Germinie began to write.
“Say, Germinie! Have you heard? Madame’s taken a strange idea into her head. It’s a funny thing about women like her, who can hold their heads up with the greatest of ’em, who can have everything, hobnob with kings if they choose! And there’s nothing to be said—when one is like madame, you know, when one has such a body as that! And then the way they load themselves down with finery, with their tralala of dresses and lace everywhere and everything else—how do you suppose anyone can resist them? And if it isn’t a gentleman, if it’s someone like us—you can see how much more all that will catch him; a woman in velvet goes to his brain. Yes, my dear, just fancy, here’s madame gone daft on that gamin of a Jupillon! That’s all we needed to make us die of hunger here!”
Germinie, with her pen in the air over the letter she had begun, looked up at Adèle, devouring her with her eyes.
“That brings you to a standstill, doesn’t it?” said Adèle, sipping her absinthe, her face lighted up with joy at sight of Germinie’s discomposed features. “Oh! it is too absurd, really; but it’s true, ’pon my word it’s true. She noticed the gamin on the steps of the shop the other day, coming home from the races. She’s been there two or three times on the pretence of buying something. She’ll probably have some perfumery sent from there—tomorrow, I think.—Bah! it’s sickening, isn’t it? It’s their affair. Well! what about my letter? Is it what I told you that makes you so stupid? You played the prude—I didn’t know—Oh! yes, yes, now I remember; that’s what it is—What was it you said to me about the little one? I believe you didn’t want anyone to touch him! Idiot!”
At a gesture of denial from Germinie, she continued:
“Nonsense, nonsense! What do I care? The kind of a child that, if you blew his nose, milk would come out! Thanks! that’s not my style. However, that’s your business. Come, now for my letter, eh?”
Germinie leaned over the sheet of paper. But she was burning up with fever; the quill cracked in her nervous fingers. “There,” she said, throwing it down after a few seconds, “I don’t know what’s the matter with me today. I’ll write it for you another time.”
“As you like, little one—but I rely on you. Come tomorrow, then.—I’ll tell you some of madame’s nonsense. We’ll have a good laugh at her!”
And, when the door was closed, Adèle began to roar with laughter: it had cost her only a little blague to unearth Germinie’s secret.
XV
So far as young Jupillon was concerned, love was simply the satisfaction of a certain evil curiosity, which sought, in the knowledge and possession of a woman, the privilege and the pleasure of despising her. Just emerging from boyhood, the young man had brought to his first liaison no other ardor, no other flame than the cold instincts of rascality awakened in boys by vile books, the confidences of their comrades, boarding-school conversation, the first breath of impurity which debauches desire. The sentiment with which the young man usually regards the woman who yields to him, the caresses, the loving words, the affectionate attentions with which he envelops her—nothing of all that existed in Jupillon’s case. Woman was to him simply an obscene image; and a passion for a woman seemed to him desirable as being prohibited, illicit, vulgar, cynical and amusing—an excellent opportunity for trickery and sarcasm.
Sarcasm—the low, cowardly, despicable sarcasm of the dregs of the people—was the beginning and the end of this youth. He was a perfect type of those Parisians who bear upon their faces the mocking scepticism of the great city of blague in which they are born. The smile, the shrewdness and the mischief of the Parisian physiognomy were always mocking and impertinent in him. Jupillon’s smile had the jovial expression imparted by a wicked mouth, a mouth that was almost cruel at the corners of the lips, which curled upward and were always twitching nervously. His face was pale with the pallor that nitric acid strong enough to eat copper gives to the complexion, and in his sharp, pert, bold features were mingled bravado, energy, recklessness, intelligence, impudence and all sorts of rascally expressions, softened, at certain times, by a catlike, wheedling air. His trade of glove-cutter—he had taken up with that trade after two or three unsuccessful trials as an apprentice in other crafts—the habit of working in the shopwindows, of being on exhibition to the passersby, had given to his whole person the self-assurance and the dandified airs of a poseur. Sitting in the workshop on the street, with his white shirt, his little black cravat à la Colin, and his skintight pantaloons, he had adopted an awkward air of nonchalance, the pretentious carriage and canaille affectations of the workman who knows he is being stared at. And various little refinements of doubtful taste, the parting of the hair in the middle and brushing it down over the temples, the low shirt collars that left the whole neck bare, the striving after the coquettish effects that properly belong to the other sex, gave him an uncertain appearance, which was made even more ambiguous by his beardless face, marred only by a faint suggestion of a moustache, and his sexless features to which passion and ill-temper imparted all the evil quality of a shrewish woman’s face. But in Germinie’s eyes all these airs and this Jupillon style were of the highest distinction.
Thus constituted, with nothing lovable about him and incapable of a genuine attachment even through his passions, Jupillon was greatly embarrassed and bored by this adoration which became intoxicated with itself, and waxed greater day by day. Germinie wearied him to death. She
