The Diary of a Chambermaid by Octave Mirbeau

shooting. Agreed?’
    The light of gratitude shining in the old man’s eyes died away. He was troubled and upset, and had stopped eating.
    ‘Well, yes, but …’ he said timidly. ‘But if you could manage to settle up tonight? That’ll help me a lot, Monsieur Lanlaire. And I’d be satisfied with twenty-two francs.’
    ‘You’re joking, Monsieur Pantois,’ the master replied with superb assurance. ‘Of course I’ll pay you straight away, if that’s what you want, good God. I was only thinking that it might be an excuse to come over and see you.’
    He felt in his trouser pockets, patted his jacket and waistcoat and then, with an appearance of surprise, exclaimed: ‘Well, there now! It looks as though I haven’t got any change on me, nothing but confounded 1,000-franc notes.’ And, with a forced and really sinister laugh, he asked: ‘I wouldn’t mind betting you haven’t got change for 1,000 francs, Monsieur Pantois?’
    Seeing that Monsieur Lanlaire was laughing, old Pantois thought it was only proper for him to do the same, and he replied gaily:
    ‘Ha, ha, ha! Why I’ve never so much as seen one of those confounded notes.’
    ‘Right then, I’ll see you on Sunday!’ Monsieur Lanlaire concluded. He poured himself out some cider, and was clinking glasses with Monsieur Pantois, when Madame, whom no one had heard approaching, entered the kitchen like a gust of wind. Oh, you should have seen her face when she caught sight of the master, seated beside the poor old man and drinking with him!
    ‘What’s the meaning of this?’ she said, her lips white with anger.
    Monsieur Lanlaire could only stammer and stutter: ‘It’s the rose trees … You know, my love … Monsieur Pantois has brought me some rose trees. All of ours were taken by the frost …’
    ‘I didn’t order any rose trees. We don’t need rose trees here,’ she said in a cutting tone of voice.
    And that was all. Then she turned on her heel and went out, slamming the door. In her anger she had not even noticed me. The master and the poor old man, who had both risen to their feet, remained awkwardly staring at the door through which Madame had just disappeared. Then they looked at each other, still not daring to say a word. Monsieur Lanlaire was the first to break this painful silence.
    ‘Right, then, till Sunday, Monsieur Pantois.’
    ‘Till Sunday, Monsieur Lanlaire.’
    ‘And see you take care of yourself, Monsieur Pantois.’
    ‘And you, Monsieur Lanlaire.’
    ‘Thirty francs then … I shan’t go back on my word …
    ‘That’s very kind of you, sir.’
    And the old man, with his bowed back and trembling legs, opened the door and was swallowed up in the darkness of the garden.

    The poor master … I bet he was in for a good dressing-down. And as for old Pantois, if he ever gets those thirty francs, well, he’ll be lucky.
    I’m not saying that Madame was right, but I think it was wrong of the master to be on such familiar terms with someone so much beneath him. That’s not the way to behave.
    I quite realize he doesn’t have much of a life either, and has to make the best he can of it, which is not always so easy. If he gets home late from shooting, soaked through and covered with mud and whistling to keep his courage up, he can be sure the mistress will be waiting for him.
    ‘This is a nice way to behave, leaving me alone all day like this …’
    ‘But you know, darling …’
    ‘Shut up.’
    And she sulks at him for hours on end, hard-faced and with a nasty expression on her mouth, while he runs after her, trembling with fear and murmuring excuses: ‘But darling, you know very well…’
    ‘Leave me alone for heaven’s sake! You’ll drive me mad!’
    So naturally, next day the master stays at home. But that doesn’t suit her either.
    ‘Why can’t you find something to do, instead of roaming about the place like a lost soul?’
    ‘But darling …’
    ‘You’d be much better out of doors. Why don’t you go