“Very well, Monsieur Paul,” said the woman at once.
Bouboule looked round.
“You're not much of a business man,” he declared sneering. “How's that? I've come to spend money in your place and you take away my girl.”
“It may be,” asserted Monsieur Paul, “but that's my affair. Don't argue. I won't have any crooked business in my place and I won't have any fool talk to the women. The waiter won't serve you again.”
“That'll do.”
“Well, we won't go,” decided Bebert suddenly. He leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette.
Monsieur Paul seemed to hesitate. He remained standing near Bebert who blew his smoke through his nose insolently, then, without raising his voice: “I'll send the waiter to call the police,” he said. “Just as you like... or I give you three minutes by my watch—and no arguments.
“Oh,” said Bouboule, “to us! Trying to bluff us!”
Bebert said to him: “He wouldn't talk like that outside.”
“No, he wouldn't dare.”
“Outside is not my business. Here I'm the master, and I like fair play in my place.”
And he consulted his watch sedately, whilst informed of what was going on by Denyse and Carmen, all the women of the establishment gazed at them.
“Let's go,” then said Emile. “Come, Monsieur Bebert, Monsieur Bouboule!”
“Shut your mouth.”
Bouboule grumbled with contempt: “My opinion is that it's enough to disgust anybody to be received like this.... All right, Monsieur Paul, we're going.”
“And to you as well, d'you hear?” ordered Monsieur Paul speaking to Bebert, who was clutching the marble top of the table as if to cling to it... “off you go,ouste!”
Bebert ended by getting up, but he dived his hand into his pocket.
“Are you mad?” whispered Bouboule, seizing his wrist, “Come on! As we've got to go, let's go.”
And he pushed Bebert rapidly towards the door where Emile, much upset by this scene, waited in expectation of the most dire calamities.
Bebert's wrath exploded outside and as Emile tried to soothe him, he became the victim of it.
“Idiot! Ass!” snapped Bebert. Look at him, the deformity! The whole thing is his fault. Couldn't you stay where you were?”
“But the police would have come!”
“The police,” said Bebert with hatred. “I'd have shot into them sooner than let them touch me.”
“Oh!” said Emile.
Bebert went on: “To start with, the police couldn't have done anything. We were quiet, we weren't troubling anybody.”
“I don't know,” said Emile ingenuously. “I'm not used to it.”
“Shut up!”
“Monsieur Bebert!”
“We have done all we could,” observed Bouboule, determined to take everything gaily. “Don't grumble, Bebert. We'd have been in a nice hole if the coppers had come! They always help thepatrons.”
“Ah! you as well,” replied Bebert harshly, '“you're mixing up with this.”
“Don't worry about it, come!”
“Yes, I do worry.”
“And then,” demanded Bouboule. “You're joking,voyons... a man like you!”
Bebert pointed at Emile, and with an accent of intense pity and disgust: “I worry,” said he, “because he's such a—”
And he spat in Emile's direction letting his arm fall. Emile, disconcerted, reproached himself bitterly, for with a semblance of energy he could perhaps have avoided this evening. But it was too late now. Bebert had begun again to insult him, to treat him without courtesy, to try to pick a quarrel and he dared not exasperate him by answering.
Emile did not dream of standing up to the passionate and violent little man. But he felt such a keen disappointment that his one idea was to go home, and he slackened his pace.
“Get on in front,” shouted Bebert.
Emile said sadly: “I'd like to go home.”
“No.”
“What can it matter to you?”
“Get on, I tell you,” repeated Bebert roughly... “I don't care if you're tired, you'll come anyhow.”
“But where?”
“To Tango's bar,” Bouboule informed him. “We're just in time for our ladies.Allez! Don't worry, Monsieur Emile. When the ladies are there we won't be long following them to bed.”
“Why?” asked Bebert.
“Well. Because it's Saturday,” replied Bouboule. “The day when they have most work. Don't you remember?”
“Ah yes, that's true,” conceded Bebert.
