The Diary of a Chambermaid (27 page)

‘Exaudi nos, Domine,’
replied the Dean, shining his lantern on the maze of carvings, amongst which it was just possible to distinguish the apocalyptic figures of saints and demons, dancing and grimacing in the moonlight. Suddenly, as he caught sight of the impure image of sin, aimed directly at him, terrible and furious, the Dean let out a loud cry, while the nun, still clinging to the ladder, managed to stutter:

‘Mater purissima … Mater castissima … Mater inviolata …’

‘Oh, the swine, the filthy swine,’ yelled the Dean, brandishing his hammer. And while, behind him, Sister Angela continued reciting the litany of the Blessed Virgin, and the verger, huddled at the foot of the ladder, prayed in a whining voice, he struck the obscene image a resounding blow. Splinters of stone struck him in the face, and there was the sound of a heavy body crashing on to the roof, slithering towards the gutter, and finally falling with a thud into the cloister below.

The next morning as she was leaving the church after mass, Mademoiselle Robineau, a particularly devout lady, happened to notice on the floor of the cloister, an object which struck her as having the unusual form and curious appearance of those holy relics that one sometimes sees preserved in reliquaries. She picked it up and, after examining it carefully, said to herself:

‘Probably it is a relic, a holy and precious relic, petrified in some miraculous spring … Indeed, God moves in most mysterious ways.’

Her first thought was to offer it to the Dean, but, on further reflection, she decided to take it home with her as a protection against sin and misfortune.

As soon as she got home, Mademoiselle Robineau went up to her room, and there, on a table spread with a white cloth, surmounted by a red velvet cushion with gold tassels, she carefully laid the precious relic. Then, covering it with a glass globe and placing a vase of artificial flowers on either side, she knelt down before this improvised altar and ardently invoked the unknown saint, to whom, in some remote period, this holy object had once belonged. But before long she began to feel worried. The fervour of her prayers, the pure joy of her ecstasy were increasingly disturbed by strangely human preoccupations. She was even assailed by the most terrible and piercing doubts. ‘Can it really be a holy relic?’ she asked herself.

And though she continued to say more and more
pater nosters
and
aves
she could not help indulging curiously impure thoughts and listening to a voice which, rising from within herself and drowning the sound of her prayers, kept repeating:

‘Still, he must have been a fine figure of a man!’

Poor Mademoiselle Robineau. When she finally discovered what the stone object really was, she almost died of shame and kept repeating over and over again:

‘And to think how many times I kissed it!’

Today, November 10th, we were busy all day cleaning silver. This is quite an event, a traditional occasion like jam making. The Lanlaires have a magnificent collection of silver, including several antique pieces that are almost unique and extremely beautiful. Madame inherited it from her father who, according to some people, was holding it in trust; though others say that it was given him by a nobleman, as security for a loan. He wasn’t satisfied with buying young men for military service, the old brute. He was up to anything, and one more swindle certainly wouldn’t have worried him. If the grocer’s wife is to be believed, the whole business of the silver was completely crooked, for it appears that Madame’s father not only was repaid the full amount he had lent, but also managed to hang on to the silver. I don’t know the exact circumstances, but there is little doubt it was a super swindle!

Naturally, the Lanlaires never use it. It is kept locked up in a cupboard in the pantry, in three large cases, lined with red velvet and fixed to the wall with strong iron staples. Each year, on the 10th November, the cases are brought out, and, under Madame’s personal supervision, the silver is cleaned. Then, for another year, no one sees it again. You should have seen Madame’s expression, at the thought of us being allowed to touch her silver. I’ve never seen a woman with a look of such savage cupidity!

Isn’t it curious the way people like this hide everything away? Bury their silver, their jewels, their wealth, their happiness, and, instead of living happily and luxuriously, insist upon living as though they were hard up?

Having completed the job, and locked up the silver for another year, Madame at last cleared off, though not before she had satisfied herself that we had not taken anything. When she had gone Joseph said in a funny kind of voice:

‘It’s a splendid collection, you know, Célestine, especially the Louis XVI cruet. Jesus, but it’s heavy … The whole lot must be worth at least 25,000 francs. In fact, no one can say what it
is
worth.’

