The Vatard Sisters

by Joris-karl Huysmans

  To add to her misfortunes, she wasn’t really that debauched and was as astonished as a child when men, talking among themselves, revealed new vistas of depravity she’d never even suspected, and what’s more she was also, to use Eugène Tourte’s expression, ‘a bit dippy’, daydreaming next to her man of tender caresses, imagining an ideal lover who’d embrace her as gently as a young girl and offer her a little cake or a flower on her birthday. Well, that certainly wasn’t Eugène, ‘that disgusting man’ as the other women called him, who wouldn’t give her so much as a ribbon or a glass of wine. His face to kiss every few days, his fists to endure every few hours, and that was all. Wanting to when she didn’t feel like it, not wanting to when she did, he’d made her life miserable. Moreover, Eugène was a bastard of the worst kind. A bad apple, rotten to the core and as cantankerous as a coachman, he had no respect for women and spent his evenings chasing after any that crossed his path, abandoning them as soon as he’d detained them long enough that they had to take a break in a maternity hospital bed. All the book bindery women knew him and despised him, and all managed in some way to let themselves be inveigled by him; though the sensible women and the girls who had some spirit never let themselves be seduced more than once, certain of being abandoned by the end of a week if they were pretty, and in a couple of days if they were ugly. Céline lacked experience when she met him. She couldn’t believe, moreover, that a man would leave a girl who’d given herself to him, just like that. She believed it only on the day Eugène disappeared from the quarter and went off to knock back cognac and make love to the widow of the coalman.

  Céline became depressed. She seriously thought of throwing herself into the Seine, but then she reflected that she’d already suffered at the hands of this monster of a man, so it was pointless to suffer even more by giving herself up to a watery grave. With a heavy heart and tears in her eyes, she whined on and on, until, dining at a friend’s house, she got such a bad case of indigestion that, unable to stop the cancan in her stomach, it was accompanied by the music of her hiccups and belches. Feeling bad enough as it was, after a week with neither appetite for food nor desire for drink, she was terribly sick, her sunken chest throwing up everything she swallowed. When her stomach had finished its frolics and all was back in order, the pleasure of being able to eat her fill of the grub she was mad about, such as pigs’ trotters, celery salad, and boiled beef and mustard, helped make life sweeter, and the only thing she retained from this first bout of unhappiness was a certain listlessness which disappeared at the breath of the first kiss she received on the mouth.

  Nevertheless, she vowed to be prudent. Her break with Eugène hadn’t been achieved without a prolonged caress of his fists, and for five days afterwards her shoulders had been marbled with blue bruises, like the skin of a turkey mottled with azure spots, but even so, she was defenceless against the passions that her first lover had aroused in her; Michon had his way with her and left her; his successors made her dance to their tune, she became the partner first of one, then another; the habit took hold, she’d have stripped, alone, before a broom.

  After all, what else could she have done? She was like the majority of women. She had a lover? It was a bore! It was a trial! She didn’t have one? It was a tragedy! It was a disaster! It wasn’t any kind of life to be young and attractive and not have anyone interested in your fine looks or be the apple of your eye. She was torn between not wanting to serve as a sex object to the first man who came along, and the joy of being desired by someone when night fell.

  Previously, when she returned to her room, feet aching, her groin throbbing beneath her skin, she undressed as quickly as possible, buried herself under the covers, and, loins sore, sweating, a burning pain in her belly, she would dream about her lover and their rendezvous for the next night. Now she came home early, dragged herself from one chair to another, sat looking heartbroken in front of her soup, chewed on bits of thread, spat them out or twisted them between her fingers; she’d press her nose against the windowpane, yawn loudly and return to her place; then she’d go downstairs to the newsagent and buy two sous’ worth of love and murder, she’d doze and get cramps in her calves, and then, finally deciding to go to bed, she’d slowly undo her hair, scratching her head distractedly, collapsing, dull and dejected, onto her unmade bed. After a while she began to look a mess, like a lot of working-class girls who only bother about their personal hygiene when they’ve got a man. An immense indolence gripped her, and, nerves exasperated, she ruminated at great length, recalling her former pleasures, listening under the shifting bedcovers to the hours slowly striking. Oh, it was so boring living like this! And her carnal torments left her drained; she had sudden hot flushes in her hands and her temples, sometimes her eyes blurred when, at the workshop, she overheard words that evoked his image being exchanged by other women, then, as a result of this period of sexual abstinence, she began to get splitting headaches; she tried opium patches on her forehead and quinine drops, but in vain, nothing succeeded in soothing her.

