The Harshest Thing in the World

As the lamplighter turned into the little street, the long pole over his shoulder cut the streak of ten-o’clock twilight that glimmered between the old black houses down the rue de Lappe. He stopped to say, ‘ Messieurs — dames! ‘ to the sabot-makers and the butchers’ families who sat chatting at their doors, surrounded by legs of mutton and strings of sausages, pots full of scraggy flowers, and cages with thrushes that had gone to bed. He nodded to the proprietors of the little bars through the old iron grilles in front of their windows, and remarked, ‘ It makes warm this evening!’ as he turned up each crooked gas-lamp that threw pale gleams on the house walls and the cobbled street and lighted the passing faces of young workmen and their girls as they strolled and straggled from one little dance-hall to the next. In nine places down the tiny street the glimmering sign BAL tempted young Parisians to their favorite Saturday-night amusement, and under each sign a warm flood of gay light, shone out upon the knots of loafers who found vicarious joy in watching the dancing from the doorways and listening to the shrill squeal of accordions.

One of these little bals de famille had a rear window open to give the dancers air. The window gave on a black alleyway that led to a blacker courtyard full of rubbishy wagon-wheels and old pushcarts that stared vacantly up at the stars. Beside the window, just out of the light, stood a man intent upon the dancers as they whirled past for a second or two. His thick neck slouched between his big shoulders, his black cap was pulled at an angle over one eye, and a half-smoked cigarette stuck over his ear. He watched the dancers slip into the spot of light and out again — faces serenely impassive, faces with passionate smiles, healthy complexions of boys who worked pressed against the rouge of girls who did not, dark eyes intense with love, a kiss on a white neck, the grin of a happy grocer’s-boy, the fat smile of a pork-butcher’s wife, plumbers looking like Apaches with a half-inch of cigarette slicking to the corner of their mouths, shopgirls who looked like joy-girls in their bargain-sale waists and their high heels, and a pair of little blue soldier-boys dancing together very happily.

Suddenly among the couples flashing past the lighted window came a big fellow with a close resemblance to the man watching outside, one of the forts aux halles who unload barrels and stack boxes and carry quarters of beef till the gong sounds at four in the morning at the great central markets. The girl was a plain little person, unrouged and unadorned, and her eyes were like two wilted blue flowers. She had the air of one who accepted life as she found it, and dancing was one of its few pleasant elements. The big fellow with her did not hold her as tightly as the other men with their black caps and their half-inch of cigarettes held their girls, but he was very careful of her, and when his thick red hand stopped clutching her waist for a moment to push a careless dancer out of the way the careless dancer moved quickly and murmured, ‘Pardon, m’sieur.’ For the politeness of the rue de Lappe is perfect, up to the moment when it may cease altogether.

As the couple whirled past the window the man outside took his hands out of his pockets, came forward into the light, and stared jealously at them. Each time they came by, his eyes glowed narrowly and his fists clenched hard as he looked now at the man’s face and now at the girl’s, and then at their dancing bodies. They were not dancing like lovers, but how could he know? A skein of doubt spun in his brain and was winding itself round his heart. All the evening he had gone from one dancing-place to another all down the rue de Lappe, and watched expectantly for the girl whose image had filled his mind during the last four months. He had even looked in at the Auvergnats’ ball, where the country people hop about and stamp their feet to the sound of the squealing bagpipe; and he had been to the Three Columns, where there are more men than girls, though he knew she would be superior to such places. He had spent his last, franc over at the gay Petit Balcon, watching the whirling dancers with a hungry heart.

He knew she had no money when he was suddenly taken away, and he had wondered and wondered how she could get on. And with the wondering was a doubt. Now he had discovered her again, and the doubt was winding itself around his heart.

In a few minutes he left his place by the window and went round to the door of the little bal de famille. He shook hands with madame the proprietress at the zinc bar and received a cordial nod of the head from the shirt-sleeved accordion-player, who sat enthroned on a high box, calmly staring at the electriclighted ceiling as he squeezed out a merry piece about ‘The girl who got her hair cut,’ and accompanied himself with jingle bells on one active ankle and a pedal bass-drum worked by the other foot. Louder than the energetic work of the musician came the scraping sound of dancing feet, sharply punctuated by orders to the bar from the hot-faced waiter: 'Un bock, deux diavolos, et un rouged.'