And looking at me with a fixed, heavy stare, he added:

‘Have you made up your mind to come with me yet?’

Whatever connection can there be between the Lanlaires’ silver and the Cherbourg café … I don’t know why, but the truth is, almost everything Joseph says scares me …

I said I was going to talk about Monsieur Xavier. I often think of the little wretch! Of all the faces I have ever set eyes on there are few that I recall as often as his, and when I do, sometimes it makes me feel sad, sometimes angry … Still, with that wrinkled, cheeky little face of his, he really was jolly amusing … and utterly depraved! A regular little bounder … A typical product of the times, as you might say.

I had been engaged by a Madame de Tarves, who lived in Varennes Street … a peach of a place … everything up to the nines and excellent wages … a hundred francs a month, free laundry, wine and so on. The morning I got there, feeling very pleased with myself, Madame sent for me to her boudoir … A marvellous room, walls covered with cream-coloured silk … and Madame herself, tall, heavily made up … skin too white, lips too red, hair too fair … still pretty … rustling petticoats … and such elegance, such a presence! Oh, there was certainly no arguing about that …

I already had a good eye for such things. I had only to walk into any Parisian household, and it was enough to give me a pretty shrewd idea of the kind of people that lived there and, though furniture can sometimes be as deceptive as faces, I wasn’t often far out … Here, in spite of the lavishness of everything, I felt at once that something was wrong, that relations were strained. There was an air of hurried, feverish existence, of some kind of intimate, hidden rottenness … though not so well hidden that I couldn’t detect the smell of it… That’s always the same … Besides, a new servant has only to exchange glances with the old ones and a kind of masonic sign passes between them —usually quite spontaneous and involuntary—that immediately warns you of what to expect. As in all jobs, servants tend to be jealous of one another, and are prepared to defend themselves savagely against newcomers … I myself, although I’m so easy going, have had to put up with plenty of jealousy and dislike, particularly from the women, who are furious because I’m so attractive … Though I must say, in fairness to them, that the men have always made me welcome … perhaps for the same reason.

From the expression on the footman’s face, when he first opened the door to me, I had clearly understood what he meant … ‘It’s a rum kind of a joint here … Not much security, but plenty of fun, all the same … You’ll soon find your feet, my dear …’ And by the time I reached Madame’s boudoir I was therefore prepared for something out of the usual, at least to the extent that such vague and summary impressions can be relied upon. But, I admit, I had no very clear idea of what exactly I might expect.

Madame de Tarves was seated at a sweet little desk, writing letters. Instead of a carpet, the floor was covered with white astrakhan rugs, and, on the cream-coloured walls, I was struck by the coarse, almost obscene, eighteenth-century engravings that hung alongside antique enamels depicting scenes from the bible. There was a glass case, containing jewels, ivories, miniatures, snuff boxes and gay, charmingly delicate little Dresden figures; and a table, covered with costly toilet necessities made of silver and gold. On a sofa, between two mauve silk cushions, a little dog was curled up, a tiny ball of brown fur, silky and shining.

‘So you’re Célestine? That’s right, isn’t it?’ enquired Madame. ‘Well, that’s a name I can’t stand … I shall call you Mary … in English. Don’t forget now … Mary. Yes, that’s much more becoming.’

That’s how it usually goes … We servants haven’t even the right to use our own names, because there’s nearly always one of the daughters, cousins, dogs or parrots that have the same one.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ I replied.

‘Can you speak English, Mary?’

‘No, ma’am … I told you before, when you asked me, ma’am.’

‘Oh yes, of course . .. That’s a pity … Turn round a little, Mary, and let me have a look at you!’

She examined me from every angle, front, back and sideways, murmuring to herself:

‘Yes, not bad … pretty good.’

Then suddenly she asked:

‘Tell me something, Mary … What about your figure? Would you say you were really well made?’

Her question surprised and upset me: I could see no connection between the fact that I was working for her and the shape of my body. But, without waiting for a reply, and coolly running her lorgnettes over me from head to foot, she said to herself:

‘Yes, she seems to be pretty well made.’

