The Diary of a Chambermaid (23 page)

Scarcely had he got over the first enchantments of success, than the snobbishness that existed within him—and this was why he had been able to depict it so forcibly—revealed itself, exploded, so to speak, like a motor car engine when the ignition is switched on … He began by dropping those of his friends whom he found to be tiresome or compromising and only retained those who, either because they were already recognized or because of their position in the newspaper world, could be useful to him and could further his youthful success by persistent acclamation. At the same time, he became intensely preoccupied with his clothes. He began wearing the most daring frock-coats, exaggerated eighteen-thirtyish collars and neckerchiefs, tight-waisted velvet waistcoats and showy jewellery, and would produce expensive gold-tipped cigarettes from a metal case encrusted with pretentiously valuable gems. Yet, in spite of all this, with his heavy movements and common pronunciation, he still retained the massive solidity of the Auvergne peasants amongst whom he had been born. Having so recently arrived in a world of elegance where he was out of his element, it was no use his studying the most perfect models of Parisian fashion: he could never attain the easy manner, the slender, upright carriage, that he so much admired—and so bitterly envied—in the young dandies who frequented the clubs and racecourses, the theatres and restaurants. And his failure was a continual source of bewilderment and dismay to him. For, after all, didn’t he go to the best shops and most famous tailors? Weren’t his boots and shirts made for him by the most outstanding masters of their craft? Yet when he looked at himself in the mirror, he could only curse himself despairingly.

‘However much I doll myself up in silks and satins, I still only manage to look like an outsider. It just doesn’t look natural!’

As for Madame Charrigaud, having hitherto dressed simply and discreetly, she also now took to wearing the most elaborate and showy get-up. Her hair was dyed too deep a red, her jewels were too big, her silks too rich, with the result that she looked like the queen of the costermongers, in all her imperial majesty at a Shrove Tuesday carnival… People often made fun of them, sometimes cruelly. Their friends, humiliated by so much luxury and bad taste, though also enjoying it, avenged themselves by saying:

‘Really, for a man who prides himself on his irony, he doesn’t have much luck!’

Thanks to one or two fortunate encounters, incessant diplomacy and even more incessant sycophancy, they began to be accepted in what they chose to regard as society, the world of Jewish bankers, Venezuelan dukes, archdukes on the run and elderly ladies crazy about literature, white slavery and the Academy … It became their one aim in life to cultivate and develop these new connections, with a view to achieving others even more enviable and exclusive, and so on and so on, in a continual ascent.

One day, in order to get out of an invitation that he had rashly accepted from an undistinguished acquaintance whom he did not want to break with completely, Charrigaud wrote him the following note:

My dear fellow, We are most terribly sorry, but we simply must ask you to excuse us for Monday next. The fact is, we have just received, for that very evening, an invitation to dine with the Rothschilds, and as it is the first time we’ve been asked, you will understand that it is impossible for us to refuse. It would be absolutely disastrous. It’s a good thing we know each other so well, since I’m sure that, far from being angry with us, you will share in our happiness and pride.

On another occasion, describing how he had bought a villa at Deauville, he said:

‘As a matter of fact, I don’t know who these people thought we were … Maybe they thought we were just journalists, Bohemians … but I pointed out to them that I had a lawyer …’

Gradually they managed to throw off all their old friends, people whose mere presence in their house was a constant and unpleasant reminder of the past, an admission that they were tainted with that mark of social inferiority—writing for a living. Charrigaud was also at considerable pains to quench the flame of intelligence that still occasionally lit up his mind, to stifle once and for all that damnable wit, which he thought had died a natural death, but which now and again terrified him by showing signs of reviving. He was now no longer satisfied to be invited by other people, but was determined to play the host; and a house-warming for a place he had just bought at Auteuil was to be the pretext for a dinner-party.

It was just about then that I started working for them … The dinner was not to be one of those intimate affairs, gay and unpretentious, which in the past had made their house a centre of attraction, but a really elegant, really solemn occasion, all starch and ice—in short, a select dinner-party, to which they would ceremoniously invite, in addition to one or two literary and artistic celebrities, a number of society people, not too fussy or conventional, yet sufficiently distinguished to reflect some of their lustre upon their hosts.