  It was at this moment that she met Gabriel Michon, who proffered her his toothless, loutish face and got her to kiss him without repugnance. Then she resumed her former gaiety, returning home at midnight or not coming home at all, tarting herself up in the morning as soon as she jumped out of bed, placing a violet or a rose in her hairnet and covering her shoulders with a gaudy, bright red shawl. Désirée would laugh to see her pomading herself with such care and scrubbing out her ears with soap. But one day, even she was quite impressed. Céline had bought a small flask with a flower painted on the neck at some boutique on the Rue Bonaparte. It smelled of bitter mignonette. Céline liberally doused her hair and cheeks with it, and this luxury fragrance had caused a revolution in the workshop. All the women wanted to have some, and one of the bookbinders, whose brother was a salesman in that line of business, came to work the next day with a crate of little flasks which he sold for five, ten, and fifteen sous apiece. Little work was done that day. The women were amazed at smelling so good and, handkerchiefs under their noses, they swooned with delight, showing themselves off, thinking themselves irresistible, calling one another ‘Mademoiselle’ and ‘Madame’, as if a drop of musk and amber could transform their sluttified looks!

  And yet, in truth, there was no need for these scrag-ends of mutton in the workshop to season themselves with a sauce ravigote. The men had anything but delicate tastes. They didn’t turn their noses up at spicy foods, at spring onions and garlic. After a few glasses of wine, some cognac and a pipe they stank of abattoirs and drains.

  Désirée didn’t find this very appetising. Certainly, she wouldn’t have wanted a gentleman with a black top-hat and a perfumed beard, a man so clean he blew soap-bubbles when he spoke, that would have embarrassed her; she liked to have a laugh with workmen like her father, decent men, whose sweat didn’t smell of lard and fat; she wanted a husband who didn’t have stains on his shirt, who washed his feet every week, a man who didn’t go boozing and who’d let her finally realise her dream: to have a bedroom with floral wallpaper, a bed and a table of walnut wood, white curtains on the windows, a pincushion made of shells, a cup on the dresser with her initials in gilt, and, hanging on the wall, a nice picture of a little cupid knocking on a door. She even daydreamed about this engraving, which she’d seen in a bric-à-brac shop, and she imagined how comfortable and cheerful the room would be with this picture leaning against the mantelpiece, reflecting in its framed glass the back of an alarm clock and two zinc candleholders around which she’d wrap pink paper sconces.

  She’d never wanted anything more than this. To live in peace, to be able to put aside ten francs a year in order to afford a dog, and to own, in addition to her bedroom, a small pantry in which, behind a green serge curtain, she could put her water jug and her coal, that was the extent of her soul’s desires!

