The flawless forms of so-called ‘paintings of the nude’, with their models lying sinuously on a sofa, or standing with one leg slightly bent, skin smooth, creamy, bulging at the front with round breasts tipped in pink, exasperated him. The ancients had succeeded in this better than anyone else ever would. But their footsteps were too well-trodden now, it was necessary to create new ones. As for him, he’d drawn women of flesh-and-blood, haggard like most of those who have had children or over-indulged in drink or sex; he’d depicted them with breasts sagging, eyes gleaming, mouth watering. But he didn’t care much for nudity, preferring the beautifully wicked posturing of Parisian working girls, devoting himself above all to painting these play-actresses of love in the places where they thronged: at the music hall of an evening, yawning in front of a beer; sitting at a café table on the look-out; in the streets on the game; laughing their heads off over some piece of nonsense; acting dozy so as not to scare away a shy client, or generous and affectionate in order to get more out of them; insulting one another and yelling, heads thrown back, out of jealousy or drunkenness.
The Salon jury was quick to refuse his canvases every year and the public ratified this judgement by not buying them. This didn’t bother him much, he went on squandering the three hundred francs he received as an allowance each month, wandering through the more out-of-the-way quarters of the city in pursuit of women with swaying, come-hither hips.
But he would have needed what he peevishly called ‘a nice, round sum’, in order to visit the higher class whores and paint them just as they were, in their silk-ceilinged boudoirs and in battle dresses that glazed their vulgarity with a veneer of charm. He’d never been able to realise this dream. Lacking the money, he’d been forced to paint only the leftovers of the meal, vice at knock-down prices.
The field was still broad, and he was cultivating it bit by bit. Then, the day after he’d taken possession of Céline, he had a stroke of luck: he discovered that when she was tired out and dozing on the sofa, she looked like a high class tart in a swoon. She became extraordinarily alluring, with her straw hair cascading over the cushion, her rump twisted, one leg up in the air, the other hanging down over the base of the sofa. So the next day he decided to put one of his projects into execution. He strolled through the Temple with its boutiques of secondhand clothes, and he bought a job lot of silk stockings. He returned home, very excited, and examined his purchases in the light. They were of all colours and all shades, some plain, some embroidered, and if they’d been new, some of these stockings would have been worth twenty to thirty francs a pair, others between thirty-five and sixty francs. Fifty centimes to have them cleaned at the laundry and he’d be all set. At that moment Céline arrived and began to squeal at the sight of this pile of merchandise. Cyprien was holding them out, turning them over, making their colours gleam in the flickering candlelight: dark indigos embroidered with blood-red, turquoises with grey stripes, crimson and yellow checks, corn-yellows, mauves, and blacks spotted with white; but there were two pairs that especially delighted him: one, of a superb lemon-yellow, the other of a burnt orange colour, perforated like lace at the ankle in order to let the whiteness of the wearer’s flesh show discreetly through.
Céline wanted to put them on straightaway. Cyprien had all the trouble in the world making her understand that they were dirty, that it was necessary to wait at least until they’d been washed; but then he himself couldn’t resist the pleasure of seeing their effect on her skin, so he helped her pull on the orange pair, which went up to the middle of her thighs. Céline was ecstatic. ‘Give me a pair,’ she cajoled. So with the dexterity of a magician who forces you to take one particular card from the deck, he made her choose a pair of pale blue ones with pearl grey stripes, which he’d found two of.
Two days later, Céline began to fall in love with Cyprien; as for him, he still didn’t feel any of those anxious pangs in the stomach when, the hour of their rendezvous having struck, she hadn’t turned up.
X
‘By heaven, I’ll say! Oh yes, my gals, I’m glad to be back. To put my feet in my slippers, to rediscover old pipes I haven’t smoked for so long, that’s what I call a joy. Down with their vinegary beer, eh, and long live wine! D’you know, I think I’m going to have another glass.’
