"M. Niepce is not here," she said.
Niepce"s door was unlatched. She pushed it open, and went into the room, which was empty and bore no sign of having been used.
"Come and satisfy yourself!" she insisted.
Chirac did so. His face fell.
She took her watch from her pocket.
"And now wind my watch, and set it, please."
She saw that he was in anguish. He could not take the watch. Tears came into his eyes. Then he hid his face, and dashed away. She heard a sob-impeded murmur that sounded like, "Forgive me!" and the banging of a door. And in the stillness she heard the regular snoring of M.
Carlier. She too cried. Her vision was blurred by a mist, and she stumbled into the kitchen and seized the clock, and carried it with her upstairs, and shivered in the intense cold of the night. She wept gently for a very long time. "What a shame! What a shame!" she said to herself. Yet she did not quite blame Chirac. The frost drove her into bed, but not to sleep. She continued to cry. At dawn her eyes were inflamed with weeping. She was back in the kitchen then. Chirac"s door was wide open. He had left the flat. On the slate was written, "I shall not take meals to-day."
III
Their relations were permanently changed. For several days they did not meet at all; and when at the end of the week Chirac was obliged at last to face Sophia in order to pay his bill, he had a most grievous expression. It was obvious that he considered himself a criminal without any defence to offer for his crime. He seemed to make no attempt to hide his state of mind. But he said nothing. As for Sophia, she preserved a mien of amiable cheerfulness. She exerted herself to convince him by her att.i.tude that she bore no resentment, that she had determined to forget the incident, that in short she was the forgiving angel of his dreams. She did not, however, succeed entirely in being quite natural. Confronted by his misery, it would have been impossible for her to be quite natural, and at the same time quite cheerful!
A little later the social atmosphere of the flat began to grow querulous, disputatious and perverse. The nerves of everybody were seriously strained. This applied to the whole city. Days of heavy rains followed the sharp frosts, and the town was, as it were, sodden with woe. The gates were closed. And though nine-tenths of the inhabitants never went outside the gates, the definite and absolute closing of them demoralized all hearts. Gas was no longer supplied. Rats, cats, and thorough-bred horses were being eaten and p.r.o.nounced "not bad." The siege had ceased to be a novelty. Friends did not invite one another to a "siege-dinner" as to a picnic. Sophia, fatigued by regular overwork, became weary of the situation. She was angry with the Prussians for dilatoriness, and with the French for inaction, and she poured out her English spleen on her boarders. The boarders told each other in secret that the patronne was growing formidable. Chiefly she bore a grudge against the shopkeepers; and when, upon a rumour of peace, the shop-windows one day suddenly blossomed with prodigious quant.i.ties of all edibles, at highest prices, thus proving that the famine was artificially created, Sophia was furious. M. Niepce in particular, though he sold goods to her at a special discount, suffered indignities. A few days later that benign and fatherly man put himself lamentably in the wrong by attempting to introduce into his room a charming young creature who knew how to be sympathetic. Sophia, by an accident unfortunate for the grocer, caught them in the corridor. She was beside herself, but the only outward symptoms were a white face and a cold steely voice that grated like a rasp on the susceptibilities of the adherents of Aphrodite. At this period Sophia had certainly developed into a termagant--without knowing it!
She would often insist now on talking about the siege, and hearing everything that the men could tell her. Her comments, made without the least regard for the justifiable delicacy of their feelings as Frenchmen, sometimes led to heated exchanges. When all Montmartre and the Quartier Breda was impa.s.sioned by the appearance from outside of the Thirty-second battalion, she took the side of the populace, and would not credit the solemn statement of the journalists, proved by doc.u.ments, that these maltreated soldiers were not cowards in flight.
She supported the women who had spit in the faces of the Thirty-second.
She actually said that if she had met them, she would have spit too.
Really, she was convinced of the innocence of the Thirty-second, but something prevented her from admitting it. The dispute ended with high words between herself and Chirac.
The next day Chirac came home at an unusual hour, knocked at the kitchen door, and said:
"I must give notice to leave you."
"Why?" she demanded curtly.
She was kneading flour and water for a potato-cake. Her potato-cakes were the joy of the household.
"My paper has stopped!" said Chirac.
"Oh!" she added thoughtfully, but not looking at him. "That is no reason why you should leave."
"Yes," he said. "This place is beyond my means. I do not need to tell you that in ceasing to appear the paper has omitted to pay its debts.
The house owes me a month"s salary. So I must leave."
"No!" said Sophia. "You can pay me when you have money."
He shook his head. "I have no intention of accepting your kindness."
"Haven"t you got any money?" she abruptly asked.
"None," said he. "It is the disaster--quite simply!"
"Then you will be forced to get into debt somewhere."
"Yes, but not here! Not to you!"
"Truly, Chirac," she exclaimed, with a cajoling voice, "you are not reasonable."
"Nevertheless it is like that!" he said with decision.
"Eh, well!" she turned on him menacingly. "It will not be like that!
You understand me? You will stay. And you will pay me when you can.
Otherwise we shall quarrel. Do you imagine I shall tolerate your childishness? Just because you were angry last night----"
"It is not that," he protested. "You ought to know it is not that."
(She did.) "It is solely that I cannot permit myself to----"
"Enough!" she cried peremptorily, stopping him. And then in a quieter tone, "And what about Carlier? Is he also in the ditch?"
"Ah! he has money," said Chirac, with sad envy.
"You also, one day," said she. "You stop--in any case until after Christmas, or we quarrel. Is it agreed?" Her accent had softened.
"You are too good!" he yielded. "I cannot quarrel with you. But it pains me to accept--"
"Oh!" she snapped, dropping into the vulgar idiom, "you make me sweat with your stupid pride. Is it that that you call friendship? Go away now. How do you wish that I should succeed with this cake while you station yourself there to distract me?"
IV
But in three days" Chirac, with amazing luck, fell into another situation, and on the Journal des Debats. It was the Prussians who had found him a place. The celebrated Payenneville, second greatest chroniqueur of his time, had caught a cold while doing his duty as a national guard, and had died of pneumonia. The weather was severe again; soldiers were being frozen to death at Aubervilliers.
Payenneville"s position was taken by another man, whose post was offered to Chirac. He told Sophia of his good fortune with unconcealed vanity.
"You with your smile!" she said impatiently. "One can refuse you nothing!"
She behaved just as though Chirac had disgusted her. She humbled him.
But with his fellow-lodgers his airs of importance as a member of the editorial staff of the Debats were comical in their ingenuousness. On the very same day Carlier gave notice to leave Sophia. He was comparatively rich; but the habits which had enabled him to arrive at independence in the uncertain vocation of a journalist would not allow him, while he was earning nothing, to spend a sou more than was absolutely necessary. He had decided to join forces with a widowed sister, who was accustomed to parsimony as parsimony is understood in France, and who was living on h.o.a.rded potatoes and wine.
"There!" said Sophia, "you have lost me a tenant!"
And she insisted, half jocularly and half seriously, that Carlier was leaving because he could not stand Chirac"s infantile conceit. The flat was full of acrimonious words.
On Christmas morning Chirac lay in bed rather late; the newspapers did not appear that day. Paris seemed to be in a sort of stupor. About eleven o"clock he came to the kitchen door.
"I must speak with you," he said. His tone impressed Sophia.
"Enter," said she.
He went in, and closed the door like a conspirator. "We must have a little fete," he said. "You and I."
"Fete!" she repeated. "What an idea! How can I leave?"
If the idea had not appealed to the secrecies of her heart, stirring desires and souvenirs upon which the dust of time lay thick, she would not have begun by suggesting difficulties; she would have begun by a flat refusal.