The man gave a hitch to his shabby corduroys and his red-cotton sash, sat down at a table, and, avoiding the eyes of the dancers, stared sell-consciously at the sign painted on a large mirror: ‘One pays after each dance. Ladies must not smoke. Men do not dance together.'

But the little blonde opposite him was puffing a cigarette, and the two little blue soldier-boys were doing an exaggerated shimmy called the Java. Half of the couples were doing the Java. But out of the corner of his eye the man saw that his girl and his brother were not. The music stopped, and madame’s husband, satchel in hand, exclaimed: —

‘Let’s pass in the money, s’il vous plaît! Let’s pass in the money!’ And the men handed him five sous as they went to their tables.

As the couple came by, the man jumped up and exclaimed, ‘Marcelle!’

Marcelle, with a start, cried. ‘Look, Jean, it’s Lulu come back!’ She rushed to the table and kissed the man on both cheeks. The big Lucien — or le Gros Lulu — returned her kisses with a clumsy pat between her thin shoulders, conveying a sense of marital proprietorship which there were no documents to justify. His brother Jean greeted him with an affectionate kiss and the jealousy unwound itself from around his heart.

‘How pale you look, Lulu,’ began Marcelle. ‘The last time you were up at the Centrale they put you to work outdoors. Did you get the solitary this time, mon chou?'

‘ Ça y était, ma chérie. I hit a keeper with a shovel one day and they put me on bread and water for a month. I could n’t help it. The mec made me mad when he told me to quit thinking about my girl ‘cause somebody else had her now. So I biffed him one on the bean. It was kinda dull, though, in the solitary, sans blague!’

‘And what were you thinking about your girl, mon petit chou?’

‘I was wondering how she got on, poor little kid, when the flics came and pinched me so sudden.’

Here Jean interrupted with, ‘Let’s go over to old Gaillard’s place down the street. It’s quieter and we can talk all tranquilly. This music makes such a racket. Qa fait un barouf!’

And so the three filed out, shaking hands with madame at the bar, strolled past the countrified gayety of the Auvergnats’ bal with the sniffy air of born Parisians, and were dazzled with admiration of the celestial glitter of the great Bousca Bal with its noisy orchestra and its cheery bar.

‘Never catch me in there again,’ said Lucien. ‘He’s of the police, Bousca. It was he who told ‘em where I was that night. Tells on everybody. That’s why the flics let him alone, the dirty mackerel.’

As they passed a street lamp Lucien stepped quickly out of the glare into the shadow and remarked to Jean: —

‘You have n’t seen him around, have you, the big mec I almost finished? I don’t want to meet him to-night, for I have n’t bought a knife yet. Will you lend me your pigsticker, Jean?’

‘I don’t carry one now for a while. The flics are always searching a fellow,’ replied Jean, stealthily slipping his fiveinch pocketknife from his coat to his baggy velvet trousers where it could not be casually discovered.

' Ça ne fait rien,’ said Lucien. ‘ If he comes around me I can knock him out with my bare fists. I was ready for murder that night. If anybody calls my girl names he ‘ll get his, ’cré nom !’ And just as they came to Pere Gaillard’s bar he wrapped Marcelle in a crushing embrace that made her breathless, and she called him petit cochon as she warmly returned his kisses.

Jean watched the embrace with a tightening of the muscles of his throat.

‘Come, come,’ he said, pushing his brother and Marcelle inside, ‘ let’s sit down en famille and have a coffee.’

Père Gaillard, a shaggy old chap with a big white moustache, shook hands with the three as they sat down at a little round table, which he wiped off with a very black rag.

