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diff --git a/3088-0.txt b/3088-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ead55fd --- /dev/null +++ b/3088-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3042 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Original Short Stories of Maupassant, +Volume 12, by Guy de Maupassant + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Original Short Stories, Volume 12 (of 13) + +Author: Guy de Maupassant + +Release Date: August 16, 2006 [EBook #3088] +Last Updated: February 23, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAUPASSANT SHORT STORIES *** + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES, VOLUME 12 (of 13) + + +By Guy De Maupassant + + +Translated by + + ALBERT M. C. McMASTER, B.A. + A. E. HENDERSON, B.A. + MME. QUESADA and Others + + + +VOLUME XII. + + + + THE CHILD + A COUNTRY EXCURSION + ROSE + ROSALIE PRUDENT + REGRET + A SISTER'S CONFESSION + COCO + A DEAD WOMAN'S SECRET + A HUMBLE DRAMA + MADEMOISELLE COCOTTE + THE CORSICAN BANDIT + THE GRAVE + + + + +THE CHILD + +Lemonnier had remained a widower with one child. He had loved his wife +devotedly, with a tender and exalted love, without a slip, during +their entire married life. He was a good, honest man, perfectly simple, +sincere, without suspicion or malice. + +He fell in love with a poor neighbor, proposed and was accepted. He was +making a very comfortable living out of the wholesale cloth business, +and he did not for a minute suspect that the young girl might have +accepted him for anything else but himself. + +She made him happy. She was everything to him; he only thought of her, +looked at her continually, with worshiping eyes. During meals he would +make any number of blunders, in order not to have to take his eyes from +the beloved face; he would pour the wine in his plate and the water in +the salt-cellar, then he would laugh like a child, repeating: + +“You see, I love you too much; that makes me crazy.” + +She would smile with a calm and resigned look; then she would look away, +as though embarrassed by the adoration of her husband, and try to make +him talk about something else; but he would take her hand under the +table and he would hold it in his, whispering: + +“My little Jeanne, my darling little Jeanne!” + +She sometimes lost patience and said: + +“Come, come, be reasonable; eat and let me eat.” + +He would sigh and break off a mouthful of bread, which he would then +chew slowly. + +For five years they had no children. Then suddenly she announced to him +that this state of affairs would soon cease. He was wild with joy. He no +longer left her for a minute, until his old nurse, who had brought him +up and who often ruled the house, would push him out and close the door +behind him, in order to compel him to go out in the fresh air. + +He had grown very intimate with a young man who had known his wife since +childhood, and who was one of the prefect's secretaries. M. Duretour +would dine three times a week with the Lemonniers, bringing flowers to +madame, and sometimes a box at the theater; and often, at the end of +the dinner, Lemonnier, growing tender, turning towards his wife, would +explain: “With a companion like you and a friend like him, a man is +completely happy on earth.” + +She died in childbirth. The shock almost killed him. But the sight of +the child, a poor, moaning little creature, gave him courage. + +He loved it with a passionate and sorrowful love, with a morbid love +in which stuck the memory of death, but in which lived something of his +worship for the dead mother. It was the flesh of his wife, her being +continued, a sort of quintessence of herself. This child was her very +life transferred to another body; she had disappeared that it might +exist, and the father would smother it in with kisses. But also, this +child had killed her; he had stolen this beloved creature, his life was +at the cost of hers. And M. Lemonnier would place his son in the cradle +and would sit down and watch him. He would sit this way by the hour, +looking at him, dreaming of thousands of things, sweet or sad. Then, +when the little one was asleep, he would bend over him and sob. + +The child grew. The father could no longer spend an hour away from him; +he would stay near him, take him out for walks, and himself dress him, +wash him, make him eat. His friend, M. Duretour, also seemed to love the +boy; he would kiss him wildly, in those frenzies of tenderness which are +characteristic of parents. He would toss him in his arms, he would +trot him on his knees, by the hour, and M. Lemonnier, delighted, would +mutter: + +“Isn't he a darling? Isn't he a darling?” + +And M. Duretour would hug the child in his arms and tickle his neck with +his mustache. + +Celeste, the old nurse, alone, seemed to have no tenderness for the +little one. She would grow angry at his pranks, and seemed impatient at +the caresses of the two men. She would exclaim: + +“How can you expect to bring a child up like that? You'll make a perfect +monkey out of him.” + +Years went by, and Jean was nine years old. He hardly knew how to read; +he had been so spoiled, and only did as he saw fit. He was willful, +stubborn and quick-tempered. The father always gave in to him and let +him have his own way. M. Duretour would always buy him all the toys +he wished, and he fed him on cake and candies. Then Celeste would grow +angry and exclaim: + +“It's a shame, monsieur, a shame. You are spoiling this child. But it +will have to stop; yes, sir, I tell you it will have to stop, and before +long, too.” + +M. Lemonnier would answer, smiling: + +“What can you expect? I love him too much, I can't resist him; you must +get used to it.” + +Jean was delicate, rather. The doctor said that he was anaemic, +prescribed iron, rare meat and broth. + +But the little fellow loved only cake and refused all other nourishment; +and the father, in despair, stuffed him with cream-puffs and chocolate +eclairs. + +One evening, as they were sitting down to supper, Celeste brought on the +soup with an air of authority and an assurance which she did not usually +have. She took off the cover and, dipping the ladle into the dish, she +declared: + +“Here is some broth such as I have never made; the young one will have +to take some this time.” + +M. Lemonnier, frightened, bent his head. He saw a storm brewing. + +Celeste took his plate, filled it herself and placed it in front of him. + +He tasted the soup and said: + +“It is, indeed, excellent.” + +The servant took the boy's plate and poured a spoonful of soup in it. +Then she retreated a few steps and waited. + +Jean smelled the food and pushed his plate away with an expression of +disgust. Celeste, suddenly pale, quickly stepped forward and forcibly +poured a spoonful down the child's open mouth. + +He choked, coughed, sneezed, spat; howling, he seized his glass and +threw it at his nurse. She received it full in the stomach. Then, +exasperated, she took the young shaver's head under her arm and began +pouring spoonful after spoonful of soup down his throat. He grew as +red as a beet, and he would cough it up, stamping, twisting, choking, +beating the air with his hands. + +At first the father was so surprised that he could not move. Then, +suddenly, he rushed forward, wild with rage, seized the servant by the +throat and threw her up against the wall stammering: + +“Out! Out! Out! you brute!” + +But she shook him off, and, her hair streaming down her back, her eyes +snapping, she cried out: + +“What's gettin' hold of you? You're trying to thrash me because I am +making this child eat soup when you are filling him with sweet stuff!” + +He kept repeating, trembling from head to foot: + +“Out! Get out-get out, you brute!” + +Then, wild, she turned to him and, pushing her face up against his, her +voice trembling: + +“Ah!--you think-you think that you can treat me like that? Oh! no. And +for whom?--for that brat who is not even yours. No, not yours! No, not +yours--not yours! Everybody knows it, except yourself! Ask the grocer, +the butcher, the baker, all of them, any one of them!” + +She was growling and mumbling, choked with passion; then she stopped and +looked at him. + +He was motionless livid, his arms hanging by his sides. After a short +pause, he murmured in a faint, shaky voice, instinct with deep feeling: + +“You say? you say? What do you say?” + +She remained silent, frightened by his appearance. Once more he stepped +forward, repeating: + +“You say--what do you say?” + +Then in a calm voice, she answered: + +“I say what I know, what everybody knows.” + +He seized her and, with the fury of a beast, he tried to throw her down. +But, although old, she was strong and nimble. She slipped under his arm, +and running around the table once more furious, she screamed: + +“Look at him, just look at him, fool that you are! Isn't he the living +image of M. Durefour? just look at his nose and his eyes! Are yours like +that? And his hair! Is it like his mother's? I tell you that everyone +knows it, everyone except yourself! It's the joke of the town! Look at +him!” + +She went to the door, opened it, and disappeared. + +Jean, frightened, sat motionless before his plate of soup. + +At the end of an hour, she returned gently, to see how matters stood. +The child, after doing away with all the cakes and a pitcher full +of cream and one of syrup, was now emptying the jam-pot with his +soup-spoon. + +The father had gone out. + +Celeste took the child, kissed him, and gently carried him to his room +and put him to bed. She came back to the dining-room, cleared the table, +put everything in place, feeling very uneasy all the time. + +Not a single sound could be heard throughout the house. She put her ear +against's her master's door. He seemed to be perfectly still. She put +her eye to the keyhole. He was writing, and seemed very calm. + +Then she returned to the kitchen and sat down, ready for any emergency. +She slept on a chair and awoke at daylight. + +She did the rooms as she had been accustomed to every morning; she +swept and dusted, and, towards eight o'clock, prepared M. Lemonnier's +breakfast. + +But she did not dare bring it to her master, knowing too well how she +would be received; she waited for him to ring. But he did not ring. Nine +o'clock, then ten o'clock went by. + +Celeste, not knowing what to think, prepared her tray and started up +with it, her heart beating fast. + +She stopped before the door and listened. Everything was still. She +knocked; no answer. Then, gathering up all her courage, she opened the +door and entered. With a wild shriek, she dropped the breakfast tray +which she had been holding in her hand. + +In the middle of the room, M. Lemonnier was hanging by a rope from a +ring in the ceiling. His tongue was sticking out horribly. His right +slipper was lying on the ground, his left one still on his foot. An +upturned chair had rolled over to the bed. + +Celeste, dazed, ran away shrieking. All the neighbors crowded together. +The physician declared that he had died at about midnight. + +A letter addressed to M. Duretdur was found on the table of the suicide. +It contained these words: + +“I leave and entrust the child to you!” + + + + +A COUNTRY EXCURSION + +For five months they had been talking of going to take luncheon in one +of the country suburbs of Paris on Madame Dufour's birthday, and as +they were looking forward very impatiently to the outing, they rose very +early that morning. Monsieur Dufour had borrowed the milkman's wagon and +drove himself. It was a very tidy, two-wheeled conveyance, with a cover +supported by four iron rods, with curtains that had been drawn up, +except the one at the back, which floated out like a sail. Madame +Dufour, resplendent in a wonderful, cherry colored silk dress, sat by +the side of her husband. + +The old grandmother and a girl sat behind them on two chairs, and a boy +with yellow hair was lying at the bottom of the wagon, with nothing to +be seen of him except his head. + +When they reached the bridge of Neuilly, Monsieur Dufour said: “Here +we are in the country at last!” and at that signal his wife grew +sentimental about the beauties of nature. When they got to the +crossroads at Courbevoie they were seized with admiration for the +distant landscape. On the right was Argenteuil with its bell tower, and +above it rose the hills of Sannois and the mill of Orgemont, while on +the left the aqueduct of Marly stood out against the clear morning sky, +and in the distance they could see the terrace of Saint-Germain; and +opposite them, at the end of a low chain of hills, the new fort of +Cormeilles. Quite in the distance; a very long way off, beyond the +plains and village, one could see the sombre green of the forests. + +The sun was beginning to burn their faces, the dust got into their eyes, +and on either side of the road there stretched an interminable tract of +bare, ugly country with an unpleasant odor. One might have thought +that it had been ravaged by a pestilence, which had even attacked the +buildings, for skeletons of dilapidated and deserted houses, or +small cottages, which were left in an unfinished state, because the +contractors had not been paid, reared their four roofless walls on each +side. + +Here and there tall factory chimneys rose up from the barren soil. The +only vegetation on that putrid land, where the spring breezes wafted +an odor of petroleum and slate, blended with another odor that was even +less agreeable. At last, however, they crossed the Seine a second time, +and the bridge was a delight. The river sparkled in the sun, and they +had a feeling of quiet enjoyment, felt refreshed as they drank in the +purer air that was not impregnated by the black smoke of factories nor +by the miasma from the deposits of night soil. A man whom they met told +them that the name of the place was Bezons. Monsieur Dufour pulled up +and read the attractive announcement outside an eating house: Restaurant +Poulin, matelottes and fried fish, private rooms, arbors, and swings. + +“Well, Madame Dufour, will this suit you? Will you make up your mind at +last?” + +She read the announcement in her turn and then looked at the house for +some time. + +It was a white country inn, built by the roadside, and through the open +door she could see the bright zinc of the counter, at which sat two +workmen in their Sunday clothes. At last she made up her mind and said: + +“Yes, this will do; and, besides, there is a view.” + +They drove into a large field behind the inn, separated from the river +by the towing path, and dismounted. The husband sprang out first and +then held out his arms for his wife, and as the step was very high +Madame Dufour, in order to reach him, had to show the lower part of her +limbs, whose former slenderness had disappeared in fat, and Monsieur +Dufour, who was already getting excited by the country air, pinched her +calf, and then, taking her in his arms, he set her on the ground, as if +she had been some enormous bundle. She shook the dust out of the silk +dress and then looked round to see in what sort of a place she was. + +She was a stout woman, of about thirty-six, full-blown, and delightful +to look at. She could hardly breathe, as her corsets were laced