THE LIBRARY 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 
 MRS. VIRGINIA B. SPORER
 
 
 
 HENRI RENE GUY DE MAUPASSANT. 
 From the etching by Le Rat
 
 A SELECTION /r^;« the WRITINGS 
 <?/GUYDe MAUPASSANT 
 
 Short Stories 
 
 of the TRAGEDY 
 
 AND COMEDY 
 
 OF LIFE 
 
 B 
 
 WITH A CRITICAL PREFACE BT 
 
 PAUL BOURGET 
 
 o/ the French Academy 
 
 AND 
 
 AN INTRODUCTION BT 
 
 ROBERT ARNOT„ M. A. 
 
 VOL.1 
 
 THE REVIEW OF REVIEWS CO. 
 NEW YORK
 
 Cot\KIGHT. 1903, nV 
 
 M. waLtt.r dunn-e 
 
 Inured nt Stationer,' Halh London
 
 TABLE OF CONTENTS. * 
 
 Volume I . 
 
 FACB 
 I 
 
 40 
 
 75 
 104 
 
 121 
 
 139 
 
 M7 
 
 154 
 
 173 
 183 
 
 199 
 
 212 
 
 222 
 
 231 
 
 236 
 
 244 
 
 261 
 269 
 279 
 287 
 294 
 301 
 
 305 
 
 *At the close of the last volume will be found a complete list of 
 the French Titles of De Maupassant's writings, with their English 
 equivalents. 
 
 I 
 
 MADEMOISELLE FIF! . 
 
 2 
 
 AN AFFAIR OF STATE 
 
 3 
 
 THE ARTIST 
 
 4 
 
 THE HORLA 
 
 5 
 
 MISS HARRIET . 
 
 6 
 
 THE HOLE 
 
 7 
 
 LOVE . . . . 
 
 8 
 
 THE INN 
 
 9 
 
 A FAMILY 
 
 10 
 
 BELLFLOWER . 
 
 1 1 
 
 WHO KNOWS? . 
 
 12 
 
 THE DEVIL 
 
 ^3 
 
 EPIPHANY 
 
 M 
 
 SIMON'S PAPA 
 
 15 
 
 WAITER, A "bock" 
 
 16 
 
 THE SEQUEL TO A DIVORCF. 
 
 17 
 
 THE MAD WOMAN 
 
 18 
 
 IN VARIOUS ROLES 
 
 19 
 
 THE FALSE GEMS 
 
 20 
 
 COUNTESS SATAN . 
 
 21 
 
 THE colonel's IDEAS 
 
 22 
 
 TWO LITTLE SOLDIERS . 
 
 23 
 
 GHOSTS . . . . 
 
 24 
 
 WAS IT A DREAM ? 
 
 2y 
 
 THE DIARY OF A MADMAN 
 
 26 
 
 ■ AN UNFORTUNATE LIKENESS 
 
 27 
 
 A COUNTRY EXCURSION
 
 GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 F THE French writers of romance of the latter 
 part of the nineteenth century no one made 
 a reputation as quickly as did Guy de Mau- 
 passant. Not one has preserved that reputation with 
 more ease, not only during life, but in death. None 
 so completely hides his personality in his glory. In 
 an epoch of the utmost publicity, in which the most 
 insignificant deeds of a celebrated man are spied, 
 recorded, and commented on, the author of " Boule 
 de Suif," of "Pierre et Jean," of "Notre CcEur," found 
 a way of effacing his personality in his work. 
 
 Of De Maupassant we know that he was born in 
 Normandy about 1850; that he was the favorite pupil, 
 if one may so express it, the literary proUgi, of Gus- 
 tave Flaubert; that he made his dCbut late in 1880, 
 with a novel inserted in a small collection, published 
 by Emile Zola and his young friends, under the title: 
 "The Soirees of Medan"; that subsequently he did 
 not fail to publish stories and romances every year up 
 to 1891, when a disease of the brain struck him down 
 in the fullness of production; and that he died, finally, 
 in 1893, without having recovered his reason. 
 