Then, turning to me with a contented smile, she explained:

‘You see, Mary, I can’t stand anyone waiting on me unless they are well made … It’s more becoming.’

But this was not to be the last of my surprises, for, continuing her minute examination of me, she suddenly exclaimed:

‘Ah, your hair! You’ll have to do
that
differently. Your present style isn’t at all smart. You have lovely hair, and you ought to show it off to best advantage … The way a woman does her hair is always most important … See, like this … Yes, that’s much better.’

And rumpling my hair over my forehead, she repeated:

‘Yes, that’s much better … She’s charming. Look at me, Mary. Yes, quite charming … That’s much more becoming.’

And she went on patting my hair, until I began to wonder whether she was either a bit cracked, or whether, perhaps, she had unnatural tastes … Honestly, that would have been about the last straw! … At last, when she had finished, and was satisfied about my hair, she asked:

‘Is this your best dress you’re wearing?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Well, for a best dress, I can’t say it’s up to much. I must let you have one of mine, and you can alter it … And what about your petticoat?’

She lifted up my skirt, and commented:

‘Oh, I see … Not at all becoming … And your underclothes?’

Annoyed by this impertinent inspection, I replied dryly:

‘I’m afraid I don’t know what Madame means by “becoming”.’

‘I want to see your underclothes … Go and fetch some … But first, let me see how you walk. Come back here … now turn around … again. Well, she walks all right. She’s certainly got style.’

But, as soon as she saw my underwear, she pulled a face.

‘What ghastly material! And your stockings, your slips? Terrible … As for those corsets, I simply couldn’t allow anyone in my house to wear such things … Here, Mary, come and help me.’

She opened a red lacquer wardrobe and, pulling out a huge drawer full of perfumed frills and furbelows, she emptied them all out on the floor in a heap.

‘You can have this one, Mary … No, you’d better take the lot … You may probably find you’ll have to alter them a little, and some of them may need mending … but you can manage that. Take them all. You should find all you need there … enough to make yourself a pretty trousseau … Take the lot.’

There was, in fact, everything I could possibly want … silk corsets and stockings, shifts made of silk and finest cambric, the sweetest little knickers, charming fronts, and lovely, frilly petticoats. And the most delicious perfume, a mixture of delicate femininity and love, arose from this pile of lacy garments, which, like a basket of freshly gathered flowers, shimmered with every colour of the rainbow. I simply couldn’t get over it, but stood there stupidly, delighted, though also embarrassed, by this gorgeous array of clothes—pink, mauve, yellow, red, with here and there a bit of more brightly coloured ribbon or delicate lace—while Madame sorted over these charming cast-offs, most of which had scarcely been worn, holding them up for me to see, suggesting which ones I should choose and indicating her own preference.

‘I always like the maids who wait on me to be smart and elegant… and to smell nice. You are a brunette … Here’s a red skirt that will suit you marvellously. But the fact is they all suit you admirably … You may as well take the lot …’

I was completely overwhelmed, and, not knowing what to do or say, I could only repeat mechanically:

‘Thank you, ma’am. It’s most kind of you, ma’am, thank you.’

But, without giving me time to pull myself together, Madame kept on talking and talking, alternately familiar, shameless, maternal … and sometimes like an old bawd.

‘It’s like cleanliness, Mary … taking care of your body … washing properly … That’s one thing I insist upon above everything … I am most particular about it … It’s almost a mania with me.’

And off she went into the most intimate details, continually using the word ‘becoming’, even when, to me, it seemed quite inappropriate. As we were finishing sorting out the underclothes, she suddenly said:

‘A woman, no matter who she is, always ought to take care of herself properly … So you will always do as I do, Mary. It’s important … Tomorrow you must have a bath … I’ll show you where.’

She then took me into her bedroom, showed me the wardrobes and cupboards where her clothes were kept, and explained my duties, all the time keeping up a running commentary that struck me as being funny and quite unnatural.

‘Now,’ she said, ‘I’ll take you to Monsieur Xavier’s room, for you’ll be waiting on him as well, Mary … He’s my son.’