  If he’d had any fears about her in the past, Vatard could sleep peacefully now. His younger daughter wouldn’t lose her head or let herself go in a
moment of weakness. Moreover, her sister had done her an inestimable service by not trying to stop her from going astray. Free to indulge herself as much as she wanted, she had no desire to do so, she was holding onto the ‘flower of her maidenhead’, determined not to let it be taken from her without good reason. And what’s more, there was the example of Céline before her, and the trenchant words of the girl who’d thought of throwing herself in the river still rang in her ears. She’d also witnessed her sister’s numerous and casual infatuations, she’d seen her treated with contempt by Eugène, and she herself, having once dared to call him a scoundrel, had received such a resounding slap that her cheek had retained the imprint of his hand for a whole day. This method of ending a discussion hadn’t been to her taste, and if the example of her sister wasn’t appealing, that of the other women at the bindery was even less so. Truly, there’s a lot to dislike about men once one has worked in a workshop with them. And it wasn’t just one, it wasn’t just two…they were all like that, all, even old Chaudrut, an ancient workman, a venerable dotard, clean-shaven with a sanctimonious eye and a shuffling gait. Despite his austere countenance, his afflicting deafness, and his goodnatured air, Chaudrut was nothing more nor less than a dirty old man. A villain and a drunkard, he was an old crony whose filthy instincts had increased with age, he was a crock full of vices that would spill out from time to time over young bits of skirt, spattering them from waistband to hem. Riddled with debts, openly hounded by his creditors, this deaf old man, the bane of landlords who ruined themselves letting him run up huge tabs, would flutter around in his wire-rimmed glasses, cooing and strutting about, pawing at the women and acting the fool, and despite his thinning hair he still found young girls who’d try to rekindle the burned-out embers of his lips with the red-hot fire of their own.

  His mistress was a friend of Céline and Désirée, a woman separated from her husband, a fine lass, decent in her own way, who wasn’t so much contemptible as simply a glutton. Chaudrut adored rabbit cooked in wine, and he’d seduced her with these feasts of pallid flesh. Now that he had her in his thrall, he only expended the little strength that remained to him in doling out careful beatings. Looking at love in this way had given Désirée more and more pause for thought. Could she ever be happy with lovers like that? It went without saying that you could be unlucky in your marriage, but after all her father and mother had lived happily enough, and other couples she knew didn’t knock each other about, or only rarely, and then it was because they’d been together for twenty years and it’s normal to get impatient with each other after living together so long. Her mind was made up: she’d wait until she’d found a lover to her liking, a handsome young man who would love her, a tall fair-haired lad, if possible, with long eyelashes and a fine moustache. Sometimes even, while working, she would daydream, eyes staring into the distance, about her future, she imagined seeing him after having been married to him for a month: in the mornings she would get up after having gently kissed him on the eyes, she’d tie his tie for him and pull his shirt down at the back to prevent it riding up at the neck, and then she herself, after having tidied her little household and put the leftover stew from the night before in a small bowl in her lunch-basket so that she could reheat it in the workshop over her little spirit lamp, would leave too, a little early, in order to be able to stroll past the haberdashers and give herself the pleasure of coveting a beautiful little necklace for fifteen sous that she would buy the following Saturday after she’d been paid.

  For after all, she was a fine lady and would only consider marrying if it left her well-off enough to spend at least ten francs a month on clothes and make-up, and as she was stitching pages together she would add up figures, calculating her husband’s salary and her own, smiling at the idea that, when they saw her come in with a new hairnet edged with red trim, the other women at Débonnaire & Co. would exclaim: ‘Lord, you’re chic, you are!’

  The main thing was to find a man who could fulfill these conditions. Certainly, since she’d reached the age of puberty, and even before, there’d been no lack of would-be lovers. She had an alluring, cute little face, with that mischievous demeanour so appealing in young women, but she hadn’t been satisfied with any of her suitors, fine lotharios who would come round to pay her a visit after a few drinks, and who still had winey stalactites dripping off their moustaches as they strutted about and grinned inanely.

  ‘You’re too ambitious, it’ll end in tears,’ her sister would say to her, and Désirée, who was gazing at herself in a mirror, complacently admiring her dainty pinkness, would shake her head and flick her hair to give it more body.

  ‘Well, why not?’ she’d reply, ‘I’m probably no worse looking than anyone else, I’ve a right to be ambitious.’

