A Chambermaid's Diary. Octave Mirbeau
to him?
In the house I find Madame by no means contented. She gives me a very disagreeable reception, treats me very roughly:
"I beg you not to stay out so long in future."
I desire to reply, for I am vexed, irritated, unnerved. But fortunately I restrain myself. I confine myself to muttering a little.
"What's that you say?"
"I say nothing."
"It is lucky. And furthermore, I forbid you to walk with M. Mauger's servant. She is very bad company for you. See, everything is late this morning, because of you."
I say to myself:
"Zut! zut! and zut! You make me tired. I will speak to whom I like. I will see anyone that it pleases me to see. You shall lay down no law for me, camel!"
I need only to see once more her wicked eyes, and hear her shrill voice and her tyrannical orders, in order to lose at once the bad impression, the impression of disgust, that I brought back from the mass, from the grocer, and from Rose. Rose and the grocer are right; the haberdasher also is right; all of them are right. And I promise myself that I will see Rose; that I will see her often; that I will return to the grocer's; that I will make this dirty haberdasher my best friend—since Madame forbids me to do so. And I repeat internally, with savage energy:
"Camel! Camel! Camel!"
But I would have been much more relieved if I had had the courage to hurl and shout this insult full in her face.
During the day, after lunch, Monsieur and Madame went out driving. The dressing-room, the chambers, Monsieur's desk, all the closets, all the cupboards, all the sideboards, were locked. What did I tell you? Ah, well, thank you! no means of reading a letter, or of making up any little packages.
So I have remained in my room. I have written to my mother and to Monsieur Jean, and I have read "En Famille." What a delightful book! And how well written! It is queer, all the same; I am very fond of hearing dirty things, but I do not like to read them. I like only the books that make me cry.
For dinner they had boiled beef and broth. It seemed to me that Monsieur and Madame were very cool toward each other. Monsieur read the "Petit Journal" with provoking ostentation. He crumpled the paper, rolling all the time his kind, comical, gentle eyes. Even when he is in anger, Monsieur's eyes remain gentle and timid. At last, doubtless to start the conversation, Monsieur, with his nose still buried in his paper, exclaimed:
"Hello! another woman cut to pieces!"
Madame made no answer. Very stiff, very straight, austere in her black silk dress, her forehead wrinkled, her look stern, she did not cease her dreaming. About what?
It is, perhaps, because of me that Madame is sulky with Monsieur.
IV
September 26.
For a week I have been unable to write a single line in my diary. When it comes night, I am tired, exhausted, at the end of my strength. I think of nothing but going to bed and to sleep. To sleep! If I could always sleep!
Oh! what a shabby place, My God! You can have no idea of it!
For a yes, for a no, Madame makes you run up and down the two cursed flights of stairs. One has not even time to sit down in the linen-room and breathe a little, when … drinn! … drinn! … drinn! … one has to get up and start again. It makes no difference if one is not feeling well, drinn! … drinn! … drinn! In these days I have pains in my loins that bend me in two, and gripe my stomach, and almost make me cry out. That cuts no figure; drinn! … drinn! … drinn! … One has no time to be sick; one has not the right to suffer. Suffering is a master's luxury. We, we must walk, and fast, and forever; walk at the risk of falling. Drinn! … drinn! … drinn! … And if one is a little slow in coming at the sound of the bell, then there are reproaches and angry scenes.
"Well, what are you about? You do not hear, then? Are you deaf? I have been ringing for three hours. It is getting to be very provoking."
And this is what generally happens.
"Drinn! … drinn! … drinn! … "
That throws you from your chair, as if impelled by a spring.
"Bring me a needle."
I go for the needle.
"All right! Bring me some thread."
I go for the thread.
"Very good! Bring me a button."
I go for the button.
"What is this button? I did not ask for this button. You never understand anything. A white button, number four. And be quick about it."
And I go for the white button, number four.
You can imagine how I storm, and rage, and abuse Madame, within myself. During these goings and comings, these ascents and descents, Madame has changed her mind. She wants something else, or she wants nothing at all.
"No, take away the needle and the button. I have no time."
My back is broken, my knees absolutely stiff, I can do no more. That suffices for Madame; she is satisfied. And to think that there is a society for the protection of animals!
In the evening, when making her examination of the linen-room, she storms:
"What! you have done nothing? What do you do all day long, then? I do not pay you to be idle from morning till night."
I reply rather curtly, for this injustice fills me with rebellion:
"Why, Madame has been interrupting me all day."
"I have been interrupting you, I? In the first place, I forbid you to answer me. I want no remarks, do you understand? I know what I am talking about."
And she goes away, slamming the door, and grumbling as if she would never stop. In the corridors, in the kitchen, in the garden, her shrill voice can be heard for hours. Oh! how tiresome she is!
Really one knows not how to take her. What can she have in her body that keeps her always in such a state of irritation? And how quickly I would drop her, if I were sure of finding a place directly!
Just now I was suffering even more than usual. I felt so sharp a pain that it seemed as if a beast were tearing the interior of my body with its teeth and claws. Already, in the morning, on rising, I had fainted because of loss of blood. How have I had the courage to keep up, and drag myself about, and do my work? I do not know. Occasionally, on the stairs, I was obliged to stop, and cling to the banister, in order to get my breath and keep from falling. I was green, with cold sweats that wet my hair. It was enough to make one scream, but I am good at bearing pain, and it is a matter of pride with me never to complain in presence of my masters. Madame surprised me at a moment when I thought that I was about to faint. Everything was revolving about me—the banister, the stairs, and the walls.
"What is the matter with you?" she said to me, rudely.
"Nothing."
And I tried to straighten up.
"If there is nothing the matter with you," rejoined Madame, "why these manners? I do not like to see funereal faces. You have a very disagreeable way of doing your work."
In spite of my pain, I could have boxed her ears.
Amid these trials, I am always thinking of my former places. To-day it is my place in the Rue Lincoln that I most regret. There I was second chambermaid, and had, so to speak, nothing to do. We passed the day in the linen-room, a magnificent linen-room, with a red felt carpet, and lined from ceiling to floor with great mahogany cupboards, with gilded locks. And we laughed, and we amused ourselves in talking