‘It’s perfectly simple just to invite people to a meal at a restaurant,’ Charrigaud pointed out. ‘The real test is to give a dinner-party in one’s own home …’

Having considered the project for a considerable time, he finally made up his mind.

‘The point is,’ he decided, ‘I don’t think we ought to start by having nothing but divorced women and their lovers. But we must make a beginning, and there are some divorcees who are perfectly acceptable … even the strictest Catholic papers treat them respectfully … Later on, when our connections are more extensive and we are in a position to please ourselves, we can invite as many as we like.’

‘You are right,’ Madame Charrigaud agreed. ‘For the present, the important thing is to restrict ourselves only to the most distinguished ones … After all, whatever people may say, divorce does present certain difficulties …’

‘At least it has the merit of avoiding adultery,’ scoffed Charrigaud. ‘Adultery is such old hat … The only person who believes in it any more is friend Bourget. Christian adultery, of course, with all the appropriate English trappings …’

‘What a bore you are with your malicious cracks,’ Madame Charrigaud replied in a tone of nervous irritation. ‘If you don’t take care your witticisms are going to put an end to any chance of our having a proper
salon.’
And she added: ‘If you really want to cut a figure in society, you had better make up your mind straight away, either to become an imbecile or to keep your mouth shut.’

After a number of attempts to draw up a list of guests, finally, as the result of a series of laborious combinations, they arrived at the following:

The divorced countess Fergus, and her friend, the economist and Deputy, Joseph Brigard; Baroness Henri Gogsthein, also divorced, and her friend, the poet, Theo Crampp; Baroness Otto Butzinghen and her friend, Viscount Lahyrais, well-known clubman, sportsman, gambler and cheat; Madame de Rambure, another divorcee, and her friend, Madame Tiercelet, who was in process of getting her divorce; Sir Harry Kimberly, symbolist composer and ardent pederast, and his golden-haired boy-friend, Lucien Sartorys, as pretty as a woman, supple as a suede glove and slim as a cigar; the two Academicians, Joseph Dupont de la Brie, a numismatist noted for his collection of obscene medallions, and Isidore Durand de la Marne, in private life a well-known retailer of other people’s love affairs, but at the Institute an unimpeachable sinologist; the portrait painter, Jacques Rigaud; the psychological novelist, Maurice Fernancourt; and the society gossip-writer, Poult d’Essoy.

The invitations were sent out and, as by means of energetic negotiations, were all accepted … Only the countess Fergus showed some hesitation:

‘Who are these Charrigauds?’ she asked. ‘Are they really possible? Wasn’t he at one time involved in all sorts of business in Montmartre? I’ve heard it said that he used to sell obscene photographs that he had posed for himself … As for his wife, the same sort of unpleasant stories were going around about her. Before they were married she seems to have been engaged in similarly sordid adventures. Why, I have even heard she used to be a model at one time, and pose in the nude. What a creature! … exposing herself stark naked in front of a lot of men … and not even her lovers, at that!’

Eventually, however, having been assured that Madame Charrigaud had only sat for her portrait, that Charrigaud was so vindictive that he was quite capable of putting her in one of his books, and that Kimberly would be there, she accepted … Oh, of course, if Kimberly had promised to come … Such a perfect gentleman, so refined, so utterly charming!

Though the Charrigauds were fully informed about these reservations and scruples, far from taking umbrage at them they congratulated themselves that they had been successfully overcome. Now all that remained was to watch their step and, as Madame Charrigaud put it, behave like genuine society people … This dinner-party, so marvellously prepared and organized, so skilfully arranged, was to be their first appearance in the latest avatar of their destiny … It therefore had to be an outstanding success.

During the preceding week the whole house was turned upside down. Somehow or other everything had to be smartened up so that nothing should let them down. To avoid embarrassment at the last moment, they tried out various combinations of lighting and table decorations—a matter on which the two Charrigauds quarrelled like fishwives, for they had completely different ideas and tastes, she being inclined to sentimentality, he insisting that everything should be severe and ‘artistic’.

