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_ Their relations were permanently changed. For several days they
did not meet at all; and when at the end of the week Chirac was
obliged at last to face Sophia in order to pay his bill, he had a
most grievous expression. It was obvious that he considered
himself a criminal without any defence to offer for his crime. He
seemed to make no attempt to hide his state of mind. But he said
nothing. As for Sophia, she preserved a mien of amiable
cheerfulness. She exerted herself to convince him by her attitude
that she bore no resentment, that she had determined to forget the
incident, that in short she was the forgiving angel of his dreams.
She did not, however, succeed entirely in being quite natural.
Confronted by his misery, it would have been impossible for her to
be quite natural, and at the same time quite cheerful!
A little later the social atmosphere of the flat began to grow
querulous, disputatious and perverse. The nerves of everybody were
seriously strained. This applied to the whole city. Days of heavy
rains followed the sharp frosts, and the town was, as it were,
sodden with woe. The gates were closed. And though nine-tenths of
the inhabitants never went outside the gates, the definite and
absolute closing of them demoralized all hearts. Gas was no longer
supplied. Rats, cats, and thorough-bred horses were being eaten
and pronounced 'not bad.' The siege had ceased to be a novelty.
Friends did not invite one another to a 'siege-dinner' as to a
picnic. Sophia, fatigued by regular overwork, became weary of the
situation. She was angry with the Prussians for dilatoriness, and
with the French for inaction, and she poured out her English
spleen on her boarders. The boarders told each other in secret
that the patronne was growing formidable. Chiefly she bore a
grudge against the shopkeepers; and when, upon a rumour of peace,
the shop-windows one day suddenly blossomed with prodigious
quantities of all edibles, at highest prices, thus proving that
the famine was artificially created, Sophia was furious. M. Niepce
in particular, though he sold goods to her at a special discount,
suffered indignities. A few days later that benign and fatherly
man put himself lamentably in the wrong by attempting to introduce
into his room a charming young creature who knew how to be
sympathetic. Sophia, by an accident unfortunate for the grocer,
caught them in the corridor. She was beside herself, but the only
outward symptoms were a white face and a cold steely voice that
grated like a rasp on the susceptibilities of the adherents of
Aphrodite. At this period Sophia had certainly developed into a
termagant--without knowing it!
She would often insist now on talking about the siege, and hearing
everything that the men could tell her. Her comments, made without
the least regard for the justifiable delicacy of their feelings as
Frenchmen, sometimes led to heated exchanges. When all Montmartre
and the Quartier Breda was impassioned by the appearance from
outside of the Thirty-second battalion, she took the side of the
populace, and would not credit the solemn statement of the
journalists, proved by documents, that these maltreated soldiers
were not cowards in flight. She supported the women who had spit
in the faces of the Thirty-second. She actually said that if she
had met them, she would have spit too. Really, she was convinced
of the innocence of the Thirty-second, but something prevented her
from admitting it. The dispute ended with high words between
herself and Chirac.
The next day Chirac came home at an unusual hour, knocked at the
kitchen door, and said:
"I must give notice to leave you."
"Why?" she demanded curtly.
She was kneading flour and water for a potato-cake. Her potato-
cakes were the joy of the household.
"My paper has stopped!" said Chirac.
"Oh!" she added thoughtfully, but not looking at him. "That is no
reason why you should leave."
"Yes," he said. "This place is beyond my means. I do not need to
tell you that in ceasing to appear the paper has omitted to pay
its debts. The house owes me a month's salary. So I must leave."
"No!" said Sophia. "You can pay me when you have money."
He shook his head. "I have no intention of accepting your
kindness."
"Haven't you got any money?" she abruptly asked.
"None," said he. "It is the disaster--quite simply!"
"Then you will be forced to get into debt somewhere."
"Yes, but not here! Not to you!"
"Truly, Chirac," she exclaimed, with a cajoling voice, "you are
not reasonable."
"Nevertheless it is like that!" he said with decision.
"Eh, well!" she turned on him menacingly. "It will not be like
that! You understand me? You will stay. And you will pay me when
you can. Otherwise we shall quarrel. Do you imagine I shall
tolerate your childishness? Just because you were angry last
night----"
"It is not that," he protested." You ought to know it is not
that."(She did.)" It is solely that I cannot permit myself to----"
"Enough!" she cried peremptorily, stopping him. And then in a
quieter tone, "And what about Carlier? Is he also in the ditch?"
"Ah! he has money," said Chirac, with sad envy.
"You also, one day," said she. "You stop--in any case until after
Christmas, or we quarrel. Is it agreed?" Her accent had softened.
"You are too good!" he yielded. "I cannot quarrel with you. But it
pains me to accept--"
"Oh!" she snapped, dropping into the vulgar idiom, "you make me
sweat with your stupid pride. Is it that that you call friendship?
Go away now. How do you wish that I should succeed with this cake
while you station yourself there to distract me?" _
Read next: BOOK III SOPHIA: CHAPTER VI - THE SIEGE: PART IV
Read previous: BOOK III SOPHIA: CHAPTER VI - THE SIEGE: PART II
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