too +tightly, and their pressure forced her superabundant bosom up to her +double chin. Next the girl placed her hand on her father's shoulder +and jumped down lightly. The boy with the yellow hair had got down +by stepping on the wheel, and he helped Monsieur Dufour to lift his +grandmother out. Then they unharnessed the horse, which they had tied to +a tree, and the carriage fell back, with both shafts in the air. The men +took off their coats and washed their hands in a pail of water and then +went and joined the ladies, who had already taken possession of the +swings. + +Mademoiselle Dufour was trying to swing herself standing up, but she +could not succeed in getting a start. She was a pretty girl of about +eighteen, one of those women who suddenly excite your desire when +you meet them in the street and who leave you with a vague feeling of +uneasiness and of excited senses. She was tall, had a small waist and +large hips, with a dark skin, very large eyes and very black hair. Her +dress clearly marked the outlines of her firm, full figure, which was +accentuated by the motion of her hips as she tried to swing herself +higher. Her arms were stretched upward to hold the rope, so that her +bosom rose at every movement she made. Her hat, which a gust of wind +had blown off, was hanging behind her, and as the swing gradually rose +higher and higher, she showed her delicate limbs up to the knees each +time, and the breeze from her flying skirts, which was more heady than +the fumes of wine, blew into the faces of the two men, who were looking +at her and smiling. + +Sitting in the other swing, Madame Dufour kept saying in a monotonous +voice: + +“Cyprian, come and swing me; do come and swing me, Cyprian!” + +At last he went, and turning up his shirt sleeves, as if undertaking a +hard piece of work, with much difficulty he set his wife in motion. +She clutched the two ropes and held her legs out straight, so as not to +touch the ground. She enjoyed feeling dizzy at the motion of the swing, +and her whole figure shook like a jelly on a dish, but as she went +higher and higher; she became too giddy and was frightened. Each time +the swing came down she uttered a piercing scream, which made all the +little urchins in the neighborhood come round, and down below, beneath +the garden hedge, she vaguely saw a row of mischievous heads making +various grimaces as they laughed. + +When a servant girl came out they ordered luncheon. + +“Some fried fish, a rabbit saute, salad and dessert,” Madame Dufour +said, with an important air. + +“Bring two quarts of beer and a bottle of claret,” her husband said. + +“We will have lunch on the grass,” the girl added. + +The grandmother, who had an affection for cats, had been running after +one that belonged to the house, trying to coax it to come to her for the +last ten minutes. The animal, who was no doubt secretly flattered by her +attentions, kept close to the good woman, but just out of reach of +her hand, and quietly walked round the trees, against which she rubbed +herself, with her tail up, purring with pleasure. + +“Hello!” suddenly exclaimed the young man with the yellow hair, who was +wandering about. “Here are two swell boats!” They all went to look +at them and saw two beautiful canoes in a wooden shed; they were as +beautifully finished as if they had been ornamental furniture. They +hung side by side, like two tall, slender girls, in their narrow shining +length, and made one wish to float in them on warm summer mornings and +evenings along the flower-covered banks of the river, where the trees +dip their branches into the water, where the rushes are continually +rustling in the breeze and where the swift kingfishers dart about like +flashes of blue lightning. + +The whole family looked at them with great respect. + +“Oh, they are indeed swell boats!” Monsieur Dufour repeated gravely, as +he examined them like a connoiseur. He had been in the habit of rowing +in his younger days, he said, and when he had spat in his hands--and he +went through the action of pulling the oars--he did not care a fig +for anybody. He had beaten more than one Englishman formerly at the +Joinville regattas. He grew quite excited at last and offered to make +a bet that in a boat like that he could row six leagues an hour without +exerting himself. + +“Luncheon is ready,” the waitress said, appearing at the entrance to +the boathouse, and they all hurried off. But two young men had taken +the very seats that Madame Dufour had selected and were eating their +luncheon. No doubt they were the owners of the sculls, for they were in +boating costume. They were stretched out, almost lying on the chairs; +they were sun-browned and their thin cotton jerseys, with short sleeves, +showed their bare arms, which were as strong as a blacksmith's. They +were two strong, athletic fellows, who showed in all their movements +that elasticity and grace of limb which can only be acquired by exercise +and which is so different to the deformity with which monotonous heavy +work stamps the mechanic. + +They exchanged a rapid smile when they saw the mother and then a glance +on seeing the daughter. + +“Let us give up our place,” one of them said; “it will make us +acquainted with them.” + +The other got up immediately, and holding his black and red boating cap +in his hand, he politely offered the ladies the only shady place in +the garden. With many excuses they accepted, and that it might be more +rural, they sat on the grass, without either tables or chairs. + +The two young men took their plates, knives, forks, etc., to a table a +little way off and began to eat again, and their bare arms, which they +showed continually, rather embarrassed the girl. She even pretended to +turn her head aside and not to see them, while Madame Dufour, who was +rather bolder, tempted by feminine curiosity, looked at them every +moment, and, no doubt, compared them with the secret unsightliness of +her husband. She had squatted herself on ground, with her legs tucked +under her, after the manner of tailors, and she kept moving about +restlessly, saying that ants were crawling about her somewhere. Monsieur +Dufour, annoyed at the presence of the polite strangers, was trying to +find a comfortable position which he did not, however, succeed in doing, +and the young man with the yellow hair was eating as silently as an +ogre. + +“It is lovely weather, monsieur,” the stout lady said to one of the +boating men. She wished to be friendly because they had given up their +place. + +“It is, indeed, madame,” he replied. “Do you often go into the country?” + +“Oh, only once or twice a year to get a little fresh air. And you, +monsieur?” + +“I come and sleep here every night.” + +“Oh, that must be very nice!” + +“Certainly it is, madame.” And he gave them such a practical account +of his daily life that it awakened afresh in the hearts of these +shopkeepers who were deprived of the meadows and who longed for country +walks, to that foolish love of nature which they all feel so strongly +the whole year round behind the counter in their shop. + +The girl raised her eyes and looked at the oarsman with emotion and +Monsieur Dufour spoke for the first time. + +“It is indeed a happy life,” he said. And then he added: “A little more +rabbit, my dear?” + +“No, thank you,” she replied, and turning to the young men again, and +pointing to their arms, asked: “Do you never feel cold like that?” + +They both began to laugh, and they astonished the family with an account +of the enormous fatigue they could endure, of their bathing while in a +state of tremendous perspiration, of their rowing in the fog at night; +and they struck their chests violently to show how hollow they sounded. + +“Ah! You look very strong,” said the husband, who did not talk any more +of the time when he used to beat the English. The girl was looking at +them sideways now, and the young fellow with the yellow hair, who +had swallowed some wine the wrong way, was coughing violently and +bespattering Madame Dufour's cherry-colored silk dress. She got angry +and sent for some water to wash the spots. + +Meanwhile it had grown unbearably hot, the sparkling river looked like +a blaze of fire and the fumes of the wine were getting into their +heads. Monsieur Dufour, who had a violent hiccough, had unbuttoned his +waistcoat and the top button of his trousers, while his wife, who felt +choking, was gradually unfastening her dress. The apprentice was shaking +his yellow wig in a happy frame of mind, and kept helping himself to +wine, and the old grandmother, feeling the effects of the wine, was +very stiff and dignified. As for the girl, one noticed only a peculiar +brightness in her eyes, while the brown cheeks became more rosy. + +The coffee finished, they suggested singing, and each of them sang or +repeated a couplet, which the others applauded frantically. Then they +got up with some difficulty, and while the two women, who were rather +dizzy, were trying to get a breath of air, the two men, who were +altogether drunk, were attempting gymnastics. Heavy, limp and with +scarlet faces they hung or, awkwardly to the iron rings, without being +able to raise themselves. + +Meanwhile the two boating men had got their boats into the water, and +they came back and politely asked the ladies whether they would like a +row. + +“Would you like one, Monsieur Dufour?” his wife exclaimed. “Please +come!” + +He merely gave her a drunken nod, without understanding what she said. +Then one of the rowers came up with two fishing rods in his hands, +and the hope of catching a gudgeon, that great vision of the Parisian +shopkeeper, made Dufour's dull eyes gleam, and he politely allowed them +to do whatever they liked, while he sat in the shade under the bridge, +with his feet dangling over the river, by the side of the young man with +the yellow hair, who was sleeping soundly. + +One of the boating men made a martyr of himself and took the mother. + +“Let us go to the little wood on the Ile aux Anglais!” he called out as +he rowed off. The other boat went more slowly, for the rower was looking +at his companion so intently that by thought of nothing else, and his +emotion seemed to paralyze his strength, while the girl, who was sitting +in the bow, gave herself up to the enjoyment of being on the water. She +felt a disinclination to think, a lassitude in her limbs and a total +enervation, as if she were intoxicated, and her face was flushed and her +breathing quickened. The effects of the wine, which were increased by +the extreme heat, made all the trees on the bank seem to bow as she +passed. A vague wish for enjoyment and a fermentation of her blood +seemed to pervade her whole body, which was excited by the heat of the +day, and she was also disturbed at this tete-a-tete on the water, in +a place which seemed depopulated by the heat, with this young man who +thought her pretty, whose ardent looks seemed to caress her skin and +were as penetrating and pervading as the sun's rays. + +Their inability to speak increased their emotion, and they looked about +them. At last, however, he made an effort and asked her name. + +“Henriette,” she said. + +“Why, my name is Henri,” he replied. The sound of their voices had +calmed them, and they looked at the banks. The other boat had passed +them and seemed to be waiting for them, and the rower called out: + +“We will meet you in the wood; we are going as far as Robinson's, +because Madame Dufour is thirsty.” Then he bent over his oars again and +rowed off so quickly that he was soon out of sight. + +Meanwhile a continual roar, which they had heard for some time, came +nearer, and the river itself seemed to shiver, as if the dull noise were +rising from its depths. + +“What is that noise?” she asked. It was the noise of the weir which cut +the river in two at the island, and he was explaining it to her, when, +above the noise of the waterfall, they heard the song of a bird, which +seemed a long way off. + +“Listen!” he said; “the nightingales are singing during the day, so the +female birds must be sitting.” + +A nightingale! She had never heard one before, and the idea of listening +to one roused visions of poetic tenderness in her heart. A nightingale! +That is to say, the invisible witness of her love trysts which Juliet +invoked on her balcony; that celestial music which it attuned to human +kisses, that eternal inspirer of all those languorous romances which +open an ideal sky to all the poor little tender hearts of sensitive +girls! + +She was going to hear a nightingale. + +“We must not make a noise,” her companion said, “and then we can go into +the wood, and sit down close beside it.” + +The boat seemed to glide. They saw the trees on the island, the banks of +which were so low that they could look into the depths of the thickets. +They stopped, he made the boat fast, Henriette took hold of Henri's arm, +and they went beneath the trees. + +“Stoop,” he said, so she stooped down, and they went into an +inextricable thicket of creepers, leaves and reed grass, which formed an +undiscoverable retreat, and which the young man laughingly called “his +private room.” + +Just above their heads, perched in one of the trees which hid them, the +bird was still singing. He uttered trills and roulades, and then loud, +vibrating notes that filled the air and seemed to lose themselves on the +horizon, across the level country, through that burning silence which +weighed upon the whole landscape. They did not speak for fear of +frightening it away. They were sitting close together, and, slowly, +Henri's arm stole round the girl's waist and squeezed it gently. She +took that daring hand without any anger, and kept removing it whenever +he put it round her; without, however, feeling at all embarrassed by +this caress, just as if it had been something quite natural, which she +was resisting just as naturally. + +She was listening to the bird in ecstasy. She felt an infinite longing +for happiness, for some sudden demonstration of tenderness, for the +revelation of superhuman poetry, and she felt such a softening at her +heart, and relaxation of her nerves, that she began to cry, without +knowing why. The young man was now straining her close to him, yet +she did not remove his arm; she did not think of it. Suddenly the +nightingale stopped, and a voice called out in the distance: + +“Henriette!” + +“Do not reply,” he said in a low voice; “you will drive the bird away.” + +But she had no idea of doing so, and they remained in the same position +for some time. Madame Dufour had sat down somewhere or other, for from +time to time they heard the stout lady break out into little bursts of +laughter. + +The girl was still crying; she was filled with strange sensations. +Henri's head was on her shoulder, and suddenly he kissed her on the +lips. She was surprised and angry, and, to avoid him, she stood up. + +They were both very pale when they left their grassy retreat. The blue +sky appeared to them clouded and the ardent sun darkened; and they felt +the solitude and the silence. They walked rapidly, side by side, +without speaking or touching each other, for they seemed to have become +irreconcilable enemies, as if disgust and hatred had arisen between +them, and from time