One Night’s Entertainment

Sergeant-Major Varajou had got eight days’ leave to visit his sister, Mme. Padoie. Varajou, who was garrisoned at Rennes, and led a gay life there, finding himself penniless and in disgrace with his family, had written to his sister that he would be able to devote a week’s freedom to her. Not that he was very fond of Mme. Padoie, a sententious little woman, pious and always ill-tempered, but he needed money, he needed it badly, and he remembered that the Padoies were the only remaining relatives on whom he had not levied toll.

Varajou senior, formerly a horticulturist at Angers, had retired from business, had shut his purse to his scapegrace of a son, and had hardly set eyes on him for two years. His daughter had married Padoie, formerly a bank clerk, who had just been made a tax-collector at Vannes.

So Varajou betook himself by train to his brother-in-law’s house; he found him in his office, in the thick of a discussion with some Breton peasants from the neighbouring village. Padoie rose from his chair, held out a hand across the table piled with papers, and murmured:

“Take a seat, I’ll be ready to talk to you in a minute,” sat down again, and went on with the discussion.

The peasants did not understand his explanations, he did not understand their arguments; he spoke French, the others spoke a Breton dialect, and the clerk who was acting as interpreter did not seem to understand either party.

For a long time Varajou sat contemplating his brother-in-law, and thinking: “What an impossible ass!”

Padoie must have been nearly fifty years old; he was tall, thin, bony, slow and shaggy, with overarching eyebrows that formed hairy vaults over his eyes. His head was covered with a velvet cap, ornamented with a golden tassel; his glance was mild, as were all his characteristics; he was mild in word, deed and thought. Varajou silently reiterated: “What an impossible ass!”

He himself was one of your noisy roisterers, for whom life holds no greater pleasures than wine and bought women. Outside these two poles of existence, he understood nothing. Braggart, brawler, contemptuous of every living person, he despised the whole world from the heights of his ignorance. When he said: “Damn it, what a lark,” he had certainly expressed the highest degree of admiration of which he was capable.

At last Padoie dismissed the peasants, and asked:

“You going on all right?”

“Not bad, as you can see. What about you?”

“Fairly well, thanks. It’s very nice of you to think of coming to see us.”

“Oh, I’ve been thinking of coming to see you for a long time, but in the military profession one’s not so free, you know.”

“Oh, I know, I know. Never mind, it’s very nice of you.”

“And is Joséphine well?”

“Yes, yes, thanks, you’ll see her in a moment.”

“Where is she now, then?”

“She’s out visiting; we have a number of relatives here; it’s a very select town.”

“I’m sure it is.”

But the door opened, Mme. Padoie appeared. She approached her brother with no great show of joy, offered him her cheek, and said: “Have you been here long?”

“No, hardly half an hour.”

“Ah, I thought the train would be late. Come into the drawing room, will you?”

As soon as they were alone: “I’ve been hearing fine tales about you.”

“What have you heard?”

“It seems that you behave in the most disgraceful ways, that you drink and run up bills.”

He wore an air of profound astonishment.

“Never in my life.”

“Oh, don’t deny it, I know better.”

He made another attempt to defend himself, but she silenced him with so violent a scolding that he was compelled to hold his tongue. Then she added:

“We dine at six, you’re free till dinner, I can’t keep you company because I’ve several things to do.”

Left to himself, he hesitated between sleeping and going out. He gazed in turn at the door leading to his room, and the one which led to the street. He decided on the street.

So he went out, and sauntered slowly, his sword clanking on his legs, through the dreary Breton town, so sleepy, so dead-alive beside its inland sea, that it was called the “Morbihan.” He looked at the little grey houses, the rare passersby, the empty shops, and murmured: “You couldn’t call Vannes gay or boisterous; it was a rotten idea to come here.”

He reached the gloomy harbour, returned along a sad, deserted boulevard, and was home again before five o’clock. Then he flung himself upon his bed to sleep till dinner time.

The maid woke him by knocking on his door.

“Dinner is ready, sir.”

He went down.

In the damp dining room, where the paper was peeling off the lower half of the walls, a soup tureen waited on a round bare table in company with three melancholy plates.

M. and Mme. Padoie entered just as Varajou did.

They took their places, then husband and wife made a sign of the cross on the pit of their stomachs, after which Padoie served the soup, gravy soup. It was broth day.

After the soup, came the beef, overdone, disintegrated, greasy beef, cooked to a mush. The sergeant-major masticated it slowly, overcome with disgust, weariness and anger.

Mme. Padoie was saying to her husband:

“You’re going to visit the president tonight?”

“Yes, my dear.”

“Don’t stay too late. You get tired every time you go out anywhere; you’re not fit to lead a social life with your bad health.”

Then she began to talk about the society of Vannes, of the very select society which received the Padoies with the greatest respect, because of their religious beliefs.

Then mashed potatoes, with slices of cold sausage, were served, in honour of the guest. Then cheese. The meal was finished. No coffee.

Varajou realised that he would have to spend the evening alone with his sister, enduring her reproaches, and listening to her sermons, without even a liqueur to pour down his throat to make her reprimands easier to swallow; he thought desperately that he could not endure such anguish, and declared that he had to report at the police station to get his leave papers made properly in order. And he hurried away at seven o’clock.

The instant he got into the street, he began by shaking himself like a dog coming out of the water. “My God,” he murmured, “oh, my God, what a filthy bore!”

He set out in search of a café, the best café in the town. He found it in a square, behind two gas jets. Inside, five or six men, quiet, prosperous tradespeople, were sitting with their elbows on the little tables, drinking and quietly talking, while two billiard-players walked round the green cloth, where their balls rolled and collided.

