Pot Luck

by Emile Zola

  ‘Well, how much do we owe you then? Eh? Twelve francs sixty-five? That can’t be. Sixty-three hours at twenty centimes an hour. Oh, you reckon the extra quarter of an hour? Not if I have anything to do with it. I told you—I never pay for extra quarters of an hour.’

  And he still did not give her the money, but left her quaking and joined in the conversation between his wife and Octave. The latter was cunningly alluding to all the problems a house like that must cause them, hoping that this would make them talk about the various tenants. There must be some rare goings-on at times behind those doors! Then the concierge gravely observed:

  ‘There are things that concern us, Monsieur Mouret, and things that don’t. Now, just look over there. That, for instance, is something that quite infuriates me! Just look at that!’

  He pointed to the boot-stitcher who was passing, the tall, pale girl who had arrived in the middle of old Vabre’s funeral. She was walking with difficulty, for she was obviously in an advanced state of pregnancy, her belly seeming even more enormous in contrast to her narrow chest and spindly legs.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Octave naively.

  ‘Can’t you see? That belly of hers, that belly!’

  It was the belly that so exasperated Monsieur Gourd. A single woman with a belly like that, which she had got heaven knows where, for she certainly didn’t have it when she arrived! And now it had begun to swell beyond all bounds, beyond all decent proportion!

  ‘You can well understand how annoyed I was, sir,’ said the concierge, ‘and the landlord too, when I first noticed the thing! She ought to have told us about it, don’t you think? You don’t go and lodge in a respectable house in that sort of condition! To begin with it was hardly noticeable; but I couldn’t be sure, and I hoped that at any rate she would use her discretion. Well, I kept watching her, and I could see her swelling so fast that it quite alarmed me. Now look at her! She doesn’t do anything to hide it; she just lets it hang out like that. She can hardly get through the entrance!’

  He kept tragically pointing at her as she made for the backstairs. Her belly seemed to him to cast a shadow over the frigid cleanliness of the courtyard, and even over the imitation marble and gilded zinc decorations of the hall. It seemed to bring disgrace to the whole building, tainting the very walls and, as it swelled, undermining the placid virtue of each apartment.

  ‘Upon my word, sir, if this sort of thing goes on we would rather retire to Mort-la-Ville; wouldn’t we Madame Gourd? Fortunately we’ve got enough to live on; we don’t depend on anybody. A house like ours made the talk of the neighbourhood by a belly like that! Because it is the talk of the neighbourhood! Everybody stares when she arrives!’

  ‘She looks very ill,’ said Octave, looking in her direction but afraid to show too much pity. ‘She always seems so sad, so pale, so forlorn. She must have a lover, I suppose!’

  At this Gourd gave a violent start.

  ‘Exactly! Did you hear that, Madame Gourd? Monsieur Mouret also thinks she’s got a lover. Such things don’t happen by magic, that’s for sure! Well sir, I’ve been watching her for a couple of months but I haven’t seen any sign of a man! What a bad lot she must be! Just let me catch her man and I’ll chuck him out straight away! But I can’t find him; that’s what worries me!’

  ‘Perhaps nobody comes to see her,’ Octave ventured to suggest.

  The concierge looked at him in amazement.

  ‘That wouldn’t be natural. I’m determined to catch him! I’ve got another six weeks; she’s had notice to quit in October. The very idea of her giving birth here! And you know, although Monsieur Duveyrier insisted that she clear out before that happens, I can hardly sleep at night for thinking that she might play a dirty trick on us and not wait. And this unfortunate business could have been avoided if it hadn’t been for that old miser Vabre! Just to make an extra hundred and thirty francs, and in spite of my advice! That carpenter ought to have been a lesson to him. But no, he had to take in this boot-stitcher! All right! Fill your house with labourers and let your lodgings to a lot of dirty work-people. When you take the lower classes into your house, sir, that’s what you can expect!’