to time Henriette called out: “Mamma!” + +By and by they heard a noise behind a bush, and the stout lady appeared, +looking rather confused, and her companion's face was wrinkled with +smiles which he could not check. + +Madame Dufour took his arm, and they returned to the boats, and Henri, +who was ahead, walked in silence beside the young girl. At last they got +back to Bezons. Monsieur Dufour, who was now sober, was waiting for them +very impatiently, while the young man with the yellow hair was having +a mouthful of something to eat before leaving the inn. The carriage was +waiting in the yard, and the grandmother, who had already got in, was +very frightened at the thought of being overtaken by night before they +reached Paris, as the outskirts were not safe. + +They all shook bands, and the Dufour family drove off. + +“Good-by, until we meet again!” the oarsmen cried, and the answer they +got was a sigh and a tear. + +Two months later, as Henri was going along the Rue des Martyrs, he saw +Dufour, Ironmonger, over a door, and so he went in, and saw the stout +lady sitting at the counter. They recognized each other immediately, and +after an interchange of polite greetings, he asked after them all. + +“And how is Mademoiselle Henriette?” he inquired specially. + +“Very well, thank you; she is married.” + +“Ah!” He felt a certain emotion, but said: “Whom did she marry?” + +“That young man who accompanied us, you know; he has joined us in +business.” + +“I remember him perfectly.” + +He was going out, feeling very unhappy, though scarcely knowing why, +when madame called him back. + +“And how is your friend?” she asked rather shyly. + +“He is very well, thank you.” + +“Please give him our compliments, and beg him to come and call, when he +is in the neighborhood.” + +She then added: “Tell him it will give me great pleasure.” + +“I will be sure to do so. Adieu!” + +“Do not say that; come again very soon.” + +The next year, one very hot Sunday, all the details of that adventure, +which Henri had never forgotten, suddenly came back to him so clearly +that he returned alone to their room in the wood, and was overwhelmed +with astonishment when he went in. She was sitting on the grass, looking +very sad, while by her side, still in his shirt sleeves, the young man +with the yellow hair was sleeping soundly, like some animal. + +She grew so pale when she saw Henri that at first he thought she was +going to faint; then, however, they began to talk quite naturally. But +when he told her that he was very fond of that spot, and went there +frequently on Sundays to indulge in memories, she looked into his eyes +for a long time. + +“I too, think of it,” she replied. + +“Come, my dear,” her husband said, with a yawn. “I think it is time for +us to be going.” + + + + +ROSE + +The two young women appear to be buried under a blanket of flowers. They +are alone in the immense landau, which is filled with flowers like a +giant basket. On the front seat are two small hampers of white satin +filled with violets, and on the bearskin by which their knees are +covered there is a mass of roses, mimosas, pinks, daisies, tuberoses and +orange blossoms, interwoven with silk ribbons; the two frail bodies seem +buried under this beautiful perfumed bed, which hides everything but the +shoulders and arms and a little of the dainty waists. + +The coachman's whip is wound with a garland of anemones, the horses' +traces are dotted with carnations, the spokes of the wheels are clothed +in mignonette, and where the lanterns ought to be are two enormous +round bouquets which look as though they were the eyes of this strange, +rolling, flower-bedecked creature. + +The landau drives rapidly along the road, through the Rue d'Antibes, +preceded, followed, accompanied, by a crowd of other carriages covered +with flowers, full of women almost hidden by a sea of violets. It is the +flower carnival at Cannes. + +The carriage reaches the Boulevard de la Fonciere, where the battle +is waged. All along the immense avenue a double row of flower-bedecked +vehicles are going and coming like an endless ribbon. Flowers are thrown +from one to the other. They pass through the air like balls, striking +fresh faces, bouncing and falling into the dust, where an army of +youngsters pick them up. + +A thick crowd is standing on the sidewalks looking on and held in check +by the mounted police, who pass brutally along pushing back the curious +pedestrians as though to prevent the common people from mingling with +the rich. + +In the carriages, people call to each other, recognize each other and +bombard each other with roses. A chariot full of pretty women, dressed +in red, like devils, attracts the eyes of all. A gentleman, who looks +like the portraits of Henry IV., is throwing an immense bouquet which +is held back by an elastic. Fearing the shock, the women hide their +eyes and the men lower their heads, but the graceful, rapid and obedient +missile describes a curve and returns to its master, who immediately +throws it at some new face. + +The two young women begin to throw their stock of flowers by handfuls, +and receive a perfect hail of bouquets; then, after an hour of warfare, +a little tired, they tell the coachman to drive along the road which +follows the seashore. + +The sun disappears behind Esterel, outlining the dark, rugged mountain +against the sunset sky. The clear blue sea, as calm as a mill-pond, +stretches out as far as the horizon, where it blends with the sky; +and the fleet, anchored in the middle of the bay, looks like a herd of +enormous beasts, motionless on the water, apocalyptic animals, armored +and hump-backed, their frail masts looking like feathers, and with eyes +which light up when evening approaches. + +The two young women, leaning back under the heavy robes, look out lazily +over the blue expanse of water. At last one of them says: + +“How delightful the evenings are! How good everything seems! Don't you +think so, Margot?” + +“Yes, it is good. But there is always something lacking.” + +“What is lacking? I feel perfectly happy. I don't need anything else.” + +“Yes, you do. You are not thinking of it. No matter how contented we may +be, physically, we always long for something more--for the heart.” + +The other asked with a smile: + +“A little love?” + +“Yes.” + +They stopped talking, their eyes fastened on the distant horizon, then +the one called Marguerite murmured: “Life without that seems to me +unbearable. I need to be loved, if only by a dog. But we are all alike, +no matter what you may say, Simone.” + +“Not at all, my dear. I had rather not be loved at all than to be +loved by the first comer. Do you think, for instance, that it would be +pleasant to be loved by--by--” + +She was thinking by whom she might possibly be loved, glancing across +the wide landscape. Her eyes, after traveling around the horizon, +fell on the two bright buttons which were shining on the back of the +coachman's livery, and she continued, laughing: “by my coachman?” + +Madame Margot barely smiled, and said in a low tone of voice: + +“I assure you that it is very amusing to be loved by a servant. It has +happened to me two or three times. They roll their eyes in such a funny +manner--it's enough to make you die laughing! Naturally, the more in +love they are, the more severe one must be with them, and then, some +day, for some reason, you dismiss them, because, if anyone should notice +it, you would appear so ridiculous.” + +Madame Simone was listening, staring straight ahead of her, then she +remarked: + +“No, I'm afraid that my footman's heart would not satisfy me. Tell me +how you noticed that they loved you.” + +“I noticed it the same way that I do with other men--when they get +stupid.” + +“The others don't seem stupid to me, when they love me.” + +“They are idiots, my dear, unable to talk, to answer, to understand +anything.” + +“But how did you feel when you were loved by a servant? Were +you--moved--flattered?” + +“Moved? no, flattered--yes a little. One is always flattered to be loved +by a man, no matter who he may be.” + +“Oh, Margot!” + +“Yes, indeed, my dear! For instance, I will tell you of a peculiar +incident which happened to me. You will see how curious and complex our +emotions are, in such cases. + +“About four years ago I happened to be without a maid. I had tried five +or six, one right after the other, and I was about ready to give up +in despair, when I saw an advertisement in a newspaper of a young +girl knowing how to cook, embroider, dress hair, who was looking for a +position and who could furnish the best of references. Besides all these +accomplishments, she could speak English. + +“I wrote to the given address, and the next day the person in question +presented herself. She was tall, slender, pale, shy-looking. She +had beautiful black eyes and a charming complexion; she pleased me +immediately. I asked for her certificates; she gave me one in English, +for she came, as she said, from Lady Rymwell's, where she had been for +ten years. + +“The certificate showed that the young girl had left of her own free +will, in order to return to France, and the only thing which they had +had to find fault in her during her long period of service was a little +French coquettishness. + +“This prudish English phrase even made me smile, and I immediately +engaged this maid. + +“She came to me the same day. Her name was Rose. + +“At the end of a month I would have been helpless without her. She was a +treasure, a pearl, a phenomenon. + +“She could dress my hair with infinite taste; she could trim a hat +better than most milliners, and she could even make my dresses. + +“I was astonished at her accomplishments. I had never before been waited +on in such a manner. + +“She dressed me rapidly and with a surprisingly light touch. I never +felt her fingers on my skin, and nothing is so disagreeable to me as +contact with a servant's hand. I soon became excessively lazy; it was so +pleasant to be dressed from head to foot, and from lingerie to gloves, +by this tall, timid girl, always blushing a little, and never saying a +word. After my bath she would rub and massage me while I dozed a little +on my couch; I almost considered her more of a friend than a servant. + +“One morning the janitor asked, mysteriously, to speak to me. I was +surprised, and told him to come in. He was a good, faithful man, an old +soldier, one of my husband's former orderlies. + +“He seemed to be embarrassed by what he had to say to me. At last he +managed to mumble: + +“'Madame, the superintendent of police is downstairs.' + +“I asked quickly: + +“'What does he wish?' + +“'He wishes to search the house.' + +“Of course the police are useful, but I hate them. I do not think that +it is a noble profession. I answered, angered and hurt: + +“'Why this search? For what reason? He shall not come in.' + +“The janitor continued: + +“'He says that there is a criminal hidden in the house.' + +“This time I was frightened and I told him to bring the inspector to me, +so that I might get some explanation. He was a man with good manners and +decorated with the Legion of Honor. He begged my pardon for disturbing +me, and then informed me that I had, among my domestics, a convict. + +“I was shocked; and I answered that I could guarantee every servant in +the house, and I began to enumerate them. + +“'The janitor, Pierre Courtin, an old soldier.' + +“'It's not he.' + +“'A stable-boy, son of farmers whom I know, and a groom whom you have +just seen.' + +“'It's not he.' + +“'Then, monsieur, you see that you must be mistaken.' + +“'Excuse me, madame, but I am positive that I am not making a mistake. + +“As the conviction of a notable criminal is at stake, would you be so +kind as to send for all your servants?” + +“At first I refused, but I finally gave in, and sent downstairs for +everybody, men and women. + +“The inspector glanced at them and then declared: + +“'This isn't all.' + +“'Excuse me, monsieur, there is no one left but my maid, a young girl +whom you could not possibly mistake for a convict.' + +“He asked: + +“'May I also see her?' + +“'Certainly.' + +“I rang for Rose, who immediately appeared. She had hardly entered the +room, when the inspector made a motion, and two men whom I had not seen, +hidden behind the door, sprang forward, seized her and tied her hands +behind her back. + +“I cried out in anger and tried to rush forward to defend her. The +inspector stopped me: + +“'This girl, madame, is a man whose name is Jean Nicolas Lecapet, +condemned to death in 1879 for assaulting a woman and injuring her so +that death resulted. His sentence was commuted to imprisonment for life. +He escaped four months ago. We have been looking for him ever since.' + +“I was terrified, bewildered. I did not believe him. The commissioner +continued, laughing: + +“'I can prove it to you. His right arm is tattooed.' + +“'The sleeve was rolled up. It was true. The inspector added, with bad +taste: + +“'You can trust us for the other proofs.' + +“And they led my maid away! + +“Well, would you believe me, the thing that moved me most was not anger +at having thus been played upon, deceived and made ridiculous, it was +not the shame of having thus been dressed and undressed, handled and +touched by this man--but a deep humiliation--a woman's humiliation. Do +you understand?” + +“I am afraid I don't.” + +“Just think--this man had been condemned for--for assaulting a woman. +Well! I thought of the one whom he had assaulted--and--and I felt +humiliated--There! Do you understand now?” + +Madame Margot did not answer. She was looking straight ahead, her eyes +fastened on the two shining buttons of the livery, with that sphinx-like +smile which women sometimes have. + + + + +ROSALIE PRUDENT + +There was a real mystery in this affair which neither the jury, nor the +president, nor the public prosecutor himself could understand. + +The girl Prudent (Rosalie), servant at the Varambots', of Nantes, having +become enceinte without the knowledge of her masters, had, during the +night, killed and buried her child in the garden. + +It was the usual story of the infanticides committed by servant girls. +But there was one inexplicable circumstance about this one. When the +police searched the girl Prudent's room they discovered a complete +infant's outfit, made by Rosalie herself, who had spent her nights for +the last three months in cutting and sewing it. The grocer from whom +she had bought her candles, out of her own wages, for this long piece of +work had come to testify. It came out, moreover, that the sage-femme of +the district, informed by Rosalie of her condition, had given her all +necessary instructions and counsel in case the event should happen at a +time when it might not be possible to get help. She had also procured +a place at Poissy for the girl Prudent, who foresaw that her present +employers would discharge her, for the Varambot couple did not trifle +with morality. + +There were present at the trial both the man and the woman, a +middle-class pair from the provinces, living on their income. They were +so exasperated against this girl, who had sullied their house, that they +would have liked to see her guillotined on the spot without a trial. The +spiteful depositions they