‘Glad to see you back, mon ami. I was sorry they got you, though you did cause me a heap of trouble. Parbleu! Did n’t they ask me questions and write a notebook full about it! But I did n’t tell ‘em anything — reste tranquille. And they did n’t close my place, because I’ve always before prevented any trouble from happening. But, mon ami, you’ve a terrible temper when you get stirred up. Not but what I am on your side — reste tranquille. The mec did use an ignoble expression about mademoiselle. You could n’t stand that; you were quite right. Ah oui. But you almost finished him. In the hospital over two weeks, he was. But that’s the way it is when one is young and in love. Ah oui, I don’t blame you — reste tranquille. But four months was a long time for one little word, eh? May I offer a little glass of something with your coffee? Trois fines? Bon! Here’s to the happy reunion! ‘

And once more Lucien and Marcelle enjoyed a long embrace, and once more they called each other ‘little pig,’ and Tittle cabbage,’ and Tittle bug,’ and Pere Gaillard remarked that Lucien was very vachc and nudged Jean in the ribs, but Jean only pulled at his moustache and tried to smile.

‘But where did you get this dress, chérie? It’s new; you did n’t have it when I went away,’ said Lucien, observing the simple dress with its few bright ribbons.

‘You do remember things, don’t you, cher ami? Yes, it’s new. You see, I tore the old one when I tried to pull you and the mec apart when you started to fight. I just had to have a new one. Do you like it? ‘

‘But you have n’t told me what you have been doing, poor little one. You’ve been square? ‘ he asked, gripping her slight shoulder roughly.

‘Yes, Lulu, I worked in the factory until I was laid off. Then Jean lent me two hundred francs to keep me going till you came back. That was a month ago. And now you are back again, chéri, and I am very content. I’m glad you like the dress. You ‘ll pay Jean the two hundred francs when you get a job. And I ‘ll help, when the factory opens.’ She slipped her arm around his neck and he played with her ear and nodded.

‘ Oui alors! ‘

Then Lucien struck a sulphur match and watched it burn and smell.

’Oui alors — when I get a job,’ he repeated.

‘Oh, I’m in no hurry — ne t’ en fais pas,’ muttered Jean, without looking up. And then a silence fell between them, broken by Marcelle, who leaned her head on Lucien’s arm and purred like a contented kitten. But the skein of doubt began winding itself again around his heart.

‘Jean was very good to me, was n’t he, Lulu, while my man was away? ‘

The match burned out. Lucien struck another, watched its blue sputter, and then lighted his cigarette. It drooped from the corner of his mouth and the thin column of smoke wavered uncertainly before his sharply squinted eyes.

‘Men don’t lend women two hundred francs for nothing!’ he exclaimed sulkily, drawing away from Marcelle.

‘Oh, Lulu,’ she cried, ‘ c’est in juste ! Why do you spoil our first evening by saying things like that! And Jean is your brother, too! C’est injuste!'

Jean interposed.

‘Don’t let your jealousy run away with you, Lulu. You are not fair to her. You know she has been on the square with you ever since you have been together. There’s nothing between us. I swear it. I lent her the money out of friendship. Je le jure! ‘

‘There is never friendship between men and women — only love.’

‘Lulu, you are not reasonable. I had to have money because I had no work. I thought it was all right to go to the bal with him sometimes because he is your brother. And it was four months, Lulu, and I was lonely.’

‘I won’t believe Jean ever lent money out of friendship. Men don’t do such things. They don’t do such things!’

Lucien’s voice became hard and the muscles in his thick neck twitched convulsively; the doubt twisted itself more tightly around his heart.

‘Oh, Lulu, mon cher, I swear it’s true. I’ve been your girl ever since you were gone. You must believe me. You make me afraid when you look like that! Be reasonable, cher ami!'

‘Reasonable! I know the world! Women are like that. Always the same. You are just like the rest of them! C’estfini. I won’t have anything more to do with you! You can go with him.’ And his eyes glared with anger, not at his brother, but at Marcelle. ‘The months in prison I have thought about you! When I was in the solitary there was nothing in my mind but you. My brain was full of you. The cell was full of you! And this is the sort of girl I almost killed a mec for insulting! ‘

‘Stop! Stop, Lulu! Don’ti’ cried Marcelle, throwing one arm tightly around his neck and stopping his mouth with one hand.

Lucien brutally pulled away her arms and jumped to his feet, sending his chair with a crash to the floor. Old Père Gaillard tried to calm him with a ‘ Reste tranquille, mon gars, je t’ en prie!' But Lucien with a sweep of his arm pushed the old fellow over against the bar, and stood staring at Marcelle with fists clenched, his eyes bloodshot with anger.

