cheeks. She has fine, hard breasts under her satin blouse. Like a man, she polishes off a bottle of Bordeaux at every meal.
I am going to read Eugenie Grandet. It isn't that I get any great pleasure out of it: but I have to do something. I open the book at random: the mother and daughter are speaking of Eugenie's growing love:
Eugenie kissed her hand saying:
"How good you are, dear Mama!"
At these words, the maternal old face, worn with long suffering, lights u-p.
"Don't you think he's nice?" Eugenie asked.
Mme Grandet answered only by a smile; then, after a moment of silence, she lowered her voice and said;
"Could you love him already? It would be wrong."
'Wrong?" Eugenie repeated. "Why? You like him, Nanon likes him, why shouldn't I like him? Now, Mama, let's set the table for his luncheon."
She dropped her work, her mother did likewise, saying:
"You are mad."
But she wanted to justify her daughter's madness by sharing it.
Eugenie called Nanon:
"What do you want, Mam'selle?"
"You'll have cream for noon, Nanon?"
"Ah, for noonùyes," the old servant answered.
"Well, give him his coffee very strong. 1 heard M. des Gras-sins say that they make coffee very strong in Paris. Put in a lot."
"Where do you want me to get it?"
"Buy some."
"And if Monsieur sees me?"
"He's out in the fields."
My neighbours had been silent ever since I had come, but, suddenly, the husband's voice distracted me from my reading.
47The husband, amused and mysterious:
"Say, did you see that?"
The woman gives a start and looks, coming out of a dream. He eats and drinks, then starts again, with the same malicious air:
"Ha ha!"
A moment of silence, the woman has fallen back into her dream.
Suddenly she shudders and asks:
"What did you say?"
"Suzanne, yesterday."
"Ah, yes," the woman says, "she went to see Victor."
"What did I tell you?"
The woman pushes her plate aside impatiently.
"It's no good."
The side of her plate is adorned with lumps of gristle she spits out. The husband follows his idea.
"That little woman there . . ."
He stops and smiles vaguely. Across from us, the old stockbroker is stroking Mariette's arm and breathing heavily. After a moment:
"I told you so, the other day."
"What did you tell me?"
"Victorùthat she'd go and see him. What's the matter?" he asks brusquely with a frightened look, "don't you like that?"
"It's no good."
"It isn't the same any more," he says with importance, "it isn't the way it was in Hecart's time. Do you know where he is, Hecart?"
"Domremy, isn't he?"
"Yes, who told you?"
"You did. You told me Sunday."
She eats a morsel of crumb which is scattered on the paper tablecloth. Then, her hand smoothing the paper on the edge of the table, with hesitation:
"You know, you're mistaken, Suzanne is more . . ."
"That may well be, my dear, that may well be," he answers, distractedly. He tries to catch Mariette's eyes, makes a sign to her.
"It's hot."
Mariette leans familiarly on the edge of the table.
"Yes, it is hot," the woman says, sighing deeply, "it's stifling here and besides the beef's no good, I'm going to tell the manager,
48
it's not the way it used to be, do open the window a little, Mariette."
Amused, the husband continues: "Say, didn't you see her eyes?" "When, darling?" He apes her impatiently:
"When, darling! That's you all over: in summer, when it snows."
"Ah! you mean yesterday?"
He laughs, looks into the distance, and recites quickly, with a certain application:
"The eyes of a cat on live coals."
He is so pleased that he seems to have forgotten what he wanted to say.
She laughs in her turn, without malice:
"Ha ha, old devil!"
She taps on his shoulder.
"Old devil, old devil!"
He repeats, with assurance:
"The eyes of a cat on live coals!"
But she stops laughing:
"No, seriously, you know, she's really respectable."
He leans over, whispers a long story in her ear. Her mouth hangs open for a moment, the face a little drawn like someone who is going to
I am going to read Eugenie Grandet. It isn't that I get any great pleasure out of it: but I have to do something. I open the book at random: the mother and daughter are speaking of Eugenie's growing love:
Eugenie kissed her hand saying:
"How good you are, dear Mama!"
At these words, the maternal old face, worn with long suffering, lights u-p.
"Don't you think he's nice?" Eugenie asked.
Mme Grandet answered only by a smile; then, after a moment of silence, she lowered her voice and said;
"Could you love him already? It would be wrong."
'Wrong?" Eugenie repeated. "Why? You like him, Nanon likes him, why shouldn't I like him? Now, Mama, let's set the table for his luncheon."
She dropped her work, her mother did likewise, saying:
"You are mad."
But she wanted to justify her daughter's madness by sharing it.
Eugenie called Nanon:
"What do you want, Mam'selle?"
"You'll have cream for noon, Nanon?"
"Ah, for noonùyes," the old servant answered.
"Well, give him his coffee very strong. 1 heard M. des Gras-sins say that they make coffee very strong in Paris. Put in a lot."
"Where do you want me to get it?"
"Buy some."
"And if Monsieur sees me?"
"He's out in the fields."
My neighbours had been silent ever since I had come, but, suddenly, the husband's voice distracted me from my reading.
47The husband, amused and mysterious:
"Say, did you see that?"
The woman gives a start and looks, coming out of a dream. He eats and drinks, then starts again, with the same malicious air:
"Ha ha!"
A moment of silence, the woman has fallen back into her dream.
Suddenly she shudders and asks:
"What did you say?"
"Suzanne, yesterday."
"Ah, yes," the woman says, "she went to see Victor."
"What did I tell you?"
The woman pushes her plate aside impatiently.
"It's no good."
The side of her plate is adorned with lumps of gristle she spits out. The husband follows his idea.
"That little woman there . . ."
He stops and smiles vaguely. Across from us, the old stockbroker is stroking Mariette's arm and breathing heavily. After a moment:
"I told you so, the other day."
"What did you tell me?"
"Victorùthat she'd go and see him. What's the matter?" he asks brusquely with a frightened look, "don't you like that?"
"It's no good."
"It isn't the same any more," he says with importance, "it isn't the way it was in Hecart's time. Do you know where he is, Hecart?"
"Domremy, isn't he?"
"Yes, who told you?"
"You did. You told me Sunday."
She eats a morsel of crumb which is scattered on the paper tablecloth. Then, her hand smoothing the paper on the edge of the table, with hesitation:
"You know, you're mistaken, Suzanne is more . . ."
"That may well be, my dear, that may well be," he answers, distractedly. He tries to catch Mariette's eyes, makes a sign to her.
"It's hot."
Mariette leans familiarly on the edge of the table.
"Yes, it is hot," the woman says, sighing deeply, "it's stifling here and besides the beef's no good, I'm going to tell the manager,
48
it's not the way it used to be, do open the window a little, Mariette."
Amused, the husband continues: "Say, didn't you see her eyes?" "When, darling?" He apes her impatiently:
"When, darling! That's you all over: in summer, when it snows."
"Ah! you mean yesterday?"
He laughs, looks into the distance, and recites quickly, with a certain application:
"The eyes of a cat on live coals."
He is so pleased that he seems to have forgotten what he wanted to say.
She laughs in her turn, without malice:
"Ha ha, old devil!"
She taps on his shoulder.
"Old devil, old devil!"
He repeats, with assurance:
"The eyes of a cat on live coals!"
But she stops laughing:
"No, seriously, you know, she's really respectable."
He leans over, whispers a long story in her ear. Her mouth hangs open for a moment, the face a little drawn like someone who is going to
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