Then Irma rebelled: “What,” she exclaimed, “you! you lowered yourself to do such a thing?”
“Well, why not?”
“Because,” said Irma angry, “you're not much of a man to behave so meanly.”
Bebert was silent.
“No, not much of a man,” the girl continued. “I don't recognize you, it has no name what you did. And what would people say if they knew? Did you think of that?
“Certainly,” she went on, “everybody would blame you.”
“And you the first, isn't that so?” said Bebert, who had jumped out of bed and stood waiting, his hand raised.
“Yes,” said Irma.
The hand came down. Irma did not flinch and received it full in the face.
“Go on,” she provoked him, “hit me again, go on. If you think it will make me change my mind, you are wrong. Well, what's the matter? Don't you feel brave enough to do it?”
She looked Bebert full in the face very close and the better to defy him, began to laugh.
“Look out,” said Bebert.
Irma answered him: “To hurt defenseless people and to hit women, you're strong enough for that, aren't you? It's a habit of yours!”
“Look out,” he repeated, “I won't say it again. If you want a thrashing, I'll give it to you, don't be afraid.”
“That's it,” she said.
But Bebert suddenly turned his back on her and declared, very dignified: “Well, talk away, you get on my nerves! I'm not here to work so hard. Ah good God, no! After the brother, to have to put the sister in her place, thank you very much!”
The Red One lay awake the whole night beside him. She was indignant. She could not understand Bebert, and the questions she asked herself about him harassed her. What sort of a man was this to have so easily made up his mind not to beat her?
She was astonished, lost herself in conjectures, asked herself over and over again the same question. But the more she tried to answer it, the more useless was her effort.
She saw the dawn pierce through the shutters, grow, fill the room with a vague discolored glimmer. She stared at this glimmer on the walls and the ceiling, and it tired her eyes. Then the light became clearer, shone between the thin wooden slats, and Irma listened to hear if Emile was getting up. It was time. The carts which were clattering in the streets ought to have awakened him. La Rouque was worried. She did not dare to go and see what Emile was doing for fear of being surprised by Bebert. She wondered if he was in pain, if he needed her. She was crushed by an immense discouragement.
At her side, Bebert was snoring open mouthed. His breath smelt strongly of rum and tobacco. Asleep he was unpleasant to look upon. He had had his hair cut the day before, and shaved on the temples, and this gave him an unfamiliar expression. A strange face which the girl discovered for the first time. Why had he cut his hair in that stupid fashion, like an American sailor? It was certainly not becoming, and did not beautify him.
But alas! Bebert was the same in everything. It had pleased him and there it was. He did not need any other reason. His only explanation would be that he had wanted to do it. Besides, he did not give explanations.
Irma was reminded of the revolting way in which he had pulled his knife out and attacked Emile. Emile had said or done nothing to justify such an act. On the contrary. But Bebert had wanted to stab Emile several times with his knife and he had done it. It was his idea; he had been planning it for a long time, ever since the evening when he had come home and threatened the poor wretch. No one could have stopped him.
Neither God nor devil. It was no use fighting against his nature, a horrible nature which pushed him to evil. Afterwards he thought no more about what he had done, he had no regrets, no worries even.
“No! none,” said La Rouque to herself. “As for regretting the harm he does, he does not care a bit.”
She sighed, leaned out of bed and looked at a watch she had on a chair near by to see the time. Then she slipped under the bedclothes, and shiveringly pulled them high up round her throat.
The morning clamor came up from the street with its varied and familiar notes, the shutters of the shops clattered, taxis came out of the neighboring garage and passed one after the other. Then a second hand clothes dealer uttering his mournful cry: “Old clothes! Rags!”
Irma listened. She was waiting for Emile to call, so that she might go to him and have at least an excuse if Bebert got angry. But Emile did not move. It was strange. Irma feared that he had lost a great deal of blood during the night and was not able to call out. This idea tormented her.
