The Diary of a Chambermaid

by Octave Mirbeau

  ‘It’s terrible, what you’re saying, Monsieur George.’

  But he had not finished, and all I could do was to sit there wringing my hands.

  ‘What’s terrible about it? No, it’s not terrible, it’s true. You think I’m ill … Do you believe it’s possible to be ill when one is in love … Don’t you realize that love is life—life everlasting … Yes, yes, I understand. Though for me your kiss means life, you’re afraid that for you it might mean death … Let’s say no more about it.’

  I could not listen any longer. Was it pity? Was it the bitter reproaches, the savage challenge contained in his atrocious words? Or was it simply that I was suddenly possessed by impulsive, primitive desire? I have no idea. Perhaps it was something of them all. All I know is that I flung myself down beside him on the sofa and, raising his charming, boyish head in my hands, cried wildly:

  ‘You’ve no right to say such things. See if I’m afraid, just see if I’m afraid!’

  I pressed my mouth to his, grinding my teeth against his with such quivering passion that it seemed to me as though my tongue must penetrate his wounded lungs and draw forth all the poisoned blood and deadly pus. He flung his arms round me and held me close …

  And what had to happen, happened …

  Yet now, the more I think about it, the more I am convinced that what made me fling myself into George’s arms and press my lips to his was first and foremost an overwhelming and spontaneous protest against the mean motives to which—it was a trick, maybe—George had attributed my refusal. Above all, it was an act of fervent piety, sure and disinterested, which meant: ‘No, I do not believe you are ill … No, you are not ill … And the proof is that I’m not afraid to breathe your breath, to inhale it, to draw it deep into my lungs, till my whole body is saturated with it. And even if you were really ill, even if your illness was contagious and must kill whoever came near you, I would hate you to feel that I was afraid of catching it, or even of dying of it!’

  Moreover, I did not foresee what must inevitably be the result of this kiss … that once I was in his arms, once I felt his lips upon mine, I should no longer have the strength to tear myself from his embrace … But there it is! Whenever a man holds me in his arms, my skin immediately starts burning, and my head spins and spins. I become intoxicated, mad, a wild thing, I can think of nothing but the satisfaction of my desire. All I can think of is him. And, docile and terrible, I let him lead me where he will, even into crime!

  Oh, when I remember that first kiss of Monsieur George’s! His awkward, charming caresses, the ingenuous passion of his every movement, and the look of wonder in his eyes as, at last, the mystery of woman and of love was unveiled for him. In this first encounter I gave myself to him completely, with a zest that held nothing back, with that feverish, inventive delight that tames and overwhelms the strongest men, till they beg for mercy. But as the intoxication died away and I looked at the poor, frail boy lying in my arms, panting, almost swooning, I had a terrible feeling of remorse … the monstrous fear that I might have killed him.

  ‘Monsieur George, Monsieur George! My poor boy, what have I done? I have made you ill.’

  But, tenderly, trustingly, overwhelmed by gratitude, he snuggled up against me like a cat seeking protection and, with an ecstatic look in his eyes, murmured: ‘I’m so happy … so happy … Now I don’t mind dying.’

  And when in desperation I began cursing my own weakness, he repeated:

  ‘I am happy. Don’t leave me. Stay with me all night. If you left me by myself I don’t think I could bear the bitter sweetness of this happiness.’

  While I was helping him to get ready to sleep, he had a bout of coughing. Fortunately, it did not last long. But short as it was it was heartrending. Could it be that after taking such care of him and curing him, I was now to be responsible for his death? I detested myself, and could scarcely hold back my tears.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he said, smiling. ‘Nothing at all. You mustn’t be upset when I am so happy … Besides, I’m not ill, I’m not ill. You’ll see how well I shall sleep, with you here beside me. This is how I want to sleep, with my head on your breast, as if I were your child.’

  ‘But if your grandmother rings for me during the night …?’

  ‘No, no, she won’t ring. I want to sleep like this, knowing you are beside me.’

