XCII.
THE SCAPULAR
"And the old bearded fellow rubbed away, pushed with his hips, embracing her in front: clasped with his arms embracing her behind; stuffing at the chancellery, throwing her gently and collecting his strength, labouring with his chest, and even tripping her up: he made use of all."
LÉON CLADEL (Ompdrailles).
—I shall scream, said Zulma, who was defending herself valiantly; I shall scream if you do not loose me.
—Scream as much as you will, said the holy man as he recovered breath: here the walls are deaf, and you will have to deal with me.
—I just laugh at you. You old Punch!
—Old Punch! Punch!
—You ought to be ashamed.
—You insult me; take care.
—Let me go directly, or I shall know whom to complain to.
—Ah, you assume that tone! You want to make a complaint do you? And to whom, you little wretch?
—To whom it may concern.
—Ah, what a fine expression you have learnt by heart. Who is whom it may concern? I do not know him. Whoever he may be, whom it may concern will laugh in your face. You, a daughter of the streets, a rope-dancer, a clown, a ragged slut, you would lodge a complaint against me! Surely you do not know who I am. I am an honourable man; known everywhere, respected everywhere. Come, you see clearly that you are talking nonsense; be more reasonable again. What! it pleases me to cast my eyes upon you, to want to pass a little while with you agreeably; I honour you by stooping myself to a girl of your kind, and you refuse, and are fastidious. Has one ever seen such a thing? It is enough to make God laugh. Come, come now, not so many affectations: for the lost time, how much do you want? A hundred francs?
—You horrify me. Let me go away.
He cast a fearful look upon her, and said, with a laugh which chilled her blood:
—Oh, you want to go away. Well, how about the money I have spent on you, and on your journey?
—Your money! I did not ask you for it. But I will let you have it back again, be assured; when I have worked and earned it.
—And you believe that I shall be satisfied with this fine promise? You will let me have my money back immediately, or I shall certainly accuse you of being a thief … an adventuress.
—I will say what happened. It was you who compelled me to take the money for the coach-fare.
—I make you a present of that, but you will have to pay all that you have spent here; if not, you will be put in prison, you understand, little good-for-nothing? Do you think people are going to keep you and let you enjoy yourself for nothing?
—And who has told you that I shall not pay, replied Zulma, struck by the logic of this objection.
—Then you will pay immediately, said the worthy man, for I have been answerable for you, and it is on my recommendation that they have received a trollop like you into this respectable house. Madame Connard, he cried at the door, dear Madame Connard, will you bring up the bill, the little bill?
Madame Connard appeared at once:
—What, Mademoiselle is going away, is she not sleeping here?
—No, Mademoiselle is going to try her fortune elsewhere.
Madame Connard handed the bill to Monsieur Tibulle.
—No, no. It is Mademoiselle who is going to settle it; this young lady.
Zulma glanced at it and grew pale. She had hardly 10 francs, and the bill amounted to 19 francs, 75 centimes.
—And besides, it is so little because it is you. Everything is so dear here, and one does not know what to do for a living.
The poor girl remained silent; she looked at the bill without seeing it, for her eyes were full of tears.
—Well, said Monsieur Tibulle in a wheedling tone. Is there some little hindrance to your settling that?
—Madame, said Zulma, I have not enough money with me; no, I do not believe I have enough money … but I can find it, I know where to find it … and in an hour or two….
—Oh, oh, cried Madame Connard, in an hour or two, that is a very fine tale. But I know it, my girl, and people don't tell me that sort of thing.
—Well, dear Madame, I leave you, said Monsieur Tibulle, making her a knowing sign; I am going to see if my horse is put to, for I am setting off directly. Good-bye, little one, good-bye. No malice.
—Well, Mademoiselle, said Madame Connard, what do you decide?
—I have told you, Madame, I can give you five or six francs, and, although it is a downright robbery, I will find you the rest.
-What! a robbery? you little thief, you little hussy, you dare to call me a thief, you little street-walker. You are going to pay me immediately, or I will hand you over to the police.
—Very well, call the police, if you wish; I ask for nothing better; I will relate what has occurred.
She considered no doubt that she was wrong, for she cried:
—Look, that is not all, pay me immediately and take yourself off somewhere else. Has one ever seen anything like? You believed perhaps that I was going to lodge you and keep you for your pretty face? No, my dear. I have been done already in that way, and you don't catch me any more. There was a respectable gentleman, very polite, rich, and wearing a red ribbon, who was answerable for you, if you had been willing to make an arrangement with him; but instead of making an arrangement with him, you have a dispute; so much the worse for you, your family quarrels don't concern me. What I want is the money, that is all that I know; pay me my bill and get out, you little prostitute.
—Come, dear Madame, I will try and arrange this little matter, said Monsieur Tibulle, appearing again; the little one is going to think better of it, I feel sure. Let me reason with her.
Madame Connard withdrew complacently.
—You see, you see in what a position you are placing yourself, said the excellent old gentleman, crossing his arms and looking at the young girl with all the dignity and sorrow of a father who has detected his child in some shameful act.
—Say rather into what an ambush you have driven me, you old scoundrel.
—Oh, oh, oh! no bad word, my girl. Bad words are no use. I am going away to pay the bill.
—A fig for you and your money.
—What! a fig for me and my money! In the first place you should never despise money, my girl; we can do nothing without money in this world. And then you are wrong to despise me, who only wish you well, my dear; yes, yes, wish you well.
—I tell you to leave me alone.
—Look now, don't be naughty, for I am going to settle the matter.
—I don't want you. Don't touch me….
—And how are you going to get yourself out of this scrape, if you will not let me get you out. You rebuff me again, though I only want to make you happy.
—I tell you not to come near me.
—Come, be pacified, you little angry cat; only a kiss and that shall be all.
He wanted to take hold of her waist, but she pushed him back. But he had gone too far to believe that he ought to beat a retreat, and he retained to the charge with renewed vigour. In the struggle she seized him by the neck, his waistcoat came undone, and a little square bit of painted canvas, of a dubious colour, remained in her hand. She threw it back in his face in disgust.
—My scapular! he cried. You throw my scapular about in this way. Stay, you are a little wretch, a street-walker, a hussy, a reprobate. You will perish miserably, and I leave you to your fate. Ah, you throw away my scapular!
When he had said this, the good gentleman piously recovered his scapular, buttoned up his overcoat, and retired full of dignity.