Cousin Pons

by Honoré de Balzac

  ‘If it vere not for you, I shoult vorry myself to deass,’ said Schmucke, showing the trust he placed in this good housekeeper by clasping her hands in his.

  La Cibot was wiping her eyes as she came into Pons’s bedroom.

  ‘What’s the matter, Madame Cibot?’ asked Pons.

  ‘Monsieur Schmucke has made me all upset,’ she replied. ‘He’s been crying so much you might be dead and gone! I know you’re very poorly, but you’re not that far gone, and there’s no need to be crying over you. Gracious me, what a fool I am to get so fond of people and make more fuss of them than I do of Cibot! When all’s said and done, I don’t mean a thing to you. Mother Eve’s the only relation we have in common. But all the same I get so bothered when I think of you, and that’s a fact. I’d have my hand cut off – the left one of course – to see you coming and going like you used to, eating well and doing the dealers down. If the Lord had blessed me with a child, I don’t believe I’d have been so fond of him as I am of you, so there! Have a good drink, my pet; come on, empty the glass. Drink it up now. Remember what the doctor said: “If he wants to keep out of the churchyard, he’s got to drink as many bucketfuls as the water-seller takes round in a day.” Come on then, drink it up!…’

  ‘But my good Cibot, I’m drinking such a lot that my stomach’s all awash…’

  ‘There, that’s finished,’ said the concierge as she took away his glass. ‘That’s what’ll put you to rights! Monsieur Poulain had another patient like you, who had no one to wait on him. His children left him to himself, and he was so ill that his disease carried him off just because he wouldn’t drink… So you see you’ve got to drink, dearie!… He’s been in his grave these two months. Don’t you know that if you died, my dear gentleman, you’d carry off good Monsieur Schmucke with you? Honestly, he’s just like a baby. Oh, how he loves you, the sweet lamb – more than any woman ever loves a man. He won’t eat or drink. He’s got as thin as you this last fortnight, and you’re nothing but skin and bone. It makes me jealous when I’m so fond of you too. But I don’t go that far, oh no, I haven’t lost my appetite. I’m up and downstairs all day, and I get so weak in the legs, come nightfall, I’m fit to drop – just like a lump of lead. And there am I neglecting my poor man for your sake, leaving Mademoiselle Rémonencq to get him his meals, and they’re so bad he does nothing but grumble. And then I tell him straight he must be ready to suffer for other people’s sake, and you’re too ill to be left to yourself… In fact, you aren’t well enough to do without a nurse. But you can take it from me I wouldn’t stand a nurse here, when I’ve spent the last ten years doing for you… And besides, nurses do nothing but gorge themselves. They eat enough for a dozen, and you’ve got to give them wine, sugar and make them cosy with foot-warmers and the like. What’s more, if their patients don’t put them down in their will, they rob them! You call in a nurse this very day, and tomorrow you’ll find a picture or something else missing…’

  ‘Oh, Madame Cibot!’ cried Pons, quite beside himself. ‘Don’t leave me!… Don’t let anyone take anything!…’

  ‘Trust me!’ said La Cibot. ‘While there’s strength left in me I’ll be here… don’t worry. Didn’t Monsieur Poulain want to call a nurse in? – Maybe he has an eye on your treasures. I soon put him to rights! “I’m the only person Monsieur Pons wants,” I told him. “We’re both used to one another’s ways.” And he shut up. Nurses are thieves, no less. I can’t stand them. I could tell you something about their scheming ways. For instance, there was an old gentleman… mind, it was the doctor himself told me about it… Well, a certain Madame Sabatier… thirty-six she was… she used to keep a shoe-shop near the Law Courts – you remember the line of shops that they pulled down there?…’

  Pons gave an affirmative nod.

