The Diary of a Chambermaid by Octave Mirbeau Read Free Book Online

making silly jokes about. As for their Christian names, they’re even more ridiculous. The master’s called Isidore, and she’s Euphrasie! Really, I ask you.
    At the draper’s, where I’ve just been to match some silk, the woman told me a good deal about the set-up at The Priory. It was pretty awful. Though, to be fair, I must admit I’ve never in my life come across such an ill-natured gossip. If shopkeepers who rely upon their custom can talk about my employers like this, what on earth will other people have to say? Crikey But these country folk are terrible scandalmongers!
    Monsieur Lanlaire’s father was a cloth manufacturer and banker, at Louviers. He arranged a fraudulent bankruptcy and ruined all the small investors in the neighbourhood, for which he was sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment. But considering all the forgeries, confidence tricks, thefts and other crimes he’d committed, he got off very lightly. He was still in prison at Gaillon when he died. But it seems that somehow or other he had managed to keep back 450,000 francs that ought to have gone to his creditors … And Monsieur Lanlaire inherited the lot! So you see, being a rich man is as simple as that!
    The mistress’s father was even worse, although he never did time but departed this life respected by all decent people. His stock-in-trade was human beings. The draper’s wife explained to me how, in the time of Napoleon III, conscription was not obligatory for everybody as it is today. The conscripts were chosen by lot. But the sons of wealthy parents, if they happened to be selected, could buy themselves out. They would get in touch, either with an agency or some individual, who on payment of a premium, varying from 1,000 to 2,000 francs according to the risk involved, would find some poor devil who was prepared to take their place in the army for seven years, and, if there happened to be a war, die for them. In short, it wasn’t only in Africa that there was a slave trade, only here, in France, it was white men who were bought and sold instead of black. We had markets for men instead of for cattle, though for a more horrible kind of butchery. This did not altogether surprise me, for the same sort of thing is going on today. After all, what are our registry offices and public brothels, if not markets for the sale of human flesh?
    According to the draper’s wife it must have been a very lucrative business, and the mistress’s father, who had cornered the trade throughout the whole Department, showed considerable talent for it; that is to say, most of the premium went into his own pocket. Ten years ago, when he died, he was the mayor of Mesnil-Roy, deputy-justice of the peace, county councillor, chairman of the board of directors at the factory, treasurer of the welfare department, decorated by the Government and, in addition to buying The Priory for next to nothing, he left 1,200,000 francs, half of which went to the mistress, for her only brother turned out to be a bad egg and no one knew what had become of him. I don’t care what anybody says, but that money’s dirty money—if money can ever be said to be anything else. As far as I’m concerned, it’s perfectly simple: I’ve never seen any money that wasn’t dirty or any rich people who weren’t rotten.
    Anyhow, between them the Lanlaires—isn’t it disgusting? —ended up with more than a million francs. Yet they’re always trying to find ways of economizing, even though they probably never spend more than a third of their income. Always bargaining, haggling over every bill, going back on their word, refusing to stand by any agreement that isn’t in writing and properly signed, so that you have to keep your eye on them continually and, whatever happens, never give them the slightest chance of going to law. Another thing, they take advantage of people by not paying their bills, especially small shopkeepers who can’t afford a lawyer’s fees, and any other poor devil who