The rain was still falling and threw a dim, reddish halo round the lights. Long reflections crossed each other in every direction on the glistening pavements and the red lights of a tobacco shop added a trail of blood. The shadow that brooded over the street was limitless, motionless and mournful like a thick black cloth with long misty folds.
Emile associated the icy winter night and this lifeless and desolate perspective with his own discouragement and the further he advanced, the more worried, broken and helpless he felt.
“Here we are, here we are,” announced Bouboule all at once.
The Metro gallery on the right plunged under the darkness of the pavement between the row of gas lamps, and the electric lit windows of the bars shone dazzlingly at the foot of the houses.
“Here,” Bouboule said again. “Come in... Ah bravo Monsieur Emile... the third table... there, sit down and make yourself at home.”
“Waiter, three anis.”
IX
Irma arrived the first, just as the cheap clock on the wall was striking half past twelve. She was very tired, but her surprise was great when she saw Emile in such joyous company.
“What made you go out with him?” she asked Bebert who sat without opening his mouth.
“It's not the best piece of work I ever did,” replied that gentleman.
“Joking apart?”
“He, cut it out... Bebert's in a bad temper,” whispered Bouboule in Irma's ear.
She looked at her brother and said: “You've been making yourself disagreeable again?”
“No,” muttered Emile, “not at all. Monsieur Bebert forced me to go out with him.”
“Forced?”
“Well, he obliged me,” said Emile.
Bebert shook his head.
“That will teach me,” he said, “to try to be friendly... wait.... You won't lose by it.”
“And what is he drinking?” asked Irma gently. She was searching fora derivative. “An anis?”
“I haven't drunk any of it yet,” said Emile.
“Well, drink!” cried Bebert. “Drink, pig!”
Irma tried to interfere.
“It'll be for me,” she murmured, “because he doesn't like it. Pass me your glass, Emile.”
“No,” said Bebert, “they've served him and he must drink it.”
“Voyons, Bebert!”
“He'll drink it,” said Bebert roughly, “or I'm not a man....Nom de Dieu!”
Emile felt faint.
“I'm waiting!” grunted Bebert.
This scene was really stupid.
“Let him do it quietly,” proposed Bouboule, “give him time. You know when one is not in the mood sometimes, one can't make up one's mind.”
Emile timorously seized his glass and put it to his lips.
“It's not bad,” explained Bouboule, to help the unhappy man.
“It is good even... and agreeable.... Isn't it, Madame Irma? Anis is refreshing, and good for the stomach.”
“Pouah!” said Emile.
He was very pale and gave Bebert an imploring glance, hoping that the other would soften. But Bebert was inflexible, and Emile was obliged to submit.
“Well,” said Irma amiably, “You see? It didn't kill you!”
Emile was silent.
“He won't answer, you may be sure!” growled Bebert. “He'd rather be killed. Ah, the dirt!”
Fortunately at this moment, Mme. Camille, whom Bouboule “ma
naged” and with whom he shared her earnings, appeared and saluted the company. Her muddy clothes and her hat pulled low over her eyes, did not beautify her, but Bouboule, probably on account of the bet he lad won in the same establishment, welcomed her with a thousand tendernesses.
“Come and put your little self here,” said he lovingly.
“Sit near your old hubby.”
“Well, I've earned that much,” said the distinguished person he spoke to. She kissed Bouboule, took her hat off, arranged her hair and her face, and pleased to find herself in a warm room, stifled a yawn. Mme. Camille was very ladylike indeed. She wore a tight, narrow, mahogany colored mackintosh, and her hair, cut short and very curly, framed an engagingly youthful face. Her clear eyes, narrow and slanting, smiled continually.
“Who is that?” she asked, discreetly pointing out Emile.
“My brother,” said Irma.
Camille nodded to him. Emile who saw her through a mist did not answer.
The anis he had drunk made him giddy, and left a sickening taste under his tongue which he could not get rid of.
“Do you feel ill?” asked Irma who had been observing him.
Emile was about to complain.
“Don't bother about him,” sneered Bebert. “I'll? Because he's drunk a glass?”
“Yes,” said Emile.
“Well, my old boy, you'll get over it,” declared Bebert. “It's your affair. If you think I'm going to come and hold your hand for you, there's nothing doing.”
