XLVIII

“Where are you going in that rig?” said Germinie one Sunday morning to Adèle, as she passed in grand array along the corridor on the sixth floor, in front of her open door.

“Ah! there you are! I’m going to a swell wedding, my dear! There’s a crowd of us⁠—big Marie, the great bully, you know⁠—Elisa, from 41, the two Badiniers, big and little⁠—and men, too! In the first place, there’s my dealer in sudden death. Yes, and⁠—Oh! didn’t you know⁠—my new flame, the master-at-arms of the 24th⁠—and a friend of his, a painter, a real Father Joy. We’re going to Vincennes. Everyone carries something. We shall dine on the grass⁠—the men will pay for the wine. And there’ll be plenty of it, I promise you!”

“I’ll go, too,” said Germinie.

“You? nonsense! you don’t go to parties any more.”

“But I tell you I’ll go,” said Germinie, in a sharp, decided tone. “Just give me time to tell mademoiselle and put on a dress. If you’ll wait I’ll go and get half a lobster.”

Half an hour later the two women left the house; they skirted the city wall and found the rest of the party sitting outside a café on Boulevard de la Chopinette. After taking a glass of currant wine, they entered two large cabs and rode away. When they arrived at the fortress at Vincennes they alighted and the whole party walked along the bank of the moat. As they were passing under the wall of the fort, the master-at-arms’ friend, the painter, shouted to an artilleryman, who was doing sentry duty beside a cannon: “Say! old fellow, you’d rather drink one than stand guard over it, eh?”1

“Isn’t he funny?” said Adèle to Germinie, nudging her with her elbow.

Soon they were fairly in the forest of Vincennes.

Narrow paths crossed and recrossed in every direction on the hard, uneven, footprint-covered ground. In the spaces between all these little roads there was here and there a little grass, but downtrodden, withered, yellow, dead grass, strewn about like bedding for cattle, its straw-colored blades were everywhere mingled with briars, amid the dull green of nettles. It was easily recognizable as one of the rural spots to which the great faubourgs resort on Sundays to loll about in the grass, and which resemble a lawn trampled by a crowd after a display of fireworks. Gnarled, misshapen trees were scattered here and there; dwarf elms with gray trunks covered with yellow, leprous-like spots and stripped of branches to a point higher than a man’s head; scraggy oaks, eaten by caterpillars so that their leaves were like lacework. The verdure was scant and sickly and entirely unshaded, the leaves above had a very unhealthy look; the stunted, ragged, parched foliage made only faint green lines against the sky. Clouds of dust from the high roads covered the bushes with a gray pall. Everything had the wretched, impoverished aspect of trampled vegetation that has no chance to breathe, the melancholy effect of the grass at the barriers! Nature seemed to sprout from beneath the pavements. No birds sang in the trees, no insects hummed about the dusty ground; the noise of the spring-carts stunned the birds; the hand-organ put the rustling of the trees to silence; the denizens of the street strolled about through the paths, singing. Women’s hats, fastened with four pins to a handkerchief, were hanging from the trees; the red plume of an artilleryman burst upon one at every moment through the scanty leaves; dealers in honey rose from the thickets; on the trampled greensward children in blouses were cutting twigs, workingmen’s families idling their time away nibbling at pleasure, and little urchins catching butterflies in their caps. It was a forest after the pattern of the original Bois de Boulogne, hot and dusty, a much-frequented and sadly-abused promenade, one of those spots, avaricious of shade, to which the common people flock to disport themselves at the gates of great capitals⁠—burlesque forests, filled with corks, where you find slices of melon and skeletons in the underbrush.

The heat on this day was stifling; the sun was swimming in clouds, shedding a veiled diffuse light that was almost blinding to the eyes and that seemed to portend a storm. The air was heavy and dead; nothing stirred; the leaves and their tiny, meagre shadows did not move; the forest seemed weary and crushed, as it were, beneath the heavy sky. At rare intervals a breath of air from the south passed lazily along, sweeping the ground, one of those enervating, lifeless winds that blow upon the senses and fan the breath of desire into a flame. With no knowledge whence it came, Germinie felt over her whole body a sensation like the tickling of the down on a ripe peach against the skin.

They went gayly along, with the somewhat excited activity that the country air imparts to the common people. The men ran, the women tripped after them and caught them. They played at rolling on the grass. There was a manifest longing to dance and climb trees; the painter amused himself by throwing stones at the loopholes in the gateways of the fortress, and he never missed his aim.

At last they all sat down in a sort of clearing under a clump of oaks, whose shadows were lengthening in the setting sun. The men, lighting matches on the seats of their trousers, began to smoke. The women chattered and laughed and threw themselves backward in paroxysms of inane hilarity and noisy outbursts of delight. Germinie alone did not speak or laugh. She did not listen or look. Her eyes, beneath their lowered lids, were fixed upon the toes of her boots. So engrossed in thought was she that you would have said she was totally oblivious to time and place. Lying at full length on the grass, her head slightly raised by a hammock, she made no other movement than to lay her hands, palm downwards, on the grass beside her; in a short time she would turn them on their backs and let them lie in that position, seeking the coolness of the earth to allay the fever of her flesh.