  Sometimes sick people are more sexually potent than other men, even the strongest. I think it must be because the idea of death, the presence of death, acts mysteriously as a terrible stimulus to their passion. During the fortnight that followed that marvellous, tragic night, it was as though we were both possessed by a kind of madness, as though our kisses, bodies, souls, were intermingled in an endless act of possession. We were in furious haste to make up for all the time we had lost. We wanted to live every moment of this love, this love which we both felt could only end in death.

  ‘Again, again, again!’

  By a sudden revulsion of feeling, I not only no longer felt remorse, but when Monsieur George’s strength began to fail I discovered new and more effective caresses to revive him, to give him for a moment fresh energy. My kisses had the monstrous power of an aphrodisiac.

  ‘Again, again, again!’

  There was something sinister, madly criminal, in my love-making. Knowing that I was killing George, it was as though I were desperately striving to kill myself as well, in the same happiness, and of the same illness. I was deliberately sacrificing both his life and my own with a wild and bitter exaltation that enormously intensified our love. I inhaled, I drank death from his mouth, smearing my lips with his poison. Once, lying in my arms, when he was seized by a fit of coughing, more violent than usual, his lips were covered with bloodstained froth, and I took a clot of blood in my mouth and swallowed it as if it were the elixir of life.

  It was not long before Monsieur George suffered a relapse. The crises became more frequent, graver and more painful. He began spitting blood, and had fainting fits that lasted so long it seemed he must be dead. He grew thinner than ever, his body wasted away till it was little more than a skeleton. Soon the joy that had returned to the household turned to bleak dejection. Once again his grandmother began spending all day in the drawing-room, weeping and praying, listening for every sound, waiting in anguish outside the door of his room lest a groan, a sigh might prove to be his last, might mean the end of the one dear, living creature still left to her. Whenever I left his room,, she would follow me all over the house, moaning:

  ‘Why, oh, why, my God? Has it happened yet?’

  Or she would say to me: ‘You’re killing yourself, my poor dear, you can’t go on sitting up every night with George. I shall have to get a nurse to relieve you.’

  But I refused, and she thought all the better of me for doing so, still hoping that, having already achieved one miracle, I might yet achieve another. And the thought that it was I to whom she pinned her faith terrified me. As to the doctors she summoned from Paris, they were amazed by the swift progress of his illness, and by the terrible ravages it had caused in so short a time. Not for a moment did they, or anyone else, have the slightest suspicion of the shameful truth. All they could prescribe were sedatives.

  The only person who remained gay and happy was Monsieur George, and his gaiety and happiness were unfailing. Not only did he never complain, but he was always overflowing with gratitude. He never spoke without expressing his happiness. Sometimes in the evening after an appalling bout of coughing, he would say to me:

  ‘I am happy … you mustn’t be so upset, you mustn’t cry. Your tears can only spoil the marvellous joy I feel. Oh, I assure you, death is a small price to pay for this human happiness you have given me. Before you came I was lost, nothing could withstand the death that was already within me. You gave me back a radiant, blessed life … So don’t cry, my sweet. I adore you … And I thank you.’

  My passion for destruction had long ago left me. I felt terribly disgusted with myself, at the unspeakable horror of the c
rime I had committed. All that was left for me was the hope, the consolation or excuse, that I had caught George’s illness, and that I should not outlive him. But when the horror had reached its height, when I felt myself hovering on the brink of madness, was when George, taking me in his dying arms and pressing his mouth to mine, still wanted to make love, still begged me for the love that I hadn’t the courage or—if it were not to commit a new and more atrocious crime—the right, to refuse him.

  ‘Give me your mouth again! Oh your eyes, your wonderful eyes!’

  He was no longer strong enough to stand the shock of our embraces, and often he fainted in my arms.