  And once more he pointed to the young woman’s belly, as she painfully made her way up the back stairs. Madame Gourd was obliged to calm her husband; his concern for the respectability of the house might make him ill. Then, as Mother Pérou gave sign of her presence by a discreet cough, he turned his attention back to her, calmly deducting the sou she had charged for her extra quarter of an hour. Having at last got her twelve francs sixty, she was going away when he offered to take her back, but at the rate of only three sous an hour. She began to cry, and accepted.

  ‘I can always get someone to do the work,’ he said. ‘You’re not strong enough any more. You don’t even do two sous’ worth.’

  Going up to his room for a moment, Octave felt reassured. On the third floor he caught up with Madame Juzeur, who was returning home. Every morning now she had to come down to look for Louise, who loafed about outside when she was sent to the shops.

  ‘How proud you are!’ she said, with her subtle smile. ‘It’s obvious that you’re being spoilt somewhere.’

  The remarks once more aroused the young man’s fears. He followed her into her drawing-room, pretending to joke with her. Only one of the curtains was drawn back; the carpets and door-hangings softened the daylight; and the noise of the street was barely audible in this room as soft as eiderdown. She made him sit next to her on the low, wide sofa. But as he did not take her hand and kiss it, she asked coquettishly:

  ‘So you don’t love me any more?’

  Blushing, he declared that he adored her. Then, stifling a nervous giggle, she gave him her hand of her own accord. He was obliged to raise it to his lips so as to dispel any suspicions she might have. But she at once withdrew it.

  ‘No, no! Don’t pretend you’re excited. It doesn’t give you any pleasure. I can feel it doesn’t. Besides, it’s only natural.’

  What did she mean by that? He caught her by the waist and overwhelmed her with questions. But she would not answer, yielding to his embrace as she shook her head. In order to make her speak, he began tickling her.

  ‘Well, it’s because you’re in love with somebody else,’ she murmured.

  She mentioned Valérie, and reminded him of the evening at the Josserands’, when he devoured her with his eyes. Then, when he swore that he had not slept with her, she laughingly replied that she was only teasing him. But there was someone else he had slept with, and this time she named Madame Hédouin, laughing more and more at his emphatic denials. Who was it, then? Was it Marie Pichon? Well, he could not deny having slept with her. Yet he did so; but she shook her head, and assured him that her little finger never lied. And to get the names of these women from her, he had to redouble his caresses and make her whole body shiver with excitement.

  However, she had not yet mentioned Berthe. He was about to let her go when she said:

  ‘And there’s one last one.’

  ‘What last one?’ he anxiously enquired.

  Screwing up her mouth, she obstinately refused to say any more until he had unsealed her lips with a kiss. She really could not mention the person’s name, for it was she who had first suggested her marriage. Without naming her, she related Berthe’s whole history. Then, with his lips touching her soft cheek, he made a complete confession, experiencing a certain cowardly pleasure in such an avowal. How silly of him to hide anything from her! Perhaps, he thought, she would be jealous? But why should she be? She had granted him no favours, had she? Nothing but a little childish fun, as at present, but not that, oh, not that! For, after all, she was a virtuous woman, and she almost felt vexed that he should have thought that she might be jealous.

  She lay back languidly in his arms, and referred to her cruel husband who, after one week of matrimony, had cruelly deserted her. A wretched woman like herself knew all too much about the affairs of the heart! For some time she had had an i
nkling of what she called Octave’s ‘little games’, for not a kiss could be exchanged in the house without her hearing it. Then, ensconced in the big sofa, they had a quiet little talk, unconsciously interrupted by pattings and strokings of various parts of their persons. She called him a silly ninny, for it was entirely his fault that he had not succeeded with Valérie; she could have helped him to have her at once, if he had merely asked her advice. Then she questioned him about little Marie Pichon—hideous legs and nothing between them, eh? But she kept coming back to Berthe, whom she thought quite charming—a lovely skin and the foot of a marchioness. Eventually the game of patting and stroking reached such a pitch that she had to repulse him.

  ‘No, no, leave me alone! Have you no shame? It wouldn’t give you any pleasure either. You think it would. I know better! It’s just to flatter me! It would be too dreadful if it did give you any pleasure. Keep that for her. Now, be off with you, you naughty man!’

