He asked what was the matter.
“Don't make such a fuss,” answered Irma.
“But it's the pain.”
She told him: “Well, all the better. I wish he had broken your legs.”
“My legs?”
“Yes.”
“Oh,par exemple, said Emile, “par exemple! You're not fair, Irma.”
“Why do you say that? Look here. It wasn't my fault. Think. You can't be so unfair.Hein?”
“Will you shut up?” cried Irma.
This snub was so unexpected that Emile was very near to tears. “Irma too,” he lamented inwardly. “She is against me now. Ah! what a dirty world. She... Irma!”
Everybody was abandoning him then. He was deserted! The wretched man felt bewildered, lost in the sad half light that filled his room, exposed from henceforth to the frenzy of Bebert, and the idea was so terrible that he felt he must be dreaming.
“Irma,” he called in his falsetto voice... “Irma, oh no... it's not true... You're not vexed with me?”
But Irma was silent, and Emile had to resign himself. A little later, he heard the girl moving about in her room, pouring out water, putting on her boots, and while she dressed she hummed a tune. He quivered. She was preparing to join Bebert at the Tango bar. The idea that she was going without giving him a look was particularly painful to Emile. However, hearing her move so close to him, he did not lose all hope. He thought that she would probably come in to see him before she left and he closed his eyes for this thought was sweet and lulled him.
“Yes, yes,” he murmured... “she will come.” He was like a child, longing for caresses because it is sick and must stay in bed. Even the humming which came from the next room soothed him. The presence of a woman softened him and gradually, unconsciously, he began to follow in thought Irmas' slightest movements, to follow and anticipate them. He saw her at her toilet, she was bending down, washing, drying herself, then she was lacing her boots. Emile welcomed these images witha feeling that he dared not analyze, and imperceptibly other presences, stranger and more secret, substituted themselves in his mind for Irma's. He gave himself up to them, allowed them to move freely in the room and around his bed. How could he avoid them? A slight attack of fever accelerated the rhythm of their comings and goings. But what presences? Who were these women? Emile could not have answered. That they were there was sufficient. He felt comforted, and as it were benumbed. However when he thought of Irma, he no longer saw her with precision, or her face had changed, she had strange mannerisms and little irritating provoking fits of laughter.
“Hem? What?” He stuttered. “What then?”
He was confusedly restless, talked meaninglessly, felt hot and cold. What was this? It was Denyse who was in the room talking to him. What was she saying? Emile did not hear, he understood nothing. Suddenly he guessed that she was undressing and approaching the bed. What then? It was she who had poured out water a moment ago to wash herself. She and not Irma? Was it possible that he had made such a mistake? Denyse. He felt an extraordinary happiness. It was she, with her plump naked legs, her painted lips, her breasts, her cold laughing eyes. He touched her, passed his man's hands over her body. And she did not defend herself. She murmured in a low voice words that flattered his desire, troubled him, set him on fire.
Emile woke up.
“Irma!” he cried, “where are you?”
He pushed the bedclothes aside, tried to raise himself up in bed, slipped, made another effort, managed to stand up with his bare feet on the plank floor.
He felt his way towards the door.
“Are you there?” he asked.
But there was no answer, and the poor man groaning at every step, ended by discovering his clothes on the floor. He picked them up, felt for his watch and looked at it by the light of a match. Nine o'clock. He understood that Irma had gone out a long time ago and without looking for her any longer, he went sadly back to bed.
XI
After this Emile thought about Denyse, and when he came out of the Metro at Crenelle, was tempted to go and see her. But he feared that she would snub him, or that Monsieur Paul, the proprietor, would recognize him and turn him out of the place.
The memory of the girl had penetrated him and tormented him incessantly. In vain he opposed to it the disdain he had always felt for women of that sort, and thought of her all the same and was ashamed of himself.
