LXVIII

“Well! is it all over?” said mademoiselle from her bed, as the concierge entered her room about eleven o’clock, on his return from the cemetery, with the black coat and the sanctimonious manner suited to the occasion.

“Mon Dieu, yes, mademoiselle. Thank God! the poor girl is out of pain.”

“Stay! I have no head today. Put the receipts and the rest of the money on my table. We will settle our accounts some other day.”

The concierge stood before her without moving or evincing any purpose to go, shifting from one hand to the other a blue velvet cap made from the dress of one of his daughters. After a moment’s reflection, he decided to speak.

“This burying is an expensive business, mademoiselle. In the first place, there’s⁠—”

“Who asked you to give the figures?” Mademoiselle de Varandeuil interrupted, with the haughty air of superb charity.

The concierge continued: “And as I was saying, a lot in the cemetery, which you told me to get, ain’t given away. It’s no use for you to have a kind heart, mademoiselle, you ain’t any too rich⁠—everyone knows that⁠—and I says to myself: ‘Mademoiselle’s going to have no small amount to pay out, and I know mademoiselle, she’ll pay.’ So it’ll do no harm to economize on that, eh? It’ll be just so much saved. The other’ll be just as safe under ground. And then, what will give her the most pleasure up yonder? Why, to know that she isn’t making things hard for anybody, the excellent girl.”

“Pay? What?” said mademoiselle, out of patience with the concierge’s circumlocution.

“Oh! that’s of no account,” he replied; “she was very fond of you, all the same. And then, when she was very sick, it wasn’t the time. Oh! Mon Dieu, you needn’t put yourself out⁠—there’s no hurry about it⁠—it’s money she owed a long while. See, this is it.”

He took a stamped paper from the inside pocket of his coat.

“I didn’t want her to make a note⁠—she insisted.”

Mademoiselle de Varandeuil seized the stamped paper and saw at the foot:

“I acknowledge the receipt of the above amount.

It was a promise to pay three hundred francs in monthly installments, which were to be endorsed on the back.

“There’s nothing there, you see,” said the concierge, turning the paper over.

Mademoiselle de Varandeuil took off her spectacles. “I will pay,” she said.

The concierge bowed. She glanced at him; he did not move.

“That is all, I hope?” she said, sharply.

The concierge had his eyes fixed on a leaf in the carpet. “That’s all⁠—unless⁠—”

Mademoiselle de Varandeuil had the same feeling of terror as at the moment she passed through the door on whose other side she was to see her maid’s dead body.

“But how does she owe all this?” she cried. “I paid her good wages, I almost clothed her. Where did her money go, eh?”

“Ah! there you are, mademoiselle. I should rather not have told you⁠—but as well today as tomorrow. And then, too, it’s better that you should be warned; when you know beforehand you can arrange matters. There’s an account with the poultry woman. The poor girl owed a little everywhere; she didn’t keep things in very good shape these last few years. The laundress left her book the last time she came. It amounts to quite a little⁠—I don’t know just how much. It seems there’s a note at the grocer’s⁠—an old note⁠—it goes back years. He’ll bring you his book.”

“How much at the grocer’s?”

“Something like two hundred and fifty.”

All these disclosures, falling upon Mademoiselle de Varandeuil, one after another, extorted exclamations of stupefied surprise from her. Resting her elbow on her pillow, she said nothing as the veil was torn away, bit by bit, from this life, as its shameful features were brought to light one by one.

“Yes, about two hundred and fifty. There’s a good deal of wine, he tells me.”

“I have always had wine in the cellar.”

“The crémière,” continued the concierge, without heeding her remark, “that’s no great matter⁠—some seventy-five francs. It’s for absinthe and brandy.”

“She drank!” cried Mademoiselle de Varandeuil, everything made clear to her by those words.

The concierge did not seem to hear.

“You see, mademoiselle, knowing the Jupillons was the death of her⁠—the young man especially. It wasn’t for herself that she did what she did. And the disappointment, you see. She took to drink. She hoped to marry him, I ought to say. She fitted up a room for him. When they get to buying furniture the money goes fast. She ruined herself⁠—think of it! It was no use for me to tell her not to throw herself away by drinking as she did. You don’t suppose I was going to tell you, when she came in at six o’clock in the morning! It was the same with her child. Oh!” the concierge added, in reply to mademoiselle’s gesture, “it was a lucky thing the little one died. Never mind, you can say she led a gay life⁠—and a hard one. That’s why I say the common ditch. If I was you⁠—she’s cost you enough, mademoiselle, all the time she’s been living on you. And you can leave her where she is⁠—with everybody else.”

“Ah! that’s how it is! that’s what she was! She stole for men! she ran in debt! Ah! she did well to die, the hussy! And I must pay! A child!⁠—think of that: the slut! Yes, indeed, she can rot where she will! You have done well, Monsieur Henri. Steal! She stole from me! In the ditch, parbleu! that’s quite good enough for her! To think that I let her keep all my keys⁠—I never kept any account. My God! That’s what comes of confidence. Well! here we are⁠—I’ll pay⁠—not on her account, but on my own. And I gave her my best pair of sheets to be buried in! Ah! if I’d known I’d have given you the kitchen dish-clout, mademoiselle how I am duped!”

And mademoiselle continued in this strain for some moments until the words choked one another in her throat and strangled her.