  And what had to happen, happened …

  It was then October, the 6th October. Since the autumn had remained mild and warm that year, the doctors had recommended that the invalid should remain at the seaside till it was possible to take him south. Throughout the day Monsieur George had been calmer. I had thrown open the windows of his room and, having wrapped him up warmly, pushed the sofa on which he was lying close to them, so that for a few hours he had been able to breathe the delicious air wafted from the sea. The life-giving sun, the pleasant salty smell, the fishermen searching for shell fish along the deserted beach, delighted him. Never had I seen him so gay. And this gaiety, on his emaciated face, the bones of which were almost visible through the skin, which every day became more transparent, produced so sharp an impression of morality that I could scarcely bear to look at it, and several times I had to leave the room lest he should see the tears streaming down my face. When I took up a book and suggested reading him some poetry, he refused.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘You are all the poetry I need, lovelier than any other.’

  He had been forbidden to talk. The slightest conversation tired him, and often brought on an attack of coughing. Besides he was now almost too weak to talk. All that still remained to him of life, of thought and feeling, was concentrated in the eyes, where the flame of his spirit burned with an amazing, supernatural intensity. That evening, the evening of October 6th, he seemed to be no longer suffering any pain. Oh, I can see him now, stretched out in bed, propped up with pillows, his long, thin hands tranquilly playing with the fringe of the curtain, smiling at me and following every movement I made with a gaze which shone and burnt in the shadow like a lamp.

  A couch had been made up for me in his bedroom so that I could rest and, pathetic irony, to spare our modesty a screen had been arranged so that I could undress. But I did not often sleep on the couch, for Monsieur George always wanted to have me beside him. He only felt really at ease, really happy, when I was close to him and he could feel my naked body against his. Having slept for a couple of hours, almost peacefully, towards midnight he woke up. He was feverish and his cheeks were flushed. When he saw me sitting beside him, with tears running down my face, he said in a gently reproachful voice:

  ‘Now, now, you’re crying again! Do you want to make me unhappy, to hurt me? Why haven’t you gone to bed. Come and lie down beside me.’

  I made no attempt to argue with him, for any opposition upset him. The least feeling of constraint was enough to bring on a stroke, with formidable results. Knowing my fears, he took advantage of them. But scarcely had I got into bed, than his hand began exploring my body, his mouth feeling for mine. Timidly, though without daring to resist, I begged him:

  ‘Not tonight … please.’

  Scarcely listening, he replied in a voice trembling with desire:

  ‘Not tonight? That’s what you always say. But how can I know that there will be another night?’

  Shaken by sobs, I exclaimed:

  ‘Oh, Monsieur George, do you want me to kill you? Do you want me to suffer for the rest of my life, knowing that it was I who killed you?’

  The rest of my life! Already I was forgetting that I wanted to die with him, to die for him.

  ‘Monsieur George, Monsieur, have pity on me. I implore you!’

  But already his lips were on mine … death was on my lips.

  ‘Be quiet,’ he panted. ‘Be quiet! Never have I loved you as I do tonight …’

  As our two bodies clung together … And as I felt desire stirring once more within me, it was a hideous pleasure to hear George’s gasping cries, to feel beneath my weight the frail, almost fleshless bones of his body.

  Suddenly his arms let go of me, and fell inertly on the bed. His lips were torn from mine, and a cry of distress burst from his upturned mouth, followed by a torrent of blood that spattered my face. I leapt out of bed, and caught sight of my reflection in a mirror, covered with blood. Panic-stricken, almost out of my mind, I was going to call for help, but the instinct of self-preservation, the fear that my responsibility for the crime would be exposed, every kind of calculating, cowardly motive, sealed my lips, held me back from the gulf of madness into which I felt myself falling. Suddenly I had realized, quite clearly, that my nakedness and the confused state of the room would make it obvious that George and I had been making love, and that it was quite out of the question to call for help.

  What miserable creatures we are! To think that, at that moment, what I was most conscious of, stronger and more spontaneous than grief or dread, was this mean, ignoble concern for my own safety. Terrified as I was, I had the presence of mind to open the door of the drawing-room, then of the ante-room, and listen. Not a sound. The whole household was asleep. Only then did I return to the bed and lift George’s body in my arms. As I raised his head and held it between my hands, sticky clots of blood were still flowing from his mouth, and the sound of his lungs emptying themselves into his throat was like that of water pouring from a bottle.

