The Vatard Sisters

by Joris-karl Huysmans

  Céline had such a strange look when she came over to him that Auguste feared something was wrong, and went out with her into the street straightaway. They didn’t say a word on the pavement; then Céline led him to a bar and there, hunched between some pots of laurel, they looked at each other with a slightly embarrassed air, stirring the cloudy water of their absinthes with perforated steel spoons.

  Despite her self-assurance, Céline didn’t quite know how to broach the subject. She started down a different track, talking about the little girl in the workshop, saying that children were very nice, and that if she were married she’d like to have some.

  Auguste remained silent; firstly, because Céline’s sudden enthusiasm for the joys of motherhood was of little consequence to him, and secondly, because his eye was hurting him.

  ‘Is it true,’ she continued, ‘that you got punched because of my sister?’

  He replied that it wasn’t precisely because of her; it was a matter between Alfred and him; besides, he’d been hit when he wasn’t expecting it; even so, if his friends hadn’t held him back his opponent would have had a hard time of it, but he’d get his own back all the same!

  Céline patiently listened to him venting his threats and his complaints.

  ‘All this is so stupid,’ she replied, ‘everyone in the workshop is convinced that Désirée is the cause of this fight; it’s damaging her reputation, they’re all staring at her and making comments. Oh, damn it, look, I’m going to ask you straight out, no more beating round the bush. Do you want to marry her, yes or no?’

  Auguste went scarlet and his black eye grew darker. He stuttered: ‘Why yes, of course, I like her a lot, but even so, I need a bit more time to think about it…’

  ‘Think about what?’ cried Céline. ‘Come on, let’s not mince words, let’s get straight to the point. Here’s the situation: Désirée is not bad looking, she’s got one eye that isn’t very straight perhaps, but no matter; first of all, as my painter said after he met her, a slightly wonky eye is like a well-placed beauty spot on a girl’s face; it draws your attention.’ Auguste had the bewildered look of a man who didn’t understand. Céline hurried on, fearing that he might demand an explanation that she felt absolutely incapable of giving him. The remark had so surprised her the day he made it that she’d kept it in her head, and rolled it around without comprehending what a beauty spot on a face could possibly have in common with her sister’s eye. She went on: ‘I don’t need to sing the praises of my family, but Désirée is an outstanding worker who sometimes earns twenty francs per week. Given these circumstances she doesn’t lack for suitors, believe me, so it isn’t for want of choice that I’m speaking to you now. What do you have to offer, anyway? Good behaviour and your two arms, all of which makes no more than forty centimes an hour; pretty thin gruel! But that’s not important if you love each other. Listen to me closely: Papa is back, as Désirée must have told you. Your meetings are at an end. My sister’s not going to be seduced; I’m there to see to that. It’s no use looking at me like that; me, I’m built different to her, if I’ve erred it’s because I enjoy it, I’m not any less respectable a girl for all that. What did you say? That you know it? By God, there’s no special merit in knowing it, it’s simply a fact. Come now, wouldn’t it be nice: a little family with children, a pretty bedroom with walnut furniture, white curtains, a bed full of loving, wine in the cupboard, and, if you’re careful, a roast every Sunday? That’s worth thinking about, eh? father’s a good man; mother won’t interfere; the sister you already know, wild but not wicked; it remains to be seen whether Papa will say no. Now that’s another matter, but I’ll take care of it. First of all I need to know where I stand with you – only, hurry up. I need an answer before I go, and I’m leaving in three minutes.’

  Auguste was sweating buckets. He mumbled an unenthusiastic ‘Yes’.

  ‘Then everything will be fine,’ Céline went on, ‘we’ll start things moving. How much for the absinthe?’ Auguste didn’t try to stop her, he only had three sous left, the purchase of a packet of tobacco having seen off four others, and besides, as Céline said when she held out the money, ‘No need to feel embarrassed with me, we’re family now.’

