And Machin, who was nearly sixty, and whose head was
bald under his shabby tall hat, and whose gray beard
was half-buried in a high shirt collar, who had dull
eyes, an unpleasant mouth and yellow teeth, was mad
with his fellow men, while the prostitute No-matter-who,
with thin hair over her pads, and with a false plait,
with her linen of a doubtful color, and with her unfashionable
dress, which she had evidently bought at a reach-me-down
shop, was enraged with society.
Ah! Those miserable, dark hours, and the wretched
awakenings! And that evening he was more than
usually wretched, as he had just lost all his pay
for the next month, that miserable screw which he earned
so hardly by almost editing the newspaper, for three
hundred francs a month, in a brothel.
And that evening she was in a state of semi-stupidity,
as she had had too many glasses of beer which a charitable
female friend had given her, and was almost afraid
to go back to her room, as her landlord had told her
in the morning that unless she paid the fortnight’s
back rent that she owed at the rate of a franc a day,
he would turn her out of doors and keep her things.
And this was the reason why they were both going up
the Rue des Martyrs in a melancholy frame of
mind. There was scarcely a soul in the muddy
streets; it was getting dark, and beginning to rain,
and the drains smelled horribly.
He passed her, and in a mechanical voice she said:
“Will you not come home with me, you handsome
dark man?” “I have no money,” he
replied. But she ran after him, and catching
hold of his arm, she said: “Only a franc;
that is having it for nothing.” And he turned
round, looked at her, and seeing that she must have
been pretty, and that she was still stout (and he
was fond of fat women), he said: “Where
do you live? Near here?” “In the
Rue Lepic.” “Why! So do
I.” “Then that is all right, eh?
Come along, old fellow.”
He felt in his pockets and pulled out all the money
he found there, which amounted to thirteen sous, and
said: “That is all I have, upon my honor!”
“All right,” she said; “come along.”
And they continued their melancholy walk along the
Rue des Martyrs, side by side now, but without
speaking, and without guessing that their two existences
harmonized and corresponded with each other, and that
by huddling up together, they would be merely accomplishing
the acme of their twin destinies.
“Pst! Pst! Come with me, you handsome,
dark fellow. I am very nice, as you will see.
Do come up. At any rate you will be able to warm
yourself, for I have a capital fire at home.”
But nothing enticed the foot-passengers, neither being
called a handsome, dark fellow, which she applied
quite impartially to old or fat men also, nor the
promise of pleasure which was emphasized by a caressing
ogle and smile, nor even the promise of a good fire,
which was so attractive in the bitter December wind.
And tall Fanny continued her useless walk, and the
night advanced and foot-passengers grew scarcer.
In another hour the streets would be absolutely deserted,
and unless she could manage to pick up some belated
drunken man, she would be obliged to return home alone.
