La Rouque smiled.
“Yes, a dirty dog,” repeated Emile under his breath. “You can be proud of him.”
“And what of it?” asked La Rouque. “Do you want me to tell him what you say about him?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, then, wait a bit and you'll see,” she announced quietly. “He'll teach you to call him a dirty dog. He won't be long about it, that one... But after all, why should I argue with you?” she added, suddenly changing her mind. “Run away, poor old boy. Go back to your room and stay there. It'll be the best.”
She pushed him outside gently, laughing at the idea of repeating Emile's imprudences to the man she was awaiting. He went without protesting, and having got him as far as the door, she took him by the shoulders, thrust him suddenly into the kitchen, and went back to her dressing.
Emile hung his head, he sat down sadly in a corner and laying his elbows on the edge of the table he meditated mournfully and bitterly. Above his head, the butterfly-shaped flame of the gas burned with a slight hissing noise. Emile did not hear it. He was thinking over what he had said to La Rouque and he felt anxious.
All at once the door bell rang and he started up, but Irma was already rushing to the door.
“Don't disturb yourself,” she threw at him. “It's somebody for me.” Emile regained his self possession.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“Nobody... Nobody...” answered Irma.
A conversation began in the entry, then Irma reappeared, and shut the door of the kitchen to prevent Emile from seeing the person she was introducing into her room.
“Ah,par exemple!” grunted Emile. “I won't allow that... Certainly... not... no... She's laughing at me—she's making a fool of me... it's... it's...”
He stuttered with anger and for a moment did not know what to do. Then rage overcame him. He made one impulsive movement across the passage and without thinking of knocking at the door in front of him, he opened it noisily.
“Well! here's the brother,” a man said joyfully, the same man he had seen in bed that morning. “So he's not asleep for once.”
Emile became very pale.
“Yes, it's me,” he declared.
“And then?”
“You can't stay here,” said Emile, seizing the man by the arm. “You must go.”
“Just like that?”
“You must go at once.”
“I don't think so.” answered the man. He disengaged himself without effort, then, looking at Emile with curiosity: “I'm in Madame's room,” he went on drawling, “and I don't see why I should go.”
Irma interfered: “Bebert,allons!” she murmured very quickly. “Be reasonable for him, as he is so stupid. Don't make a scene about it. Everything can be arranged without quarreling.”
“No,” affirmed Emile, “there's no question of an arrangement.”
Bebert tittered.
“But he's arigolo,” he announced very much at his ease. “A funny one. Why didn't you tell me? A perfect gentleman. But he's trying it on the wrong man. I shan't go.”
“What?”
“Tiens! Like this!” said Bebert, seizing Emile's wrists quickly. “I don't like to be made a fool of—D'you see, boaster—“
“Don't hurt him,” Irma was saying. “Let him alone I tell you... Bebert!”
Emile struggled.
“Like this,” repeated Bebert coldly, and squeezing Emile's wrists more tightly, he twisted them. “Ah, you see... You mustn't brag if you can't back it up.”
“Bebert...”
“Just a minute,” answered Bebert. “He must beg my pardon first, then I'll buy him a drink... I'm not a bad sort... nothing liverish about me... But when there's something to be done I do it... Come on—you!”
Emile moaned.
“Beg my pardon,” said Bebert.
“Let me go.”
Emile fought, but vainly. He tried to bite and Bebert, pushing him into the corner, forced him to kneel down.
“Now will you beg my pardon?”
“No!”
“Ah, you won't? Well, so much the worse for you,” announced Bebert, who was much amused. He squeezed, he increased his pressure, and this time Emile collapsed onto the floor writhing with pain.
“Don't make that noise... shut up... or...”
Irma watched the scene silently. She felt a vague pity for her brother, but she was full of admiration for Bebert and thought he was right.
“Well,” she said suddenly, “don't be obstinate, Emile... Beg his pardon... It's no use fighting now... come on— say it... say that you... won't do it again.”