  She was supported in this opinion by her father, who didn’t want her to get married. It was mostly she who did the housework, so he’d gaze at her with an air of tenderness, murmuring: ‘My little girl’s as good as gold, I’d never force her to marry a man she doesn’t like. I’m not a hard-hearted father…’ and, as if he believed or wanted her to believe that parents had the power to force their offspring to marry against their will, he took advantage of this fatherly broadmindedness in order to obtain everything he wanted from Désirée.

  Wasn’t she, after all, his favourite? Certainly he loved his other daughter, and very much so, but it wasn’t the same thing. No doubt Céline was a good girl, was sometimes more affectionate even – when she’d found a man – than her younger sister, but she had an unstable character that was really insufferable. The whole house had to submit to the restlessness of her passions, the furious rages of her breakups. On days when she was jilted by a lover, all hell broke loose; she raked the stove with such force that the whole house shook. These alternations of good humour and anger distressed her father. As for her mother, she remained indifferent, eyes staring in astonishment at her grumbling belly, incapable of putting two ideas together or lifting a finger.

  IV

  The round wall clock struck six times, made a noise as if it was clearing catarrh from its throat, and then slowly its bell sounded six times more.

  Désirée had just swallowed the last turnip of a mutton stew; the building was practically deserted; the bindery workers had gone to get some food and a coffee at one of the bars nearby. Only the more prudent women swallowed their meagre provisions in the workshop. The supervisor was grinding some prune stones between her teeth. Céline was warming up some day-old coffee over a small spirit lamp, and Ma Teston was sucking the bones from a rabbit cooked in apple sauce.

  A young man entered.

  Addressing himself to Désirée, who raised her head, he asked rather shyly: ‘You don’t need any workers here, do you?’

  ‘That’s none of our concern,’ replied the supervisor, ‘speak to the boss, it’s him who does the hiring.’

  The worker twisted his cap between his fingers.

  ‘He’s not here,’ added the supervisor, ‘come back in half an hour, he’ll definitely be back by then.’

  ‘I don’t know that face,’ grunted Chaudrut, who, finding himself penniless, was lunching on a bit of bread and cheese in the workshop. That very morning the boss had refused to advance him the ten sous he’d asked for with fake tears in his eyes. The old rogue moaned, casting an envious eye on his daughter’s little girl, who was pouring herself a glass of wine from a small wicker-covered bottle. ‘Take care, my darling,’ he said, ‘you’ll choke yourself, wait until your mouth is empty before drinking.’ He had become very paternal, hoping to make the child feel sorry for him and offer him some of her piquette.

  The girl making no reply, he got up and, hunched over, shuffling in his slippers, went out bottle in hand to get some water at the fountain, moaning about the pains in his stomach and grumbling about the bloody bad luck he was having.

  ‘You know,’ said Ma Teston to the little girl, ‘if you give any wine to your grandfather, I’ll tell your mother and then you’ll be for it!’
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  Chaudrut returned more miserable and maudlin than ever. He placed the bottle in front of him, stared at it shaking his head and, as if overcoming an invincible disgust, he swallowed a mouthful. The little girl was drinking her wine. He was afraid she’d finish the bottle, and unable to restrain himself any longer he muttered: ‘Now darling, you see your grandfather here, he’s not well; couldn’t you leave him a little drop for his dessert?’

  ‘If that isn’t shameful,’ cried the supervisor, ‘a man of your age trying to hoodwink a child. It’s disgusting.’

  ‘Is it my fault,’ wailed the old man, ‘if I don’t have a sou?’

  ‘Yes, it is your fault,’ exclaimed Ma Teston vehemently. ‘If you weren’t drunk all week long, you’d have enough for something to drink today.’

  ‘Oh, is that so!’ replied Chaudrut who, certain now of not getting anything, became insolent: ‘You’ve got no compassion for anyone else, because you’re too busy lubricating that gullet of yours! Lord have mercy, what a way to rub other people’s noses in it, stuffing yourself like that with a bellyful of rabbit and strong wine. And where, if I may ask, do you put it all ma’am? To get that lot down, you must have intestines like coat sleeves!’