  She sent him away after making him solemnly promise to come and confess himself often to her, and to hide nothing if he wanted her to look after his love affairs.

  On leaving her, Octave felt more at ease. She had restored his good humour, and her complicated notions of virtue amused him. As soon as he entered the shop downstairs, he gave Berthe a reassuring nod in answer to her enquiring look.

  Thus the whole dreadful adventure of the morning was forgotten. When Auguste came back, shortly before lunch, he found them both as usual—Berthe bored to death at the pay-desk, and Octave gallantly measuring silk for a lady.

  Henceforth, however, the lovers’ assignations became less frequent still. He, in his ardour, grew desperate and followed her everywhere, entreating her to arrange a meeting, whenever and wherever she liked. She, on the other hand, with the indifference of a girl reared in a hothouse, took no pleasure in such guilty passion, except for the secret outings, the presents, the forbidden delights, and the hours of luxury spent in cabs, theatres, and restaurants. All her early education made itself felt again, her lust for money, for clothes, for squandering; and she soon grew tired of her lover, just as she had grown tired of her husband, thinking him too exacting for what he gave her in return, and trying, almost unconsciously, not to yield him his full, just measure of love. Thus exaggerating her fears, she kept on refusing him: she would never go back to his room; she would die of fright! And he could not possibly come to her apartment, for they might be surprised. Then, when he begged her to let him take her to a hotel for an hour, she would begin to cry, saying that he really could not have much respect for her. However, the spending continued and her whims became more extravagant. After the bonnet she conceived a desire for a fan covered with Alençon lace, not counting the many little trifles that took her fancy in shop-windows. Though as yet he did not dare refuse her anything, his sense of thrift was once more roused as he saw all his savings frittered away in this fashion. Like the practical fellow he was, in the end it seemed to him silly always to be paying when all he got in return was her foot under the table. Paris had certainly brought him bad luck; first rebuffs, and then this stupid love affair which was draining his purse. He definitely could not be accused of succeeding through women. By way of comfort, he sought to find something honourable about the whole thing, in his hidden anger at a scheme which, so far, had proved such a dismal failure.

  Auguste, however, did not bother them much. Ever since the bad turn affairs had taken in Lyons he had been suffering more than ever with his headaches. Berthe had felt a thrill of delight as, on the first of the month, in the evening, she saw him put three hundred francs under the bedroom clock for her dress allowance; and despite the reduction in the sum she had demanded, as she had given up all hope of getting a penny of it, she threw herself into his arms, all warm with gratitude. On this occasion the husband had a night of endearments such as the lover never enjoyed.

  September thus passed amid the great calm of the house, emptied of its occupants by the summer months. The second-floor people had gone to a watering-place in Spain, which caused Monsieur Gourd to shrug his shoulders in contempt. How absurd! As if the most genteel folk were not content to go to Trouville! Ever since the beginning of Gustave’s holidays the Duveyriers had been staying at their country house at Villeneuve-Saint-Georges. Even the Josserands had gone to stay for a fortnight with a family friend near Pontoise, while letting it be rumoured that they were on the way to some fashionable seaside resort. The house being empty, the apartments deserted, and the staircase wrapped in an even drowsier silence, Octave felt that there would be less danger, and he pestered Berthe until, from sheer weariness, she agreed to let him stay with her for one night when Auguste was away in Lyons. But this meeting almost turned into a disaster. Madame Josserand (who had returned two days before) was seized with such violent indigestion after dining out that Hortense, in alarm, went downstairs to fetch her sister. Fortunately Rachel was just finishing cleaning her pots and pans, so she was able to let Octave escape by the servants’ staircase. After this scare Berthe took advantage of it to refuse him everything, as before. Moreover, they were foolish enough not to bribe the servant. She waited upon them with her coldly respectful air, like a girl who sees and hears nothing. However, as madame was forever hankering after money, and as Monsieur Octave had already spent far too much on presents, she curled her lips yet more in her scorn for a dump like this where the mistress’s lover did not even tip her ten sous when he slept there. If they thought that they had bought her for all eternity with twenty francs and an old gown, they were much mistaken. She was worth more than that! From this time onwards she was less obliging, no longer shutting the doors after them as before, although they were never aware of her ill-humour, for no one thinks of giving tips when he is so driven by the need to find a place to embrace in that he even quarrels about it. The silence of the house grew even deeper; and Octave, in his quest for some safe corner, was forever meeting Monsieur Gourd, on the watch for shameful things that made the very walls blush, shuffling silently along the corridors, eternally haunted by the bellies of pregnant women.

