Madame Chose

MADAME CHOSE had expected much from a neighbor who put COIN DE PROVENCE on his gatepost, since she was also from the South of France; and she had imagined that they two, being exiles on the Tunisian seaboard, would be drawn together in a world largely occupied by Arabs, Jews, Maltese, and Italians. But as day followed day, and Monsieur Pilot evinced no interest in anything except his carrier pigeons, the widow’s disappointment turned to resentment.

‘Finally, I detest men of a certain age who have been badly brought up,’ she declared to her intimates in the ancient city of Carthage. She also speculated somewhat sourly on the type of woman that the late Madame Pilot could have been, that her husband could not even exchange amiable small talk over the fence.

Every evening you might see Monsieur Pilot staring into the sky for his birds from the end of his garden, while the red of his cigarette crept up and burnt his fingers. At that time Madame Chose, golden hair carefully arranged so that the natural color did not show at the partings, sat on her verandah with Flora, her cat, on her lap. She was careful not to look in Monsieur Pilot’s direction.

It was the sad end of the pigeon Champion de Ciel that first brought the neighbors into active hostilities. One morning Monsieur Pilot found a handful of feathers where he expected to be greeted by his favorite bird. He immediately looked over the wall, and, as luck would have it, Flora was sitting on the back step of the next villa, licking her paws. Monsieur Pilot said something sharp to Madame’s bonne, who happened to be out in the garden. The woman shrugged. The gentleman clicked his tongue, recollected himself, and turned on his heel.

Madame Chose, who had not lost a word or gesture of this from her position behind the persiennes of the dining room, was furious. What made her angrier still was that her neighbor made no further accusation, which would have enabled her to relieve herself of a sufficiently cutting reply.

It was unfortunate that a couple of days after this Flora should become violently indisposed. Madame Blatte administered brandy, yolk of egg, and a stomach tonic. Flora continued to lie on her side twitching, responding nothing to the agonized blandishments of her mistress.

‘He has done this,’ the bonne insinuated, pointing a shoulder in the direction of the Coin de Provence. ‘Has he not, last week, called the poor beast a dirty murderer?’

Madame Chose rose at once, and — stopping only to arrange her curls, to add some more make-up to her complexion, and to change her dress — she hastened into the street and rang her enemy’s bell.

Monsieur Pilot was examining the cages of his dovecot when the lady was announced.

‘Ah, Madame Chose,’ he said, holding out his hand, ‘we are neighbors, I believe.’

‘Yes, we are neighbors,’ she replied in accents furibund, ‘but it is not for that that I am come. Monsieur, I have reason to believe that you have poisoned my cat.’

The gentleman stiffened. ‘Madame,’ he said, ‘I know nothing of the poisoning of your cat. Receive, I beg of you, my sincere regrets that this unfortunate occurrence has arrived, and be assured that I had no hand in it.’

‘Monsieur!’ replied the lady, twice her size with rage. ‘Allow me to state that I do not believe one word of this disavowal. I myself have heard you uttering menaces against the unhappy animal.’

‘Something might have escaped my tongue in the heat of the moment,’ admitted Monsieur Pilot with a bow; ‘but believe me, madame, vengeance is no part of my character.’

Before Madame Chose could reply the voice of the bonne from the next villa could be heard announcing that Flora had successfully ridded herself of whatever had been discommoding her, and Madame departed without further words. As early as that afternoon the cat, somewhat pale and hollow-eyed, could be seen sunning itself on the verandah, but Madame Chose uttered no apology.

So things went on until, one fine morning at the end of April, the cold weather being definitely past, Madame Chose set herself to superintend the rites of spring cleaning. She could not help casting a curious eye next door, where her neighbor’s winter clothes hung sunning on the flat roof. They were not pegged on as tightly as they should have been, and as the brisk wind flapped them to and fro they gradually worked themselves loose. At the end of the wire a pair of plus-fours of black and white check dangled by a pinch of stuff. Madame watched them, fascinated. Decidedly, they were handsome; and without doubt they would be blown away! The widow was not yet made up for the day. She wore her hair in the curlers which gave it its ravishing wave in the afternoon, and, because of the work, she had put on an old overall of faded chintz.

‘It is not my affair,’ she repeated to herself, and tried to pay no attention; but time after time she was drawn back to see if the garment was still there. At the moment when, with a great flap, the plus-fours finally left the clothesline and sailed over the parapet into the street, Bomboloni the peddler was waddling by, an apron tied incongruously over his black frock coat by way of advertisement, while he called out, ’Jolis tabliers! Six francs! Jolis tabliers!‘

The plus-fours descended and entangled him. When he had picked himself up and disengaged himself, Bomboloni looked cautiously round. No one was in sight. Rapidly he rolled the pantaloons into his pack and waddled off.

Madame’s feelings may be imagined. She could not allow a fellow countryman to be robbed, and of such a handsome article of apparel — and by a foreigner, too! On the other hand, could she befriend the enemy? Finally, could she sacrifice herself, with her hair curlers, her overall, her lack of make-up, to the light of the morning? The bonne had gone to market. As Bomboloni approached the end of the street the widow’s better feelings triumphed, and she rushed out after him. . . .

‘The fidelity of the pigeon is proverbial,’ Monsieur Pilot said tenderly when, some time afterward, he and Madame Chose were planning details of the amalgamation of the two ménages. ‘The two dove spouses have one thought, and one only: the nest. But,’ he added astutely, ‘one spends much money on the sport of pigeon racing. Furthermore, as thou hast remarked, it would be profitable to rent my villa after our marriage, and live in thine, which is not adapted for the keeping of pigeons.’ He caressed, as he spoke, the restored Flora, who sat upon his lap and purred.

‘ Mais alors, mon cher,’ said Madame Chose coyly, ‘birds, they are pretty little beasts. One would not desire to give them up entirely. There are birds which one could keep always in a cage, out of reach of cats, who are, after all, their natural enemies. What thinkest thou of love birds, for example?’