‘Men don’t lend women two hundred francs for nothing! ‘ he roared. And his neck felt choked with great blood-beats muffled by jealous anger.

Marcelle cowered in her chair like a she-hound before the threatened whip of her master. She stood up, trembling frailly, and whimpered, ‘Only out of friendship, Lulu, I swear it! ‘ She tried to put her hand on his arm. But the jealous animal gave her a blow in the face which sent her spinning backward out into the street.

Pere Gaillard rushed between them and pulled down the corrugated-iron front with which the bar was closed for the night, shutting Lucien inside and the girl out.

‘You have wrong, Lulu, to strike your girl like that. She’s a good girl, I swear,’ interposed Jean, who had leaped to his feet and stood with one hand in his pocket fingering his knife. ‘You have wrong! And you are a damned brute!’ he added, ready for Lucien’s expected attack.

But Lucien did n’t attack. He turned to the bar with ‘ Viens vite, Pere Gaillard — un coup de blanc.'

The old man nervously poured a glass of white wine, which Lucien drank at a gulp. Then turning to Jean he said gruffly, ‘Come, Jean, what’ll you have to drink? That’s all over. No family quarrels over a woman! Let’s sit down. A bottle of sparkling, patron, and come and join us. I ‘ll pay you for it next week.’

The old man joined the two brothers, shaking his head and muttering, ‘Ah, mes amis, what is the harshest thing in the world? ‘

‘I know, grandpère,’said Lucien with a bitter smile. ‘It’s bread and water for a month. No mistake about that! ‘

‘Non, mes amis, it’s not that. Oh no, not that. It is love. C’est l’amour,’ he growled through his moustache, and rubbed one dim eye with the back of Ins hand. ‘That’s the cause of all the trouble, quarrels, bread and water, and the police. They ‘ll be closing me up if you don’t stop, Lucien.'

Lucien laughed and patted him on the back, and filled the three glasses again.

‘No, being thirsty is the worst thing in the world. Drink up and don’t worry, mon vieux. That’s why you got old so soon. You are always letting things worry you. You ought to take life as it comes. There’s nothing really in it to bother about, mon ami. A glass of your good wine drowns all. What stuff they gave us in the pen! When it was n’t bread and water it was wine sour as vinegar. It’s always so. We change government every few years, but the jails are always the same old holes. Never do anything about them. Ah oui, it’s good to be out again.’

The three men went on drinking and talking. Lucien’s eyes sparkled with good nature. He seemed to have forgotten what had just happened. Then in a pause in the talk came the faint squeal of the accordion in one of the bals de famille down the street. It was playing, —

Lucien beat time to it, nodding his head, and suddenly remarked: ‘Oh, I should like to dance to that. It’s a grand tune.’

The other two men said nothing for a moment, and in the interval came the muffled sob of a woman outside the iron front of the wine shop. Lucien got tip suddenly and went out the back door behind the bar into a passage that led to the street .

In a few minutes he reappeared with his arm around Marcelle and tried to dance with her in the tiny space in front of the bar. She protested, smiling woefully with one bacllv blackened eye while she dabbed her weepy nose with a dingy powder-puff. But Lucien was not to be resisted. He made her drink a glass of wine and by main force dragged her out the door again and down the street, toward the seductive accordion that continued to squeal merrily.

Jean and old Gaillard sat alone, silently puffing their cigarettes, Jean staring into his empty glass. Presently he got up and went toward the door saying, ‘ Oui, grandpère, you are right about the harshest thing in the world. It’s love.'

He went down the rue de Lappe, past the other little bars and the gay and noisy bals de famille, till he came to the one where he and Marcelle had been earlier in the evening. He went into the dark passageway and stood outside the open back-window and watched the dancers whirl by, warm faces with eyes full of fun and eyes full of passion. Marcelle and Lucien were there, doing a most outrageous Java, her sadly blackened eye concealed completely against his collarless shirt.

Jean watched them dance passionately by the window and tears came into his eyes.

‘Ah oui,’ he murmured to himself,

‘ the harshest thing — c’est l’amour.’