A Chambermaid's Diary. Octave Mirbeau

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      "So you have come? That's very good, that's very good."

      He would have liked to say something further—was trying, indeed, to think of something to say—but, being neither eloquent or at his ease, he did not find anything. I was greatly amused at his embarrassment. But, after a short silence, he asked:

      "You come from Paris, like that?"

      "Yes, Monsieur."

      "That's very good, that's very good."

      And growing bolder:

      "What is your name?"

      "Célestine, Monsieur."

      He rubbed his hands—a mannerism of his—and went on:

      "Célestine. Ah! Ah! that's very good. Not a common name; in fact, a pretty name. Provided Madame does not oblige you to change it. She has that mania."

      I answered, in a tone of dignified submission:

      "I am at Madame's disposition."

      "Undoubtedly, undoubtedly. But it is a pretty name."

      I almost burst out laughing. Monsieur began to walk up and down the room; then, suddenly, he sat down in a chair, stretched out his legs, and, putting into his look something like an apology, and into his voice something like a prayer, he asked:

      "Well, Célestine—for my part, I shall always call you Célestine—will you help me to take off my boots? That does not annoy you, I hope."

      "Certainly not, Monsieur."

      "Because, you see, these confounded boots are very difficult to manage; they come off very hard."

      With a movement that I tried to make harmonious and supple, and even provocative, I knelt before him, and, while I was helping him to take off his boots, which were damp and covered with mud, I was perfectly conscious that the perfumes of my neck were exciting his nose, and that his eyes were following with increasing interest the outlines of my form as seen through my gown. Suddenly he murmured:

      "Great heavens! Célestine, but you smell good."

      Without raising my eyes, I assumed an air of innocence:

      "I, Monsieur?"

      "Surely, you; it can hardly be my feet."

      "Oh! Monsieur!"

      And this "Oh! Monsieur!" at the same time that it was a protest in favor of his feet, was also a sort of friendly reprimand—friendly to the point of encouragement—for his familiarity. Did he understand? I think so, for again, with more force, and even with a sort of amorous trembling, he repeated:

      "Célestine, you smell awfully good—awfully good."

      Ah! but the old gentleman is making free. I appeared as if slightly scandalized by his insistence, and kept silence. Timid as he is, and knowing nothing of the tricks of women, Monsieur was disturbed. He feared undoubtedly that he had gone too far, and, suddenly changing his idea, he asked:

      "Are you getting accustomed to the place, Célestine?"

      That question? Was I getting accustomed to the place? And I had been there but three hours. I had to bite my lips to keep from laughing. The old gentleman has queer ways; and, really, he is a little stupid.

      But that makes no difference. He does not displease me. In his very vulgarity he reveals a certain power and masculinity which are not disagreeable to me.

      When his boots had been taken off, and to leave him with a good impression of me, I asked him, in my turn:

      "I see Monsieur is a hunter. Has Monsieur had a good hunt to-day?"

      "I never have good hunts, Célestine," he answered, shaking his head. "I hunt for the sake of walking—for the sake of riding—that I may not be here, where I find it tiresome."

      "Ah! Monsieur finds it tiresome here?"

      After a pause, he gallantly corrected himself.

      "That is to say, I did find it tiresome. For now, you see, it is different."

      Then, with a stupid and moving smile:

      "Célestine?"

      "Monsieur."

      "Will you get me my slippers? I ask your pardon."

      "But, Monsieur, it is my business."

      "Yes, to be sure; they are under the stairs, in a little dark closet, at the left."

      I believe that I shall get all that I want of this type. He is not shrewd; he surrenders at the start. Ah! one could lead him far.

      The dinner, not very luxurious, consisting of the leavings from the day before, passed off without incident, almost silently. Monsieur devours, and Madame picks fastidiously at the dishes with sullen gestures and disdainful mouthings. But she absorbs powders, syrups, drops, pills, an entire pharmacy which you have to be very careful to place on the table, at every meal, beside her plate. They talked very little, and what they did say concerned local matters and people of little or no interest to me. But I gathered that they have very little company. Moreover, it was plain that their thoughts were not on what they were saying. They were watching me, each according to the ideas that prompted him or her, each moved by a different curiosity; Madame, severe and stiff, contemptuous even, more and more hostile, and dreaming already of all the dirty tricks that she would play me; Monsieur, slyly, with very significant winks, and, although he tried to conceal them, with strange looks at my hands. Really, I don't know what there is about my hands that so excites men. For my part, I seemed to be taking no notice of their game. I went and came with dignity, reserved, adroit, and distant. Ah! if they could have seen my soul, if they could have heard my soul, as I saw and heard theirs!

      I adore waiting on table. It is there that one surprises one's masters in all the filthiness, in all the baseness of their inner natures. Prudent at first, and watchful of each other, little by little they reveal themselves, exhibit themselves as they are, without paint and without veils, forgetting that some one is hovering around them, listening and noting their defects, their moral humps, the secret sores of their existence, and all the infamies and ignoble dreams that can be contained in the respectable brains of respectable people. To collect these confessions, to classify them, to label them in our memory, for use as a terrible weapon on the day of settlement, is one of the great and intense joys of our calling, and the most precious revenge for our humiliations.

      From this first contact with my new masters I have obtained no precise and formal indications. But I feel that things do not go well here, that Monsieur is nothing in the house, that Madame is everything, that Monsieur trembles before Madame like a little child. Oh! he hasn't a merry time of it, the poor man! Surely he sees, hears, and suffers all sorts of things. I fancy that I shall get some amusement out of it, at times. At dessert, Madame, who, during the meal, had been continually sniffing at my hands, my arms, and my waist, said, in a clear and cutting tone:

      "I do not like the use of perfumes."

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