  He was very bewildered. He’d certainly have preferred to remain single, preferred to have Désirée as a mistress rather than as a wife straightaway, but he knew perfectly well that was impossible. Not that she’d hidden her thoughts on the subject, but all the same, he’d have liked to have prolonged the situation as it was, trusting to chance or whatever. On the other hand, it wasn’t much of a life always being broke; now Désirée was a good match, and moreover it would please his mother who, like most old, infirm women was longing to see her son get married. He pondered all these considerations, arguing in his head: ‘I’ve said yes. I’m going to take the plunge, but what will it be like?’ And, in spite of everything, the idea that he was going to lose his freedom annoyed him. For a moment, he began to hope that Vatard would oppose the marriage, but then, a minute later, when he imagined the picture painted by Céline – a bright, clean bedroom, Désirée in a white apron doing the dusting, house-proud – he was afraid of being refused.

  Buffeted from left and right, not wanting to, but also wanting to as well, he ended up feeling very confused. He’d only drunk one absinthe, diluted in sugar and water, but he felt stupidly drunk. Nevertheless one thought made it through the fog of his mind, and it succeeded in convincing him that he hadn’t been wrong in saying yes. Rumours were circulating around the Débonnaire workshop, it was being said that the boss had argued with the foreman and was probably going to fire him. If this story were true, who would take his job? No one in the workshop was capable of replacing him. The new foreman would be chosen from another firm and, as always in these cases, he’d bring people he knew with him. Ineffectual workers would be chucked out and replaced by others, who would certainly not be any better, but would at least be friends of the foreman. Auguste couldn’t ignore the fact that if such an event occurred, he ran a strong risk of being laid off. The prospect of finding himself on the street without a job sent a chill down his spine. But if he married Désirée, he’d be untouchable, the supervisor liked her and Ma Teston was well in with the boss.

  XI

  ‘That’s one down,’ murmured Céline feeling very satisfied, ‘now let’s move on to the other.’ Here, victory was less certain. So Céline resolved to act in concert with Ma Teston. By reason of her age, her domestic virtues, and her incomparable expertise in cooking beans, this woman exerted an influence over Vatard that was without equal. Together, the two women would have a chance of demolishing his objections, and allow Auguste to triumph.

  When Céline had informed her friend of the favour she required of her, Ma Teston was delighted, she laughed like a simpleton and, clasping her hands together, murmured: ‘How nice it’ll be!’ She was one of those women who cry when they see a girl making her first communion or a bride in white. To her, that colour conjured up touching thoughts, brought back innocent memories of childhood, her joyful longings as a virgin. Whether it was Auguste or someone else, it didn’t matter to her, but the thought that her little Désirée would trot down the aisle of a church, with a bouquet of orange blossom in her hair and her train sweeping the flagstones, made her so emotional that her eyes welled with huge tears; then her mouth split into a big grin, and she finally swore she would help Céline to convince her father.

  A meeting was arranged. Then, that morning, Céline said to her sister: ‘You can go and have supper with Auguste this evening, I’ll arrange it all. You can even stay out with your intended until ten o’clock. There’s no need to come back before then.’

  Désirée, who’d been deprived of her assignations in the evening mists and harassed by Auguste’s entreaties and protests, jumped up and, without asking any questions, went off to find her young man and tell him the good news. He broke into a lively jig in front of the press, and invited her to have supper with him at La Belle Polonaise
restaurant.

  In the workshop, Céline and Ma Teston prepared their big guns. It had been agreed that the old woman would open the firing, and Céline would confine herself to backing her up.

  Vatard was surprised not to see Désirée at suppertime, but Céline hinted that she’d give him an explanation for her absence when Ma Teston arrived.

  Vatard insisted she tell him straightaway. His daughter refused. Vatard began to get angry. She held fast, but thought the affair was starting badly. They didn’t exchange another word while the meal lasted. They were just settling down to a round of runny Brie, when Ma Teston entered.

  Céline cast her a distressed glance and, going up to her, whispered: ‘Go on, Ma Teston, and be firm!’

  The old lady solemnly pulled out a pair of breeches, a patch she wanted to sew onto them, a needle and a thimble, and in an unsteady voice, she began:

  ‘Vatard, when you asked old Briquet for Eulalie’s hand, what did he reply?’

  ‘He probably replied: “Take her, my boy.” But I don’t see what…’

  ‘It doesn’t matter whether you see or not; so what did you do next?’