 We knov/, too, that he passionately loved a stren- 
 uous physical life and long journeys, particularly long 
 
 (xiii)
 
 Xiv GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 journeys upon the sea. He owned a little sailing 
 yacht, named after one of his books, "Bel-Ami," in 
 which he used to sojourn for weeks and months. 
 These meager details are almost the only ones that 
 have been gathered as food for the curiosity of the 
 public. 
 
 I leave the legendary side, which is always in evi- 
 dence in the case of a celebrated man, — that gossip, 
 for example, which avers that Maupassant was a high 
 liver and a worldling. The very number of his vol- 
 umes is a protest to the contrary. One could not 
 write so large a number of pages in so small a num- 
 ber of years without the virtue of industry, a virtue 
 incompatible v/ith habits of dissipation. This does 
 not mean that the writer of these great romances had 
 no love for pleasure and had not tasted the world, 
 but that for him these were secondary things. The 
 psychology of his work ought, then, to find an in- 
 terpretation other than that afforded by wholly false 
 or exaggerated anecdotes. I wish to indicate here 
 how this work, illumined by the three or four posi- 
 tive data which 1 have given, appears to me to de- 
 mand it. 
 
 And first, what does that anxiety to conceal his 
 personality prove, carried as it was to such an ex- 
 treme degree ? The answer rises spontaneously in the 
 minds of those who have studied closely the history 
 of literature. The absolute silence about himself, pre- 
 served by one whose position among us was that of 
 a Tourgenief, or of a Merimee, and of a Moliere or 
 a Shakespeare among the classic great, reveals, to a 
 person of instinct, a nervous sensibility of extreme 
 depth. There are many chances for an artist of his
 
 CRITICAL PREFACE XV 
 
 kind, however timid, or for one who has some grief, 
 to show the depth of his emotion. To take up again 
 only two of the names just cited, this was the case 
 with the author of "Terres Vierges," and with the 
 writer of "Colomba." 
 
 A somewhat minute analysis of the novels and ro- 
 mances of Maupassant would suffice to demonstrate, 
 even if we did not know the nature of the incidents 
 which prompted them, that he also suffered from an 
 excess of nervous emotionalism. Nine times out of 
 ten, what is the subject of these stories to which 
 freedom of style gives the appearance of health ? A 
 tragic episode. I cite, at random, "Mademoiselle 
 Fih," "La Petite Roque," "Inutile Beaute," " Le 
 Masque," " Le Horla," "L'Epreuve," "Le Champ 
 d'Oliviers," among the novels, and among the ro- 
 mances, "Une Vie," "Pierre et Jean," "Fort comme 
 !a Mort," "Notre Coeur." His imagination aims to 
 represent the human being as imprisoned in a situa- 
 tion at once insupportable and inevitable. The spell 
 of this grief and trouble exerts such a power upon 
 the writer that he ends stories commenced in pleas- 
 antry with some sinister drama. Let me instance 
 "Saint-Antonin," "A Midnight Revel," "The Little 
 Cask." and "Old Amable." You close the book at 
 the end of these vigorous sketches, and feel how 
 surely they point to constant suffering on the part of 
 him who executed them. 
 
 This is the leading trait in the literary physiog- 
 nomy of Maupassant, as it is the leading and most 
 profound trait in the psychology of his work, viz, 
 that human life is a snare laid by nature, where joy 
 is always changed to misery, where noble words and
 
 Xvi GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 the highest professions of faith serve the lowest 
 plans and the most cruel egoism, where chagrin, 
 crime, and folly are forever on hand to pursue im- 
 placably our hopes, nullify our virtues, and annihilate 
 our wisdom. But this is not the whole. 
 
 Maupassant has been called a literary nihilist — but 
 (and this is the second trait of his singular genius) 
 in him nihilism finds itself coexistent with an animal 
 energy so fresh and so intense that for a long time 
 it deceives the closest observer. In an eloquent dis- 
 course, pronounced over his premature grave, Emile 
 Zola well defined this illusion: "We congratulated 
 him," said he, "upon that health which seemed un- 
 breakable, and justly credited him with the soundest 
 constitution of our band, as well as with the clearest 
 mind and the sanest reason. It was then that this 
 frightful thunderbolt destroyed him." 
 