And, all the while savouring this thirteen-sous-a-litre nectar, Vatard responded to his daughters’ questions: ‘Was Amiens fun? As a spell in the army! It’s like everywhere else, a few streets, a fortress, a big church with funny-looking statues, a stream full of dirty water, a few trees…they’ve got black clay pipes and new-fangled copper lighters to light them, gin so fiery you could make matchheads from it, and beer so bitter it was a tough job swallowing it, it was like being in an army camp, girls, a proper army camp. And on top of it all, your aunt wasn’t as ill as she was making out; a right old grouch, she wouldn’t get off my back, saying to me every time I turned around: “Oh come on, Vatard, you’re not going out again?” Ah! I can truly say I went through purgatory in that blasted city. I’m no more patriotic than the next man, and it’s not because I was born in Montrouge, but d’you know, it would take more than Amiens to beat all that…’ and he pointed his finger through the open window at the horizon of chimneys, roofs, and telegraph poles.
‘You putting on your titfer? Ah, yes, it’s that time…I’m not with it any more. Really, I’m shattered, I bought a second-class ticket to go down there as I was counting on bringing back some money. My eye! nothing, not a farthing! I had to come back third-class…and at night. Good God, there weren’t any headrests, my back’s in a right state. Oh well, since you’re leaving for the workshop, I’ll go and see Tabuche for a bit, I want to know if his abscess has come back and drink a glass to his health. So I’ll see you this evening; try not to get home too late, then we’ll have time for some fried brains in wine sauce; that’ll make up for those poncey little chops with their paper frills I had to eat at your aunt’s. Are you ready? You’re not forgetting anything? No? I’m closing the door.’ And he left his daughters at the bottom of the stairwell, puffing on his pipe, twirling his cane, stopping to chat with shopkeepers, who took great pleasure in listening to an account of his trip.
When the two sisters arrived at the workshop all the women were gathered around a little girl of four or five, a fair-haired kid, skinny and pale. That morning a woman had come and asked the supervisor if she could take the child on as an apprentice. The astonished supervisor had replied that a girl that young was incapable of doing any kind of work whatever. Then the woman had started to cry, saying that she was in dire straits, that her husband was dead, that in order to make a living she was forced to sell apples and medlars in the street, that the child wasn’t old enough to be left alone in the house but she’d never consent to sending her to a crêche or leaving her with babysitters; and with trembling hands she wiped her eyes and cheeks, and in a voice choked with sobs begged that they look after her little girl for her.
The child, seeing so many people around her, turned away and pouted, huge tears in her eyes; the supervisor, moved to pity, took her in her arms, put her on her knees, and, bouncing her up and down, began to sing: ‘Horsey, horsey, when you trot, you make a noise like prrrt, prrrt, prrrt!’ The little girl clapped her hands and shouted: ‘Again!’ And when the supervisor, out of breath, put her back down, she tugged at her cape, begging her to do horsey some more. The mother, with a wild look on her face, rushed over to her daughter, and hugged her and kissed her madly. The little girl began to cry again, so fat Eugénie started to dance around with her, and kissing her tiny hands she said, ‘With poor little hands like that, she won’t be able to work. Really, one wouldn’t dream of it, it would be a crime!’
Everyone nodded their heads in agreement. Finally, the supervisor, after having consulted the boss, who never opposed her on anything, told the mother that it was all right, that they would take care of the child, that she could bring her every morning and come and collect her in the evening. The poor w
oman murmured, ‘Pauline, say thank you to the ladies.’ But Pauline had taken fright and was hiding her head in her mother’s skirts. Then, while one of the women was placating her with a lump of sugar, the mother discreetly left, head bowed, stammering thank yous and gulping back her tears.
After ten minutes the little girl, who’d started to cry again, shouting ‘I want to see my mummy’, was wriggling around and laughing out loud. They had sat her on a table and everyone was giving her their leftovers from lunch, and she was greedily holding out her hands, babbling, ‘Yum yums, for Pauline?’ Her joy was complete when Désirée made her a doll from scraps of yellow paper, and she was soon fast friends with Puss-puss, who scratched like the very devil when it came to adults, but who retracted his claws and let himself be petted by children.