‘But that’s perfectly ridiculous,’ shouted Charrigaud. ‘It looks like some little tart’s place … We should never hear the last of it!’

‘You’re the one to talk,’ retorted Madame Charrigaud, on the point of a nervous breakdown. ‘You haven’t changed at all … just the same lousy bar-room loafer … I’ve had as much as I can stand … I’m fed up to the teeth!’

‘Oh, so that’s how it is. Then what about getting divorced, my love? Yes, let’s get divorced. At least we should then fit into the picture and not make our guests feel uncomfortable!’

There was a shortage of everything—silver, cutlery, plates, glasses … Well, they’d just have to hire some … Oh, and some chairs … there were only fifteen, and even those didn’t match … In the end they decided to order the meal from one of the well-known restaurants on the boulevard.

‘I want everything to be ultra smart,’ Madame Charrigaud insisted, ‘so that no one will recognize what it is they are eating. Minced prawns, cutlets of foie gras, game served to look like ham, ham like cakes, truffle
mousse,
cherries in cubes and peaches in spirals … In short, everything must be absolutely the last word!’

‘Madame, don’t worry about a thing,’ the manager assured her. ‘We can disguise food so skilfully that I’ll wager nobody will have the slightest idea what they are eating … It is one of our chef’s specialities.’

At last the great day arrived.

Charrigaud got up early … restless, nervous and on edge. His wife, who hadn’t been able to sleep all night, exhausted by yesterday’s shopping and all the preparations, could not sit still. Half a dozen times frowning, breathless, trembling all over, and so tired, she said, that her heart was in her boots, she made a final inspection of the whole house, aimlessly re-arranging the ornaments and furniture, wandering from room to room without any idea of what she was doing, as though she were crazy. She was terrified the cooks wouldn’t arrive in time, that the florist would break his word, that the seating of the guests wasn’t strictly according to precedence. And Charrigaud, wearing nothing but a pair of pink silk pants, trailed around after her, approving this, criticizing that.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said. ‘Wasn’t it rather an odd idea of yours to choose centauries for the table decorations? You realize that, by lamplight, blue just looks black! Besides, centauries are really just a kind of cornflower … It will look as though we’ve picked them ourselves in the country.’

‘Cornflowers, indeed! You’re absolutely maddening!’

‘Yes, cornflowers. And as Kimberly said quite rightly, the other evening at the Rothschilds, cornflowers are simply not a social flower … Why didn’t you order wild poppies as well?’

‘For goodness sake, stop it!’ Madame Charrigaud replied. ‘You’ll drive me crazy with all your idiotic ideas. What a moment to choose!’

But Charrigaud insisted: ‘All right, all right, but you’ll see … If only everything goes off reasonably well, my God, and there are no last minute snags! I hadn’t realized that to get into society was such an exhausting and complicated business. Maybe it would have been better if we had been content to remain just ordinary hangers-on.’

‘For heavens sake! Will nothing ever change you? You’re not much credit to a woman, I must say!’

As they thought I was pretty, and extremely elegant into the bargain, they had decided to give me an important part in their comedy … To begin with I was to take charge of the cloakroom, and then help, or rather supervise, the four waiters … four huge lascars, with immense sidewhiskers, whom they had managed to engage at various registry offices.

At first everything went smoothly … though there was one false alarm. At a quarter past nine Countess Fergus had still not arrived. What if she’d changed her mind, and decided at the last moment not to come? It would be a humiliating disaster! The Charrigauds could scarcely hide their consternation, though Brigard did his best to re-assure them … This happened to be the day that the Countess had to preside at that admirable charity, ‘Cigar ends for the Armed Forces’, and sometimes the meetings went on very late …

‘What a charming woman,’ Madame Charrigaud cooed ecstatically, as though hoping that the compliment might magically hasten the arrival of the ‘wretched countess’ whom she was inwardly cursing.

‘And so intelligent!’ Charrigaud added, going one better, though feeling exactly the same. ‘The other day, at the Rothschilds, I couldn’t help feeling one would have to go back to the last century to find such perfect grace, such natural superiority …’

‘Oh, further than that!’ interposed Brigard. ‘You see, my dear Charrigaud, in every egalitarian and democratic society …’