 It is not exact to say that the lofty genius of De 
 Maupassant was that of an absolutely sane man. We 
 comprehend it to-day, and, on re-reading him, we 
 find traces everywhere of his final malady. But it is 
 exact to say that this wounded genius was, by a sin- 
 gular circumstance, the genius of a robust man. A 
 physiologist would without doubt explain this anom- 
 aly by the coexistence of a nervous lesion, light at 
 first, with a muscular, athletic temperament. What- 
 ever the cause, the effect is undeniable. The skilled 
 and dainty pessimism of De Maupassant was accom- 
 panied by a vigor and physique very unusual. His 
 sensations are in turn those of a hunter and of a 
 sailor, who have, as the old French saying expres- 
 sively puts it, "swift foot, eagle eye," and who are 
 attuned to all the whisperings of nature.
 
 CRITICAL PREFACE xvii 
 
 The only confidences that he has ever permitted 
 his pen to tell of the intoxication of a free, animal 
 existence are in the opening pages of the story en- 
 titled "Mouche," where he recalls, among the sweetest 
 memories of his youth, his rollicking canoe parties 
 upon the Seine, and in the description in "La Vie 
 Errante" of a night spent on the sea, — "to be alone 
 upon the water under the sky, through a warm 
 night," — in which he speaks of the happiness of 
 those "who receive sensations through the whole 
 surface of their flesh, as they do through their eyes, 
 their mouth, their ears, and sense of smell." 
 
 His unique and too scanty collection of verses, 
 written in early youth, contains the two most fear- 
 less, I was going to say the most ingenuous, paeans, 
 perhaps, that have been written since the Renais- 
 sance: "At the Water's Edge" (Au Bord de I'Eau) 
 and the "Rustic Venus" (La Venus Rustique). But 
 here is a paganism whose ardor, by a contrast which 
 brings up the ever present duality of his nature, ends 
 in an inexpressible shiver of scorn: 
 
 "We look at each other, astonished, immovable, 
 And both are so pale that it makes us fear." 
 
 * * « « * :|c « 
 
 "Alas! through all our senses slips life itself away." 
 
 This ending of the "Water's Edge" is less sinis- 
 ter than the murder and the vision of horror which 
 terminate the pantheistic hymn of the "Rustic Ve- 
 nus." Considered as documents revealing the cast of 
 mind of him who composed them, these two lyrical 
 essays are especially significant, since they were 
 spontaneous. They explain why D?. Maupassant, in
 
 XViii GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 the early years of production, voluntarily chose, 
 as the heroes of his stories, creatures very near to 
 primitive existence, peasants, sailors, poachers, girls 
 of the farm, and the source of the vigor with which 
 he describes these rude figures. The robustness of 
 his animalism permits him fully to imagine all the 
 simple sensations of these beings, while his pessi- 
 mism, which tinges these sketches of brutal customs 
 with an element of delicate scorn, preserves him, 
 from coarseness. It is this constant and involuntary 
 antithesis which gives unique value to those Norman 
 scenes which have contributed so much to his glory. 
 It corresponds to- those two contradictory tendencies 
 in hterary art, which seek always to render life in 
 motion with the most intense coloring, and still to 
 make more and more subtle the impression of this 
 Hfe. How is one ambition to be satisfied at the same 
 time as the other, since all gain in color and move- 
 ment brings about a diminution of sensibility, and 
 conversely.^ The paradox of his constitution per- 
 mitted to Maupassant this seemingly impossible ac- 
 cord, aided as he was by an intellect whose influence 
 was all powerful upon his development — the writer 
 I mention above, Gustave Flaubert. 
 
 These meetings of a pupil and a master, both 
 great, are indeed rare. They present, in fact, some 
 troublesome conditions, the first of which is a pro- 
 found analogy between two types of thought. There 
 must have been, besides, a reciprocity of affection, 
 which does not often obtain between a renowned sen- 
 ior who is growing old and an obscure junior, whose 
 renown is increasing. From generation to generation, 
 ?nvv reascends no less than she redescends. For the
 
 CRITICAL PREFACE xlx 
 
 honor of French men of letters, let us add that this 
 exceptional phenomenon has manifested itself twice 
 in the nineteenth century. Merimee, whom I have 
 also named, received from Stendhal, at twenty, the 
 same benefits that Maupassant received from Flaubert. 
 