The folding machines started up their ebb and flow over reams of paper. ‘Hey, Céline!’ shouted the girl who was suffering with toothache, ‘he was proper posh, that bloke you were walking out with last night!’
Céline played dumb and pretended not to understand the significance of this remark, but the other girl, goaded by a sort of envious desire to tease, went on: ‘What I’m saying is true, and the proof is that old Chaudrut saw you as well.’And the old man, who was holding a pair of paper shears, nodded his head. ‘A respectable gentleman, a lad from a decent family by God, and that’s saying a lot these days! But that’s no reason to look the other way and walk past people as if you didn’t recognise them.’
Ma Teston gaped in bewilderment. ‘Well, why not?’ she said. ‘After all, Céline’s not doing anything wrong; why should she be like the rest of you and waste her youth on a bunch of factory layabouts who’ll fritter away everything she earns?’
‘Hey, now then, you!’ cried Chaudrut, ‘don’t you start knocking the working man.’
‘All layabouts, just like you!’ replied Ma Teston.
‘Come on now, Ma…’ groaned the supervisor, ‘leave Chaudrut in peace.’
‘What I find surprising,’ sneered the girl, picking at her stumps with the tip of a pin, ‘is that when a fancy man like that is paying, why you don’t make him pay for some new dresses into the bargain!’
Céline was stung.
‘Well obviously I’m going to get some, and dresses like you’ll never have! Anyway, you can’t talk, the only man who’d keep you is Private Punter! And one more thing, you know instead of annoying others you’d really do better to stick your head in the press, at least that might flatten all the wadding they’ve stuffed your gums with!’
Ma Teston’s face creased with laughter, and her eyes rolled up into her head. ‘There, that told you,’ she said.
But the supervisor threatened the girl that she’d kick her out the door if she replied. ‘Now that’s enough!’ she shouted, ‘my word, it’s worse than the market in here.’
Désirée, who wasn’t interested in all these disputes, was scratching her leg, on which a flea was prancing about. She stopped suddenly with a jolt; Auguste had just arrived in the back room and he appeared to have a black patch over his eye. Disconcerted, she leaned forward a little to have another look, but the young man seemed determined to remain in the shadows because he persisted in turning his back to the light and hiding behind a press. So she got up and then she saw plainly that he had a black eye.
She went over to him and said in a low voice: ‘Now then, what have you done to yourself? Come out into the courtyard, I’ve got to speak to you right away, Papa’s back and I can’t come and meet you this evening.’
He said, ‘Oh,’ and lowered the hand covering his face.
‘So were you beaten up then?’ she went on, ‘your eye looks like a rotten apple.’
He claimed to have fallen over and excused himself for not going outside with her, seeing as he had a lot of urgent work he needed to finish before he left.
‘That’s fine,’ retorted the young girl drily, pursing her lips, and as Chaudrut was going past doing up the drawstring of his smock, she asked him what had caused Auguste’s eye to be battered like that. He swore on the ashes of his late wife that he didn’t know anything about it; she only learned the truth once she was out in the courtyard.
It had happened when the scrap paper merchant arrived; the supervisor had called the men together and the whole group had gone down to the storeroom, where the waste paper was kept. Auguste was with them. When they got down there and opened the door to the storeroom, the only daylight filtering in was through a basement window, and in its yellow glow the gigantic pile of paper scraps looked like a mountain of pale, curly sauerkraut. Old Potier complained that the light wasn’t good enough and insisted on seeing the quality of the merchandise he was going to buy first. So Auguste had gone back upstairs with Alfred to look for some more lamps. He owed money to this workmate. That very morning, while knocking back a glass of Kir, Alfred had pulled eight or nine corks from his pocket and said to himself: ‘By God, I’ve drunk nothing since yesterday evening!’ Inasmuch as so many dead corks represented so many bottles put away, this was the low water mark of his boozing. Meanwhile, he was broke and his hangover was turning nasty. He demanded that Auguste, who had only thirty-five centimes in his pocket, give him back the two francs he’d loaned him to take Désirée to the Folies-Bobino. The argument had lasted all the while they were looking for candles; once they were back in the storeroom and busy sorting out the pile of scraps and off-cuts to put them in sacks and weigh them, the quarrel had started again and ended with the sound thrashing that Auguste had received.
