“Yes, a bill! and for false hair, too! Is it possible? for hair! as though you had none left on your head! But that’s not all. You’ve paid the bill; tell me, what did you pay it with?”
The young woman, becoming more and more confused, ended by replying:
“With my own money, of course!”
“Your money! but you haven’t any. Some one must have given you some, or else you have taken it from here. And, listen! I know all; you’re in debt. I will tolerate what you like; but no debts, understand me, no debts!—never!”
And he put into these words all the horror of a prudent fellow, all his commercial integrity, which consisted in never owing anything. For a long while he relieved his pent-up feelings, reproaching his wife with her constant goings-out, her visits all over Paris, her dresses, her luxury, which he could not provide for. Was it sensible for people in their position to stop out till eleven o’clock at night, with pink silk dresses embroidered with white jet? When one had such tastes as those, one should bring five hundred thousand francs as a marriage portion. Moreover, he knew who was the guilty one; it was the silly mother who brought up her daughters to squander fortunes, without even being able to give them so much as a chemise on their wedding-day.
“Don’t say a word against mamma!” cried Berthe, raising her head and thoroughly exasperated at last. “No one can reproach her with anything; she has done her duty. And your family—it’s a nice one! People who killed their father!”
Octave had buried himself in his tickets, and pretended not to hear. But he followed the quarrel from out of the corner of his eye, and especially watched Saturnin, who was all in a tremble, and had left off rubbing the glass, his fists clenched, his eyes glaring, ready to spring at the husband’s throat.
“Let us leave our families alone,” resumed the latter. “We have quite enough with our own home. Listen! you must alter your ways, for I will not give another sou for all this tomfoolery. Oh! I have quite made up my mind. Your place is here at the till, in a quiet dress, like a woman who has some respect for herself. And if you incur any more debts, we’ll see.”
Berthe was almost stifling, in presence of that brutal husband’s foot set down upon her habits, her pleasures, and her dresses. It was the extinction of all she loved, of all she had dreamed of when marrying. But, with a woman’s tactics, she hid the wound from which her heart was bleeding; she gave a pretext to the passion which was swelling her face, and repeated more violently than ever:
“I will not permit you to insult mamma!”