“There’s a lazybones! going to sleep?” said Adèle.

Germinie opened wide her blazing eyes, without answering, and until dinner maintained the same position, the same silence, the same air of torpor, feeling about her for places where her burning hands had not rested.

“Come, old girl!” said a woman’s voice, “sing us something.”

“Oh! no,” Adèle replied, “I haven’t got wind enough before eating.”

Suddenly a great stone came hurtling through the air and struck the ground near Germinie’s head; at the same moment she heard the painter’s voice shouting: “Don’t be afraid! that’s your chair.”

One and all laid their handkerchiefs on the ground by way of tablecloth. Eatables were produced from greasy papers. Bottles were uncorked and the wine went round; the glasses were rested against tufts of grass, and they fell to upon bits of pork and sausages, with slices of bread for plates. The painter cut boats out of paper to hold the salt, and imitated the orders shouted out by waiters in a café. “Boum! Pavillon! Servez!” he cried. The company gradually became animated. The open air, the patches of blue sky, the food and drink started the gayety of the table in full blast. Hands approached one another, mouths met, coarse remarks were whispered from one to another, shirt sleeves crept around waists, and now and then energetic embraces were attended by greedy, resounding kisses.

Germinie drank, and said nothing. The painter, who had taken his place by her side, felt decidedly chilly and embarrassed beside his extraordinary neighbor, who amused herself “so entirely inside.” Suddenly he began to beat a tattoo with his knife against his glass, drowning the uproar of the party, and rose to his knees.

“Mesdames!” said he, with the voice of a parakeet that has sung too much, “here’s the health of a man in hard luck: myself! Perhaps it will bring me good luck! Deserted, yes, mesdames; yes, I’ve been deserted! I’m a widower! you know the kind of widower, razibus! I was struck all of a heap. Not that I cared much for her, but habit, that old villain, habit! The fact is I’m as bored as a bedbug in a watch spring. For two weeks my life has been like a restaurant without a pousse-café! And when I love love as if it had made me! No wife! That’s what I call weaning a grown man! that is to say, since I’ve known what it is, I take off my hat to the curés: I feel very sorry for them, ’pon my word! No wife! and there are so many of ’em! But I can’t walk about with a sign: Vacant man to let. Inquire within. In the first place it would have to be stamped by M’sieu le Préfet, and then, people are such fools, it would draw a crowd! All of which, mesdames, is intended to inform you, that if, among the people you have the honor of knowing, there should happen to be one who’d like to make an acquaintance⁠—virtuous acquaintance⁠—a pretty little left-handed marriage⁠—why she needn’t look any farther! I’m her man⁠—Victor-Médéric Gautruche! a homebody, a genuine house-ivy for sentiment! She has only to apply at my former hotel, La Clef de Sûreté. And gay as a hunchback who’s just drowned his wife! Gautruche, called Gogo-la-Gaiété, egad! A pretty fellow who knows what’s what, who doesn’t beat about the bush, a good old body who takes things easy and who won’t give himself the colic with that fishes’ grog!” With that he took a bottle of water that stood beside him and hurled it twenty yards away. “Long live the walls! They’re the same to papa that the sky is to the good God! Gogo-la-Gaiété paints them through the week and beats them on Monday!2 And with all that not jealous, not ugly, not a wife-beater, but a real love of a man, who never harmed one of the fair sex in his life! If you want physique, parbleu! I’m your man!”

He rose to his feet and, drawing up his wavering body, clad in an old blue coat with gilt buttons, to its full height, removing his gray hat so as to show his perspiring, polished, bald skull, and tossing his old plucked gamin’s head, he continued: “You see what it is! It isn’t a very attractive piece of property; it doesn’t help it to exhibit it. But it yields well, it’s a little dilapidated, but well put together. Dame! Here I am with my little forty-nine years⁠—no more hair than a billiard ball, a witchgrass beard that would make good herb-tea, foundations not too solid, feet as long as La Villette⁠—and with all the rest thin enough to take a bath in a musket-barrel. There’s the bill of lading! Pass the prospectus along! If any woman wants all that in a lump⁠—any respectable person⁠—not too young⁠—who won’t amuse herself by painting me too yellow⁠—you understand, I don’t ask for a Princess of Batignolles⁠—why, sure as you’re born, I’m her man!”

Germinie seized Gautruche’s glass, half emptied it at a draught and held out the side from which she had drunk to him.

At nightfall the party returned on foot. When they reached the fortifications, Gautruche drew a large heart with the point of his knife on the stone, and all the names with the date were carved inside.

In the evening Gautruche and Germinie were upon the outer boulevards, near Barrière Rochechouart. Beside a low house with these words, in a plaster panel: Madame Merlin. Dresses cut and tried on, two francs, they stopped at a stone staircase of three steps leading into a dark passage, at the end of which shone the red light of an Argand lamp. At the entrance to the passage, these words were printed in black on a wooden sign:

Hotel of the Little Blue Hand.