 The author of "line Vie" and the writer of "Clara 
 Jozul" resemble each other, besides, in a singular and 
 analogous circumstance. Both achieved renown at the 
 first blow, and by a masterpiece which they were 
 able to equal but never surpass. Both were misan- 
 thropes early in life, and practised to the end the 
 ancient advice that the disciple of Beyle carried upon his 
 seal: ixefivrjao arcffzEcv — "Remember to distrust." And, 
 at the same time, both had delicate, tender hearts 
 under this affectation of cynicism, both were excellent 
 sons, irreproachable friends, indulgent masters, and 
 both were idolized by their inferiors. Both were 
 worldly, yet still loved a wanderer's life; both joined 
 to a constant taste for luxury an irresistible desire for 
 solitude. Both belonged to the extreme left of the 
 literature of their epoch, but kept themselves from 
 excess and used with a judgment marvelously sure 
 the sounder principles of their school. They knew 
 how to remain lucid and classic, in taste as much 
 as in form — Merimee through all the audacity of a 
 fancy most exotic, and Maupassant in the realism of 
 tl;e most varied and exact observation. At a little 
 distance they appear to be two patterns, identical in 
 certain traits, of the same family of minds, and Tour- 
 genief, who knew and loved the one and the other, 
 never failed to class them as brethren. 
 
 They are separated, however, by profound differ- 
 ences, which perhaps belong less to their nature than
 
 XX GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 to that of the masters from whom they received their 
 impulses: Stendhal, so alert, so mobile, after a youth 
 passed in war and a ripe age spent in vagabond 
 journeys, rich in experiences, immediate and personal; 
 Flaubert so poor in direct impressions, so paralyzed 
 by his health, by his family, by his theories even^ and 
 so rich in reflections, for the most part solitary. 
 
 Among the theories of the anatomist of " Madame 
 Bovary," there are two which appear without ceasing 
 in his Correspondence, under one form or another, 
 and these are the ones which are most strongly evi- 
 dent in the art of De Maupassant. We now see the 
 consequences which were inevitable by reason of them, 
 endowed as Maupassant was with a double power of 
 feeling life bitterly, and at the same time with so 
 much of animal force. The first theory bears upon 
 the choice of personages and the story of the ro- 
 mance, the second upon the character of the style. 
 The son of a physician, and brought up in the rigors 
 of scientific method, Flaubert believed this method to 
 be efficacious in art as in science. For instance, in 
 the writing of a romance, he seemed to be as scien- 
 tific as in the development of a history of customs, 
 in which the essential is absolute exactness and local 
 color. He therefore naturally v/ished to m^ike the 
 most scrupulous and detailed observation of the en- 
 vironment. 
 
 Thus is explained the immense labor in prepara- 
 tion which his stories cost him — the story of "Ma- 
 dame Bovary," of "The Sentimental Education," and 
 " Bouvard and Pecuchet," documents containing as 
 much minuiia: as his historical stories. Beyond every- 
 thing he tried to select details that were eminently
 
 CRITICAL PREFACE XXi 
 
 significant. Consequently he was of the opinion that 
 the romance writer should discard all that lessened 
 this significance, that is, extraordinary events and 
 singular heroes. The exceptional personage, it seemed 
 to him, should be<^ suppressed, as should also high 
 dramatic incident, since, produced by causes less gen- 
 eral, these have a range more restricted. The truly 
 scientific romance writer, proposing to paint a certain 
 class, will attain his end more effectively if he incar- 
 nate personages of the middle order, and, conse- 
 quently, paint traits common to that class. And not 
 only middle-class traits, but middle-class adventures. 
 
 From, this point of view, examine the three great 
 romances of the Master from Rouen, and you will 
 see that he has not lost sight of this first and greatest 
 principle of his art, any more than he has of the 
 second, which was that these documents should be 
 drawn up in prose of absolutely perfect technique. 
 We know with what passionate care he worked at 
 his phrases, and how indefatigably he changed them 
 over and over again. Thus he satisfied that instinct 
 of beauty which was born of his romantic soul, while 
 he gratified the demand of truth which inhered from 
 his scientific training by his minute and scrupulous 
 exactness. 
 
