Free The Devil in the Flesh by Raymond Radiguet

Marthe.
    It was at that moment that J … declared war on her.
    The owners made a point of not speaking to her now. No one said hello to her. It was only the local tradespeoplewho, from a business point of view, felt less obliged to maintain this haughty moratorium. So, sometimes feeling the need to pass the time of day, Marthe would linger in the shops. Whenever I was at her apartment, if she went out to buy milk and cakes and wasn’t back after five minutes, I would imagine that she’d been knocked down by a tram and run as fast as I could to the dairy or the pâtisserie. I would find her there, chatting. As soon as we were outside, furious with myself for letting myself be carried away by my neurotic anxiety, I would lose my temper. I accused her of having common taste, of enjoying the company of shopkeepers. The latter disliked me intensely, since I interrupted their conversations.
    Like everything noble, court etiquette is simple. But for paradoxes, nothing quite rivals the protocol of the common people. Their mania for hierarchies is based first and foremost on age. Nothing shocks them more than seeing an elderly duchess curtsy to a young prince. You can imagine the loathing felt by the staff in the pâtisserie and the dairy when a mere boy butted in on their casual friendship with Marthe. For the sake of these conversations they would have found a host of excuses for her.
    The owners had a twenty-two-year-old son. He came home on leave. Marthe invited him for tea.
    That evening we heard raised voices; they forbade him to see their tenant again. Accustomed to my father never vetoing anything I did, I was quite astonished that the great lump was so obedient.
    The next day, as we walked across the garden, he was doing some digging. It was probably a punishment.Slightly embarrassed, he looked away so as not to have to say hello.
    These little skirmishes saddened Marthe; sufficiently intelligent and in love to realize that happiness isn’t to be found in the regard of other people, she was like those poets who realize that true poetry is ‘cursed’, and yet who, despite knowing this, are still sometimes hurt when they don’t receive the public approval which they so despise.

XVI
    MEMBERS OF THE TOWN COUNCIL ALWAYS PLAY a part in my adventures. Monsieur Marin, who lived downstairs from Marthe, an elderly man with a grey beard and dignified bearing, was a former town councillor in J.… He had retired just before the War, and still enjoyed serving his country when a convenient opportunity arose. Content to just criticise local politics, he lived with his wife and only entertained or paid social calls just before the New Year.
    For several days there had been a lot of hustle and bustle downstairs, even more noticeable because from our bedroom we could hear the slightest noise on the ground floor. Cleaners arrived. Out in the garden, their maid, helped by the landlord’s servant, was polishing the silver, getting verdigris off the brass ceiling lights. We found out from the woman in the dairy that the Marins were getting ready for a surprise society reception at their house, under a cloak of secrecy. Madame Marin had invited the Mayor, begging him to allocate her eight litres of milk. So was he going to give the woman in the dairy permission to make cream as well?
    Permits being granted, when the day came (a Friday), about fifteen local worthies arrived at the appointed time with their wives, each of them the founder of a society forbreast-feeding or aid for the wounded, and of which she was chairwoman, along with other members of the society. To show ‘good form’, the mistress of the house greeted her guests at the door. She had used her reception’s aura of mystery to turn it into a picnic. All these ladies preached the gospel of thrift as well as dreaming up recipes. Their favourite sweet dishes were cakes without flour, cream desserts made with lichen, etc. As they arrived, they each told Madame Marin: “It