Boitelle
Father Boitelle (Antoine) made a specialty of undertaking dirty jobs allthrough the countryside. Whenever there was a ditch or a cesspool to becleaned out, a dunghill removed, a sewer cleansed, or any dirt holewhatever, he way always employed to do it.He would come with the instruments of his trade, his sabots covered withdirt, and set to work, complaining incessantly about his occupation.When people asked him then why he did this loathsome work, he would replyresignedly:"Faith, 'tis for my children, whom I must support. This brings me inmore than anything else:'He had, indeed, fourteen children. If any one asked him what had becomeof them, he would say with an air of indifference:"There are only eight of them left in the house. One is out at serviceand five are married."When the questioner wanted to know whether they were well married, hereplied vivaciously:"I did not oppose them. I opposed them in nothing. They married just asthey pleased. We shouldn't go against people's likings, it turns outbadly. I am a night scavenger because my parents went against mylikings. But for that I would have become a workman like the others."Here is the way his parents had thwarted him in his likings:He was at the time a soldier stationed at Havre, not more stupid thananother, or sharper either, a rather simple fellow, however. When he wasnot on duty, his greatest pleasure was to walk along the quay, where thebird dealers congregate. Sometimes alone, sometimes with a soldier fromhis own part of the country, he would slowly saunter along by cagescontaining parrots with green backs and yellow heads from the banks ofthe Amazon, or parrots with gray backs and red heads from Senegal, orenormous macaws, which look like birds reared in hot-houses, with theirflower-like feathers, their plumes and their tufts. Parrots of everysize, who seem painted with minute care by the miniaturist, God Almighty,and the little birds, all the smaller birds hopped about, yellow, blueand variegated, mingling their cries with the noise of the quay; andadding to the din caused by unloading the vessels, as well as bypassengers and vehicles, a violent clamor, loud, shrill and deafening, asif from some distant forest of monsters.Boitelle would pause, with wondering eyes, wide-open mouth, laughing andenraptured, showing his teeth to the captive cockatoos, who kept noddingtheir white or yellow topknots toward the glaring red of his breeches andthe copper buckle of his belt. When he found a bird that could talk heput questions to it, and if it happened at the time to be disposed toreply and to hold a conversation with him he would carry away enoughamusement to last him till evening. He also found heaps of amusement inlooking at the monkeys, and could conceive no greater luxury for a richman than to own these animals as one owns cats and dogs. This kind oftaste for the exotic he had in his blood, as people have a taste for thechase, or for medicine, or for the priesthood. He could not helpreturning to the quay every time the gates of the barracks opened, drawntoward it by an irresistible longing.On one occasion, having stopped almost in ecstasy before an enormousmacaw, which was swelling out its plumes, bending forward and bridling upagain as if making the court curtseys of parrot-land, he saw the door ofa little cafe adjoining the bird dealer's shop open, and a young negressappeared, wearing on her head a red silk handkerchief. She was sweepinginto the street the corks and sand of the establishment.Boitelle's attention was soon divided between the bird and the woman, andhe really could not tell which of these two beings he contemplated withthe greater astonishment and delight.The negress, having swept the rubbish into the street, raised her eyes,and, in her turn, was dazzled by the soldier's uniform. There she stoodfacing him with her broom in her hands as if she were bringing him arifle, while the macaw continued bowing. But at the end of a few secondsthe soldier began to feel embarrassed at this attention, and he walkedaway quietly so as not to look as if he were beating a retreat.But he came back. Almost every day he passed before the Cafe desColonies, and often he could distinguish through the window the figure ofthe little black-skinned maid serving "bocks" or glasses of brandy to thesailors of the port. Frequently, too, she would come out to the door onseeing him; soon, without even having exchanged a word, they smiled atone another like acquaintances; and Boitelle felt his heart touched whenhe suddenly saw, glittering between the dark lips of the girl, a shiningrow of white teeth. At length, one day he ventured to enter, and wasquite surprised to find that she could speak French like every one else.The bottle of lemonade, of which she was good enough to accept aglassful, remained in the soldier's recollection memorably delicious, andit became a custom with him to come and absorb in this little tavern onthe quay all the agreeable drinks which he could afford.For him it was a treat, a happiness, on which his thoughts dweltconstantly, to watch the black hand of the little maid pouring somethinginto his glass while her teeth laughed more than her eyes. At the end oftwo months they became fast friends, and Boitelle, after his firstastonishment at discovering that this negress had as good principles ashonest French girls, that she exhibited a regard for economy, industry,religion and good conduct, loved her more on that account, and was socharmed with her that he wanted to marry her.He told her his intentions, which made her dance with joy. She had alsoa little money, left her by, a female oyster dealer, who had picked herup when she had been left on the quay at Havre by an American captain.This captain had found