III
A Visit
During a whole week Patissot related his adventure to everyone that would listen to him, describing poeticaly the places he had visited, and growing indignant at the little enthusiasm he aroused among his colleagues. Only Monsieur Boivin, an old clerk nicknamed “Boileau,” lent him undivided attention. He lived in the country and had a small garden on which he lavished a great deal of care; he was content with little and was said to be perfectly happy. Patissot was now able to understand him, and the similarity of their tastes made them fast friends. To seal this budding friendship, Père Boivin invited him to breakfast the following Sunday at his little house in Colombes.
Patissot took the eight o’clock train, and after looking a long while discovered in the very heart of the town, an obscure street, a sort of filthy passageway enclosed by two high walls. At the end appeared a moldy door fastened with a string wound around two nails. He opened it and was confronted by an indescribable creature, apparently a woman. The upper part of her body was wrapped in a dirty shawl, a ragged skirt hung around her hips, and her frowsy hair was filled with pigeon feathers. Her little gray eyes scanned the visitor inhospitably; after a pause she inquired: “What do you wish?”
“Monsieur Boivin.”
“He lives here. What do you want of Monsieur Boivin?”
Patissot was embarrassed, and hesitated.
“Why—he expects me.”
Her manner became fiercer and she replied: “Oh! you’re the one, are you, who is coming for breakfast?”
He stammered a trembling “Yes.” Turning toward the house she yelled:
“Boivin, here’s the man!”
Boivin instantly appeared in the doorway of a sort of plaster structure, covered with tin, that looked something like a chaufferette. He wore a pair of soiled white trousers and a dirty straw hat. He shook hands with Patissot and carried him off to what he proudly termed his garden; it was a little piece of ground about as big as a handkerchief, surrounded by houses. The sun shone on it only two or three hours every day; pansies, carnations, and a few rosebushes vegetated in this dark well, heated like a furnace by the radiation of the sun on the roofs. “We have no trees,” he said, “but the high walls are just as good, and it is as shady here as in the woods.”
Then, laying his hand on Patissot’s arm, he said: “Will you do me a favor? You’ve seen the old woman—she isn’t very easy, is she? But you haven’t heard all, wait till breakfast. Just think, to keep me at home, she locks up my office suit and lets me have only clothes that are too soiled to wear in the city. Today I’m dressed decently because I told her that you were coming. That’s understood. But I cannot water the flowers for fear of soiling my trousers, and if I do that I’m lost! I thought you might do it for me.”
Patissot consented, took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and began to work the pump, that wheezed and blew like a consumptive and gave out a stream of water about as big as his little finger. It took ten minutes to fill the watering-can. Patissot was dripping with perspiration. Boivin directed his efforts. “Here, water this plant—a little more. That’s enough! Now to this one.”
The can leaked, and Patissot’s feet got more water than the flowers, so that the edges of his trousers were soaked with mud. Twenty times at least he went to and fro, wetting his feet, and perspiring violently whenever he worked the pump handle; and when he was exhausted and wished to stop, old Boivin would pull him by the sleeve, and plead: “Just one more can, just one, and that will be enough.”
As a reward, he gave him a full-blown rose which lost all its petals as soon as it came in contact with Patissot’s coat, leaving in his buttonhole a sort of greenish pear, that caused him great surprise. He didn’t care to make any comment, however, out of politeness, and Boivin did not appear to notice it.
Suddenly Madame Boivin’s voice rang out: “Well! are you coming? How many times shall I tell you that it’s ready?”
They walked toward the chaufferette, trembling like two culprits.
If the garden was shady the house was not, and the heat of the rooms was worse than that of an oven.
Three plates, flanked with greasy forks and knives, had been laid on a dirty wooden table, in the middle of which stood a dish filled with soup-meat and potatoes floating around in some sort of liquid. They sat down and began to eat.