It was especially in the evening when he came out of his office that desire would possess him. Instead of walking up the Rue du Commerce, Emile went along the boulevard. When he was opposite No. 162 he stopped and looked, trying to remain unnoticed, as its stained glass windows. He observed the comings and goings of the passers by, then reluctantly went away. He lived with his longing for the girl, a longing so strong that it tyrannized him and threw him into a state of semi-idiocy.
Emile was a completely changed man during this period. He would start at the women in the street, turn round as they passed, shake his head, and at nights, when Irma came home with a man, he strained his ears to listen.
He forgot what she was to him, tried to surprise her sighs, her whispered words, took a bitter delight in them. He imagined her giving herself for money—just like Denyse—and suffered, but his suffering was full of obscure delights. His passions asleep for so long, left him no peace, and drove him to follow the little girls of the Quarter whom he terrified or old women who might perhaps listen to him. But he dared not speak to any of them. At the last moment his courage would fail, and he would go away, tormented by desire, realizing at last that all these creatures were odious to him and could not replace Denyse. What a fool he was! There was only one Denyse in the world, he knew it, only one, but he knew also that he would never visit her because she would jeer at him.
***
However, one evening, the wish to see this woman became so imperious that after having wandered for a long while in the neighborhood of No. 162, he made up his mind to go in.
In the empty room, the women were sitting in little groups, playing cards, sewing, embroidering. Two of them were knitting, they sat opposite to each other near the radiator, and their legs were crossed under the dressing gowns which were tightly shut because they felt cold.
Thepatron, to Emile's relief, was not there. Behind the green plants sat an enormous woman who at once rang for the waiter.
“Ah tiens! it's you!” said Denyse. “Are you by yourself?”
“Yes—quite by myself,” replied Emile, “absolutely. What will you have?”
“A little cherry,” said she, “so as to change.”
“At this time?”
“I, you know, time doesn't matter to me,” said Denyse.
She sat near him on the bench.
“Well?” she questioned.
Emile seemed to be dreaming. He looked at Denyse, smiled, took her hand.
“It's funny,” he began. “It's so much better when there is no music.”
“You think so?”
“Don't you?” he corrected himself, fearing that he had offended her. “It's better and it's not so good.... It's different.”
“Naturally,” observed Denyse, “one can't live the life of Saturday every day, no one would like that....”
The waiter, bearer of the cherry brandy, advanced.
“And Monsieur,” he enquired, “what will Monsieur take?”
“Nothing, thank you.”
“Well pay,” said Denyse, and give me the money for the room. Then we can go upstairs at once.”
She emptied her glass of liqueur at one draught, helped Emile to get up, then preceding him towards the staircase which led to the first floor: “Madame!” she called giving the money.
The room was small and airless, with an iron bed against the wall and a basin laid upon a slop-pail. But Emile thought it pretty. Thrust into the frame of the looking-glass were photographs of soldiers, postcards representing doves holding in their beaks a letter on which one read the words: “Tender message.” Em
ile stopped to look at the postcards. There were views of Grenoble at Montargis. He declared: “I know Montargis.”
Then he approached Denyse shyly and took her in his arms.
“Wait,” she said, pushing him aside, “take off your coat. It's wet and it makes me cold.... You don't mind?”
“Certainly,” said Emile.
“But,” Denyse went on with a mischievous pout, “You're going to give me my little present, aren't you? quite nicely...”
She helped herself out of Emile's purse to two ten franc notes and one of five, slipped them into her stockings, then as he was devouring her with his eyes: “Don't look like that,” she jeered, “and come on.... What? Aren't you ready yet.”
***
That moment spent with Denyse left him with so painful an impression that he went away staggering, his head empty, his heart heavy, full of self reproach. He walked blindly seeking the shadow, and without any clear notion of where he was going. In the streets were passers by, taxis, heavy delivery carts clattering past empty, and hundreds of lights which lit up the houses.