At last, incapable of standing it any longer, she got up with a thousand precautions and ran to her brother's bedside.
“Emile,” said Irma, as soon as she was in the room.
The girl approached him softly.
“Weren't you asleep?” said she.
He answered: “No, I was waiting for you to come...”
“And how are you?”
“It burns,” he said in a feeble voice, “here in my shoulder and in my side.”
“Don't be restless,” whispered La Rouque, “don't move.... Have you been cold?”
“Yes, cold,” said Emile painfully... “very cold... now still... I've I...”
“Hush,” whispered Irma, “leave it to me... don't talk... you must not... you must be reasonable.”
She arranged the creased bedclothes, raised the pillow.
“Hem?” whispered Emile. “Why did he beat me, it hurts?”
Fever was shaking him. He shivered. His teeth chattered, and as he wanted to explain where he felt pain. “No,” said Irma, “don't talk, there! keep quiet, I'll nurse you, but you must be reasonable. Here look, your cuts are closed already, you will get well quickly.”
“Yes, but I'm so cold... so cold...”
He whispered like a child: “And then somebody must let them know.”
“What?”
“At my office.”
“It's all right,” the Red One assured him gently, “I'll go myself. Certainly one must let them know.”
“Apneumatique,” said Emile, “so that they may send a doctor. You'll go and post it.”
“I'll go presently,” said Irma.
She left him and went to heat some water, then came back with the basin and towels and began to wash him. But Emile thought of nothing but thepneumatique he wished to send, and he was only quieted when he had written it himself with a pencil, and given it to Irma. He was suffering less. La Rouque had washed and bandaged his wounds and given him a drop of black coffee.
Nevertheless the fever persisted, and at about eleven o'clock it got worse so suddenly, that Irma who had got back from the post office was on the point of going out again to call a doctor. Bebert hailed her.
“What is all this,” he asked, “have you been out?”
Irma told him briefly what was the matter and Bebert tore himself out of bed and dressed: “Wait till I have seen him,” he grumbled. “Don't upset yourself yet. A doctor won't know anything about it, and, between you and me, we must be careful. Just imagine the trouble we would have if Emile started explaining things.”
Followed by Irma he went into the room, considered Emile, felt his pulse.
“Yes,” he said, “it's annoying, but don't worry. We'll give him some quinine.”
“I've just bought some on my way to the post office,” Irma informed him.
“What post office?”
“Thepneu,” the girl answered. “He wanted to let them know that he could not come to his work.”
“Well,” said Bebert gruffly.
He scratched his head, and as Emile opened his eyes and recognized him: “Don't be frightened,” he told him, “Irma and I are here to help you. Don't get ideas into your head, at any rate. We are worried enough as it is.”
“Oh! Oh!”
“Of course,” continued Bebert, “your scratches itch a bit. But don't worry and don't move. What! You want to say something?”
“Monsie
ur Bebert.” stammered Emile, “I don't...”
He suddenly moved sharply, and drawing back under the bedclothes, uttered a strident cry.
“Well, there,” reproached Bebert, “I'm not touching you, I am not doing anything to you...”
“The... knife!” moaned Emile. “Oh no, I don't want... do... go away.”
“Yes,” said Irma, drawing Bebert aside, “go away. He thinks that we are going to hurt him again and he doesn't know what he's doing. Don't insist. What's the use?”
“On account of the doctor,” replied Bebert seriously. “I want him to understand...”
“He's too tired.”
“Listen,” he ordered, “you must make him learn his lesson. Tell him that if he is questioned, he must say that he's been attacked in the street and he doesn't know by whom. Otherwise, you, as well as I, will get into trouble. Do you understand?”
“But the doctor won't ask him anything.”
“He might,” said Bebert. “We might just happen to strike a silly fool.”
“Well, I'll speak to him,” declared La Rouque. “I'll explain that Emile was stabbed in the street by a fellow.... Go, you can go without worrying, I'll arrange everything. Go. It's all right, and though you behaved in a way there is no word for, rely on me. I promise you that you can. I'll see it through.”