A large decanter filled with pinkish water attracted Patissot’s eye. Boivin, slightly embarrassed, mentioned it to his wife saying: “Dear, couldn’t you give us today a little pure wine?”
She eyed him furiously, then burst out:
“So that you can both get drunk, I suppose, and carouse here all day? No, thank you!” He said no more. After the ragout the woman brought in another dish of potatoes prepared with rancid lard, and when, still silent, they had finished, she declared:
“That’s all there is. Now get out.”
Boivin stared at her in amazement.
“What has happened to the pigeon you were picking this morning?” he inquired.
She put her hands on her hips.
“You haven’t had enough, I suppose? Is it a reason, because you bring people here, to eat up everything there is in the house? What do you think I’ll have to eat tonight, sir?”
The two men arose and stood in the doorway. Boivin whispered in Patissot’s ear:
“Wait for me a minute, and we’ll set out.” He went into the next room to finish dressing, and Patissot overheard the following dialogue:
“Give me twenty sous, dear.”
“What do you want them for?”
“Why, I don’t know what may happen; it is always safer to have some money.”
She screamed so as to be heard outside: “No, sir, I shan’t give it to you. After this man has breakfasted here, the least he can do is to pay your expenses.”
Boivin joined Patissot; the latter, wishing to be polite, bowed to the mistress of the house, stammering:
“Madame—delightful time—many thanks—”
She answered:
“That’s all right, but don’t you bring him home intoxicated, or you will be sorry!”
And they set out.
They walked to the Seine and stopped in front of an island covered with poplar-trees.
Boivin looked at the river tenderly and squeezed his friend’s arm.
“In a week we’ll be there, Monsieur Patissot.”
“Where shall we be, Monsieur Boivin?”
“Why, at the beginning of the fishing season: it opens on the fifteenth.”
Patissot felt a slight tremor pass over him, like the commotion which is felt on seeing for the first time the woman who is to be one’s fate. He replied:
“Ah! so you fish, Monsieur Boivin?”
“Do I fish, Monsieur? Why, it’s my only delight!”
Patissot then questioned him closely. Boivin named all the fish that frolicked in that dirty water. And Patissot believed that he saw them. Boivin designated the various baits, the hooks, the places and the time favorable to catching each species. And Patissot felt that he knew more about fishing than Boivin himself. They agreed to meet for the overture on the following Sunday, for Patissot’s special benefit. He was delighted to have found such an experienced initiator.
They dined in a sort of dark hovel patronized by the fishermen and the rabble of the place. At the door Boivin thought fit to remark:
“It doesn’t look like much, but it’s very nice inside.”
They seated themselves at a table. After the second glass of claret Patissot knew why Madame Boivin gave her spouse reddened water; the little man was losing his head; he talked at random, got up, wanted to play tricks, acted as peacemaker in a drunken quarrel, and would have been killed, as well as Patissot, had not the owner of the place interfered. After the coffee he was so intoxicated that he could not stand, despite his friend’s efforts to keep him from drinking; and when they departed Patissot had to guide his faltering steps.
They walked across the meadows, and after wandering around for a long time in the dark, lost their way. Suddenly they found themselves amid a thicket of tall sticks that reached to their noses.
It was a vineyard. They felt around a long time, unsteady, maudlin, and unable to find a way out. At last Boivin fell over a stick that scratched his face, and he sat down on the ground yelling at the top of his voice with a drunkard’s obstinacy, while Patissot, distracted, shouted for assistance.
A belated peasant went to their rescue and put them on the right road.
But as they approached Boivin’s home Patissot became timorous. At last they arrived at the door; it was suddenly flung open and Madame Boivin, like the furies of old, appeared with a light in her hand. As soon as she saw her husband she jumped at Patissot, screaming:
“Ohl you scoundrel! I knew that you would get him drunk.”
The poor fellow was seized with an insane terror, and, dropping his friend in the slimy gutter of the passageway, he ran as fast as his legs would carry him toward the railway station.