“Pardon,” moaned Emile... “pardon... you're hurting me too much.”
“Naturally,” observed Bebert.
He let Emile go, who instead of getting up, sat down and began to weep.
“That's what comes of not listening to me... now, don't cry, the brother, and come on... I'll stand you a drink downstairs.”
He hitched up his trousers, pulled his cap down over his eyes and taking a fag from the depths of his little black waistcoat pocket, stuck it on to his lip.
“Are you coming?” he proposed.
“Better leave him alone,” answered Irma. “He never drinks. Don't force him.”
“Just as he likes,” said Bebert obligingly, lighting his cigarette. “We two, we'll trot to thebistro, kid, then we'll go to a musette. Good night, Emile.”
“Good night,” repeated Emile with cowardice.
“But I warn you,” said Bebert as he was going, “if you take it into your head to be disagreeable when we come in, look out! I'm not a windbag. You'll find me all there—true as I'm alive, and it won't be a pretty business.”
***
Emile sat alone on the floor, while the couple went downstairs. Huge tears, which he did not trouble to wipe away were running down his cheeks. His red swollen wrists hurt him. He tried to move them and cried out with pain.
“Oh, the brute,” he groaned.
He was in pain, in great pain, and he suffered not only from his wrists but from the humiliation inflicted upon him by Bebert.
“Yes,” he muttered, “the brute... The... the brute! The dirty dog.” However, he got up and, not knowing what to do with himself, went back into the kitchen and, mechanically economical, lowered the gas. The sight of a bottle of wine, plates, a piece of bread and cheese on the table invited him to sit down. Emile pushed the stool aside with his knee, cleared the table, stopped crying, became calm. “What a shame!” he told himself.
He went into his room, then turned round and came back again. He moved slowly, indifferently to all appearance, looking round him carefully but with a lost expression.
Near his bed was a lamp without a shade which modestly lit up the walls and looking-glass, two chairs and the mantelpiece. Emile began to lament, he felt so unhappy that nothing could give him courage.
It did not even occur to him to leave the house. Where should he go to? Everything crushed and frightened him, and whenever he tried to reason with himself, the image of Bebert would rise up in his mind and prevent him from making a decision.
IV
He awaited the return of his sister and Bebert in this extraordinary state of agitation, looking out of the window at the street, where the shadows of the women who paraded to and fro offering themselves to the passers-by seemed inordinately lengthy. Emile recognized some of these women by their showily colored coats, but he thought steadily about Irma, and gradually the thought became less painful.
In fact, by one of those sudden changes of mind which are so difficult to explain, he had ended by choosing the greater of two evils, and he told himself that it would be easier to bear Bebert's tortures than the anticipation of them. The idea helped him to struggle against his wish to sleep, moreover, it gave him a kind of appetite for the violences he was preparing for.
However, Bebert and the girl did not come in. Midnight struck, then the half hour, then one o'clock. The street, where even the
shadows seemed weary, was a long narrow perspective of closed shopwindows. There were no passers-by. A cold wind raised little eddies of dust at the foot of the building and swept the pavements with stray pieces of paper. It shook against the coiffeur's shop—a small copper plate adorned with a long tail of black horse hair. The plate creaked. So did an invisible and rusty weathercock. In the silence Emile noticed these desolate noises of the night, and he ended by staring blindly at the shadows hurrying past the walls. Then his attention was attracted by a woman whom he had not seen before. She was standing under a streetlamp, upright and attentive, looking at the window in Emile's room.
He was surprised, and drew the curtain aside.
“Ahtiens!” said he, “it's the old woman.”
It was Belle-Amour who was standing there. Belle-Amour? Why? Emile was disconcerted. What did the woman want of him? What was she waiting for? He was quite unable to imagine, and this irritated and vexed him. At length he began to feel ashamed of her presence there, and he was going to let the curtain drop, when a taxi turned the angle of the street and stopped under the window. Bebert and Irma appeared.