made against her became accusations in their +mouths. + +The defendant, a large, handsome girl of Lower Normandy, well educated +for her station in life, wept continuously and would not answer to +anything. + +The court and the spectators were forced to the opinion that she had +committed this barbarous act in a moment of despair and madness, since +there was every indication that she had expected to keep and bring up +her child. + +The president tried for the last time to make her speak, to get some +confession, and, having urged her with much gentleness, he finally made +her understand that all these men gathered here to pass judgment upon +her were not anxious for her death and might even have pity on her. + +Then she made up her mind to speak. + +“Come, now, tell us, first, who is the father of this child?” he asked. + +Until then she had obstinately refused to give his name. + +But she replied suddenly, looking at her masters who had so cruelly +calumniated her: + +“It is Monsieur Joseph, Monsieur Varambot's nephew.” + +The couple started in their seats and cried with one voice--“That's not +true! She lies! This is infamous!” + +The president had them silenced and continued, “Go on, please, and tell +us how it all happened.” + +Then she suddenly began to talk freely, relieving her pent-up heart, +that poor, solitary, crushed heart--laying bare her sorrow, her whole +sorrow, before those severe men whom she had until now taken for enemies +and inflexible judges. + +“Yes, it was Monsieur Joseph Varambot, when he came on leave last year.” + +“What does Mr. Joseph Varambot do?” + +“He is a non-commissioned officer in the artillery, monsieur. Well, +he stayed two months at the house, two months of the summer. I thought +nothing about it when he began to look at me, and then flatter me, and +make love to me all day long. And I let myself be taken in, monsieur. He +kept saying to me that I was a handsome girl, that I was good company, +that I just suited him--and I, I liked him well enough. What could I do? +One listens to these things when one is alone--all alone--as I was. I am +alone in the world, monsieur. I have no one to talk to--no one to tell +my troubles to. I have no father, no mother, no brother, no sister, +nobody. And when he began to talk to me it was as if I had a brother +who had come back. And then he asked me to go with him to the river one +evening, so that we might talk without disturbing any one. I went--I +don't know--I don't know how it happened. He had his arm around me. +Really I didn't want to--no--no--I could not--I felt like crying, the +air was so soft--the moon was shining. No, I swear to you--I could +not--he did what he wanted. That went on three weeks, as long as he +stayed. I could have followed him to the ends of the world. He went +away. I did not know that I was enceinte. I did not know it until the +month after--” + +She began to cry so bitterly that they had to give her time to collect +herself. + +Then the president resumed with the tone of a priest at the +confessional: “Come, now, go on.” + +She began to talk again: “When I realized my condition I went to see +Madame Boudin, who is there to tell you, and I asked her how it would +be, in case it should come if she were not there. Then I made the +outfit, sewing night after night, every evening until one o'clock in the +morning; and then I looked for another place, for I knew very well that +I should be sent away, but I wanted to stay in the house until the +very last, so as to save my pennies, for I have not got very much and I +should need my money for the little one.” + +“Then you did not intend to kill him?” + +“Oh, certainly not, monsieur!” + +“Why did you kill him, then?” + +“It happened this way. It came sooner than I expected. It came upon +me in the kitchen, while I was doing the dishes. Monsieur and Madame +Varambot were already asleep, so I went up, not without difficulty, +dragging myself up by the banister, and I lay down on the bare floor. +It lasted perhaps one hour, or two, or three; I don't know, I had such +pain; and then I pushed him out with all my strength. I felt that he +came out and I picked him up. + +“Ah! but I was glad, I assure you! I did all that Madame Boudin told +me to do. And then I laid him on my bed. And then such a pain griped me +again that I thought I should die. If you knew what it meant, you there, +you would not do so much of this. I fell on my knees, and then toppled +over backward on the floor; and it griped me again, perhaps one hour, +perhaps two. I lay there all alone--and then another one comes--another +little one--two, yes, two, like this. I took him up as I did the +first one, and then I put him on the bed, the two side by side. Is it +possible, tell me, two children, and I who get only twenty francs a +month? Say, is it possible? One, yes, that can be managed by going +without things, but not two. That turned my head. What do I know about +it? Had I any choice, tell me? + +“What could I do? I felt as if my last hour had come. I put the pillow +over them, without knowing why. I could not keep them both; and then +I threw myself down, and I lay there, rolling over and over and crying +until I saw the daylight come into the window. Both of them were quite +dead under the pillow. Then I took them under my arms and went down the +stairs out in the vegetable garden. I took the gardener's spade and I +buried them under the earth, digging as deep a hole as I could, one here +and the other one there, not together, so that they might not talk of +their mother if these little dead bodies can talk. What do I know about +it? + +“And then, back in my bed, I felt so sick that I could not get up. They +sent for the doctor and he understood it all. I'm telling you the truth, +Your Honor. Do what you like with me; I'm ready.” + +Half of the jury were blowing their noses violently to keep from crying. +The women in the courtroom were sobbing. + +The president asked her: + +“Where did you bury the other one?” + +“The one that you have?” she asked. + +“Why, this one--this one was in the artichokes.” + +“Oh, then the other one is among the strawberries, by the well.” + +And she began to sob so piteously that no one could hear her unmoved. + +The girl Rosalie Prudent was acquitted. + + + + +REGRET + +Monsieur Saval, who was called in Mantes “Father Saval,” had just risen +from bed. He was weeping. It was a dull autumn day; the leaves were +falling. They fell slowly in the rain, like a heavier and slower rain. +M. Saval was not in good spirits. He walked from the fireplace to the +window, and from the window to the fireplace. Life has its sombre days. +It would no longer have any but sombre days for him, for he had reached +the age of sixty-two. He is alone, an old bachelor, with nobody about +him. How sad it is to die alone, all alone, without any one who is +devoted to you! + +He pondered over his life, so barren, so empty. He recalled former +days, the days of his childhood, the home, the house of his parents; +his college days, his follies; the time he studied law in Paris, his +father's illness, his death. He then returned to live with his mother. +They lived together very quietly, and desired nothing more. At last the +mother died. How sad life is! He lived alone since then, and now, in his +turn, he, too, will soon be dead. He will disappear, and that will be +the end. There will be no more of Paul Saval upon the earth. What a +frightful thing! Other people will love, will laugh. Yes, people will +go on amusing themselves, and he will no longer exist! Is it not strange +that people can laugh, amuse themselves, be joyful under that eternal +certainty of death? If this death were only probable, one could then +have hope; but no, it is inevitable, as inevitable as that night follows +the day. + +If, however, his life had been full! If he had done something; if he had +had adventures, great pleasures, success, satisfaction of some kind or +another. But no, nothing. He had done nothing, nothing but rise from +bed, eat, at the same hours, and go to bed again. And he had gone on +like that to the age of sixty-two years. He had not even taken unto +himself a wife, as other men do. Why? Yes, why was it that he had not +married? He might have done so, for he possessed considerable means. Had +he lacked an opportunity? Perhaps! But one can create opportunities. +He was indifferent; that was all. Indifference had been his greatest +drawback, his defect, his vice. How many men wreck their lives through +indifference! It is so difficult for some natures to get out of bed, to +move about, to take long walks, to speak, to study any question. + +He had not even been loved. No woman had reposed on his bosom, in a +complete abandon of love. He knew nothing of the delicious anguish of +expectation, the divine vibration of a hand in yours, of the ecstasy of +triumphant passion. + +What superhuman happiness must overflow your heart, when lips encounter +lips for the first time, when the grasp of four arms makes one being of +you, a being unutterably happy, two beings infatuated with one another. + +M. Saval was sitting before the fire, his feet on the fender, in his +dressing gown. Assuredly his life had been spoiled, completely spoiled. +He had, however, loved. He had loved secretly, sadly, and indifferently, +in a manner characteristic of him in everything. Yes, he had loved his +old friend, Madame Sandres, the wife of his old companion, Sandres. Ah! +if he had known her as a young girl! But he had met her too late; she +was already married. Unquestionably, he would have asked her hand! How +he had loved her, nevertheless, without respite, since the first day he +set eyes on her! + +He recalled his emotion every time he saw her, his grief on leaving her, +the many nights that he could not sleep, because he was thinking of her. + +On rising in the morning he was somewhat more rational than on the +previous evening. + +Why? + +How pretty she was formerly, so dainty, with fair curly hair, and always +laughing. Sandres was not the man she should have chosen. She was now +fifty-two years of age. She seemed happy. Ah! if she had only loved him +in days gone by; yes, if she had only loved him! And why should she not +have loved him, he, Saval, seeing that he loved her so much, yes, she, +Madame Sandres! + +If only she could have guessed. Had she not guessed anything, seen +anything, comprehended anything? What would she have thought? If he had +spoken, what would she have answered? + +And Saval asked himself a thousand other things. He reviewed his whole +life, seeking to recall a multitude of details. + +He recalled all the long evenings spent at the house of Sandres, when +the latter's wife was young, and so charming. + +He recalled many things that she had said to him, the intonations of her +voice, the little significant smiles that meant so much. + +He recalled their walks, the three of them together, along the banks +of the Seine, their luncheon on the grass on Sundays, for Sandres +was employed at the sub-prefecture. And all at once the distinct +recollection came to him of an afternoon spent with her in a little wood +on the banks of the river. + +They had set out in the morning, carrying their provisions in baskets. +It was a bright spring morning, one of those days which intoxicate one. +Everything smells fresh, everything seems happy. The voices of the birds +sound more joyous, and-they fly more swiftly. They had luncheon on the +grass, under the willow trees, quite close to the water, which glittered +in the sun's rays. The air was balmy, charged with the odors of fresh +vegetation; they drank it in with delight. How pleasant everything was +on that day! + +After lunch, Sandres went to sleep on the broad of his back. “The best +nap he had in his life,” said he, when he woke up. + +Madame Sandres had taken the arm of Saval, and they started to walk +along the river bank. + +She leaned tenderly on his arm. She laughed and said to him: “I am +intoxicated, my friend, I am quite intoxicated.” He looked at her, his +heart going pit-a-pat. He felt himself grow pale, fearful that he might +have looked too boldly at her, and that the trembling of his hand had +revealed his passion. + +She had made a wreath of wild flowers and water-lilies, and she asked +him: “Do I look pretty like that?” + +As he did not answer--for he could find nothing to say, he would +have liked to go down on his knees--she burst out laughing, a sort of +annoyed, displeased laugh, as she said: “Great goose, what ails you? You +might at least say something.” + +He felt like crying, but could not even yet find a word to say. + +All these things came back to him now, as vividly as on the day when +they took place. Why had she said this to him, “Great goose, what ails +you? You might at least say something!” + +And he recalled how tenderly she had leaned on his arm. And in passing +under a shady tree he had felt her ear brushing his cheek, and he had +moved his head abruptly, lest she should suppose he was too familiar. + +When he had said to her: “Is it not time to return?” she darted a +singular look at him. “Certainly,” she said, “certainly,” regarding him +at the same time in a curious manner. He had not thought of it at the +time, but now the whole thing appeared to him quite plain. + +“Just as you like, my friend. If you are tired let us go back.” + +And he had answered: “I am not fatigued; but Sandres may be awake now.” + +And she had said: “If you are afraid of my husband's being awake, that +is another thing. Let us return.” + +On their way back she remained silent, and leaned no longer on his arm. +Why? + +At that time it had never occurred to him, to ask himself “why.” Now he +seemed to apprehend something that he had not then understood. + +Could it? + +M. Saval felt himself blush, and he got up at a bound, as if he were +thirty years younger and had heard Madame Sandres say, “I love you.” + +Was it possible? That idea which had just entered his mind tortured him. +Was it possible that he had not seen, had not guessed? + +Oh! if that were true, if he had let this opportunity of happiness pass +without taking advantage of it! + +He said to himself: “I must know. I cannot remain in this state of +doubt. I must know!” He thought: “I am sixty-two years of age, she is +fifty-eight; I may ask her that now without giving offense.” + +He started out. + +The Sandres' house was situated on the other side of the street, almost +directly opposite his own. He went across and knocked at the door, and a +little servant opened it. + +“You here at this hour, Saval! Has some accident happened to you?” + +“No, my girl,” he replied; “but go and tell your mistress that I want to +speak to her at once.” + +“The fact is madame is preserving pears for the winter, and she is in +the preserving room. She is not dressed, you understand.” + +“Yes, but go and tell her that I wish to see her on a very important +matter.” + +The little servant went away, and Saval began to walk, with long, +nervous strides, up and down the drawing-room. He did not feel in +the least embarrassed, however. Oh! he was merely going to ask her +something, as he would have asked her about some cooking recipe. He was +sixty-two years of age! + +The door opened and madame