 The theory of the mean of truth on one side, as the 
 foundation of the subject, — "the humble truth," as he 
 termed it at the beginning of "Une Vie," — and of 
 the agonizing of beauty on the other side, in compo- 
 sition, determines the whole use that Maupassant 
 made of his literary gifts, it helped to make more 
 iritense and more systematic that dainty yet danger- 
 ous pessimism which in him was innate. The mid-
 
 Xxii GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 die-dass personage, in wearisome society like ours, 
 is always a caricature, and the happenings are nearly 
 always vulgar. When one studies a great number of 
 them, one finishes by looking at humanity from the 
 angle of disgust and despair. Th» philosophy of the 
 romances and novels of De Maupassant is so con- 
 tinuously and profoundly surprising that one becomes 
 overwhelmed by it. It reaches limitation; it seems 
 to deny that man is susceptible to grandeur, or that 
 motives of a superior order can uplift and ennoble 
 the soul, but it does so with a sorrow that is pro- 
 found. All that portion of the sentimental and moral 
 world which in itself is the highest remains closed 
 to it. 
 
 In revenge, this philosophy finds itself in a rela- 
 tion cruelly exact with the half-civilization of our 
 day. By that I mean the poorly educated individual 
 who has rubbed against knowledge enough to justify 
 a certain egoism, but who is too poor in faculty to 
 conceive an ideal, and whose native grossness is cor- 
 rupted beyond redemption. Under his blouse, or un- 
 der his coat — whether he calls himself Renardet, as 
 does the foul assassin in "Petite Roque," or Duroy, 
 as does the sly hero of "Bel- Ami," or Bretigny, as 
 does the vile seducer of "Mont Oriol," or Cesaire, 
 the son of Old Amable in the novel of that name, 
 ■ — this degraded type abounds in Maupassant's stories, 
 evoked with a ferocity almost jovial where it meets 
 the robustness of temperament which 1 have pointed 
 out, a ferocity which gives them a reality more exact 
 still because the half-civilized person is often impul- 
 sive and, in consequence, the physical easily pre- 
 dominates. There, as elsewhere, the degenerate is
 
 CRITICAL PREFACE XXiii 
 
 everywhere a degenerate who gives the impression of 
 being an ordinary man. 
 
 There are quantities of men of this stamp in large 
 cities. No writer has felt and expressed this com- 
 plex temperament with more justice than De Mau- 
 passant, and, as he was an infinitely careful observer 
 of milieu and landscape and all that constitutes a 
 precise middle distance, his novels can be considered 
 an irrefutable record of the social classes which he 
 studied at a certain time and along certain lines. The 
 Norman peasant and the Provencal peasant, for ex- 
 ample; also the small officeholder, the gentleman of 
 the provinces, the country squire, the clubman of 
 Paris, the journalist of the boulevard, the doctor at 
 the spa, the commercial artist, and, on the feminine 
 side, the servant girl, the working girl, the demi- 
 griseite, the street girl, rich or poor, the gallant lady 
 of the city and of the provinces, and the society 
 woman — these are some of the figures that he has 
 painted at many sittings, and whom he used to such 
 effect that the novels and romances in which they 
 are painted have come to be history. Just as it is 
 impossible to comprehend the Rome of the Caesars 
 without the work of Petronius, so is it impossible to 
 fully comprehend the France of 1850-90 without these 
 stories of Maupassant. They are no more the whole 
 image of the country than the "Satyricon" was the 
 whole image of Rome, but what their author has 
 wished to paint, he has painted to the life and with 
 a brush that is graphic in the extreme. 
 