Emile in spite of himself at once began to tremble and whimper. He crawled on all fours under the bed, and lay there listening to every sound. He was very pale, and as he heard them coming up the stairs he repeated to himself that they were surely going to pull him out of his hiding place and beat him unmercifully. His teeth chattered. His forehead, his whole body, was covered with sweat and when the key turned in the lock, he thought that his loudly hammering heart would burst.
However, nothing of all this happened... Irma shut the door gently behind her and went with Bebert into her room. Neither of them spoke. Emile strained his ears to listen. Why were they so quiet? Did they wish to make him feel falsely secure, then take advantage of him?
The unhappy creature did not know what to think. It seemed to him that their silence must be part of some horrible design. He was certain of it. Under the bed, Emile huddled close to the wall, for his fear was so great that it deprived him of every vestige of common sense. And he shivered in every limb. He tortured himself with fear. He found as it were an extraordinary delight in doing so.
So sleep fell on him, a heavy sleep peopled till dawn with phantoms that crushed him. Emile woke up when the milkman's cart clattered under the window. He emerged from the uncomfortable hiding place, dipped his face and hands in water, then discontented with himself, he brushed his clothes and went to his work. The remembrance of this grotesque night went with him. He coughed. He had taken cold under the bed. It was absurd. Emile felt small, humiliated. He thought of Bebert and reproached himself for being frightened, but the fear was still there.
The little man was too calm, too self possessed. He was terrifying. Precisely on account of that serene self control in which Emile himself was so lacking. Why had Irma been caught by this person who was not suited to her? Emile could not get over it. A man who was a good for nothing. Under his assured air and his impersonal ways of talking, one could see that at once. What a business! As Emile wrote he pictured Bebert, and wondered fearfully what the result of this individual's presence in their home would be. Nothing good, assuredly. He remembered him lying in Irma's bed, his tattooings, his frizzled hair, the scar on his side, and the remembrance was not precisely comforting. On the contrary, Emile felt disgusted, and to his disgust was added the oppressive conviction of his own helplessness.
However, in the evening he would have to go home as usual and in spite of all he had vowed to do if he were ill treated as on the previous day, he dreaded finding Bebert with Irma. What could he say? And Bebert? Already Emile felt very uneasy. He went home as slowly as possible, and far from giving him courage, this increased his uneasiness.
At last he made up his mind, but he was late for the first time since he had lodged with his sister, and Belle-Amour told herself that something very dreadful must be going to happen.
When Emile appeared Bebert, stripped to the waist, was in the kitchen washing himself at the sink.
“Salut,” said he.
In her room Irma was singing.
The remains of a meal of sausages and cheese were on the table, and a half empty, uncorked bottle of rum. Emile stood contemplating the disorder.
“Will you have a drop of schnick?” proposed Bebert. “Help yourself.”
“No, thank you,” answered Emile severely.
Bebert was splashing water all over the kitchen. He scrubbed and snorted under the kitchen tap, shivering as the cold water trickled over him. Emile left the place to him.
Irma said: “Come here and sit down. He won't be long now. What's the matter? Aren't you well?”
“Nothing is the matter.”
“Ben—sit down then.”
“I'm not tired,” said Emile.
Irma looked at him.
She said: “You wouldn't sulk if you knew what a good sort Bebert is. And the proof of it is that last night he took his shoes off so that you should not hear him come in.Hein? That's something, isn't it? And today he went out to buy something to eat and a bottle of rum. Ou-la-la! You don't find many men as delicate as that. Don't you believe me?”
“Yes,” answered Emile.
He stood leaning against the door post, and listened to Irma without understanding a word she said. It was painful to see his dejected face, his mournful disillusioned eyes, his long carcass bent in two.
“He's got nothing against you,” added Irma. “He's rather vexed about what happened last night. I swear he told me that he did it when he was in a bad temper and that he's wild with himself. But you stood up to him and he doesn't take that from anybody. People of that sort can't help themselves. They're too nervous.”