  ‘George, George, George!’ But he made no answer to my cries, for he no longer heard them, he was beyond the reach of any earthly appeal. I let go of his body, and it fell back on the bed. I let go of his head, and it sank heavily onto the pillow. I put my hand on his heart, but it had stopped beating.

  ‘George, George, George!’

  The horror of this silence, of those mute lips, of that motionless body … and of myself … was still strong. Broken with grief, overwhelmed with the terrible effort of trying to restrain it, I fell to the floor in a faint.

  How many minutes I lay there, how many centuries, I have no idea. When I came to, one tormenting thought dominated all others: to get rid of all the evidence of my guilt. I washed my face and put on some clothes. I even found courage to tidy up the bed and the room, and only when this was all done did I rouse the household and break the terrible news.

  Oh, that night! I suffered all the tortures of the damned … and now tonight, five years later, everything reminds me of it. The wind is howling as it did then, the night that I destroyed that beloved body. And the roaring of the wind in the trees reminds me of the roar of the sea, breaking on the rocks at the foot of that ever accursed villa at Houlgate. When we got back to Paris after Monsieur George’s funeral, I refused to remain in service with his poor grandmother, despite her repeated entreaties. I wanted to get away, to escape the sight of her tear-stained face and the sound of her heart-rending sobs. Above all, I wanted to avoid her gratitude, the need she felt in the bewilderment of her grief, to keep thanking me for my devotion and heroism, to keep calling me her ‘daughter … her dear little daughter’, to keep overwhelming me with tenderness … Many a time during the next fortnight, since at her request I had agreed to stay on, I felt a longing to confess, to talk to her about all the things that were weighing on my soul and almost stifling me. But what was the use? Would it have brought her the slightest relief? It could only have added one more poignant grief to all her other griefs. Yet this terrible thought, the feeling of inexpiable remorse that, but for me, her beloved grandchild might still, perhaps, be alive … I knew I ought to admit everything to her, yet I lacked the courage to do so. So I left, taking my secret with me, venerated by her as a saint and laden with her gifts and with her love.

  It happened that the very day I left, returning from Madame Paulhat-Durand�
�s registry office, I met in the Champs-Elysées a valet with whom I had been in service in the same house for about six months. It was quite two years since I had last seen him. After greeting one another, he told me that, like me, he was looking for a situation, only being for the moment in funds he was in no great hurry to find one.

  ‘Damned if you aren’t as attractive as ever, Célestine,’ said he, delighted to have met me again. He was a nice lad, gay, fond of a joke and always ready for a spree. He suggested that we should have dinner together, and, as I needed distraction, needed to drive away the mournful thoughts that were obsessing my mind, I accepted.

  ‘That’s the girl!’ says he, and taking my arm, led me off to a wineshop in the rue Cambon. His heavy gaiety, his coarse jokes and vulgar obscenity in no way shocked me. On the contrary, I experienced a kind of sordid joy, a mean sense of security, at the thought of returning to a forgotten way of life. To be more explicit, I recognized myself, my whole life and outlook, in those tired eyelids and smooth, clean-shaven face, that displayed the same servile grin, the same lying wrinkles, the same taste for smut that one may find alike in an actor, a judge, or a valet.

  After dinner we sauntered along the boulevards, and he took me to a cinema. I was feeling rather lazy, having drunk too much wine. In the darkness, as the French army was marching across the screen to the applause of the whole audience, he put his arm round me, and kissed the back of my neck so violently that he almost knocked my hat off.

  ‘You’re marvellous,’ he murmured. ‘And my God, you smell good!’

  He took me as far as my hotel, and we stood there a few moments on the pavement, without saying anything and feeling rather stupid: he, tapping his boot with his cane, while I, with lowered head, my elbows close to my sides and my hands in my muff, was crushing a piece of orange skin with my toe.