 If Maupassant had only painted, in general fashion, 
 the characters and the phase of literature mentioned. 
 he would not be distinguished from other writers
 
 XXiv GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 of the group called "naturalists." His true glory is 
 in the extraordinary superiority of his art. He did 
 not invent it, and his method is not alien to that of 
 "Madame Bovary," but he knew how to give it a 
 suppleness, a variety, and a freedom which were al- 
 ways wanting in Flaubert. The latter, in his best 
 pages, is always strained. To use the expressive 
 metaphor of the Greek athletes, he "smells of the oil." 
 When one recalls that when attacked by hysteric 
 epilepsy, Flaubert postponed the crisis of the terrible 
 malady by means of sedatives, this strained atmos- 
 phere of labor — I was going to say of stupor — which 
 pervades his work is explained. He is an athlete, 
 a runner, but one who drags at his feet a terrible 
 weight. He is in the race only for the prize of effort, 
 an effort of which every motion reveals the intensity. 
 
 Maupassant, on the other hand, if he suffered from 
 a nervous lesion, gave no sign of it, except in his 
 heart. His intelligence was bright and lively, and 
 above all, his imagination, served by senses always 
 on the alert, preserved for some years an astonishing 
 freshness of direct vision. If his art was due to Flau- 
 bert, it is no more belittling to him than if one call 
 Raphael an imitator of Perugini. 
 
 Like Flaubert, he excelled in composing a story, 
 in distributing the f^icts with subtle gradation, in 
 bringing in at the end of a familiar dialogue some- 
 thing startlingly dramatic; but such composition, with 
 him, seems easy, and while the descriptions are mar- 
 velously well established in his stories, the reverse is 
 true of Flaubert's, which always appear a little ve- 
 neered. Maupassant's phrasing, however dramatic it 
 may be, remains easy and flowing.
 
 CRITICAL PREFACE XXV 
 
 Maupassant always sought for large and harmo- 
 nious rhythm in his deliberate choice of terms, always 
 chose sound, wholesome language, with a constant 
 care for technical beauty. Inheriting from his master 
 an instrument already forged, he wielded it with a 
 surer skill. In the quality of his style, at once so 
 firm and clear, so gorgeous yet so sober, so supple 
 and so firm, he equals the writers of the seventeenth 
 century. His method, so deeply and simply French, 
 succeeds in giving an indescribable "tang" to his de- 
 scriptions. If observation from nature imprints upon 
 his tales the strong accent of reality, the prose in 
 which they are shrined so conforms to the genius of 
 the race as to smack of the soil. 
 
 It is enough that the critics of to-day place Guy 
 de Maupassant among our classic writers. He has 
 his place in the ranks of pure French genius, with 
 the Regniers, the La Fontaines, the Molieres. And 
 those signs of secret ill divined everywhere under this 
 wholesome prose surround it for those who knew 
 and loved him with a pathos that is inexpressible. 
 
 f^idU^Mt
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 BORN in the middle year of the nineteenth cen- 
 tury, and fated unfortunately never to see its 
 close, Guy de Maupassant was probably the 
 most versatile and brilliant among the galaxy of 
 novelists who enriched French literature between the 
 years 1800 and 1900. Poetry, drama, prose of short 
 and sustained effort, and volumes of travel and descrip- 
 tion, each sparkling with the same minuteness of 
 detail and brilliancy of style, flowed from his pen 
 during the twelve years of his literary life. 
 
 Although his genius asserted itself in youth, he 
 had the patience of the true artist, spending his early 
 manhood in cutting and polishing the facets of his 
 genius under the stern though paternal mentorship of 
 Gustave Flaubert. Not until he had attained the age 
 of thirty did he venture on publication, challenging 
 criticism for the first time with a volume of poems. 
 
 Many and various have been the judgments passed 
 upon Maupassant's work. But now that the perspec- 
 tive of time is lengthening, enabling us to form a 
 more deliberate, and therefore a juster, view of his 
 complete achievement, we are driven irresistibly to 
 the conclusion that the force that shaped and swayed 
 
 (xxvii)
 
 Xxviii GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 Maupassant's prose writings was the conviction that 
 in life there could be no phase so noble or so mean, 
 so honorable or so contemptible, so lofty or so low as 
 to be unworthy of chronicling, — no groove of human 
 virtue or fault, success or failure, wisdom or folly that 
 did not possess its own peculiar psychological aspect 
 and therefore demanded analysis. 
 
