The Diary of a Chambermaid by Octave Mirbeau Page B

stupefaction and fear, he was reduced to silence and could only scratch the back of his neck.
    Nearby there was an old pear tree, with twisted branches covered with lichen and moss, from which a few pears hung within reach. From the top of a chestnut tree a single magpie was chattering ironically. Crouched behind the boxwood border the cat was playing with a bumble bee. For Monsieur Lanlaire the silence was becoming more and more painful. At last, after the most strenuous efforts, efforts that caused him to pull the most grotesque faces, he asked:
    ‘Do you like pears, Célestine?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’ But I did not lower my guard, and my reply expressed a haughty indifference. Afraid of being caught by his wife, he hesitated for a moment, then suddenly, like a boy stealing apples, picked a pear and handed it to me. Oh, it was pathetic! His legs were almost giving way under him, and his hand was trembling.
    ‘Here, Célestine, hide that in your apron … She doesn’t let you have these in the kitchen, does she?’
    ‘No, sir.’
    ‘Right, well I’ll give you some more … some time … Because … because … I want you to be happy here.’
    The sincerity and strength of his feeling, his awkwardness, his clumsy gestures, his frightened words, and also his male strength, all this touched me. I softened the expression of my voice, veiled the hardness of my eyes, and in a voice that was at once ironical and caressing, I said:
    ‘Oh, sir! What if Madame were to see you?’
    He was still agitated, but as we were separated from the house by a thick screen of chestnut trees he pulled himself together, and seeing that I had become less severe, he explained boastfully, making extravagant gestures with his hands.
    ‘So what? … Madame indeed? What do I care about Madame? After all, she’s no right to be always plaguing me … I’ve had just about enough of Madame, more than enough …’
    Gravely I said: ‘You shouldn’t say such things, sir. You’re not being fair. The mistress is a very kind woman.’
    ‘Very kind?’ he exclaimed. ‘Her? Oh my God! But don’t you realize she’s spoilt my whole life? I’m not a man any more. I’m just nothing at all … no one around here gives a damn for me, and all because of my wife. She’s a … she’s a … yes, Célestine, she’s a cow, a cowl’
    I began to lecture him, speaking gently, hypocritically praising Madame’s energy and orderliness, all her domestic virtues. But my praises of her only exasperated him more.
    ‘No, no, she’s a cow, a cow!’
    However I managed to calm him down. Poor master! It was simply marvellous how easy it was to do anything I liked with him. With a mere glance I could transform his wrath into tenderness. Presently he stammered: ‘Oh you’re so kind … you’re so nice! You must be such a good woman, whereas that cow …’
    ‘Come, come, sir!’
    He stopped short. Heartbroken, shamefaced, completely at a loss, he just didn’t know what to do with his hands or eyes. He stood staring at the ground, at the old pear tree, at the garden, without seeing a thing. Utterly defeated, he began untying the raffia from the cane, stooped once more over the fallen dahlias, and in a suppliant, infinitely sad voice, murmured:
    ‘Look, Célestine, what I said to you just now, I didn’t really mean it. I meant to say something quite different. I meant to say … Oh it doesn’t matter. I’m an old fool. Don’t be angry with me, and above all, don’t tell Madame about it … You’re right. Fancy, if someone had seen us, here in the garden.’
    I escaped as quickly as I could so as not to laugh. Yes, I wanted to laugh, and yet a quite different feeling was singing in my heart … something—how shall I put it?—a motherly feeling. True, I shouldn’t like to sleep with Monsieur Lanlaire … but one more or less, what difference would it really make? I could give the poor old chap some of the pleasure he’s deprived of, and I should enjoy it as