  ‘You do?… Well then, this woman couldn’t make ends meet, and why? Because her man drank like a fish, and he died of spontaneous imbustion. She was a good-looking woman, I must say, but she got nothing out of that, though I’ve heard it said that she had a few affairs with the barristers there. Well, she was down on her luck and took to nursing women in labour. And then she happened to take on an old gentleman; if you don’t mind me saying so, he had trouble with his waterworks, and they pumped it out of him like out of a well. He needed so much attention that she used to sleep on a camp-bed in his room. Would you believe such a thing? I know what you’ll say: “Men are that selfish they have no respect for women.” Anyway, there she stayed all the time, livening him up, telling him tales, jabbering away with him just like you and me do, don’t we?… She found out that his nephews – the poor man had some nephews – were no better than monsters and were causing him no end of vexation, and in point of fact it was them that were making him ill. Well, then, dearie, she saved his life and he married her, and they’ve got a lovely little boy, and Ma’me Bordevin, the butcher’s wife in the rue Chariot – she’s a relation of this lady – stood at the font for him. Bit of luck for her, eh? I’m a married woman, but I never had a baby, and I can tell you it’s Cibot’s fault, he loves me too much – I could manage it if I wanted… Enough said… And what would we have done with a family, Cibot and me, without a penny to bless ourselves with, which is what comes of living an honest life for thirty years, my dear good gentleman! But I don’t care. I’ve never taken a farthing from anybody else. I’ve never done anybody wrong. Look now, suppose, as you might say, seeing you’ll be back on your pins in six weeks’ time and taking a stroll along the boulevard, suppose you were to put me in your will. Well, I wouldn’t rest till I’d given it back to your rightful heirs, I’d be so afraid to have money I hadn’t earned with the sweat of my brow. You’ll say to me: “Ma’me Cibot, don’t make such a to-do about it. It’s your deserts, you’ve looked after us two gentleman as if we were your children, you saved us a thousand francs a year.” – It’s a fact, Monsieur Pons, in my situation there’s many a cook who’d have put ten thousand francs in her stocking already. – Suppose anybody said to me: “It’s only right that this worthy gentleman should leave you some money to live on.” Well then, I’d say “No!” I’m not self-seeking. I just can’t think how women can do good for what they can get out of it. That’s not doing good, is it, Monsieur? I’m no churchgoer, I’ve no time for it, but my conscience tells me what’s right… Don’t wriggle about like that, my pet! Stop scratching! Goodness me, how yellow you’re getting! So yellow you’re well-nigh brown… Funny how a man can turn as yellow as a lemon in three weeks. – Being honest’s all the riches poor people can have, and they must have something after all. Now let’s suppose you were on your last legs, I’d be the first to tell you you ought to leave all your belongings to Monsieur Schmucke. It’s what you owe him, he’s all the family you can boast of. He’s as fond of you, he is, as a dog is of his master.’

  ‘You’re right!’ said Pons. ‘He’s the only person in all my life who has ever loved me.’

  *

  ‘Oh, Monsieur Pons!’ Madame Cibot exclaimed. ‘That’s not a kind thing to say! What about me? Do you think I don’t love you?’

  ‘I don’t say that, my dear Madame Cibot.’

  ‘That’s all very fine! You treat me like a drudge, just an ordinary cook, as if I hadn’t any feelings at all. Goodness me! Work yourself to skin and bone for two old gentlemen. Rack your brains to give them every comfort – and there I’ve been ransacking a dozen grocers’ shops and getting told off for it, just to find you a nice bit of Brie, and trudging to market to get you a bit of fresh butter!… Spend all your time looking after things… never in ten years have I broken or chipped a single piece of crockery… Fuss over them like a mother. And all the thanks you’ll get is a “my dear Madame Cibot”! It only shows I don’t matter a scrap to an old gentleman I’ve cared for as if he were a prince of the blood. Napoleon’s own son, the King of Rome, wasn’t cared for any better. It’s a sure thing, he wasn’t cared for as you are – didn’t he go and die just when he was coming of age? Monsieur Pons, you don’t trea
t me as you ought. You’ve no gratitude! Just because I’m only a poor caretaker. Lord help me, you’re like the rest of them, you think we’re no better than dogs…’

  ‘But, my dear Madame Cibot…’

  ‘Come to that, you who’ve got learning, you tell me why we’re treated like that, us caretakers. Why do people think we’ve no feelings? Why do we get laughed at in these times when there’s all this talk of everybody being equal? Aren’t I as good as any other woman? Me that used to be one of the best-looking women in Paris and was talked about as the lovely oyster-girl, and never a day went by but I was proposed to morning, noon and night! And could be still, if I was so minded! Look now, Monsieur Pons, you know that little shrimp of a man, that rag-and-bone merchant down below? Well, supposing I was a widow, he’d marry me with his eyes shut, for he’s kept them open quite a lot so far, looking me up and down. “What lovely arms you’ve got, Ma’me Cibot,” he says to me. “Last night I dreamt they were nice bread rolls and I was spread over them like a pat of butter!”… Take a look, Monsieur Pons. There’s arms for you!’