Irma was not reassured. She saw that Emile felt sick, and was afraid that he would make a scene. She made room for him at her side and whilst Bouboule, Camille and Bebert were conversing, she questioned him in a low voice: “Perhaps you have been drinking too much?” she whispered. “No? One glass wouldn't hurt you all the same.... Have you got a pain? Where?”
“Everywhere,” explained Emile, his eyes closed. “Everything is turning round. I feel I'd like to throw myself on the floor.”
“No... no... no....”
“To begin with, when we first came here, Bebert stood champagne... and Monsieur Bouboule emptied five bottles, all by himself...ou-la-la... I assure you. I did not even finish my glass...”
“And afterwards?”
“Afterwards we had liqueurs.”
“How many?”
“One,” said Emile with a hiccup.
Irma began to laugh.
“It's nothing to laugh at,” Emile reproached her. “You wouldn't laugh if you knew where we had been.”
“What's that?”
“No, no, don't try to guess... I don't want to say anything.”
Bebert was listening; he turned to Irma and asked: “What's he saying now?”
“Bah! let him alone... let him alone.”
Emile, wagging his head and suddenly laughing to himself, went on. “Impossible,” he declared, as if someone was pressing him to answer... “quite impossible... don't insist.”
“But he's drunk,” scoffed Bebert.
“I beg your pardon?”
Bebert called Bouboule to witness the sight.
“It's you who drank,” he declared, “and he's the one who is tipsy.Hein? What?”
“Yes,” admitted Bouboule, “he can't drink.”
The two men exchanged an amused glance and, as Emile was still declaring that he would never betray his secret: “You'll see,” said Bebert, “the stories he'll bring out. Oh, the poor old boy. If it's not a pity? At his age...”
“Well, don't worry about him,” said Irma, “don't take any notice of him...”
And she added, but in an undertone: “What liqueur did you make him drink?”
Bebert grunted: “But nothing at all,” he answered... “look—as much as that, a thimbleful of marc. Nothing!”
Emile had opened his eyes and finding himself near Irma he felt better. He fixed astonished eyes on Bouboule, then leaning sideways discovered Bebert, whom he had doubtless forgotten, and scowled.
“Eh, you damn fool,” said Bebert, “That's the effect I have on you, is it?”
The other drew quickly back behind Irma.
“He's too funny,” Bouboule was obliged to confess. “He wants to play now. He is trying to play hide and seek... there... hi! hi! hi!... Does he want something?”
“He wants to go home,” answered Irma weakly. “Don't you Emile? That's what it is, isn't it?”
“Yes, go home, sleep,” said Emile with a gloomy expression.
Bebert did not seem to hear. He offered a round of claret and proposed sandwiches, but the ladies were not hungry. Their eyes on the clock, they were waiting for closing time to decide their men to go away, they were both utterly worn out.
Emile sighed deeply.
“Patience,” advised Irma tenderly, taking his hand under the table. “We'll soon be going.”
“No, now,” wailed Emile.
Irma shook him. “There,” she reproached, “make an effort to be reasonable, at least. You're never contented. We've got enough of it as well, and we don't complain. Go on... try to behave like other people.”
Bebert triumphed.
“I'm sick of telling you,” he proclaimed in a bad tempered voice, “that he's a poison, that fellow. He would discourage father and mother. Look at his face! Could you find anybody more exacting?”
Emile sat upright.
He said: “I'm not talking to you.”
“But I'm talking to you,” said Bebert at once, “and I don't give a damn if it pleases you or not.”
“Yes,” replied Emile, “only you weren't so uppish when we were in the other place.”
“What?”
“At the brothel,” he precised spitefully. “Monsieur Bouboule won't contradict me. Ah! isn't it true?”
Irma tried to stop him.
“No,” Emile went on. “Now that I've begun, I'll say all I've got to say. It's too easy to torment people who don't defend themselves. Was it I who proposed going to the brothel? I followed you there against my will.... And there with the women...”
“So you've been to see your old friends?” said Irma to Bebert.