appeared. She was now a large woman, fat and +round, with full cheeks and a sonorous laugh. She walked with her arms +away from her sides and her sleeves tucked up, her bare arms all covered +with fruit juice. She asked anxiously: + +“What is the matter with you, my friend? You are not ill, are you?” + +“No, my dear friend; but I wish to ask you one thing, which to me is of +the first importance, something which is torturing my heart, and I want +you to promise that you will answer me frankly.” + +She laughed, “I am always frank. Say on.” + +“Well, then. I have loved you from the first day I ever saw you. Can you +have any doubt of this?” + +She responded, laughing, with something of her former tone of voice. + +“Great goose! what ails you? I knew it from the very first day!” + +Saval began to tremble. He stammered out: “You knew it? Then...” + +He stopped. + +She asked: + +“Then?” + +He answered: + +“Then--what did you think? What--what--what would you have answered?” + +She broke into a peal of laughter. Some of the juice ran off the tips of +her fingers on to the carpet. + +“What?” + +“I? Why, you did not ask me anything. It was not for me to declare +myself!” + +He then advanced a step toward her. + +“Tell me--tell me.... You remember the day when Sandres went to sleep on +the grass after lunch... when we had walked together as far as the bend +of the river, below...” + +He waited, expectantly. She had ceased to laugh, and looked at him, +straight in the eyes. + +“Yes, certainly, I remember it.” + +He answered, trembling all over: + +“Well--that day--if I had been--if I had been--venturesome--what would +you have done?” + +She began to laugh as only a happy woman can laugh, who has nothing to +regret, and responded frankly, in a clear voice tinged with irony: + +“I would have yielded, my friend.” + +She then turned on her heels and went back to her jam-making. + +Saval rushed into the street, cast down, as though he had met with some +disaster. He walked with giant strides through the rain, straight on, +until he reached the river bank, without thinking where he was going. He +then turned to the right and followed the river. He walked a long time, +as if urged on by some instinct. His clothes were running with water, +his hat was out of shape, as soft as a rag, and dripping like a roof. He +walked on, straight in front of him. At last, he came to the place where +they had lunched on that day so long ago, the recollection of which +tortured his heart. He sat down under the leafless trees, and wept. + + + + +A SISTER'S CONFESSION + +Marguerite de Therelles was dying. Although she was-only fifty-six years +old she looked at least seventy-five. She gasped for breath, her face +whiter than the sheets, and had spasms of violent shivering, with +her face convulsed and her eyes haggard as though she saw a frightful +vision. + +Her elder sister, Suzanne, six years older than herself, was sobbing on +her knees beside the bed. A small table close to the dying woman's couch +bore, on a white cloth, two lighted candles, for the priest was expected +at any moment to administer extreme unction and the last communion. + +The apartment wore that melancholy aspect common to death chambers; a +look of despairing farewell. Medicine bottles littered the furniture; +linen lay in the corners into which it had been kicked or swept. The +very chairs looked, in their disarray, as if they were terrified and had +run in all directions. Death--terrible Death--was in the room, hidden, +awaiting his prey. + +This history of the two sisters was an affecting one. It was spoken of +far and wide; it had drawn tears from many eyes. + +Suzanne, the elder, had once been passionately loved by a young man, +whose affection she returned. They were engaged to be married, and the +wedding day was at hand, when Henry de Sampierre suddenly died. + +The young girl's despair was terrible, and she took an oath never to +marry. She faithfully kept her vow and adopted widow's weeds for the +remainder of her life. + +But one morning her sister, her little sister Marguerite, then only +twelve years old, threw herself into Suzanne's arms, sobbing: “Sister, +I don't want you to be unhappy. I don't want you to mourn all your life. +I'll never leave you--never, never, never! I shall never marry, either. +I'll stay with you always--always!” + +Suzanne kissed her, touched by the child's devotion, though not putting +any faith in her promise. + +But the little one kept her word, and, despite her parents' +remonstrances, despite her elder sister's prayers, never married. +She was remarkably pretty and refused many offers. She never left her +sister. + +They spent their whole life together, without a single day's separation. +They went everywhere together and were inseparable. But Marguerite was +pensive, melancholy, sadder than her sister, as if her sublime sacrifice +had undermined her spirits. She grew older more quickly; her hair was +white at thirty; and she was often ill, apparently stricken with some +unknown, wasting malady. + +And now she would be the first to die. + +She had not spoken for twenty-four hours, except to whisper at daybreak: + +“Send at once for the priest.” + +And she had since remained lying on her back, convulsed with agony, her +lips moving as if unable to utter the dreadful words that rose in her +heart, her face expressive of a terror distressing to witness. + +Suzanne, distracted with grief, her brow pressed against the bed, wept +bitterly, repeating over and over again the words: + +“Margot, my poor Margot, my little one!” + +She had always called her “my little one,” while Marguerite's name for +the elder was invariably “sister.” + +A footstep sounded on the stairs. The door opened. An acolyte appeared, +followed by the aged priest in his surplice. As soon as she saw him the +dying woman sat up suddenly in bed, opened her lips, stammered a few +words and began to scratch the bed-clothes, as if she would have made +hole in them. + +Father Simon approached, took her hand, kissed her on the forehead and +said in a gentle voice: + +“May God pardon your sins, my daughter. Be of good courage. Now is the +moment to confess them--speak!” + +Then Marguerite, shuddering from head to foot, so that the very bed +shook with her nervous movements, gasped: + +“Sit down, sister, and listen.” + +The priest stooped toward the prostrate Suzanne, raised her to her +feet, placed her in a chair, and, taking a hand of each of the sisters, +pronounced: + +“Lord God! Send them strength! Shed Thy mercy upon them.” + +And Marguerite began to speak. The words issued from her lips one by +one--hoarse, jerky, tremulous. + +“Pardon, pardon, sister! pardon me! Oh, if only you knew how I have +dreaded this moment all my life!” + +Suzanne faltered through her tears: + +“But what have I to pardon, little one? You have given me everything, +sacrificed all to me. You are an angel.” + +But Marguerite interrupted her: + +“Be silent, be silent! Let me speak! Don't stop me! It is terrible. +Let me tell all, to the very end, without interruption. Listen. You +remember--you remember--Henry--” + +Suzanne trembled and looked at her sister. The younger one went on: + +“In order to understand you must hear everything. I was twelve years +old--only twelve--you remember, don't you? And I was spoilt; I did just +as I pleased. You remember how everybody spoilt me? Listen. The first +time he came he had on his riding boots; he dismounted, saying that he +had a message for father. You remember, don't you? Don't speak. Listen. +When I saw him I was struck with admiration. I thought him so handsome, +and I stayed in a corner of the drawing-room all the time he was +talking. Children are strange--and terrible. Yes, indeed, I dreamt of +him. + +“He came again--many times. I looked at him with all my eyes, all my +heart. I was large for my age and much more precocious than--any one +suspected. He came often. I thought only of him. I often whispered to +myself: + +“'Henry-Henry de Sampierre!' + +“Then I was told that he was going to marry you. That was a blow! Oh, +sister, a terrible blow--terrible! I wept all through three sleepless +nights. + +“He came every afternoon after lunch. You remember, don't you? Don't +answer. Listen. You used to make cakes that he was very fond of--with +flour, butter and milk. Oh, I know how to make them. I could make them +still, if necessary. He would swallow them at one mouthful and wash them +down with a glass of wine, saying: 'Delicious!' Do you remember the way +he said it? + +“I was jealous--jealous! Your wedding day was drawing near. It was only +a fortnight distant. I was distracted. I said to myself: 'He shall not +marry Suzanne--no, he shall not! He shall marry me when I am old enough! +I shall never love any one half so much.' But one evening, ten days +before the wedding, you went for a stroll with him in the moonlight +before the house--and yonder--under the pine tree, the big pine tree--he +kissed you--kissed you--and held you in his arms so long--so long! You +remember, don't you? It was probably the first time. You were so pale +when you came back to the drawing-room! + +“I saw you. I was there in the shrubbery. I was mad with rage! I would +have killed you both if I could! + +“I said to myself: 'He shall never marry Suzanne--never! He shall +marry no one! I could not bear it.' And all at once I began to hate him +intensely. + +“Then do you know what I did? Listen. I had seen the gardener prepare +pellets for killing stray dogs. He would crush a bottle into small +pieces with a stone and put the ground glass into a ball of meat. + +“I stole a small medicine bottle from mother's room. I ground it fine +with a hammer and hid the glass in my pocket. It was a glistening +powder. The next day, when you had made your little cakes; I opened them +with a knife and inserted the glass. He ate three. I ate one myself. I +threw the six others into the pond. The two swans died three days later. +You remember? Oh, don't speak! Listen, listen. I, I alone did not die. +But I have always been ill. Listen--he died--you know--listen--that +was not the worst. It was afterward, later--always--the most +terrible--listen. + +“My life, all my life--such torture! I said to myself: 'I will never +leave my sister. And on my deathbed I will tell her all.' And now I +have told. And I have always thought of this moment--the moment when all +would be told. Now it has come. It is terrible--oh!--sister-- + +“I have always thought, morning and evening, day and night: 'I shall +have to tell her some day!' I waited. The horror of it! It is done. Say +nothing. Now I am afraid--I am afraid! Oh! Supposing I should see him +again, by and by, when I am dead! See him again! Only to think of it! +I dare not--yet I must. I am going to die. I want you to forgive me. I +insist on it. I cannot meet him without your forgiveness. Oh, tell her +to forgive me, Father! Tell her. I implore you! I cannot die without +it.” + +She was silent and lay back, gasping for breath, still plucking at the +sheets with her fingers. + +Suzanne had hidden her face in her hands and did not move. She was +thinking of him whom she had loved so long. What a life of happiness +they might have had together! She saw him again in the dim and distant +past-that past forever lost. Beloved dead! how the thought of them rends +the heart! Oh! that kiss, his only kiss! She had retained the memory of +it in her soul. And, after that, nothing, nothing more throughout her +whole existence! + +The priest rose suddenly and in a firm, compelling voice said: + +“Mademoiselle Suzanne, your sister is dying!” + +Then Suzanne, raising her tear-stained face, put her arms round her +sister, and kissing her fervently, exclaimed: + +“I forgive you, I forgive you, little one!” + + + + +COCO + +Throughout the whole countryside the Lucas farm, was known as “the +Manor.” No one knew why. The peasants doubtless attached to this +word, “Manor,” a meaning of wealth and of splendor, for this farm was +undoubtedly the largest, richest and the best managed in the whole +neighborhood. + +The immense court, surrounded by five rows of magnificent trees, which +sheltered the delicate apple trees from the harsh wind of the plain, +inclosed in its confines long brick buildings used for storing fodder +and grain, beautiful stables built of hard stone and made to accommodate +thirty horses, and a red brick residence which looked like a little +chateau. + +Thanks for the good care taken, the manure heaps were as little +offensive as such things can be; the watch-dogs lived in kennels, and +countless poultry paraded through the tall grass. + +Every day, at noon, fifteen persons, masters, farmhands and the women +folks, seated themselves around the long kitchen table where the soup +was brought in steaming in a large, blue-flowered bowl. + +The beasts-horses, cows, pigs and sheep-were fat, well fed and clean. +Maitre Lucas, a tall man who was getting stout, would go round three +times a day, overseeing everything and thinking of everything. + +A very old white horse, which the mistress wished to keep until its +natural death, because she had brought it up and had always used it, and +also because it recalled many happy memories, was housed, through sheer +kindness of heart, at the end of the stable. + +A young scamp about fifteen years old, Isidore Duval by name, and +called, for convenience, Zidore, took care of this pensioner, gave him +his measure of oats and fodder in winter, and in summer was supposed +to change his pasturing place four times a day, so that he might have +plenty of fresh grass. + +The animal, almost crippled, lifted with difficulty his legs, large at +the knees and swollen above the hoofs. His coat, which was no longer +curried, looked like white hair, and his long eyelashes gave to his eyes +a sad expression. + +When Zidore took the animal to pasture, he had to pull on the rope with +all his might, because it walked so slowly; and the youth, bent over and +out of breath, would swear at it, exasperated at having to care for this +old nag. + +The farmhands, noticing the young rascal's anger against Coco, were +amused and would continually talk of the horse to Zidore, in order to +exasperate him. His comrades would make sport with him. In the village +he was called Coco-Zidore. + +The boy would fume, feeling an unholy desire to revenge himself on the +horse. He was a thin, long-legged, dirty child, with thick, coarse, +bristly red hair. He seemed only half-witted, and stuttered as though +ideas were unable to form in his thick, brute-like mind. + +For a long time he had been unable to understand why Coco should be +kept, indignant at seeing things wasted on this useless beast. Since the +horse could no longer work, it seemed to him unjust that he should +be fed; he revolted at the idea of wasting oats, oats which were so +expensive, on this paralyzed old plug. And often, in spite of the orders +of Maitre Lucas, he would economize on the nag's food, only giving him +half measure. Hatred grew in his confused, childlike mind, the hatred of +a stingy, mean, fierce, brutal and cowardly peasant. + +When summer came he had to move the animal about in the pasture. It was +some distance away. The rascal, angrier every morning, would