Emile saw nothing, heard nothing. He felt disgusted, he tried to fly from himself, and when, after having wandered about the streets for nearly three hours he found himself in front of the house where he lived. He seemed stupefied.
On the threshold, Belle-Amour and the ladies called Nenette, la Marquise and Trou de Vrille (Gimlet hole) stood jabbering. They drew aside to let him pass and Emile heard la Marquise laugh. He did not answer and went upstairs.
“Is that you?” called Irma.
Emile said nothing and went into his room. Yes, it was he. Couldn't she see that? What could it matter to her? It was not one's business. But Irma insisted. She rapped at Emile's door.
“Well,” said Emile. “I didn't call you.... Has anything happened?”
“No,” replied Irma from behind the door. “But I'm not used to your coming home so late. I was anxious.”
“I'll come home when I like,” he grunted.
“Well, all right.”
She asked him, as she was going out: “At any rate nothing has happened to you?”
Emile was silent.
“Well,” said Irma going. “That's all right. I thought that Bebert had met you and that it was he who had kept you out. Go to bed and sleep now.”
“Sleep,” grumbled Emile, seated fully dressed on his bed. “Sleep. If I want to. She's not going to order me about now? That would crown everything....Ou-la-la! But Bebert? What does she mean? Keep me out?”
“Ah yes,” he decided finally.... “There!... Bebert must have been hanging about to bother me again. He was looking out for me.”
This idea amused him at first, because he had escaped Bebert, then saddened him. He felt himself alone in the world, piteous, defenseless before this man who wished him evil and would not be pacified. Not a man but a brute, a blackguard.
What pleasure did he find in pursuing Emile continually with his hatred? Emile knew that he was not strong enough to struggle and understood that it was precisely because of this that Bebert persisted. Had Emile been able to defend himself, Bebert would have let him alone. This was certain. He would have behaved cautiously as he had done with Monsieur Paul the other night, even if he had made a scene when it was all over.
“Naturally,” thought Emile. “With Monsieur Paul he kept himself quiet, whereas with me...”
He suddenly remembered Denyse, the empty room at No. 162, the women sewing and playing cards. One of them who had been sitting at a little table using a small metal apparatus to make cigarettes appeared before him very distinctly, and he remembered having looked at her whilst Denyse was talking. He felt still more lonely and wretched. He searched for a comforting thought and found none. His sister had openly supported Bebert ever since the scene at the Tango bar. As for Denyse. Emile hesitated. She had behaved as if he were some ordinary client, without eagerness, without pleasure. What had he imagined? He loathed admitting his own artlessness which humiliated and irritated him.
“Yes,” he groaned, “It serves me right.... So much the worse for me.”
But his thoughts came back to Denyse and he gloated over their meeting in spite of the painful remembrance he had of it. She was the only human being he had to think about and he connected everything with her. However much the woman had disappointed him, she was his consolation. He had nothing to oppose to his memory of her. It was heart rending and ridiculous. He felt it, he tried to convince himself of it, perhaps so that he should not suffer. Still even in his self-disgust, he could find no one nearer to him, no one to be compared to her....
What was Denyse doing at that moment? Emile knew only too well. He pictured her going from one man to the other, offering herself, sitting down and drinking. He was not jealous of all the men who went up to her room with her, he found it natural. He was not offended by it. Not in the least. Why offended? Emile found no reason for being offended, but when he was in bed he took his head in his hands and alone with himself at last he said in a low voice:
“Dirt! Whore... oh yes... go on... you bitch! Dirty bitch! Dirty whore...”
And he began to sob.
XII
He was awakened towards three o'clock in the morning by a knocking on the wall and a voice saying: “I want him to wake up,nom de Dieu! and he'll wake up, I want to talk to him.”
Emile rubbed his eyes.
“Will you wake up?” continued the voice... “Ah pig! He's pretending to be asleep.... Wait a bit, my son! Emile!”
“Well!” said Emile.