  ‘What do you mean, what did I do next? How do I know? It’s years since all that took place.’

  ‘You must have jumped in the air, Vatard, and shouted: What luck!’

  ‘It’s possible, but I still don’t see…’

  ‘Well,’ the woman announced slowly, ‘it’s your turn to shout: Take her, my boy!’

  ‘Eh? What? What are you burbling on about?’

  ‘Papa,’ blurted Céline, ‘it’s about Désirée and Auguste.’

  ‘Désirée! You want to marry Désirée to Auguste? Who is this Auguste?’

  Then they both charged ahead at full speed; Ma Teston and Céline spoke at the same time: ‘Auguste…he’s a nice boy…a worker at the bindery who loves Désirée…and who Désirée loves…he’s a serious, regular, steady boy…’

  Vatard repelled the assault with a simple sally: ‘How much does he earn?’

  For an instant the two women were stopped in their tracks. ‘Eight sous per hour,’ they proffered in a low voice.

  ‘An idiot, eh?’

  Ma Teston was lost for words. Céline came to the rescue and continued: ‘Eight sous at the moment, but ten sous, twelve sous in a few months; he’s a serious worker, a steady worker…’

  ‘I know, you said that already, stop gabbling on about it. I’ve always been a good father, even if I say so myself, so I’m not about to agree to something that’ll make my daughter unhappy. Eight sous? Why, that’s nothing. It’s downright poverty! Eight sous? It’s beans all week and me giving ’em one-franc-sixty every Sunday to buy some veal. It’s the rent not being paid, and tears every three months to wheedle it out of me; it’s my plates, my pans and my dishes being borrowed for a couple of days and never returned. Eight sous? my furniture will be pillaged and my wallet drained dry. Yes, yes, I know full well what you’re going to tell me, that they’ll scrape by on their own; but it’s not possible. I don’t believe it.’

  ‘But they love each other, Papa!’ moaned Céline.

  ‘Is that my fault? No it’s not, is it? And besides, if you had half an ounce of common sense you’d know that Désirée can’t get married just yet. Here’s her mother, crippled, unable to move; supposing Désirée goes off with her husband, Céline buggers off every evening, she treats the house like a hotel, she doesn’t mend anything, she doesn’t clean anything, goes off I don’t know where. Don’t tell me! I prefer not to know where you go. Well then, a fine state the house would be in. A right tip, just like Tabuche’s, where everyone has to rinse out their glasses if they want something to drink, added to which if you want to put sugar in your toddy you’re obliged to get a key out of your pocket and use that as you can never find any small spoons. If you call that an agreeable prospect for a father, then you’re very easy to please!’

  Ma Teston riposted with gentle irony: ‘So because your wife is ill, it follows that your daughter can’t get married?’

  ‘I’m not saying that,’ cried Vatard, ‘I’m not saying that. I’m saying that if, instead of proposing a boy with no money and no means to earn any, you’d presented me with a worker capable of bringing in a dozen francs a day, I’d have thought about it; I’d have considered it; I’m saying that in order to put up with the kind of stupid existence you’re offering me, I don’t want my daughter to be living in poverty; in other words, I want there to be some compensation.’

  ‘But they’re in love!’ shrieked Céline.

  ‘First of all, you, shut your trap, your doing my head in with your screams! “They’re in love! They’re in love!” That’s original! Hellfire, if a man married every woman he loved, that’d be a fine state of affairs, eh! They’ll get over it. Every man has loved a woman before he was wed, and then married another. Isn’t that true? Yes or no? Take you, Ma, before tying the knot with Alexandre, you must have lost your head over some other man?’

  Ma Teston quivered; she replied gravely with one hand on her chest, under her heart:

  ‘You’re mistaken, Vatard, Alexandre has been the only man I ever loved.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Vatard responded, out of arguments, ‘enough’s enough. Talk about whatever you want, except that…we’re not here to bicker, and besides, since the wedding isn’t taking place tomorrow do me a favour right now and leave me in peace!’

  So the evening took a sombre turn. Ma Teston plied her needle with teeth clenched, and Céline, emitting long sighs from time to time, replaced buttons on her nightgowns.

