Fabriqué en France! Pariser Kunst! So, did I ever give it to them—cabbage green, turnip yellow, Parma violet, and Prussian blue, which is only right. And do they ever pay—six, seven, eight hundred apiece; so there! One is patriotic in one’s own way: it’s just so much money coming in.”
A Masseuse
“Phew! . . . Bonjour, Madame. Phew! Am I ever tired! How’s that knee?”
“. . .”
“So you say, so you say. Let’s have a look. It’s true, the swelling has gone down. But the area is still pretty black from the extravasated blood? Talk about a bad blow, that was a bad blow. Am I ever tired!”
“. . . ?”
“Why don’t I sit down? Ah, yes! . . . Don’t mind me, I say that every third thing—I’m tired. I say it because it’s the truth; I can’t help it anymore, I’m giving out. It’s a real blessing.”
“. . . ?”
“Think about it, Madame, it’s a slaughterhouse with me. It’s as if all these ladies are crazy. The one who wants to go to the south, another one who’s just come back from the south, another who won’t stop going out at night, and all the ones who’ve been thrashed dancing the tango—and worst of all, the ones who don’t dance, who don’t go out, who don’t travel—they’re the ones who get the most use out of my doormat . . . All of them in fact, I’m telling you! It’s to the point where when I reach your house, a week after for your sprain, I shout, ‘Oh, thank God, now for half an hour of relaxation, a nice quiet little sit-down massage!’ Softer leg, completely relaxed, please.”
“. . . ?”
“Don’t be a tease! There is a world of difference between that and saying that it’s a good thing that you sprained your knee! But I really am glad to have you between two big massages. When I leave your place, I go . . . clear into the wilds, to the end of Auteuil.”
“. . . ?”
“You know perfectly well I never say whose house it is. The lady I told you about, the one who’s so rich and so bad-tempered. You know, don’t you? She receives me like a dog if I’m two minutes late, especially since for the moment she’s without her head chambermaid; one that she had hired, a gem, was in the house for one hour . . . a story that would make you die laughing! The maid arrives, a very decent-looking girl; the lady, who had had a good lunch, cries out when she sees her, ‘Why, she’s so sweet, with the face of a real little soubrette! You’ll be called Marton, and I’ll use tu with you!’ So the maid says, ‘As for the name, it’s all the same to me; but as for using tu , if Madame doesn’t mind, I don’t think we’ve known each other long enough, Madame and I.’”
“. . .”
“Of course it wasn’t a bad way to put it. Only it cost her her job. To try and be witty at a hundred and twenty francs a month; at that rate, I’d just as soon be a dumb animal. Phew, am I tired!”
“. . .”
“Me, rest? You wouldn’t want that! And in the first place, I don’t like to rest. I’m made for working first and for complaining after. If I don’t complain, I’m not happy. Take days like the one I have tomorrow: at five o’clock in the morning, my Greek lady . . .”
“. . .”
That’s what I said: five o’clock in the morning. Well, if you’re looking for an easy job, I don’t advise you to become a domestic in her house. She never feels sleepy, and it annoys her that others are asleep. At five o’clock in the morning she’s leaning on all the bells, and while she’s waiting for the staff to come down, she runs around in her kimono, hiding little wads of paper behind and under the furniture, to see if the sweeping gets done. Right down to me whom she keeps from sleeping! She only wants her massage at five o’clock out of pure meanness; she pays me an arm and a leg for it, just for the pleasure of saying to me when I arrive, ‘Oh, my poor Antoinette, it mustn’t have been very warm coming here this
A Masseuse
“Phew! . . . Bonjour, Madame. Phew! Am I ever tired! How’s that knee?”
“. . .”
“So you say, so you say. Let’s have a look. It’s true, the swelling has gone down. But the area is still pretty black from the extravasated blood? Talk about a bad blow, that was a bad blow. Am I ever tired!”
“. . . ?”
“Why don’t I sit down? Ah, yes! . . . Don’t mind me, I say that every third thing—I’m tired. I say it because it’s the truth; I can’t help it anymore, I’m giving out. It’s a real blessing.”
“. . . ?”
“Think about it, Madame, it’s a slaughterhouse with me. It’s as if all these ladies are crazy. The one who wants to go to the south, another one who’s just come back from the south, another who won’t stop going out at night, and all the ones who’ve been thrashed dancing the tango—and worst of all, the ones who don’t dance, who don’t go out, who don’t travel—they’re the ones who get the most use out of my doormat . . . All of them in fact, I’m telling you! It’s to the point where when I reach your house, a week after for your sprain, I shout, ‘Oh, thank God, now for half an hour of relaxation, a nice quiet little sit-down massage!’ Softer leg, completely relaxed, please.”
“. . . ?”
“Don’t be a tease! There is a world of difference between that and saying that it’s a good thing that you sprained your knee! But I really am glad to have you between two big massages. When I leave your place, I go . . . clear into the wilds, to the end of Auteuil.”
“. . . ?”
“You know perfectly well I never say whose house it is. The lady I told you about, the one who’s so rich and so bad-tempered. You know, don’t you? She receives me like a dog if I’m two minutes late, especially since for the moment she’s without her head chambermaid; one that she had hired, a gem, was in the house for one hour . . . a story that would make you die laughing! The maid arrives, a very decent-looking girl; the lady, who had had a good lunch, cries out when she sees her, ‘Why, she’s so sweet, with the face of a real little soubrette! You’ll be called Marton, and I’ll use tu with you!’ So the maid says, ‘As for the name, it’s all the same to me; but as for using tu , if Madame doesn’t mind, I don’t think we’ve known each other long enough, Madame and I.’”
“. . .”
“Of course it wasn’t a bad way to put it. Only it cost her her job. To try and be witty at a hundred and twenty francs a month; at that rate, I’d just as soon be a dumb animal. Phew, am I tired!”
“. . .”
“Me, rest? You wouldn’t want that! And in the first place, I don’t like to rest. I’m made for working first and for complaining after. If I don’t complain, I’m not happy. Take days like the one I have tomorrow: at five o’clock in the morning, my Greek lady . . .”
“. . .”
That’s what I said: five o’clock in the morning. Well, if you’re looking for an easy job, I don’t advise you to become a domestic in her house. She never feels sleepy, and it annoys her that others are asleep. At five o’clock in the morning she’s leaning on all the bells, and while she’s waiting for the staff to come down, she runs around in her kimono, hiding little wads of paper behind and under the furniture, to see if the sweeping gets done. Right down to me whom she keeps from sleeping! She only wants her massage at five o’clock out of pure meanness; she pays me an arm and a leg for it, just for the pleasure of saying to me when I arrive, ‘Oh, my poor Antoinette, it mustn’t have been very warm coming here this
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