XV
The doctor sent by Emile's employer arrived at nightfall, and Irma began such long and confused explanations that he showed no desire whatever to ask questions. He contented himself with stating that Emile would not be able to go to his work for a fortnight, wrote out a prescription, and left his address.
Bebert who was listening at the door, felt much relieved. “You see,” he announced joyfully to La Rouque, “wasn't I right to say that it would be nothing?”
“I like that better,” she replied.
“I should think so! And what about me! Only,” he declared, “when I say a thing, you've got to believe me. I don't like complications. And as for using a knife without spoiling the person I use it on, I'm a good hand at it, better than any one... you bet!”
The life of everyday began again. Bebert joined Bouboule at the Tango bar, Irma her clients of the boulevard, and Emile, little by little, recovered, and could soon get up and walk.
On Irma's advice, he forgave Bebert and Bebert in return swore on oath to leave him alone. Peace seemed to be made between them, a lasting peace, when Emile, who avoided ever mentioning what had happened, noticed that the women downstairs talked about him when he came home, and stared at him in a peculiar way. He thought this most disagreeable. Why should these women interfere with him? Emile was surprised and uneasy, and he, who usually pretended not to notice them, observed them out of the corner of his eye, and tried to hear what they were saying.
Trou-de-Vrille and Nenette were the most talkative. “Look at him,” whispered one. “Yes,” said the other, “in his place I would have gone to the police—and quickly.”
The first went on: “A b—like that? He is too much of a coward.”
Sometimes when they saw him looking at them, they would take advantage of it to talk very loud and exchange offensive remarks about Emile's person, his courage, his morals.
“Just imagine,” Trou-de-Vrille declared one morning as Emile approached, “it seems that La Rouque gives him money.”
“Gives who money?” asked Nenette, pretending not to understand.
“The gentleman in the pen and ink business.”
“She must be in love with him.”
“Of course,” went on Trou-de-Vrille, “everyone to her taste... only if her man hears of it, there'll be another row, I give you my word.”
“Well, said Nenette, “the b—will shout murder again, but when it's all over, he'll keep his mouth shut, don't you think so?”
Emile had pretended to go upstairs, but he came back to hide in the passage and listen to the two women. They saw him and began to laugh.
“Who are you talking about?” he asked them dryly.
“He! girls. Come along all of you, make haste. Here's somebody wants to talk to us.”
“I want to talk to you two,” said Emile pointing at Nenette and Trou-de-Vrille, “because...”
“Hou! Hou!”
“Because...”
“Spit it out,” said Nenette, seizing his arm and pulling him outside. Emile pushed her away.
“Look here,” she retorted, “can't you behave better than that?”
“He's trying to quarrel with us,” asserted Trou-de-Vrille. “We weren't interfering with him. He began by calling us names, and now he wants to hit Nenette.”
Emile, standing in the midst of the women, tried to answer them, but they drowned his voice with their shouts and their laughter, and some of them pushed him from the back, pinched him, jostled him.
“Now then,” he stuttered, “are you going to let me get upstairs?” Trou-de-Vrille came close up to him. She sent Emile's hat rolling on the ground with the point of her umbrella and declared: “Talking to women with your hat on, I've never heard of such a thing.... Ah! there, now you're correct, you're a little gentleman,hein?”
“What do you want?”
“I warn you,” said Emile, “that if you don't stop, I'll go...”
“Where will you go?” they exclaimed in chorus, amused by Emile's gestures, his furious air, his shrill voice.... “To the station? To the end of the quay? Tell us.”
“I'll call the police,” cried Emile, “you can be sure of it... yes, the police...”
Insults and a peal of laughter greeted these words. But Nenette called for silence, obtained it, came forward and said: “Do you want to tell them why you were shouting for help the other night? Is that it?”