start, +with his dragging step, across the wheat fields. The men working in the +fields would shout to him, jokingly: + +“Hey, Zidore, remember me to Coco.” + +He would not answer; but on the way he would break off a switch, and, as +soon as he had moved the old horse, he would let it begin grazing; then, +treacherously sneaking up behind it, he would slash its legs. The animal +would try to escape, to kick, to get away from the blows, and run around +in a circle about its rope, as though it had been inclosed in a circus +ring. And the boy would slash away furiously, running along behind, his +teeth clenched in anger. + +Then he would go away slowly, without turning round, while the horse +watched him disappear, his ribs sticking out, panting as a result of his +unusual exertions. Not until the blue blouse of the young peasant was +out of sight would he lower his thin white head to the grass. + +As the nights were now warm, Coco was allowed to sleep out of doors, in +the field behind the little wood. Zidore alone went to see him. The boy +threw stones at him to amuse himself. He would sit down on an embankment +about ten feet away and would stay there about half an hour, from time +to time throwing a sharp stone at the old horse, which remained standing +tied before his enemy, watching him continually and not daring to eat +before he was gone. + +This one thought persisted in the mind of the young scamp: “Why feed +this horse, which is no longer good for anything?” It seemed to him that +this old nag was stealing the food of the others, the goods of man and +God, that he was even robbing him, Zidore, who was working. + +Then, little by little, each day, the boy began to shorten the length of +rope which allowed the horse to graze. + +The hungry animal was growing thinner, and starving. Too feeble to +break his bonds, he would stretch his head out toward the tall, green, +tempting grass, so near that he could smell, and yet so far that he +could not touch it. + +But one morning Zidore had an idea: it was, not to move Coco any more. +He was tired of walking so far for that old skeleton. He came, however, +in order to enjoy his vengeance. The beast watched him anxiously. He +did not beat him that day. He walked around him with his hands in his +pockets. He even pretended to change his place, but he sank the stake in +exactly the same hole, and went away overjoyed with his invention. + +The horse, seeing him leave, neighed to call him back; but the rascal +began to run, leaving him alone, entirely alone in his field, well tied +down and without a blade of grass within reach. + +Starving, he tried to reach the grass which he could touch with the end +of his nose. He got on his knees, stretching out his neck and his +long, drooling lips. All in vain. The old animal spent the whole day +in useless, terrible efforts. The sight of all that green food, which +stretched out on all sides of him, served to increase the gnawing pangs +of hunger. + +The scamp did not return that day. He wandered through the woods in +search of nests. + +The next day he appeared upon the scene again. Coco, exhausted, had +lain down. When he saw the boy, he got up, expecting at last to have his +place changed. + +But the little peasant did not even touch the mallet, which was lying +on the ground. He came nearer, looked at the animal, threw at his head +a clump of earth which flattened out against the white hair, and he +started off again, whistling. + +The horse remained standing as long as he could see him; then, knowing +that his attempts to reach the near-by grass would be hopeless, he once +more lay down on his side and closed his eyes. + +The following day Zidore did not come. + +When he did come at last, he found Coco still stretched out; he saw that +he was dead. + +Then he remained standing, looking at him, pleased with what he had +done, surprised that it should already be all over. He touched him with +his foot, lifted one of his legs and then let it drop, sat on him and +remained there, his eyes fixed on the grass, thinking of nothing. He +returned to the farm, but did not mention the accident, because he +wished to wander about at the hours when he used to change the horse's +pasture. He went to see him the next day. At his approach some crows +flew away. Countless flies were walking over the body and were buzzing +around it. When he returned home, he announced the event. The animal was +so old that nobody was surprised. The master said to two of the men: + +“Take your shovels and dig a hole right where he is.” + +The men buried the horse at the place where he had died of hunger. And +the grass grew thick, green and vigorous, fed by the poor body. + + + + +DEAD WOMAN'S SECRET + +The woman had died without pain, quietly, as a woman should whose life +had been blameless. Now she was resting in her bed, lying on her back, +her eyes closed, her features calm, her long white hair carefully +arranged as though she had done it up ten minutes before dying. The +whole pale countenance of the dead woman was so collected, so calm, so +resigned that one could feel what a sweet soul had lived in that body, +what a quiet existence this old soul had led, how easy and pure the +death of this parent had been. + +Kneeling beside the bed, her son, a magistrate with inflexible +principles, and her daughter, Marguerite, known as Sister Eulalie, were +weeping as though their hearts would break. She had, from childhood up, +armed them with a strict moral code, teaching them religion, without +weakness, and duty, without compromise. He, the man, had become a +judge and handled the law as a weapon with which he smote the weak ones +without pity. She, the girl, influenced by the virtue which had bathed +her in this austere family, had become the bride of the Church through +her loathing for man. + +They had hardly known their father, knowing only that he had made their +mother most unhappy, without being told any other details. + +The nun was wildly-kissing the dead woman's hand, an ivory hand as white +as the large crucifix lying across the bed. On the other side of the +long body the other hand seemed still to be holding the sheet in the +death grasp; and the sheet had preserved the little creases as a memory +of those last movements which precede eternal immobility. + +A few light taps on the door caused the two sobbing heads to look up, +and the priest, who had just come from dinner, returned. He was red and +out of breath from his interrupted digestion, for he had made himself +a strong mixture of coffee and brandy in order to combat the fatigue of +the last few nights and of the wake which was beginning. + +He looked sad, with that assumed sadness of the priest for whom death is +a bread winner. He crossed himself and approaching with his professional +gesture: “Well, my poor children! I have come to help you pass these +last sad hours.” But Sister Eulalie suddenly arose. “Thank you, father, +but my brother and I prefer to remain alone with her. This is our last +chance to see her, and we wish to be together, all three of us, as +we--we--used to be when we were small and our poor mo--mother----” + +Grief and tears stopped her; she could not continue. + +Once more serene, the priest bowed, thinking of his bed. “As you wish, +my children.” He kneeled, crossed himself, prayed, arose and went out +quietly, murmuring: “She was a saint!” + +They remained alone, the dead woman and her children. The ticking of the +clock, hidden in the shadow, could be heard distinctly, and through the +open window drifted in the sweet smell of hay and of woods, together +with the soft moonlight. No other noise could be heard over the land +except the occasional croaking of the frog or the chirping of some +belated insect. An infinite peace, a divine melancholy, a silent +serenity surrounded this dead woman, seemed to be breathed out from her +and to appease nature itself. + +Then the judge, still kneeling, his head buried in the bed clothes, +cried in a voice altered by grief and deadened by the sheets and +blankets: “Mamma, mamma, mamma!” And his sister, frantically striking +her forehead against the woodwork, convulsed, twitching and trembling as +in an epileptic fit, moaned: “Jesus, Jesus, mamma, Jesus!” And both of +them, shaken by a storm of grief, gasped and choked. + +The crisis slowly calmed down and they began to weep quietly, just as on +the sea when a calm follows a squall. + +A rather long time passed and they arose and looked at their dead. +And the memories, those distant memories, yesterday so dear, to-day so +torturing, came to their minds with all the little forgotten details, +those little intimate familiar details which bring back to life the one +who has left. They recalled to each other circumstances, words, smiles, +intonations of the mother who was no longer to speak to them. They saw +her again happy and calm. They remembered things which she had said, +and a little motion of the hand, like beating time, which she often used +when emphasizing something important. + +And they loved her as they never had loved her before. They measured +the depth of their grief, and thus they discovered how lonely they would +find themselves. + +It was their prop, their guide, their whole youth, all the best part of +their lives which was disappearing. It was their bond with life, their +mother, their mamma, the connecting link with their forefathers which +they would thenceforth miss. They now became solitary, lonely beings; +they could no longer look back. + +The nun said to her brother: “You remember how mamma used always to read +her old letters; they are all there in that drawer. Let us, in turn, +read them; let us live her whole life through tonight beside her! It +would be like a road to the cross, like making the acquaintance of her +mother, of our grandparents, whom we never knew, but whose letters are +there and of whom she so often spoke, do you remember?” + +Out of the drawer they took about ten little packages of yellow paper, +tied with care and arranged one beside the other. They threw these +relics on the bed and chose one of them on which the word “Father” was +written. They opened and read it. + +It was one of those old-fashioned letters which one finds in old family +desk drawers, those epistles which smell of another century. The first +one started: “My dear,” another one: “My beautiful little girl,” others: +“My dear child,” or: “My dear (laughter).” And suddenly the nun began +to read aloud, to read over to the dead woman her whole history, all her +tender memories. The judge, resting his elbow on the bed, was listening +with his eyes fastened on his mother. The motionless body seemed happy. + +Sister Eulalie, interrupting herself, said suddenly: + +“These ought to be put in the grave with her; they ought to be used as +a shroud and she ought to be buried in it.” She took another package, on +which no name was written. She began to read in a firm voice: “My +adored one, I love you wildly. Since yesterday I have been suffering the +tortures of the damned, haunted by our memory. I feel your lips against +mine, your eyes in mine, your breast against mine. I love you, I love +you! You have driven me mad. My arms open, I gasp, moved by a wild +desire to hold you again. My whole soul and body cries out for you, +wants you. I have kept in my mouth the taste of your kisses--” + +The judge had straightened himself up. The nun stopped reading. He +snatched the letter from her and looked for the signature. There was +none, but only under the words, “The man who adores you,” the name +“Henry.” Their father's name was Rene. Therefore this was not from him. +The son then quickly rummaged through the package of letters, took one +out and read: “I can no longer live without your caresses.” Standing +erect, severe as when sitting on the bench, he looked unmoved at the +dead woman. The nun, straight as a statue, tears trembling in the +corners of her eyes, was watching her brother, waiting. Then he crossed +the room slowly, went to the window and stood there, gazing out into the +dark night. + +When he turned around again Sister Eulalie, her eyes dry now, was still +standing near the bed, her head bent down. + +He stepped forward, quickly picked up the letters and threw them +pell-mell back into the drawer. Then he closed the curtains of the bed. + +When daylight made the candles on the table turn pale the son slowly +left his armchair, and without looking again at the mother upon whom +he had passed sentence, severing the tie that united her to son and +daughter, he said slowly: “Let us now retire, sister.” + + + + +A HUMBLE DRAMA + +Meetings that are unexpected constitute the charm of traveling. Who has +not experienced the joy of suddenly coming across a Parisian, a college +friend, or a neighbor, five hundred miles from home? Who has not passed +a night awake in one of those small, rattling country stage-coaches, +in regions where steam is still a thing unknown, beside a strange young +woman, of whom one has caught only a glimpse in the dim light of the +lantern, as she entered the carriage in front of a white house in some +small country town? + +And the next morning, when one's head and ears feel numb with the +continuous tinkling of the bells and the loud rattling of the windows, +what a charming sensation it is to see your pretty neighbor open her +eyes, startled, glance around her, arrange her rebellious hair with her +slender fingers, adjust her hat, feel with sure hand whether her corset +is still in place, her waist straight, and her skirt not too wrinkled. + +She glances at you coldly and curiously. Then she leans back and no +longer seems interested in anything but the country. + +In spite of yourself, you watch her; and in spite of yourself you keep +on thinking of her. Who is she? Whence does she come? Where is she +going? In spite of yourself you spin a little romance around her. She +is pretty; she seems charming! Happy he who... Life might be delightful +with her. Who knows? She is perhaps the woman of our dreams, the one +suited to our disposition, the one for whom our heart calls. + +And how delicious even the disappointment at seeing her get out at the +gate of a country house! A man stands there, who is awaiting her, with +two children and two maids. He takes her in his arms and kisses as he +lifts her out. Then she stoops over the little ones, who hold up their +hands to her; she kisses them tenderly; and then they all go away +together, down a path, while the maids catch the packages which the +driver throws down to them from the coach. + +Adieu! It is all over. You never will see her again! Adieu to the young +woman who has passed the night by your side. You know her no more, you +have not spoken to her; all the same, you feel a little sad to see her +go. Adieu! + +I have had many of these souvenirs of travel, some joyous and some sad. + +Once I was in Auvergne, tramping through those delightful French +mountains, that are not too high, not too steep, but friendly and +familiar. I had climbed the Sancy, and entered a little inn, near a +pilgrim's chapel called Notre-Dame de Vassiviere, when I saw a queer, +ridiculous-looking old woman breakfasting alone at the end table. + +She was at least seventy years old, tall, skinny, and