He pushed her aside brutally, with one gesture, and Emile fell back.
“Go on,” said Bebert... “go on... go on. Talk. Tell us all you've got in your dirty head. Spit it out.”
Bouboule got up.
“Well?”
“I don't know any more,” muttered Emile feverishly. “I didn't want, I couldn't help saying it—it... don't hurt me, Monsieur Bebert...” He too stood up, and Bebert followed his example.
“At the brothel!” he yelled... “Well, say it again, ex plain a little the way I behaved at the brothel. Spy! Explain.” He approached Emile and taking him by the lapels of his overcoat, began to shake him.
“Talk! Ah! You don't want to—good for nothing. Well you dirty beast, I'll show you what blabbing costs.... There.... Carrion.... Rottenness! Dirt!”
In his hands, Emile danced in a burlesque way, and Bebert hit him ferociously in the ribs. He did not defend himself. He moaned. He was looking for his hat, which must have rolled on the floor, and Bebert struck without stopping, bawling insults.
The last customers of the bar followed the scene with approval without trying to interfere.
At last Bebert bent down, picked up Emile's hat, jammed in on to his head and with his free hand struck the unfortunate man a sounding slap in the face which he accompanied with a violent kick behind. Then half opening the door: “Get off now,” he cried... “Run... and quicker than that... there outside!”
Bouboule, close to Irma, prevented her from seeing clearly what was happening.
He said, however, when Emile had gone: “You see, Madame Irma, Bebert is perhaps a little hot tempered, but Monsieur Emile was in the wrong in this affair. Between you and me, what harm was there in going to the brothel?
It was raining. We were tired of waiting for you. And then? you think that one would amuse oneself deceiving a lady of your class? It wouldn't be common s
ense.”
And he concluded, with formal ceremony, his Cronstadt hat in his hand: “We others, Madame, we havesavoir-vivre.”
X
Emile stayed in bed the next day and tried not to attract attention. He was sore from the blows he had received, he suffered great pain when he tried to move, and his limbs were so weary that he feared he would not be able to go to his office next morning. The prospect filled him with uneasiness. Moreover he reproached himself for having needlessly hurt La Rouque by telling her where Bebert and Monsieur Bouboule had taken him the night before. It was absurd. It was a petty revenge. Emile could not forgive himself, for he was no longer angry with his sister. He had to admit that she had always defended him against Bebert, and this thought, at once sweet and painful, harassed him ceaselessly. Was it fair that Irma, who had so often protected him, should be unhappy through his fault? He knew that she must be unhappy—for complete silence reigned on the other side of the partition.
“There,” he thought sadly, “now they will quarrel, she won't trust me any more.”
Then, in his unhappiness, he thought of Bebert, and felt a fierce satisfaction because he had told him the truth. In his narrow, limited brain, always distorted by fear, he was very near to seeing himself a hero, and magnifying enormously and vaingloriously the fact of having spoken. For Emile was one of those stubborn and obstinate people who never learn from their experiences. He always tried to justify himself. His most cruel outrages in order to prove to himself that he was not without courage. It was the first time he had ever shown any, and he imagined that things would now improve and felt less miserable.
But Emile was reckoning without Bebert, who woke up about dusk and said after yawning loudly: “He'd better keep out of my way from now on, that idiot.”
He spoke at the top of his voice, evidently so as to be heard by Emile, and after a remark made by Irma, went on in the same tone to say that he understood the plan. “He wants to make us quarrel. He wants you to get sick of me. Ah, the lousy beggar!”
There was a silence. Emile held his breath. But Bebert, having spoken his mind, was quiet for more than an hour and from time to time Emile could faintly hear the bed creaking when he changed his position. Then Bebert got up. There was the sound of bare feet on a wooden floor, he put his shoes on, rapped out an oath or two, went into the kitchen, came back, spoke to Irma, went to and fro for some minutes, and finally went out, slamming the door with violence. Huddled in his bedclothes Emile at first felt a certain happiness when he thought that Bebert was no longer in the house. But the next minute the pain he was suffering made him cry out, and Irma in her room began to grumble.
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