4.
Before I go on with my story, I have to tell you about a foolish expenditure of mine. It was the morning after our return. When I arose I noticed I had put two curling papers in my hair the night before. I always use two curling papers when I want to remind myself that there is something I was supposed to remember. It's a good system, but the diffculty is to recall what it was I wanted to remember. That morning, I couldn't bring it to mind at all. So I sat down and searched my memory, all the while holding on to the curling paper.
Suddenly, it came to me. The thing I had wanted to remember was to buy a nibholder to replace the one I had nearly chewed up while I was looking for the right words. I got dressed, made my bed with three punches, and hurried out to the stationer's.
"If you please, Madame, I would like a good nibholder. It's to write my memoirs."
"We no longer carry nibholders, Mademoiselle. A fountain pen is preferable, particularly for literature."
"So, it handles the spelling itself?"
"It is a help. Here, take a look at this model, the latest."
"And how much?"
"Fourteen francs twenty-five."
That gave me a blow to the stomach. Just think, I hate to spend six sous! But the other customers were listening to us, and I didn't want to be taken for a pauper. I bought that fountain pen out of pride, I have to admit. Pride, it's my weakness. I accuse myself of it every time I go to confession, but I always relapse.
It's pricey, a fountain pen, but not labour-saving. First off, to fill it up is a whole song and dance. I can't figure out how to work the little rubber pump. After I spilled all the ink I spent an hour scrubbing the kitchen floor. Sometimes the ink won't come, and sometimes too much of it comes. Just as I speak to you now, it's welling up like a fountain. What a handful. I wouldn't be surprised to find it all over my face.
I'm telling you all this to excuse myself in advance. If you find my story badly recounted, you'll know now that it's the fault of my pen.
I lost a lot of time because of that instrument of misfortune, and it was late when I brought Madame her chocolate.
5.
Madame was still in bed. She hastened to arise and put on her housecoat, and she said, "Today will be a wearisome day. We must put the apartment back into order. It is in dire need of it."
Oh! Yes! How it was in need of it! Just think, the place had not been inhabited for more than a year! We went into the salon, and when I saw all that needed to be done, I sat right down on the great carpet, which was still rolled up in a large roll. It isn't that I'm lazy by nature, but, for me, getting started is the hard part. As for Madame, she always goes directly to the task at hand. While I was lounging, she was already removing the dustcovers and neatly folding them.
That shamed me more than a scolding. Uncle Corentin asked me to lend him a hand. Between us we did the heavy lifting, while Madame occupied herself with the objects and cabinets, and everything that is fine and fit for a lady.
We caught our breath a little at lunch, and then got back to the job. My heart was in it now, I assure you. I was under way with a full head of steam. I brushed, I shook, I beat with all my force. And, without even noticing, I shouted ... some things you will know shortly.
While that was going on, Madame was in her boudoir, on the chaise longue. A little fatiqued, she was having a small siesta. Unfortunately, my noise woke her up.
She came into the salon without me noticing. When she spoke I stood petrified with my carpet beater above my head. She asked, "What does it mean, Bécassine? I can hear you shouting, 'Take that, dirty Boche! This is for you, dirty Boche! Would you like another, dirty Boche?' And yet I find you alone. To whom do you speak?"
Then, I couldn't stop myself from laughing. I explained, "See, Madame, it's the carpets and armchairs I call 'dirty Boches'. That gives me the courage to pound them thoroughly."
6.
It's not polite to yawn in front of the whole world. Excuse me, but I can't help myself when I think of how tiring the past few days have been. The apartment is cleaned and put in order. There's nothing to do now but keep it that way, and that's simple.
Uncle Corentin has returned to Britanny. Madame passes her afternoons at a hospital. I escort her there at one, and return for her at seven, and in between there's nothing to do. How long it is! Go on, then, watch me yawn!
One afternoon I said, "I need to shift myself. I'll go make some visits." I went to the Halls. I have a good friend there, Madame Alphonsine, in the fruit pavilion. I was happy to see her again after such a long time. I kissed her on both cheeks.
I began to recount my adventures to her, but she said, "We can chat while we work. Give me a hand, then. It just so happens I put together a parcel for an officer who is a friend of your mistress. I'm doing that now. Here, pass me some pears, the best ones."
I passed her the pears. While she packed them, Madame Alphonsine said, "They are lovely, it's true, but I have to sell them at a franc each, with hardly any profit. Everything is so expensive, it's dreadful. What is to become of us with this damnable war?"
Some other vendors gathered round for me to see. They complained too. They cried, "It's ruin! Butter, cheese, eggs, poultry, in a word, everything!"
I listened to them without blinking. One of them asked me, "Doesn't it make your blood boil?" I said, "After all I've seen, and I've practically been to the front, this stuff seems like small potatoes. Besides, these days, nothing interests me." They laughed and said, "There you have it. Bécassine has a cockroach."
7.
There's nothing I detest more than vermin. I turned in every direction to try and find it, the damned insect, but Madame Alphonsine, who was laughing even more than the others, said, "Don't try to find it, Bécassine, it's in your head." I left without further explanation.
But, in the street, I was troubled by that business of the cockroach. On my word of honour, I was sure I could feel it stirring and scratching inside my head. All of a sudden, I noticed a poster on which were written in giant letters the words: VICTORY! VICTORY!!
I have to tell you that it was at that very moment that our brave soldiers were attacking at Verdun. To see VICTORY! VICTORY!! caused the tears to rise to my eyes, and I couldn't read the rest of the poster. There was a policeman nearby. I asked him very politely, "Pardon me, Monsieur, is that the communiqué?" He looked at me, flabbergasted. Then he touched his forehead like someone speaking to a simpleton and said in a very gentle voice, "Yes, my child, don't fret, it's the communiqué."
But my eyes were now dry and I could read the poster. It went: VICTORY! VICTORY!! over cockroaches, fleas and bugs, with the powder PERLIMPINPIN. For sale everywhere. It wasn't the communiqué. It's horrible to manipulate people's emotions with parody announcements. The police shouldn't allow it.
Still, as Perlimpinpin lets you achieve victory over cockroaches, I bought a box at the store, and then I ran off to find Madame, and we returned to the house. We were going in when the concierge came up with a message. That's always frightening in times of war. I was trembling all over, and Madame too, but as soon as she read it she said, "What joy! Monsieur Bertrand and his wife arrive tomorrow. Zidore will be with them." I was so relieved I dropped my Perlimpinpin.
The box opened. There was a great cloud. We both sneezed for five minutes. Whether it was breathing that drug in or the pleasure that the message gave me, I can't tell you, but I'm sure my cockroach is dead. I don't feel it scratching inside my head. I no longer yawn. I'm happy, and I laugh when I'm alone. I even believe that, in my room, before I got in bed, I danced a little.
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