 To this analysis Maupassant brought a facile and 
 dramatic pen, a penetration as searching as a probe, 
 and a power of psychological vision that in its mi- 
 nute detail, now pathetic, now ironical, in its merciless 
 revelation of the hidden springs of the human heart, 
 whether of aristocrat, bourgeois, peasant, or priest, 
 allow one to call him a Meissonier in words. 
 
 The school of romantic realism which was founded 
 by Merimee and Balzac found its culmination in De 
 Maupassant. He surpassed his mentor, Flaubert, in 
 the breadth and vividness of his work, and one of the 
 greatest of modern French critics has recorded the 
 deliberate opinion, that of all Taine's pupils Maupas- 
 sant had the greatest command of language and the 
 most finished and incisive style. Robust in imagina- 
 tion and fired with natural passion, his psychological 
 curiosity kept him true to human nature, while at 
 the same time his mental eye, when fixed upon the 
 most ordinary phases of human conduct, could see 
 some new motive or aspect of things hitherto un- 
 noticed by the careless crowd. 
 
 It has been said by casual critics that Maupassant 
 lacked one quahty indispensable to the production of 
 truly artistic work, viz: an absolutely normal, that is, 
 moral, point of view. The answer to this criticism is 
 obvious. No dissector of the gamut of human pas-
 
 INTRODUCTION Xxix 
 
 sion and folly in all its tones could present aught 
 that could be called new, if ungifted with a view- 
 point totally out of the ordinary plane. Cold and 
 merciless in the use of this point de viie De Maupas- 
 sant undoubtedly is, especially in such vivid depic- 
 tions of love, both physical and maternal, as we find 
 in ''L'histoire d'une fille de ferme" and "La femme 
 de Paul." But then the surgeon's scalpel never hesi- 
 tates at giving pain, and pain is often the road to 
 health and ease. Some of Maupassant's short stories 
 are sermons more forcible than any moral dissertation 
 could ever be. 
 
 Of De Maupassant's sustained efforts "Une Vie" 
 may bear the palm. This romance has the distinc- 
 tion of having changed Tolstoi from an adverse critic 
 into a warm admirer of the author. To quote the 
 Russian moralist upon the book: 
 
 " ' Une Vie' is a romance of the best type, and in my judgment 
 the greatest that has been produced by any French writer since Victor 
 Hugo penned ' Les Miserables.' Passing over the force and directness 
 of the narrative, I am struck by the intensity, the grace, and the in- 
 sight with which the writer treats the new aspects of human nature 
 which he finds in the life he describes." 
 
 And as if gracefully to recall a former adverse criti- 
 cism, Tolstoi adds: 
 
 "1 find in the book, in almost equal strength, the three cardinal 
 qualities essential to great work, viz: moral purpose, perfect style, and 
 absolute sincerity. . . . Maupassant is a man whose vision has 
 penetrated the silent depths of human life, and from that vantage- 
 ground interprets the struggle of humanity." 
 
 "Bel-Ami" appeared almost two years after "Une 
 Vie," that is to say, about 1885. Discussed and criti-
 
 XXX GUY DF. MAUPASSANT 
 
 cised as it has been, it is in reality a satire, an in- 
 dignant outburst against the corruption of society 
 which in the story enables an ex-soldier, devoid of 
 conscience, honor, even of the commonest regard for 
 others, to gain wealth and rank. The purport of the 
 story is clear to those who recognize the ideas that 
 governed Maupassant's work, and even the hasty 
 reader or critic, on reading "Mont Oriol,'* which 
 was published two years later and is based on a 
 combination of the motifs which inspired "Une Vie" 
 and "Bel-Ami," will reconsider former hasty judg- 
 ments, and feel, too, that beneath the triumph of 
 evil which calls forth Maupassant's satiric anger there 
 lies the substratum on which all his work is founded, 
 viz: the persistent, ceaseless questioning of a soul 
 unable to reconcile or explain the contradiction be- 
 tween love in life and inevitable death. Who can 
 read in "Bel-Ami" the terribly graphic description of 
 the consumptive journalist's demise, his frantic clinging 
 to life, and his refusal to credit the slow and m.erci- 
 less approach of death, without feeling that the ques- 
 tion asked at Naishapur many centuries ago is still 
 waiting for the solution that is always promised but 
 never comes? 
 