  Vatard relit his pipe and smoked gloomily, foreseeing countless quarrels, endless troubles.

  And while they were all moping around, Auguste and Désirée were laughing like idiots. Céline hadn’t warned her sister of the manoeuvre she was going to attempt. Auguste had indeed told the young girl that he’d decided to ask for her hand in marriage, but she, who had always feared a refusal by her father, had if anything taken heart that evening. Convinced that her suitor was very persuasive, she no longer had any doubts that Vatard, after a bit of a grumble, would accept him for a son-in-law. She was far from imagining the pitiful results of that evening’s daring assault.

  In the mean time, the couple were as playful as a brace of lovebirds. Auguste had taken his girl to the famous restaurant in the Rue de la Gaité, a restaurant that specialised in catering for weddings, and they had dined in the garden, under an arbour.

  It was a charming spot, with groves starred with leaves, dusty treelets, wooden tables and a swing among the chestnut trees. Further off was a curtain of cypress and pines, the cypress and pines of Montparnasse cemetery, which stretched out behind the little restaurant. There weren’t many people in this evening. A husband and wife, in one corner, were eating mackerel and peas; a dog was running round in circles trying to catch its tail, then, yawning and lifting a haunch, it pissed a few drops against the leg of a table; a man and a woman had climbed onto the plank seat of the swing; the woman had tied up her petticoats with her handkerchief and was putting her back into some solid pushing, as was the man, which sent them soaring high amid the branches. Auguste and Désirée dined well and cheaply. They’d had a bottle of wine, soup, braised veal, and cheese, all for three francs seventy centimes. Their happiness would have been complete if three young men hadn’t come and installed themselves at a table next to them. They had been insufferable, claiming that they could smell an aroma of corpses and roasted rabbit. The waiter who served them was positively scandalised. Anyway he was right, just because you don’t like something, you shouldn’t put other people off as well. The fact is that Désirée started to think, from time to time, that there were faint whiffs coming from the cemetery; Auguste denied it, but nevertheless by the end, as the young men continued with their malicious joke, all the while smoking cigarettes between dishes, even he admitted that perhaps they were right and that the smell of graves heated by the excessive summer sun was wafting into the garden.

&
nbsp; Désirée was very embarrassed. The three young men were staring at her too much. One of them, who had brown hair, the eyes of an Arab and a forked black beard, kept casting lecherous glances at her; another, who was thin and blond with a triangular beard and a hooked nose, looked her up and down with a mocking air; the third, with a pince-nez, swept back curly hair, and a bushy mustache, seemed to pity Auguste. She hurriedly finished off her meal and wanted to go for coffee elsewhere.

  As for Auguste, he had seen things in a more positive light. He was proud of his girlfriend and found it splendid to be envied by such well-dressed men. They got up and left, but since it was already late and the young girl wanted to be home by ten o’clock, they simply went next door to the Café d’Apollon. Instead of taking a table outside and being constantly jostled by everyone on the street, they preferred to go downstairs, where it was quieter and you could sit on large sofas and talk in comfort. On the first floor, which was reached by a spiral staircase with old Algerian-style decorations to hide women’s legs from indiscreet glances, someone was banging away on a piano and bawling out a song. A vague air of revelry hung over the rooms of this drinking den. The owner also provided some nice surprises: along with their mazagran he brought them a small cannon made of sugar, and if you placed a match near the tip, a small sparkler began spitting fire, scattering a shower of sparks on the table, mingling a whiff of gunpowder with the aroma of burning tobacco and hot coffee.

  They settled the bill between them, in spite of Auguste’s dignified attempt to protest; but as she glanced involuntarily at his black eye he didn’t insist and, after a few minutes of silence, he simply said that when they were living together, if they didn’t feel like cooking on a Sunday they could do the same as today and feast at La Belle Polonaise, or across the street at Gagny’s. Désirée assented, though she observed that by sharing a single portion between the two of them and having a carafe of wine instead of a bottle they could spend even less. Then they went on talking about the future. ‘Céline should have spoken to your father about me by now,’ sighed Auguste. ‘I’ve already warned my mother, she’s delighted to have a daughter-in-law like you, because you’re going to make a splendid little wife!’