  She rolled up one sleeve and displayed the finest arm imaginable, as white and fresh as her hands were red and chafed: a chubby, round, dimpled arm! Drawn from its coarse woollen sheath as a sword is drawn from its scabbard, it might well have dazzled even Pons, though he was too shy to let his gaze linger on it.

  ‘What’s more,’ she continued, ‘the sight of them brought more customers to the Cadran Bleu than the oysters I used to open. Well, they belong to Cibot, and I’m wrong to neglect the poor man. One word from me, and he’d jump over a cliff… and I’m neglecting him for your sake, Monsieur Pons, and all you can do is to call me “my dear Madame Cibot”. And there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you!’

  ‘Please do listen to me,’ said the sick man. ‘I can’t call you “Mother” or “Wife”.’

  ‘No, never again in all my days will I let myself get attached to anybody!’

  ‘But let me speak!’ continued Pons. ‘Be reasonable. It was Schmucke I was talking about in the first place.’

  ‘Ah! Monsieur Schmucke! There’s a good-hearted man if you like! Now he’s fond of me because he’s poor. It’s the rich that have no feeling, and you’re rich. Very well, call in a nurse, and see what a dance she’ll lead you! She’ll be buzzing round you like a bumblebee… The doctor will tell her that you must have a lot to drink, and she’ll only give you solids! She’ll bring you to your grave so as to rob you. You don’t deserve to have a “dear Madame Cibot” like me!… There we are then: when Monsieur Poulain comes back you can ask him to get you a nurse!’

  ‘For God’s sake listen to me!’ shouted the exasperated Pons. ‘When I spoke of my friend Schmucke I wasn’t referring to women. I know very well that you and Schmucke are the only people who have any kindness in their hearts for me.’

  ‘Now don’t get so worked up,’ exclaimed La Cibot, swooping down on Pons and thrusting him back in his bed.

  ‘After all, how could I help being fond of you?’ said poor Pons.

  ‘So you really are fond of me? There then, there then, forgive me, Monsieur Pons,’ she said, weeping and wiping her eyes. ‘Yes indeed, you’re fond of me just as you might be fond of a servant, that’s all – the sort that gets a pension of six hundred francs thrown at her… like throwing a bone to a dog!’

  ‘Madame Cibot!’ cried Pons. ‘What do you take me for? How little you know me!’

  ‘Ah well! You’ll get fonder of me still,’ she went on in response to a glance from Pons. ‘You’ll come to love your good fat Cibot like a mother, won’t you? Well, so you ought. I’m your mother and you’re my children, both of you. Oh, if only I knew the people who’ve vexed you so, I’d soon get myself landed in the dock or the lock-up, I’d tear their eyes out, I would… People like that ought to have their heads chopped off! And even that’s too good for such scum! You that’s so kind and affectionate! A heart of gold, that’s what you have! The Lord made you and put you in the world to make some woman happy… And believe me, you would have made her happy… It’s plain to see you were cut out for that… The first thing I said to myself when I saw how it was between you and Monsieur Schmucke, I said: “Monsieur Pons has missed his way in life! He was meant to be a good husband.” Tell me now, you do like women, don’t you?’

  ‘Indeed I do,’ said Pons. ‘But I’ve never had anything to do with them.’

  ‘You don’t say!’ cried La Cibot. She put on a provocative air, moved nearer to him and took him by the hand. ‘So you don’t know what it’s like to have a mistress who’ll do all she can, and more, to make her lover happy? Who’d have believed it! Well, if I were you I wouldn’t like to pop off to the next world before I’d had the greatest enjoyment you can get out of this one! You poor ducky! If I was still what I used to be, take my word for it, I’d give Cibot the go-by for you! Why, with a nose like yours – you’ve a first-rate nose! – what have you been doing all this time, you poor cherub?… Now you’ll be telling me it’s not every woman that goes for the right sort of man. It’s a shame, they make such a mess of choosing a man, it’s enough to make you cry. I thought you had mistresses by the dozen – dancers and actresses and duchesses, you spent so much time out! It’s a fact, whenever I saw you going off, I said to Cibot, I said: “There’s Monsieur Pons off for a nice bit of fun!” On my oath, that’s what I said, I thought the women just fell for you! Love’s what you were made for… Bless your heart, I could tell that the first night you had dinner at home. How pleased you were at giving Monsieur Schmucke such a treat! And the next day he was still in tears about it: “Matame Cipot, he haf tinet viz me!” and there was I blubbing about it too! And remember how down he was when you started your gallivanting again and went and dined out. The poor man! I’ve never seen him so low. Well, you’re quite right to leave him your money. After all, he’s as good as a whole family to you, the dear good man!… Don’t forget that, or the Lord won’t have you in Heaven. He only lets in those who’ve done well by their friends and left them a nice bit of money to live on.’

