One day, he bethought himself of singing songs to her. She was delighted and came oftener; then, to turn his voice to good account, she brought him a book of hymns. Then he might be seen sitting up in his bed, for he was beginning to move himself about again, intoning in a falsetto voice the praises of the Eternal Father, of Mary, and of the Holy Ghost, while the stout good sister, standing at his feet, beat time with one finger as she gave him the key. As soon as he could walk, the Mother Superior offered to keep him a little longer to sing the offices in the chapel, and serve at Mass, performing in this way the functions of a sacristan. He accepted. And for a whole month he could be seen, clad in a white surplice, limping slightly, intoning responses and psalms with such graceful bendings of the head that the number of the faithful grew, and people deserted the parish church to attend Vespers at the hospital.
But as everything comes to an end in this world, it became necessary to dismiss him when he was quite cured. The Mother Superior, by way of thanking him, made him a present of twenty-five francs.
As soon as Pavilly found himself in the street with this money in his pocket, he began to think what he should do. Return to the village? Certainly not before he had a drink, which had not happened to him for a long time, and he entered a café. He did not come to town more than once or twice a year, and he cherished, of one of those visits in particular, the confused and intoxicating remembrance of a debauch.
So he ordered a glass of cognac, which he swallowed at a gulp to lubricate his throat, then he poured down another to enjoy the taste of it.
As soon as the brandy, strong and fiery, had touched his palate and his tongue, reawakening the more sharply because of his long abstinence the well-loved and desired sensation of alcohol, caressing, stinging, spicing and burning his mouth, he realised that he would drink the whole bottle, and he asked at once what it would cost, in order to save money on the separate glasses. They charged it to him at three francs, which he paid, then he set himself to get drunk with a contented mind.
He set about it with a certain method, however, being desirous of retaining enough sensibility to enjoy other pleasures. So as soon as he felt himself on the point of seeing the chimneypieces nod, he got up and went away, with faltering steps, his bottle under his arm, in search of a brothel.
He found it, not without difficulty, after having inquired of a wagoner who did not know it, a postman who directed him wrongly, a baker who began to curse and treated him as a filthy fellow, and, at last, a soldier who obligingly conducted him there, impressing on him to choose the Queen.
Pavilly, although it was hardly noon, walked into this house of delights, where he was received by a servant who tried to turn him out. But he made her laugh by grimacing at her, showed her three francs, the ordinary price for the special entertainments of the place, and followed her with some difficulty up a very dark staircase which led to the first floor.
When he found himself in a room, he called for the Queen, and awaited her, swallowing another drink from the bottle itself.
The door opened, a girl appeared. She was tall, plump, red-faced, enormous. With an unerring glance, the glance of a connoisseur, she took the measure of the drunkard sprawling on a chair, and said to him:
“Aren’t you ashamed to come at this time?”
He stammered:
“Why, princess?”
“Disturbing a lady before she’s even had her meal.”
He tried to laugh.
“There’s no time to a brave man.”
“There’s no time for getting tipsy, neither, you old mug.”
Pavilly lost his temper.
“I’m not a mug, to begin with, and I’m not tipsy neither.”
“Not tipsy.”
“No, I’m not tipsy.”
“Not tipsy, you couldn’t stand on your feet even.”
She regarded him with the savage anger of a woman whose companions are all dining.
He got himself up.
“Look at me, I’ll dance a polka, I will.”
And to prove his stability, he climbed on a chair, made a pirouette, and jumped on the bed, where his great muddy shoes plastered two frightful stains.
“Oh, you dirty beast,” cried the girl.
Rushing at him, she drove her fist in his stomach, giving him such a blow that Pavilly lost his balance, seesawed over the foot of the couch, turned a complete caper and fell back on the chest of drawers, dragging with him basin and water-jug; then he rolled on the ground, uttering wild shouts.
The noise was so violent and his cries so piercing that the whole house came running, Monsieur, Madame, the servants, and all the members of the establishment.
Monsieur tried at first to pick the man up, but as soon as he had got him on his feet, the peasant lost his balance again, then began yelling that he had broken his leg, the other leg, the good one, the good one!
It was true. They ran to fetch a doctor. It was the very doctor who had attended Pavilly at Farmer Le Hariveau’s.
“What, is it you again?” said he. “What’s the matter with you?”
“It’s the other leg that’s got broken, too, doctor.”
“How did it happen, my man?”
“A wench.”
Everyone was listening. The girls in their loose wrappers, their mouths still greasy from their interrupted meal, Madame furious, Monsieur uneasy.
“This is going to look bad,” said the doctor. “You know that the town council regards you with small favour. You’ll have to contrive to keep this business from getting about.
“What’s to be done?” asked Monsieur.
“Well, the best thing to do would be to send this man to the hospital, which he’s just left, by the way, and pay for his treatment.”
Monsieur answered:
“I’d much rather pay than have