angular, and her +white hair was puffed around her temples in the old-fashioned style. She +was dressed like a traveling Englishwoman, in awkward, queer clothing, +like a person who is indifferent to dress. She was eating an omelet and +drinking water. + +Her face was peculiar, with restless eyes and the expression of one +with whom fate has dealt unkindly. I watched her, in spite of myself, +thinking: “Who is she? What is the life of this woman? Why is she +wandering alone through these mountains?” + +She paid and rose to leave, drawing up over her shoulders an astonishing +little shawl, the two ends of which hung over her arms. From a corner +of the room she took an alpenstock, which was covered with names traced +with a hot iron; then she went out, straight, erect, with the long steps +of a letter-carrier who is setting out on his route. + +A guide was waiting for her at the door, and both went away. I watched +them go down the valley, along the road marked by a line of high wooden +crosses. She was taller than her companion, and seemed to walk faster +than he. + +Two hours later I was climbing the edge of the deep funnel that incloses +Lake Pavin in a marvelous and enormous basin of verdure, full of trees, +bushes, rocks, and flowers. This lake is so round that it seems as if +the outline had been drawn with a pair of compasses, so clear and blue +that one might deem it a flood of azure come down from the sky, so +charming that one would like to live in a but on the wooded slope which +dominates this crater, where the cold, still water is sleeping. +The Englishwoman was standing there like a statue, gazing upon the +transparent sheet down in the dead volcano. She was straining her +eyes to penetrate below the surface down to the unknown depths, where +monstrous trout which have devoured all the other fish are said to live. +As I was passing close by her, it seemed to me that two big tears were +brimming her eyes. But she departed at a great pace, to rejoin her +guide, who had stayed behind in an inn at the foot of the path leading +to the lake. + +I did not see her again that day. + +The next day, at nightfall, I came to the chateau of Murol. The old +fortress, an enormous tower standing on a peak in the midst of a large +valley, where three valleys intersect, rears its brown, uneven, cracked +surface into the sky; it is round, from its large circular base to the +crumbling turrets on its pinnacles. + +It astonishes the eye more than any other ruin by its simple mass, +its majesty, its grave and imposing air of antiquity. It stands there, +alone, high as a mountain, a dead queen, but still the queen of the +valleys stretched out beneath it. You go up by a slope planted with +firs, then you enter a narrow gate, and stop at the foot of the walls, +in the first inclosure, in full view of the entire country. + +Inside there are ruined halls, crumbling stairways, unknown cavities, +dungeons, walls cut through in the middle, vaulted roofs held up one +knows not how, and a mass of stones and crevices, overgrown with grass, +where animals glide in and out. + +I was exploring this ruin alone. + +Suddenly I perceived behind a bit of wall a being, a kind of phantom, +like the spirit of this ancient and crumbling habitation. + +I was taken aback with surprise, almost with fear, when I recognized the +old lady whom I had seen twice. + +She was weeping, with big tears in her eyes, and held her handkerchief +in her hand. + +I turned around to go away, when she spoke to me, apparently ashamed to +have been surprised in her grief. + +“Yes, monsieur, I am crying. That does not happen often to me.” + +“Pardon me, madame, for having disturbed you,” I stammered, confused, +not knowing what to say. “Some misfortune has doubtless come to you.” + +“Yes. No--I am like a lost dog,” she murmured, and began to sob, with +her handkerchief over her eyes. + +Moved by these contagious tears, I took her hand, trying to calm her. +Then brusquely she told me her history, as if no longer ably to bear her +grief alone. + +“Oh! Oh! Monsieur--if you knew--the sorrow in which I live--in what +sorrow. + +“Once I was happy. I have a house down there--a home. I cannot go back +to it any more; I shall never go back to it again, it is too hard to +bear. + +“I have a son. It is he! it is he! Children don't know. Oh, one has +such a short time to live! If I should see him now I should perhaps +not recognize him. How I loved him? How I loved him! Even before he +was born, when I felt him move. And after that! How I have kissed and +caressed and cherished him! If you knew how many nights I have passed in +watching him sleep, and how many in thinking of him. I was crazy about +him. When he was eight years old his father sent him to boarding-school. +That was the end. He no longer belonged to me. Oh, heavens! He came to +see me every Sunday. That was all! + +“He went to college in Paris. Then he came only four times a year, +and every time I was astonished to see how he had changed, to find him +taller without having seen him grow. They stole his childhood from me, +his confidence, and his love which otherwise would not have gone away +from me; they stole my joy in seeing him grow, in seeing him become a +little man. + +“I saw him four times a year. Think of it! And at every one of his +visits his body, his eye, his movements, his voice his laugh, were no +longer the same, were no longer mine. All these things change so quickly +in a child; and it is so sad if one is not there to see them change; one +no longer recognizes him. + +“One year he came with down on his cheek! He! my son! I was dumfounded +--would you believe it? I hardly dared to kiss him. Was it really he, my +little, little curly head of old, my dear; dear child, whom I had held +in his diapers or my knee, and who had nursed at my breast with his +little greedy lips--was it he, this tall, brown boy, who no longer knew +how to kiss me, who seemed to love me as a matter of duty, who called me +'mother' for the sake of politeness, and who kissed me on the forehead, +when I felt like crushing him in my arms? + +“My husband died. Then my parents, and then my two sisters. When Death +enters a house it seems as if he were hurrying to do his utmost, so as +not to have to return for a long time after that. He spares only one or +two to mourn the others. + +“I remained alone. My tall son was then studying law. I was hoping to +live and die near him, and I went to him so that we could live together. +But he had fallen into the ways of young men, and he gave me to +understand that I was in his way. So I left. I was wrong in doing so, +but I suffered too much in feeling myself in his way, I, his mother! And +I came back home. + +“I hardly ever saw him again. + +“He married. What a joy! At last we should be together for good. I +should have grandchildren. His wife was an Englishwoman, who took a +dislike to me. Why? Perhaps she thought that I loved him too much. + +“Again I was obliged to go away. And I was alone. Yes, monsieur. + +“Then he went to England, to live with them, with his wife's parents. +Do you understand? They have him--they have my son for themselves. They +have stolen him from me. He writes to me once a month. At first he came +to see me. But now he no longer comes. + +“It is now four years since I saw him last. His face then was wrinkled +and his hair white. Was that possible? This man, my son, almost an old +man? My little rosy child of old? No doubt I shall never see him again. + +“And so I travel about all the year. I go east and west, as you see, +with no companion. + +“I am like a lost dog. Adieu, monsieur! don't stay here with me for it +hurts me to have told you all this.” + +I went down the hill, and on turning round to glance back, I saw the +old woman standing on a broken wall, looking out upon the mountains, the +long valley and Lake Chambon in the distance. + +And her skirt and the queer little shawl which she wore around her thin +shoulders were fluttering tike a flag in the wind. + + + + +MADEMOISELLE COCOTTE + +We were just leaving the asylum when I saw a tall, thin man in a corner +of the court who kept on calling an imaginary dog. He was crying in +a soft, tender voice: “Cocotte! Come here, Cocotte, my beauty!” and +slapping his thigh as one does when calling an animal. I asked the +physician, “Who is that man?” He answered: “Oh! he is not at all +interesting. He is a coachman named Francois, who became insane after +drowning his dog.” + +I insisted: “Tell me his story. The most simple and humble things are +sometimes those which touch our hearts most deeply.” + +Here is this man's adventure, which was obtained from a friend of his, a +groom: + +There was a family of rich bourgeois who lived in a suburb of Paris. +They had a villa in the middle of a park, at the edge of the Seine. +Their coachman was this Francois, a country fellow, somewhat dull, +kind-hearted, simple and easy to deceive. + +One evening, as he was returning home, a dog began to follow him. At +first he paid no attention to it, but the creature's obstinacy at last +made him turn round. He looked to see if he knew this dog. No, he +had never seen it. It was a female dog and frightfully thin. She was +trotting behind him with a mournful and famished look, her tail between +her legs, her ears flattened against her head and stopping and starting +whenever he did. + +He tried to chase this skeleton away and cried: + +“Run along! Get out! Kss! kss!” She retreated a few steps, then sat down +and waited. And when the coachman started to walk again she followed +along behind him. + +He pretended to pick up some stones. The animal ran a little farther +away, but came back again as soon as the man's back was turned. + +Then the coachman Francois took pity on the beast and called her. The +dog approached timidly. The man patted her protruding ribs, moved by the +beast's misery, and he cried: “Come! come here!” Immediately she began +to wag her tail, and, feeling herself taken in, adopted, she began to +run along ahead of her new master. + +He made her a bed on the straw in the stable, then he ran to the kitchen +for some bread. When she had eaten all she could she curled up and went +to sleep. + +When his employers heard of this the next day they allowed the coachman +to keep the animal. It was a good beast, caressing and faithful, +intelligent and gentle. + +Nevertheless Francois adored Cocotte, and he kept repeating: “That beast +is human. She only lacks speech.” + +He had a magnificent red leather collar made for her which bore these +words engraved on a copper plate: “Mademoiselle Cocotte, belonging to +the coachman Francois.” + +She was remarkably prolific and four times a year would give birth to a +batch of little animals belonging to every variety of the canine race. +Francois would pick out one which he would leave her and then he would +unmercifully throw the others into the river. But soon the cook joined +her complaints to those of the gardener. She would find dogs under the +stove, in the ice box, in the coal bin, and they would steal everything +they came across. + +Finally the master, tired of complaints, impatiently ordered Francois +to get rid of Cocotte. In despair the man tried to give her away. Nobody +wanted her. Then he decided to lose her, and he gave her to a teamster, +who was to drop her on the other side of Paris, near Joinville-le-Pont. + +Cocotte returned the same day. Some decision had to be taken. Five +francs was given to a train conductor to take her to Havre. He was to +drop her there. + +Three days later she returned to the stable, thin, footsore and tired +out. + +The master took pity on her and let her stay. But other dogs were +attracted as before, and one evening, when a big dinner party was on, +a stuffed turkey was carried away by one of them right under the cook's +nose, and she did not dare to stop him. + +This time the master completely lost his temper and said angrily +to Francois: “If you don't throw this beast into the water +before--to-morrow morning, I'll put you out, do you hear?” + +The man was dumbfounded, and he returned to his room to pack his trunk, +preferring to leave the place. Then he bethought himself that he could +find no other situation as long as he dragged this animal about with +him. He thought of his good position, where he was well paid and well +fed, and he decided that a dog was really not worth all that. At last he +decided to rid himself of Cocotte at daybreak. + +He slept badly. He rose at dawn, and taking a strong rope, went to +get the dog. She stood up slowly, shook herself, stretched and came to +welcome her master. + +Then his courage forsook him, and he began to pet her affectionately, +stroking her long ears, kissing her muzzle and calling her tender names. + +But a neighboring clock struck six. He could no longer hesitate. +He opened the door, calling: “Come!” The beast wagged her tail, +understanding that she was to be taken out. + +They reached the beach, and he chose a place where the water seemed +deep. Then he knotted the rope round the leather collar and tied a heavy +stone to the other end. He seized Cocotte in his arms and kissed her +madly, as though he were taking leave of some human being. He held her +to his breast, rocked her and called her “my dear little Cocotte, my +sweet little Cocotte,” and she grunted with pleasure. + +Ten times he tried to throw her into the water and each time he lost +courage. + +But suddenly he made up his mind and threw her as far from him as he +could. At first she tried to swim, as she did when he gave her a bath, +but her head, dragged down by the stone, kept going under, and she +looked at her master with wild, human glances as she struggled like a +drowning person. Then the front part of her body sank, while her hind +legs waved wildly out of the water. Finally those also disappeared. + +Then, for five minutes, bubbles rose to the surface as though the river +were boiling, and Francois, haggard, his heart beating, thought that +he saw Cocotte struggling in the mud, and, with the simplicity of a +peasant, he kept saying to himself: “What does the poor beast think of +me now?” + +He almost lost his mind. He was ill for a month and every night he +dreamed of his dog. He could feel her licking his hands and hear her +barking. It was necessary to call in a physician. At last he recovered, +and toward the 2nd of June his employers took him to their estate at +Biesard, near Rouen. + +There again he was near the Seine. He began to take baths. Each morning +he would go down with the groom and they would swim across the river. + +One day, as they were disporting themselves in the water, Francois +suddenly cried to his companion: “Look what's coming! I'm going to give +you a chop!” + +It was an enormous, swollen corpse that was floating down with its feet +sticking straight up in the air. + +Francois swam up to it, still joking: “Whew! it's not fresh. What a +catch, old man! It isn't thin, either!” He kept swimming about at a +distance from the animal that was in a state of decomposition. Then, +suddenly, he was silent and looked at it: attentively. This time he +came near enough to touch, it. He looked fixedly at the collar, then he +stretched out his arm, seized the neck, swung the corpse