  *

  Pons made vain efforts to reply, but La Cibot swept on like a hurricane. One can turn off the cock of a steam-engine, but it will always be beyond the power even of genius to arrest the flow from a concierge’s tongue.

  ‘I know what you’ll be telling me next!’ she went on. ‘But bless you, Monsieur Pons, it doesn’t kill a man to make a will when he’s taken ill. If I were you – just in case – I wouldn’t leave the poor lamb unprovided for, and him as harmless as any sucking dove. He’s as innocent as a babe. You can’t let him be fleeced by money-grubbing lawyers and a pack of thieving relations! Look here, has a single one of them been to see you in the last three weeks?… And you’re minded to leave them your money? You know, don’t you, that folks are saying that what you’ve got here is well worth bothering about?’

  ‘I know that,’ said Pons.

  ‘Rémonencq does some second-hand dealing, and he knows you’re a private collector. Well, he says he’d settle no less than thirty thousand francs on you if you’d leave him your pictures. There’s an offer! Why not take it? I thought he was fooling me when he said that… Anyway, you ought to put Monsieur Schmucke wise to what all these things are worth. He’d be taken in like a five-year-old. He’s no notion of what they would fetch, all your fine bits and pieces. He’s so little idea, he’d give them away for next to nothing – if so be he didn’t keep them all his life out of love for you… Though, I doubt if he’ll outlast you – when you die he’ll die too. Never mind, there’s me to look after him! Cibot and me, we’ll stand by him through thick and thin.’

  Pons was moved by this appalling gabble, which seemed to be prompted by the genuine feeling natural to simple working people.

  ‘Dear Madame Cibot,’ he replied, ‘what would have become of me without you and Schmucke?’

  ‘You may well say that. We’re the only friends you have on earth. But two kind hearts are better than any familie
s. Don’t talk to me about families! It’s like fine talk, as the old actor said: you can make what you like of it, good or bad… Where are they anyway, your relations?… I’ve never set eyes on them.’

  ‘It’s through them that I’m laid up like this!’ exclaimed Pons out of the bitterness of his soul.

  ‘Oh then, you’ve got some relations!’ said La Cibot, starting up from her chair as if she had suddenly found herself sitting on a red-hot poker. ‘Well, a nice lot they are. Relations! What! You’ve been at death’s door for three weeks – three weeks this morning – and they haven’t been to inquire about you! That’s a fine way to behave!… Why, if I were in your place, I’d sooner leave my money to a foundling hospital than give them a farthing!’

  ‘Well, you see, my dear Madame Cibot, I intended to bequeath all I possess to my second cousin, the daughter of my first cousin, Président Camusot – you know, the magistrate who came here one morning nearly two months ago.’

  ‘Oh yes, the stocky little man who sent his servants along to ask you to forgive them… for the silly trick his wife played on you. That lady’s-maid was asking me questions about you. The stuck-up old piece! I’d have liked to have given her velvet cloak a good dusting with my broom-handle. Fancy a lady’s-maid flaunting herself in a velvet cloak! Take my word for it, the world’s turned topsy-turvy. What’s the good of having revolutions? It’s all very well for the idle rich to have their two dinners a day if they can afford it. But I say the law’s no good: nothing’s sacred if the King doesn’t keep people in their place. Are we all equal, or are we not? If we are, no lady’s-maid ought to have a velvet cloak when I have to go without one – me, a respectable woman that’s been honest for thirty years… A fine state of things, I do declare! You should show what you are by what you wear. A lady’s-maid is a lady’s-maid. A concierge is a concierge, like me, Ma’me Cibot. Why does an army officer wear pips on his shoulders? To show what his rank is. Listen, shall I tell you the solemn truth about all that? The country’s going to the dogs… Things were different under the Emperor, weren’t they, Monsieur Pons? And so I said to Cibot: “Mark my words, husband, people that let their lady’s-maids go about in velvet cloaks are people with hearts of stone…” ’