in her room where she spent hours in dressing herself, in trying on new clothes in front of the looking glass, in turning the faucet of the bath tub, which occupation amused her for a while, in combing Spy and in making elaborate bows for him from the bands of her old hats.
Managing the house might have filled the void of her idle days, but I soon realized with chagrin that Juliette was not at all the housekeeper she had boasted she was. She was careless, had no taste, was preoccupied only with her linen underwear and her dog; everything else was of no importance to her, and things took their own course or rather went according to the wishes of the servants. Our renewed staff of domestics consisted of a cook, an old, sloppy woman, grasping and ill-tempered, whose cooking talents did not extend beyond tapioca pudding, hashed veal with white sauce and salad; a chambermaid, Celestine, impudent and depraved, who respected only people who spent large sums of money, and a housekeeper, Mother Sochard, who prayed incessantly and often used to get frightfully drunk in order to forget her troubles, as she said: her husband who beat her and took away her money and her daughter who was good for nothing.
The waste was enormous, our table very bad and the rest correspondingly so. Whenever we happened to have visitors, Juliette would order from Bignon the rarest and most elaborate dishes. I viewed with displeasure the uncommon intimacy, a sort of bond of friendship, which had sprung up between Juliette and Celestine. When dressing her mistress, the maid told her stories which the former enjoyed immensely; she disclosed improper secrets of the homes where she had served and advised Juliette in all matters. “At Mme. K’s they do it this way—at Mme. V’s they do it that way.” That they were “swell places” goes without saying. Juliette often went into the linen room where Celestine was sewing and stayed there for hours, seated on a heap of bedsheets, listening to the inexhaustible gossip of the servant-girl. … From time to time an argument would arise over some stolen thing or some neglected duty. Celestine would get excited, hurling the grossest insults, knocking the furniture, screaming in her squeaky voice:
“Well! … Many thanks to you! … This is some dirty place! … A goose like that has the nerve to accuse one! … Well look here, my pretty one, I am going to shake myself free from you and your boob over there who has the face of a dunce.”
Juliette would tell her to get out immediately, not wishing her even to stay out her week.
“Yes, yes! Pack up at once, you nasty girl … right away!”
She would come to sulk in my presence, pale and trembling:
“Ah! my dear, that vile creature, that wretched woman! … And I who was so kind to her! …”
In the evening they would make up again, and amidst laughter which resounded louder than ever, Celestine’s voice would bawl out:
“I should say the Countess was a rude slut!”
One day Juliette said to me:
“Your little wifie has nothing to put on. She is as naked as a new born child, the poor thing!”
And so there were new visits to the dressmaker’s, to the milliner’s, to the linen shop; and she again became gay, vivacious, affectionate. The shadow of boredom which had crossed her countenance disappeared. … In the midst of materials, laces, among plumes and gewgaws, her whole being expanded and shone forth. Her tender fingers experienced a physical delight in handling satin, in touching crepe, in stroking velvet, in losing themselves in the milky white waves of fine batiste. The smallest piece of silk, when she draped it into something, at once assumed the pretty appearance of a living thing; out of braid and lace trimmings she could draw the most exquisite harmonies. Although I was very much