Voices rose, announcing the score. “Eighteen. Nineteen. No luck. Oh, good stroke; well played. Eleven. You ought to have taken it off the red. Twenty. Run through, run through. Twelve. Then, I was right, wasn’t I?”

Varajou ordered: “Coffee, and a decanter of brandy, the best.”

Then he sat down, and waited for his drinks.

He was accustomed to spending his evenings of freedom with his comrades, in rowdy hilarity and clouds of smoke. The silence and calm of this place exasperated him. He began to drink, first coffee, and then the decanter of brandy, then a second which he had ordered. He was ready to laugh now, shout, sing, fight someone.

“Thank the Lord,” he said, “Varajou’s himself again.” Then the idea came into his head to find some women for his amusement. He called for a waiter:

“Hi, my lad.”

“Yes, sir.”

“My lad, whereabouts in this town can a fellow see a bit of fun?”

The man looked blank at the question.

“I don’t know, sir. At this café.”

“What do you mean, in this café? What do you call a bit of fun, eh?”

“Why, I don’t know, sir; drinking a glass of good beer or wine.”

“Come off it, idiot. Women, what do you do for women?”

“Women! Ah!”

“Yes, women. Where’ll I get any here?”

“Women?”

“Yes, of course, women.”

The waiter came closer, and lowered his voice:

“You want to know where the house is?”

“Lord, yes.”

“Take the second street to the left, and the first to the right. Number 15.”

“Thanks, old bean. Here y’re.”

“Thank you, sir.”

And Varajou left the café repeating: “Second to the left, first to the right, 15.” But after walking for a few moments, he thought: “Second to the left⁠—yes⁠—But ought I to turn right or left from the café? Bah, devil take it, I’ll soon find out.”

He walked on, turned down the second street to the left, then down the first on the right, and looked for number 15. It was a fairly substantial house, and he could see that the first-floor windows were lit up behind their closed shutters. The front door was half open, and a lamp was burning in the hall: The sergeant-major thought: “This is it.”

So he went in, and, as no one came, he called:

“Hullo, hullo.”

A little maid came, and stood stock-still in amazement at the sight of a soldier. “Good evening, my child,” he said to her. “Are the ladies upstairs?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In the drawing room?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I can go up, I suppose, can I?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The door is at the top of the stairs?”

“Yes, sir.”

He went upstairs, opened a door, and in a room brilliantly lighted by two lamps, a lustre, and two candelabras of wax candles, he saw four ladies in evening gowns who seemed to be expecting somebody.

Three of them, the youngest, were arranged rather stiffly on chairs covered in garnet velvet, while the fourth, who was about forty-five years old, was arranging some flowers in a vase. She was very fat, and clad in a green silk dress that, like a sheath of a monstrous flower, revealed her enormous arms, and her enormous throat, shining rose-red under a coating of powder.

The sergeant-major saluted:

“Good evening, ladies.”

The old lady, turned round; she seemed surprised, but she bowed:

“Good evening.”

He sat down.

But perceiving that they showed no signs of being delighted to welcome him, he thought that probably only officers were admitted to this place; the thought disturbed him. Then he said to himself: “Bah, if an officer comes, we’ll pull it off.” And he asked:

“Everything all right?”

The stout lady, who was doubtless the mistress of the house, replied:

“Quite all right, thank you.”

He found no more to say and no one else spoke.

At last he became ashamed of his diffidence and, laughing awkwardly, said:

“Well, we’re not having a very riotous time. I’ll pay for a bottle of wine⁠ ⁠…”

He had not finished his remark when the door opened again, and Padoie appeared in evening dress.

At the sight of him, Varajou gave vent to a howl of delight, and jumping to his feet, he leapt on his brother-in-law, seized him in his arms, and danced him round the drawing room, bawling: “Here’s old Padoie⁠ ⁠… here’s old Padoie⁠ ⁠… here’s old Padoie.”

Then, leaving the collector dazed with surprise, he shouted in his face:

“Oh, you gay dog, you gay dog!⁠ ⁠… So you’re having a night out⁠ ⁠… oh, you gay dog! What about my sister! You’re giving her the go-by, are you?”

And seeing in a flash all the profitable consequences of this unhoped-for situation, forced loans and absolutely safe blackmail, he flung himself full length on the couch and began to laugh so madly that the whole couch creaked.

The three young ladies rose as one, and hurried out, while the elder lady recoiled towards the door, and seemed on the verge of fainting.

Two gentlemen appeared, both in evening dress, and wearing their orders. Padoie flung himself towards them.

“Oh, Mr. President⁠ ⁠… he’s mad⁠ ⁠… mad.⁠ ⁠… He’s your been sent to us to recuperate⁠ ⁠… you can see for yourself that he’s mad.”

Varajou gave it up: he didn’t understand things now, and abruptly guessed that he had made some quite monstrous lapse. Then he stood up, and turned towards his brother-in-law:

“What’s this house, where are we?” he asked.

But Padoie, seized with a sudden access of fury, stammered:

“Where are we?⁠ ⁠… where are we?⁠ ⁠… Wretch⁠ ⁠… miscreant⁠ ⁠… scoundrel⁠ ⁠… where are we?⁠ ⁠… in the president’s house⁠ ⁠… in the house of President de Mortemain⁠ ⁠… de Mortemain⁠ ⁠… de⁠ ⁠… de⁠ ⁠… de Mortemain⁠ ⁠… oh⁠ ⁠… oh⁠ ⁠… swine!⁠ ⁠… swine!⁠ ⁠… swine!⁠ ⁠… swine!”