“Hold your tongue, I forbid you...” said Emile, trying to stop her. Trou-de-Vrille put her hand on his shoulder. “Why, little one,” she said, “if you are coward enough to accept being half murdered without saying anything about it, then don't boast. We know what we know, and if you don't want to be worried, don't amuse yourself with talk about the police or else... “—she made a rascally gesture. “We'll give you away,” achieved Nenette. Suddenly they all drew aside, and one of them picking up Emile's hat which was covered with mud, handed it to him. He took it mechanically, wiped it with his sleeve, said, “Thank you,” then as a crowd was gathering, he turned on his heel and went away.
What an adventure! Emile did not dare tell Irma, for he feared that she would at once inform Bebert, but his secret was a burden to him, so heavy a burden that La Rouque noticed his gloom.
“You are worried about something?” she questioned. “What is it? Is it my fault?”
“No.”
“Is it Bebert's fault?”
“No, it's nothing to do with Bebert,” answered Emile. He was on the point of telling her everything, but stopped himself, grimaced a smile, and withdrew.
“He'll never change,” said Irma to herself. “He's never satisfied, he never wants to talk...”
Then she thought no more about it.
Now Bebert had also noticed that Emile was again avoiding him and he was puzzled. He had not done anything to account for this change of mood.
It was inexplicable. He searched his memory, asked himself why Emile should behave in such a way, and, as it was not in his nature to rack his brain for long, he said to La Rouque:
“You know, there is something the matter with the Emile.”
“Yes,” said she, “I talked to him and could get nothing out of him.”
“Well,” concluded Bebert, “when it's your nature to bother other people and yourself, you can be killed and it does not change you.”
Bebert was not wrong. Emile was really very depressed, and he had not the courage to explain matters. He dreaded being accused of making tittle-tattle in the house and this obliged him to be silent. He suffered, reproached himself with lack of self-confidence. Day followed day and misunderstandings accumulated.
Neither Bebert nor La Rouqu
e really cared very much. Their opinion about Emile was already formed, and they did not change it, but Emile who feared everything, was continually expecting complications and did not know how to escape them.
“Well,” he promised himself, “one day I'll tell them, I'll tell them what the women said.”
But then it would be too late, and Emile knew it. Nobody would believe him. The facts would turn against him and condemn him. Why not speak frankly to Irma? Emile would sometimes reluctantly decide to do so. He swore to himself not to hesitate any longer, he prepared his phrases, then the women who every evening awaited him in the street with mocking smiles would take away his courage and he said nothing.
The poor wretch imagined that if he kept silence, a tacit agreement might be established between his tormentors and himself. This reassured him and gave him some hope. At times he persuaded himself that Nenette, for instance, who had threatened “to give him away” was grateful because he never answered her gibes otherwise than by looking at her with a meek and submissive expression. He was ready to give in about everything, as long as she did not spread her story about, and his cowardice was so evident that it nearly defeated its object.
In fact, as soon as Emile showed himself, Trou-de-Vrille would whistle shrilly through her teeth and beckon to the others. They would then all look around, ceasing to hail the passers-by, and following Emile with their eyes would confide their impressions to each other; “It's well trained that, Madame,” observed one, “Bravo Nenette.”
Trou-de-Vrille added: “And how polite, how well behaved.”
“Yes,” said Nenette, “he annoys me with it. My word! Is he cowardly to that point? I wouldn't have believed it.” Emile did not flinch, he advanced as quickly as he could under the jests they flung at him, his head bent, ashamed.
Now amongst all the women, whom he ended by recognizing because they were invariably, every evening, in the same spot, he was astonished never to see Belle-Amour. Why was she not there? Emile made the remark several times. Yet formerly, when he came back from his office, he remembered that she had always been standing against the wall, motionless, waiting in the same place, in the same constrained attitude which contrasted so strongly with that of the other women. What had become of her? Emile repeatedly regretted her absence, and told himself with bitterness, that as his only ally was no longer there to defend him, he was not yet at the end of his troubles and must resign himself to them.
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