her, when she was only about six years old, lyingon bales of cotton in the hold of his ship, some hours after hisdeparture from New York. On his arrival in Havre he abandoned to thecare of this compassionate oyster dealer the little black creature, whohad been hidden on board his vessel, he knew not why or by whom.The oyster woman having died, the young negress became a servant at theColonial Tavern.Antoine Boitelle added: "This will be all right if my parents don'toppose it. I will never go against them, you understand, never! I'mgoing to say a word or two to them the first time I go back to thecountry."On the following week, in fact, having obtained twenty-four hours' leave,he went to see his family, who cultivated a little farm at Tourteville,near Yvetot.He waited till the meal was finished, the hour when the coffee baptizedwith brandy makes people more open-hearted, before informing his parentsthat he had found a girl who satisfied his tastes, all his tastes, socompletely that there could not exist any other in all the world soperfectly suited to him.The old people, on hearing this, immediately assumed a cautious mannerand wanted explanations. He had concealed nothing from them except thecolor of her skin.She was a servant, without much means, but strong, thrifty, clean, well-conducted and sensible. All these things were better than money would bein the hands of a bad housewife. Moreover, she had a few sous, left herby a woman who had reared her, a good number of sous, almost a littledowry, fifteen hundred francs in the savings bank. The old people,persuaded by his talk, and relying also on their own judgment, weregradually weakening, when he came to the delicate point. Laughing inrather a constrained fashion, he said:"There's only one thing you may not like. She is not a white slip."They did not understand, and he had to explain at some length and verycautiously, to avoid shocking them, that she belonged to the dusky raceof which they had only seen samples in pictures at Epinal. Then theybecame restless, perplexed, alarmed, as if he had proposed a union withthe devil.The mother said: "Black? How much of her is black? Is the whole ofher?"He replied: "Certainly. Everywhere, just as you are white everywhere."The father interposed: "Black? Is it as black as the pot?"The son answered: "Perhaps a little less than that. She is black, butnot disgustingly black. The cure's cassock is black, but it is notuglier than a surplice which is white."The father said: "Are there more black people besides her in hercountry?"And the son, with an air of conviction, exclaimed: "Certainly!"But the old man shook his head."That must be unpleasant."And the son:"It isn't more disagreeable than anything else when you get accustomed toit."The mother asked:"It doesn't soil the underwear more than other skins, this black skin?""Not more than your own, as it is her proper color."Then, after many other questions, it was agreed that the parents shouldsee this girl before coming; to any decision, and that the young fellow,whose, term of military service would be over in a month, should bringher to the house in order that they might examine her and decide bytalking the matter over whether or not she was too dark to enter theBoitelle family.Antoine accordingly announced that on Sunday, the 22d of May, the day ofhis discharge, he would start for Tourteville with his sweetheart.She had put on, for this journey to the house of her lover's parents, hermost beautiful and most gaudy clothes, in which yellow, red and blue werethe prevailing colors, so that she looked as if she were adorned for anational festival.At the terminus, as they were leaving Havre, people stared at her, andBoitelle was proud of giving his arm to a person who commanded so muchattention. Then, in the third-class carriage, in which she took a seatby his side, she aroused so much astonishment among the country folksthat the people in the adjoining compartments stood up on their benchesto look at her over the wooden partition which divides the compartments.A child, at sight of her, began to cry with terror, another concealed hisface in his mother's apron. Everything went off well, however, up totheir arrival at their destination. But when the train slackened itsrate of motion as they drew near Yvetot, Antoine felt: ill at ease, as hewould have done at a review when; he did not know his drill practice.Then, as he; leaned his head out, he recognized in the distance: hisfather, holding the bridle of the horse harnessed to a carryall, and hismother, who had come forward to the grating, behind which stood those whowere expecting friends.He alighted first, gave his hand to his sweetheart, and holding himselferect, as if he were escorting a general, he went to meet his family.The mother, on seeing this black lady in variegated costume in her son'scompany, remained so stupefied that she could not open her mouth; and thefather found it hard to hold the horse, which the engine or the negresscaused to rear continuously. But Antoine, suddenly filled with unmixedjoy at seeing once more the old people, rushed forward with open arms,embraced his mother, embraced his father, in spite of the nag's fright,and then turning toward his companion, at whom the passengers on theplatform stopped to stare with amazement, he proceeded to explain:"Here she is! I told you that, at first sight, she is not attractive;but as soon as you know her, I can assure you there's not a better sortin the whole world. Say good-morning to her so that she may not feelbadly."Thereupon Mere Boitelle, almost frightened out of her wits, made a sortof curtsy, while the father took off his cap, murmuring:"I wish you good luck!"Then, without further delay, they climbed into the carryall, the twowomen