It was the foreman who recounted the story to Désirée; trembling, she went back and sat at her place.
Her first thought was this: ‘He’s a fighter, thank goodness for that!’ But then, even admitting that Auguste hadn’t looked to pick a quarrel with his workmate, any man who cops a beating like that is either not very brave or not very strong, and she found it humiliating to have a boyfriend who, when forced to fight, couldn’t thrash anyone else. Then again, that swollen eyelid made her feel sorry for him, and she wanted to cry; Auguste hadn’t said anything, but it must have hurt him a lot. He must be feeling really embarrassed too. She could imagine how galling it must be for a man to be seen by the girl he loves in such a state. She remembered now the foreman’s mocking smile when he’d admitted that Auguste had borrowed money to take her out. In fact, maybe she was to blame; she really should have known that he earned very little and that the evenings they’d spent together had cost him dear. It’s true that if she’d used her own purse – which wasn’t very full since her father demanded ten francs a week from her for food, laundry and lodging – to help pay for these amusements, she’d never have been able to look her best for her boyfriend by buying herself a new hairnet and a headscarf.
She thought at first of going to find Alfred and paying him the two francs, then she reflected that this would compromise her too much and would make Auguste look foolish, and, besides, two francs was a considerable sum. All the same, the poor boy hadn’t got a sou; perhaps he didn’t even have enough for a cigarette. She wanted to know, for with that stupid kindness that wishes hardship on others so as to be able to help them out, she’d have been pleased if he didn’t have enough to roll a cigarette so she could buy a packet and give it to him.
Whatever the cause, she was seized with tenderness and she reproached herself for the harsh tone in which she’d just spoken to him. She couldn’t bear it. Auguste was alone in his corner; she got up and, not knowing how to show him that she wasn’t angry with him, she went over and without raising her eyes offered him her cheek.
Auguste was also very moved; he kissed her gently, but as the kiss became prolonged, Désirée, red as a cherry, escaped back to her seat, and when the supervisor asked her what she’d done to make her face so flushed, she replied that her ears were burning.
Céline had watched the whole scene. She was still wondering if she should try and speed things up or let them be; she was still wondering if, before talking to Auguste about m
arriage, it wouldn’t be better to consult her father. Ever since she’d succeeded in storming the defences of her painter, all her moods, all her whims, had disappeared, and she was full of indulgence for her sister’s affair. If the sight of happy couples had previously made her hopping mad, now they seemed to deserve her special interest. She still wasn’t very satisfied with Auguste; there was something timid and cold about him that she found awkward. He was lacking in fun and energy, but, when all was said and done, she had nothing to reproach him with; he’d always behaved very properly towards her, paying for her drinks as well as those of her sister when they happened to be together. He took Désirée’s side when they squabbled, but that was natural, everyone defended their own interests; anyway, Céline was like all women who, having nothing more to desire for themselves, take an interest in the affairs of others, who love to get mixed up in things that don’t concern them, to dabble in the tangled web of people’s lives, tangling them up even more and then trying all the harder to unravel them the less seriously it affects them.
All things considered, it would perhaps have been wiser to let Auguste mope around without seeing her for a few months; but on the other hand her sister might go a bit mad, meet up with him anyway and come a cropper. The kiss she’d just given him made her uneasy. She concluded that it was better to sort it out now, to go over to Auguste and ask him the question straight; she could thrash it out with her father later.
The Vatard Sisters Page 13