He realized that it was Bebert and asked: “What's the matter?”
Bebert shouted louder: “I'm sick of you, d'you understand?” And he struck the wall with his fist, repeating “sick” in so venomous a fashion that Emile frightened was silent.
Bebert then burst into loud laughter. “Listen,” he proposed, and began to sing:
“Joyeux! fais ton fourbi
Pas vu. Pas pris.
Mais pris, rousti,
Batd'Af.
Ca sent la merd' dans les roses.”
“He must be drunk,” thought Emile.
Bebert continued: “You were right to keep out of the way this evening, because if I'd seen you I would have settled you. Ugly face! Ah there. But we'll meet some other day and then I'll kill you. I warn you. I'll do you in.”
“Why?” said Emile, overwhelmed.
“Ah, he asks why,” exclaimed Bebert sneering. “For no reason, dirt. Because I want to.”
He continued his song, knocked again on the wall and suddenly feeling very happy announced: “I'll kill you with my knife, Monsieur! Take that!Pan! And the red stuff will run—I'll have...”
As an accompaniment to his works, Bebert had pulled his knife out of his pocket, opened it and thrown it furiously against the partition. The plaster crumbled. Then bending down he picked up the knife, which had fallen on the floor, and began his astonishing demonstration all over again.
“Come to bed now,” said Irma.
“Oh that's enough,” replied Bebert harshly. “I'm not a man to be ordered about.”
“But I'm not ordering you about.”
“You'd better not.”
After a short interval La Rouque went on: “You needn't wake everybody up. If you think it's agreeable for the neighbors.... Tomorrow theconcierge will come and jaw.”
“I don't care a—,” said Bebert.
“Oh, you don't care! You don't care!”
“Not a— And then?” he grunted. “Do you want to have a row?”
Stupefied Emile glued his ear to the wall. The voices of Irma and Bebert reached him more distinctly. They resounded oddly.
“Ah, you want to have a row,” shouted Bebert.
“Keep quiet.”
“No.”
“There, Bebert,” said the Red One quietly. “What you are doing is senseless. You've spoilt the wall-paper, with your knife. Be reasonable.”
“I won't—”
�
�But why.... What's the matter?”
He began to whistle.
“Go on, tell me,” insisted Irma gently, “you don't want to? Tell me once and for all, and stop...”
“There!” answered Bebert, “there's what's the matter.”
The slap he gave Irma resounded distinctly, then other duller noises which were certainly blows.
“Oh! stop... stop... that's enough!” begged La Rouque. “To beat me... after all I've been to him... you've no heart, Bebert.”
“You,” he declared, “you get on my nerves.”
“You must bemaid”
There was a silence, then Bebert's voice again: “I forbid you to cry,” he said coldly, “don't cry, d'you understand. Or I'll begin all over again.”
“Oh no... don't treat me like this, Bebert,” moaned the girl. “Don't be unkind to me.... After all, what have I done? I've never gone against you in anything! Yet you're always...”
“Shut your mouth!”
Emile was most upset. It was a long time since he had heard Irma cry, and in spite of himself he was filled with pleasure and excitement. The more she cried, the louder Bebert shouted at her to keep quiet. Was it possible? Emile did not analyze the pleasure he felt, but he told himself that now he was not the only one to be ill treated by Bebert. La Rouque suffered as well. She was learning in her turn that this was an abject individual, hard-hearted, insensible. At last she would see through him. Emile was beside himself with joy, overwhelmed with an extraordinary happiness. He felt intoxicated. He trembled. It seemed to him that his heart was beating and throbbing in his throat, stifling him. It was too much all at once, it was too much, and he was on the point of calling out to Irma to be brave and not to yield, when he recovered his self-possession and again became—most fortunately—quieter and more cautious.
“Why should I say anything tonight,” he thought, “I'll speak to her tomorrow... I'll tell her what I think... yes... tomorrow.”
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