round and drew +it up close to him and read on the copper which had turned green and +which still stuck to the discolored leather: “Mademoiselle Cocotte, +belonging to the coachman Francois.” + +The dead dog had come more than a hundred miles to find its master. + +He let out a frightful shriek and began to swim for the beach with all +his might, still howling; and as soon as he touched land he ran away +wildly, stark naked, through the country. He was insane! + + + + +THE CORSICAN BANDIT + +The road ascended gently through the forest of Aitone. The large pines +formed a solemn dome above our heads, and that mysterious sound made by +the wind in the trees sounded like the notes of an organ. + +After walking for three hours, there was a clearing, and then at +intervals an enormous pine umbrella, and then we suddenly came to the +edge of the forest, some hundred meters below, the pass leading to the +wild valley of Niolo. + +On the two projecting heights which commanded a view of this pass, some +old trees, grotesquely twisted, seemed to have mounted with painful +efforts, like scouts sent in advance of the multitude in the rear. When +we turned round, we saw the entire forest stretched beneath our feet, +like a gigantic basin of verdure, inclosed by bare rocks whose summits +seemed to reach the sky. + +We resumed our walk, and, ten minutes later, found ourselves in the +pass. + +Then I beheld a remarkable landscape. Beyond another forest stretched +a valley, but a valley such as I had never seen before; a solitude +of stone, ten leagues long, hollowed out between two high mountains, +without a field or a tree to be seen. This was the Niolo valley, the +fatherland of Corsican liberty, the inaccessible citadel, from which the +invaders had never been able to drive out the mountaineers. + +My companion said to me: “This is where all our bandits have taken +refuge?” + +Ere long we were at the further end of this gorge, so wild, so +inconceivably beautiful. + +Not a blade of grass, not a plant-nothing but granite. As far as our +eyes could reach, we saw in front of us a desert of glittering stone, +heated like an oven by a burning sun, which seemed to hang for that +very purpose right above the gorge. When we raised our eyes towards the +crests, we stood dazzled and stupefied by what we saw. They looked +like a festoon of coral; all the summits are of porphyry; and the sky +overhead was violet, purple, tinged with the coloring of these strange +mountains. Lower down, the granite was of scintillating gray, and +seemed ground to powder beneath our feet. At our right, along a long and +irregular course, roared a tumultuous torrent. And we staggered along +under this heat, in this light, in this burning, arid, desolate valley +cut by this torrent of turbulent water which seemed to be ever hurrying +onward, without fertilizing the rocks, lost in this furnace which +greedily drank it up without being saturated or refreshed by it. + +But, suddenly, there was visible at our right a little wooden cross sunk +in a little heap of stones. A man had been killed there; and I said to +my companion. + +“Tell me about your bandits.” + +He replied: + +“I knew the most celebrated of them, the terrible St. Lucia. I will tell +you his history. + +“His father was killed in a quarrel by a young man of the district, it +is said; and St. Lucia was left alone with his sister. He was a weak, +timid youth, small, often ill, without any energy. He did not proclaim +vengeance against the assassin of his father. All his relatives came to +see him, and implored of him to avenge his death; he remained deaf to +their menaces and their supplications. + +“Then, following the old Corsican custom, his sister, in her indignation +carried away his black clothes, in order that he might not wear mourning +for a dead man who had not been avenged. He was insensible to even this +affront, and rather than take down from the rack his father's gun, which +was still loaded, he shut himself up, not daring to brave the looks of +the young men of the district. + +“He seemed to have even forgotten the crime, and lived with his sister +in the seclusion of their dwelling. + +“But, one day, the man who was suspected of having committed the murder, +was about to get married. St. Lucia did not appear to be moved by this +news, but, out of sheer bravado, doubtless, the bridegroom, on his way +to the church, passed before the house of the two orphans. + +“The brother and the sister, at their window, were eating frijoles, when +the young man saw the bridal procession going by. Suddenly he began to +tremble, rose to his feet without uttering a word, made the sign of the +cross, took the gun which was hanging over the fireplace, and went out. + +“When he spoke of this later on, he said: 'I don't know what was the +matter with me; it was like fire in my blood; I felt that I must do it, +that, in spite of everything, I could not resist, and I concealed the +gun in a cave on the road to Corte. + +“An hour later, he came back, with nothing in his hand, and with his +habitual air of sad weariness. His sister believed that there was +nothing further in his thoughts. + +“But when night fell he disappeared. + +“His enemy had, the same evening, to repair to Corte on foot, +accompanied by his two groomsmen. + +“He was walking along, singing as he went, when St. Lucia stood before +him, and looking straight in the murderer's face, exclaimed: 'Now is the +time!' and shot him point-blank in the chest. + +“One of the men fled; the other stared at, the young man, saying: + +“'What have you done, St. Lucia?' and he was about to hasten to Corte +for help, when St. Lucia said in a stern tone: + +“'If you move another step, I'll shoot you in the leg.' + +“The other, aware of his timidity hitherto, replied: 'You would not dare +to do it!' and was hurrying off when he fell instantaneously, his thigh +shattered by a bullet. + +“And St. Lucia, coming over to where he lay, said: + +“'I am going to look at your wound; if it is not serious, I'll leave you +there; if it is mortal I'll finish you off.” + +“He inspected the wound, considered it mortal, and slowly reloading +his gun, told the wounded man to say a prayer, and shot him through the +head. + +“Next day he was in the mountains. + +“And do you know what this St. Lucia did after this? + +“All his family were arrested by the gendarmes. His uncle, the cure, +who was suspected of having incited him to this deed of vengeance, was +himself put in prison, and accused by the dead man's relatives. But +he escaped, took a gun in his turn, and went to join his nephew in the +brush. + +“Next, St. Lucia killed, one after the other, his uncle's accusers, and +tore out their eyes to teach the others never to state what they had +seen with their eyes. + +“He killed all the relatives, all the connections of his enemy's family. +He slew during his life fourteen gendarmes, burned down the houses of +his adversaries, and was, up to the day of his death, the most terrible +of all the bandits whose memory we have preserved.” + +The sun disappeared behind Monte Cinto and the tall shadow of the +granite mountain went to sleep on the granite of the valley. We +quickened our pace in order to reach before night the little village of +Albertaccio, nothing but a pile of stones welded into the stone flanks +of a wild gorge. And I said as I thought of the bandit: + +“What a terrible custom your vendetta is!” + +My companion answered with an air of resignation: + +“What would you have? A man must do his duty!” + + + + +THE GRAVE + +The seventeenth of July, one thousand eight hundred and eighty-three, at +half-past two in the morning, the watchman in the cemetery of Besiers, +who lived in a small cottage on the edge of this field of the dead, was +awakened by the barking of his dog, which was shut up in the kitchen. + +Going down quickly, he saw the animal sniffing at the crack of the door +and barking furiously, as if some tramp had been sneaking about the +house. The keeper, Vincent, therefore took his gun and went out. + +His dog, preceding him, at once ran in the direction of the Avenue +General Bonnet, stopping short at the monument of Madame Tomoiseau. + +The keeper, advancing cautiously, soon saw a faint light on the side of +the Avenue Malenvers, and stealing in among the graves, he came upon a +horrible act of profanation. + +A man had dug up the coffin of a young woman who had been buried the +evening before and was dragging the corpse out of it. + +A small dark lantern, standing on a pile of earth, lighted up this +hideous scene. + +Vincent sprang upon the wretch, threw him to the ground, bound his hands +and took him to the police station. + +It was a young, wealthy and respected lawyer in town, named +Courbataille. + +He was brought into court. The public prosecutor opened the case by +referring to the monstrous deeds of the Sergeant Bertrand. + +A wave of indignation swept over the courtroom. When the magistrate +sat down the crowd assembled cried: “Death! death!” With difficulty the +presiding judge established silence. + +Then he said gravely: + +“Defendant, what have you to say in your defense?” + +Courbataille, who had refused counsel, rose. He was a handsome fellow, +tall, brown, with a frank face, energetic manner and a fearless eye. + +Paying no attention to the whistlings in the room, he began to speak in +a voice that was low and veiled at first, but that grew more firm as he +proceeded. + +“Monsieur le President, gentlemen of the jury: I have very little to +say. The woman whose grave I violated was my sweetheart. I loved her. + +“I loved her, not with a sensual love and not with mere tenderness +of heart and soul, but with an absolute, complete love, with an +overpowering passion. + +“Hear me: + +“When I met her for the first time I felt a strange sensation. It was +not astonishment nor admiration, nor yet that which is called love at +first sight, but a feeling of delicious well-being, as if I had been +plunged into a warm bath. Her gestures seduced me, her voice enchanted +me, and it was with infinite pleasure that I looked upon her person. +It seemed to me as if I had seen her before and as if I had known her a +long time. She had within her something of my spirit. + +“She seemed to me like an answer to a cry uttered by my soul, to that +vague and unceasing cry with which we call upon Hope during our whole +life. + +“When I knew her a little better, the mere thought of seeing her again +filled me with exquisite and profound uneasiness; the touch of her hand +in mine was more delightful to me than anything that I had imagined; +her smile filled me with a mad joy, with the desire to run, to dance, to +fling myself upon the ground. + +“So we became lovers. + +“Yes, more than that: she was my very life. I looked for nothing further +on earth, and had no further desires. I longed for nothing further. + +“One evening, when we had gone on a somewhat long walk by the river, +we were overtaken by the rain, and she caught cold. It developed into +pneumonia the next day, and a week later she was dead. + +“During the hours of her suffering astonishment and consternation +prevented my understanding and reflecting upon it, but when she was dead +I was so overwhelmed by blank despair that I had no thoughts left. I +wept. + +“During all the horrible details of the interment my keen and wild grief +was like a madness, a kind of sensual, physical grief. + +“Then when she was gone, when she was under the earth, my mind at once +found itself again, and I passed through a series of moral sufferings +so terrible that even the love she had vouchsafed to me was dear at that +price. + +“Then the fixed idea came to me: I shall not see her again. + +“When one dwells on this thought for a whole day one feels as if he were +going mad. Just think of it! There is a woman whom you adore, a unique +woman, for in the whole universe there is not a second one like her. +This woman has given herself to you and has created with you the +mysterious union that is called Love. Her eye seems to you more vast +than space, more charming than the world, that clear eye smiling with +her tenderness. This woman loves you. When she speaks to you her voice +floods you with joy. + +“And suddenly she disappears! Think of it! She disappears, not only for +you, but forever. She is dead. Do you understand what that means? Never, +never, never, not anywhere will she exist any more. Nevermore will that +eye look upon anything again; nevermore will that voice, nor any voice +like it, utter a word in the same way as she uttered it. + +“Nevermore will a face be born that is like hers. Never, never! The +molds of statues are kept; casts are kept by which one can make objects +with the same outlines and forms. But that one body and that one face +will never more be born again upon the earth. And yet millions and +millions of creatures will be born, and more than that, and this +one woman will not reappear among all the women of the future. Is it +possible? It drives one mad to think of it. + +“She lived for twenty-years, not more, and she has disappeared forever, +forever, forever! She thought, she smiled, she loved me. And now +nothing! The flies that die in the autumn are as much as we are in this +world. And now nothing! And I thought that her body, her fresh body, so +warm, so sweet, so white, so lovely, would rot down there in that box +under the earth. And her soul, her thought, her love--where is it? + +“Not to see her again! The idea of this decomposing body, that I might +yet recognize, haunted me. I wanted to look at it once more. + +“I went out with a spade, a lantern and a hammer; I jumped over the +cemetery wall and I found the grave, which had not yet been closed +entirely; I uncovered the coffin and took up a board. An abominable +odor, the stench of putrefaction, greeted my nostrils. Oh, her bed +perfumed with orris! + +“Yet I opened the coffin, and, holding my lighted lantern down into it I +saw her. Her face was blue, swollen, frightful. A black liquid had oozed +out of her mouth. + +“She! That was she! Horror seized me. But I stretched out my arm to draw +this monstrous face toward me. And then I was caught. + +“All night I have retained the foul odor of this putrid body, the odor +of my well beloved, as one retains the perfume of a woman after a love +embrace. + +“Do with me what you will.” + +A strange silence seemed to oppress the room. They seemed to be waiting +for something more. The jury retired to deliberate. + +When they came back a few minutes later the accused showed no fear and +did not even seem to think. + +The president announced with the usual formalities that his judges +declared him to be not guilty. + +He did not move and the room applauded. + + The Grave appeared in Gil Blas, July 29, 1883, under the signature + of “Maufrigneuse.” + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Original Short Stories of Maupassant, +Volume 12, by Guy de Maupassant + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAUPASSANT SHORT STORIES *** + +***** This file should be named 3088-0.txt or 3088-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/8/3088/ + +Produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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