Perversity by Francis Carco

Author:Francis Carco [Carco, Francis]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Munsey's
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

PART THREE. The Room Downstairs

XVI

Soon he regretted her constantly, for the others became so aggressive, that on certain evenings they would prevent him from going upstairs. They insulted him in a thousand ways, they refused to let him pass till he gave ten sous, or they would pull his hair, slyly prick him with pins, hit him in the back with their umbrellas and run away laughing loudly.

Emile said nothing. He gave the money asked for, bore without complaint the annoyances of every kind to which he was exposed, and in his room would devour his shame bitterly and finally weep.

Tears were a relief he did not explain to himself. They freed him from a pain so secret, so deep that afterwards he would imagine he was cured. But was he not the most abject of men to cry—at his age—because some prostitutes teased him? Would he never find the courage to rebel, to complain to the police, or, once for all, to give back blow for blow, insult for insult? Had it not been for the fear of Bebert and Irma, who would get to know the peculiar reports that had spread over the house, and would be furious, he would have done so. On the other hand, how could he fight alone against all those women?

He was incapable of it, they would attack and beat him, the scandal would become public.

Emile unhappily had not much choice. He was not master of the situation, for the alarming Bebert was mixed up with every plan he made. His wounds were too recent to allow him to forget the terrible little man. He saw Bebert pulling out his knife, showing it, then attacking him furiously and striking in spite of his cries, his complaints and his entreaties. The man was a monster. He had neither heart nor feelings, and anything could be expected of him. Thinking about Bebert, Emile would feel a deadly cold freeze him to the marrow, and the sensation was enough to stop him when exhausted with rage and humiliation, he was on the point of relating everything.

A few evenings afterwards, seated in the kitchen, Emile was sadly considering the affair when the door bell rang and made him start. He did not answer but wondered, astonished, who could wish to disturb him at that time of the night. Was it someone for Irma? Emile waited, went to the door. There was somebody on the landing. Emile was sure of it. The door bell rang a second time.

“Who's there?” said Emile.

A hoarse, stifled voice whispered: “Monsieur Emile, open the door.”

“But who is it?”

“Belle-Amour,” answered the voice. “I must speak to you.... D'you hear, Monsieur Emile? I mean you no harm and you know it.”

Emile opened the door.

“What? What is it?” he asked quickly. “Why are you here? I don't understand.... What do you want? Tell me... well, tell me.”

Belle-Amour looked at him.

“Yes,” he said, “here I am. Have you got something to say to me? Come into my room, I am listening.

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