  Madame Juzeur sympathized constantly with this lovesick young man who could only gaze upon his mistress from afar, giving him, as promised, the very best advice. Octave’s desire reached such a pitch that he even thought of asking her to lend him her rooms for an assignation. No doubt she would not have refused, but he feared shocking Berthe by such indiscretion. He also thought of making use of Saturnin; perhaps the madman would guard them like a faithful dog in some out-of-the-way room. But recently Saturnin’s mood had been somewhat strange, at one time smothering his sister’s lover with affection, and at another sulking, looking at him suspiciously, giving him fiery glances full of hatred. One would almost have said he was jealous—nervously, violently jealous like a woman. He had been like this especially since, on certain mornings, he had seen Octave laughing and joking with little Marie Pichon. In fact Octave never passed Marie’s door now without going in, drawn back to her by some strange fancy, some sudden, unavowed touch of passion. He adored Berthe and madly desired to possess her, and this very longing gave birth to a feeling of infinite tenderness for Marie, and a love the sweetness of which he had never tasted at the time of their first liaison. There was a perpetual charm in looking at her, in touching her, in joking with her and teasing her—all the playfulness of a man who wants to repossess a woman while secretly embarrassed by another love-affair. So, when Saturnin caught him hovering round Marie’s skirts, the madman glared at him wolfishly, ready to bite; nor would he forgive him and kiss his hand like some tame animal until he saw him, loving and faithful, at Berthe’s side.

  As September was drawing close and the residents were about to return, Octave, in the midst of all his torment, had a mad idea. It so happened that Rachel, whose sister was to be married, had asked permission to stay away for a night, on one of the Tuesdays her master spent in Lyons. The idea was that they could sleep together in the servant’s room, where no one would ever dream of looking for
them. Offended by such a proposal, Berthe at first displayed the greatest repugnance, but with tears in his eyes he begged her to agree, and spoke of leaving Paris, where he suffered too much unhappiness. At last, bewildered and exhausted by all his arguments and entreaties, she consented, hardly aware of what she was doing. Everything was then arranged. On Tuesday evening, after dinner, they had tea at the Josserands’ to allay any suspicion. Trublot, Gueulin and uncle Bachelard were all there. Duveyrier even came in, very late, as he occasionally slept in town now because of early business appointments, so he claimed. Octave made a show of joining the conversation and then, at the stroke of midnight, slipped away and locked himself in Rachel’s room, where Berthe was to join him an hour later when everybody was asleep.

  Upstairs, he was busy for the first half-hour in setting the room straight. In order to conquer Berthe’s disgust he had promised that he would change the sheets and bring all the necessary linen himself. Thus he proceeded to make the bed, slowly and clumsily, fearing that someone would hear him. Then, like Trublot, he sat on a trunk and tried to wait patiently. One by one the servants came up to bed, and through the thin partitions he could hear the sounds of women undressing and relieving themselves. One o’clock struck, then a quarter past, then half past. He grew anxious; why was she so late? She must have left the Josserands’ at one o’clock at the latest; and it would not take her more than ten minutes to get back to her flat and leave it again by the servants’ staircase. When it struck two, he imagined all sorts of catastrophes. At last, thinking that he recognized her footstep, he heaved a sigh of relief. He opened the door to give her some light, but sheer surprise rooted him to the spot. Outside Adèle’s door Trublot, bent double, was looking through the keyhole; the sudden light made him jump.