“Yes, yes,” said Emile bitterly.
At that moment Bebert, still streaming with water, came into the room from the kitchen. Irma handed him a towel and, as he dried himself, Emile considered him in silence, astounded at the liberties this man took in a place where he had been so short a time. It was too much. Emile shook his head.
Then, looking at his sister, he demanded if anybody meant to put the kitchen in order.
“I'll tidy it up,” said Irma.
“When?”
Bebert finished drying himself. He took his shirt from the bed, pulled it over his head, then slowly, as if he were talking to himself: “I don't see,” he declared, “why Irma should tidy it.”
“Ah! All right,” said Emile disconcerted.
Irma was already hurrying out of the room, anxious to avert a scene.
“Stay here,” ordered Bebert. “There is a way of asking for things. The kitchen is clean enough as it is. I don't care.”
“Oh—clean .
This was Emile.
Bebert started up.
“That's enough,” said he in a tone which did not admit of an answer. “And it's the last time I'll say it.” And he slammed the door so brutally that Emile jumped back just in time to avoid being hit in the face.
He took refuge in his room without argument, pale with anger at his new insult, and not knowing how to defend himself. The curious thing was that, though Emile felt offended, he reproached himself with the bad temper which had made him speak to his sister so stupidly. He had been conscious of his clumsiness and unable to help it. He had realized that he was being arrogant and could not stop himself. Why? Nothing obliged him to be impertinent. No, nothing... yet he acknowledged to himself that he should like to do it all over again. Far from regretting his stupidity, he was proud of it, and this pride intoxicated him and excited in him a secret pleasure because he had at last done something to deserve his burning humiliations.
Bebert as he finished dressing announced to Irma: “He's looking for trouble—that chap. All right, he won't have to look long. Did you hear his idiocies? I'll break him.”
And Irma declared: “He has always been like that.”
“And you've stood it?”
“Bah! He's a poor thing!”
> “I should call him a poison,” concluded Bebert.
Emile, listening behind the door, could barely restrain himself from answering. A poison! A poison, he repeated in a low voice, and then? He was no longer afraid. He felt so indignant that if Bebert has tried to come into his room he would have opened the door and shouted a thousand insults. But Bebert did not think of doing any such thing. He went off quietly with Irma whilst Emile burst into the kitchen as if he had suddenly gone mad. He broke all the plates, the glasses, and the bottle of rum on the table, and, filled with rage, began to pick up the pieces.
V
This brought him to his senses, and obliged him to consider matters more calmly. He began to wonder why he had raged for so futile a reason and was filled with consternation and self-pity. They had driven him wild, hadn't they? They had offended him, provoked him unbearably. If it had not been for Bebert, none of it would have happened. It was his fault, Emile abominated him. Why did he interfere? To behave in such a fashion the man must be without tact: a cad, a lout. Why had he stopped Irma from putting the kitchen in order when she had agreed to do it?
Emile knelt, mopping up the tile floor, and cursed the endless task. With rancour he told himself that everything was against him... everything. Even the smell of rum, which he detested, and which made him feel sick.
Life was becoming impossible, and the most glaring proof of that was the haste he was making to wipe up the rum that had spread and soaked into everything. The unhappy man told himself that fear of Bebert drove him. He was afraid, that was the most annoying part of it all. Ever since that individual had taken up his abode in their lodgings, Emile had lived in a stupefying state of fright, devoured by a perpetual anxiety which did not leave him one moment of peace.
Standing upright and mournfully inspecting the kitchen he had cleaned, he asked himself if he had succeeded in hiding every trace of the damage he had done. Not for anything in the world would he have wished it to be visible. He had put the broken pieces of the bottle, the plates and the glasses into the rubbish-box and now he stood with the box in his hand seeking a place where it could be pushed, a place where no one would see it.
Perversity Page 2