at the back, on seats which made them jump up and down as thevehicle went jolting along the road, and the two men in front on thefront seat.Nobody spoke. Antoine, ill at ease, whistled a barrack-room air; hisfather whipped the nag; and his mother, from where she sat in the corner,kept casting sly glances at the negress, whose forehead and cheekbonesshone in the sunlight like well-polished shoes.Wishing to break the ice, Antoine turned round."Well," said he, "we don't seem inclined to talk.""We must have time," replied the old woman.He went on:"Come! Tell us the little story about that hen of yours that laid eighteggs."It was a funny anecdote of long standing in the family. But, as hismother still remained silent, paralyzed by her emotion, he undertookhimself to tell the story, laughing as he did so at the memorableincident. The father, who knew it by heart brightened at the openingwords of the narrative; his wife soon followed his example; and thenegress herself, when he reached the drollest part of it, suddenly gavevent to a laugh, such a loud, rolling torrent of laughter that the horse,becoming excited, broke into a gallop for a while.This served to cement their acquaintance. They all began to chat.They had scarcely reached the house and had all alighted, when Antoineconducted his sweetheart to a room, so that she might take off her dress,to avoid staining it, as she was going to prepare a nice dish, intendedto win the old people's affections through their stomachs. He drew hisparents outside the house, and, with beating heart, asked:"Well, what do you say now?"The father said nothing. The mother, less timid, exclaimed:"She is too black. No, indeed, this is too much for me. It turns myblood.""You will get used to it," said Antoine."Perhaps so, but not at first."They went into the house, where the good woman was somewhat affected atthe spectacle of the negress engaged in cooking. She at once proceededto assist her, with petticoats tucked up, active in spite of her age.The meal was an excellent one, very long, very enjoyable. When they weretaking a turn after dinner, Antoine took his father aside."Well, dad, what do you say about it?"The peasant took care never to compromise himself."I have no opinion about it. Ask your mother."So Antoine went back to his mother, and, detaining her behind the rest,said:"Well, mother, what do you think of her?""My poor lad, she is really too black. If she were only a little lessblack, I would not go against you, but this is too much. One would thinkit was Satan!"He did not press her, knowing how obstinate the old woman had alwaysbeen, but he felt a tempest of disappointment sweeping over his heart.He was turning over in his mind what he ought to do, what plan he coulddevise, surprised, moreover, that she had not conquered them already asshe had captivated himself. And they, all four, walked along through thewheat fields, having gradually relapsed into silence. Whenever theypassed a fence they saw a countryman sitting on the stile, and a group ofbrats climbed up to stare at them, and every one rushed out into the roadto see the "black" whore young Boitelle had brought home with him. At adistance they noticed people scampering across the fields just as whenthe drum beats to draw public attention to some living phenomenon. Pereand Mere Boitelle, alarmed at this curiosity, which was exhibitedeverywhere through the country at their approach, quickened their pace,walking side by side, and leaving their son far behind. His darkcompanion asked what his parents thought of her.He hesitatingly replied that they had not yet made up their minds.But on the village green people rushed out of all the houses in a flutterof excitement; and, at the sight of the gathering crowd, old Boitelletook to his heels, and regained his abode, while Antoine; swelling withrage, his sweetheart on his arm, advanced majestically under the staringeyes, which opened wide in amazement.He understood that it was at an end, and there was no hope for him, thathe could not marry his negress. She also understood it; and as they drewnear the farmhouse they both began to weep. As soon as they had got backto the house, she once more took off her dress to aid the mother in thehousehold duties, and followed her everywhere, to the dairy, to thestable, to the hen house, taking on herself the hardest part of the work,repeating always: "Let me do it, Madame Boitelle," so that, when nightcame on, the old woman, touched but inexorable, said to her son: "She isa good girl, all the same. It's a pity she is so black; but indeed sheis too black. I could not get used to it. She must go back again. Sheis too, too black!"And young Boitelle said to his sweetheart:"She will not consent. She thinks you are too black. You must go backagain. I will go with you to the train. No matter--don't fret. I amgoing to talk to them after you have started."He then took her to the railway station, still cheering her with hope,and, when he had kissed her, he put her into the train, which he watchedas it passed out of sight, his eyes swollen with tears.In vain did he appeal to the old people. They would never give theirconsent.And when he had told this story, which was known all over the country,Antoine Boitelle would always add:"From that time forward I have had no heart for anything--for anything atall. No trade suited me any longer, and so I became what I am--a nightscavenger."People would say to him:"Yet you got married.""Yes, and I can't say that my wife didn't please me, seeing that I havefourteen children; but she is not the other one, oh, no--certainly not!The other one, mark you, my negress, she had only to give me one glance,and I felt as if I were in Heaven."
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