 In the romances which followed, dating from 
 1888 to 1890, a sort of calm despair seems to have 
 settled down upon De Maupassant's attitude toward 
 life. Psychologically acute as ever, and as perfect in 
 style and sincerity as before, we miss the note of 
 anger. Fatality is the keynote, and yet, sourrding 
 lov/, we detect a genuine subtone of sorrow. Was 
 it a prescience of 1895? So much work to be done, 
 so much work demanded of him, the world of Paris,
 
 INTRODUCTION XXXi 
 
 in all its brilliant and attractive phases, at his feet, 
 and yet — inevitable, ever advancing death, with the 
 question of life still unanswered. 
 
 This may account for some of the strained situa- 
 tions we find in his later romances. Vigorous in 
 frame and hearty as he was, the atmosphere of his 
 mental processes must have been vitiated to produce 
 the dainty but dangerous pessimism that pervades 
 some of his later work. This was partly a conse- 
 quence of his honesty and partly of mental despair. 
 He never accepted other people's views on the ques- 
 tions of life. He looked into such problems for him- 
 self, arriving at the truth, as it appeared to him, by 
 the logic of events, often finding evil where he wished 
 to find good, but never hoodvv/inking himself or his 
 readers by adapting or distorting the reality of things 
 to suit a preconceived idea. 
 
 Maupassant was essentially a worshiper of the 
 eternal feminine. He was persuaded that without the 
 continual presence of the gentler sex man's existence 
 would be an emotionally silent wilderness. No other 
 French writer has described and analyzed so minutely 
 and comprehensively the many and various motives 
 and moods that shape the conduct of a woman in 
 life. Take for instance the wonderfully subtle analysis 
 of a woman's heart as wife and mother that we find in 
 '•'UneVie." Could aught be more delicately incisive? 
 Sometimes in describing the apparently inexplicable 
 conduct of a certain woman he leads his readers to a 
 point where a false step would destroy the spell and 
 bring the reproach of banality and ridicule upon the 
 tale. But the catastrophe never occurs. It was nec- 
 essary to stand poised upon the brink of the preci-
 
 XXxii GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 pice to realize the depth of the abyss and feel the 
 terror of the fall. 
 
 Closely allied to this phase of Maupassant's nature 
 was the peculiar feeling of loneliness that every now 
 and then breaks irresistibly forth in the course of 
 some short story. Of kindly soul and genial heart, 
 he suffered not only from the oppression of spirit 
 caused by the lack of humanity, kindliness, sanity, 
 and harmony which he encountered daily in the 
 world at large, but he had an ever abiding sense of 
 the invincible, unbanishable solitariness of his own 
 Inmost self. I know of no more poignant expression 
 of such a feeling than the cry of despair which rings 
 out in the short story called "Solitude," in which he 
 describes the insurmountable barrier which exists be- 
 tween man and man, or man and woman, however 
 intimate the friendship between them. He could pic- 
 ture but one way of destroying this terrible loneliness, 
 the attainment of a spiritual — a divine — state of love, 
 a condition to which he would give no name utterable 
 by human lips, lest it be profaned, but for which his 
 whole being yearned. How acutely he felt his failure 
 to attain his deliverance may be drawn from his wail 
 that mankind has no universal measure of happiness. 
 
 "Each one of us," writes De Maupassant, "forms 
 for himself an illusion through which he views the 
 world, be it poetic, sentimental, joyous, melancholy, 
 or dismal; an illusion of beauty, which is a human 
 convention; of ughness, which is a matter of opinion; 
 of truth, which, alas, is never immutable." And he 
 concludes by asserting that the happiest artist is he 
 who approaches most closely to the truth of things 
 as he sees them through his own particular illusion.
 
 INTRODUCTION xxxiii 
 
 Salient points in De Maupassant's genius were that 
 he possessed the rare faculty of holding direct com- 
 munion with his gifts, and of writing from their 
 dictation as it was interpreted by his senses. He had 
 no patience with writers who in striving to present 
 life as a whole purposely omit episodes that reveal 
 the influence of the senses. "As well," he says, 
 "refrain from describing the effect of intoxicating 
 perfumes upon man as omit the influence of beauty 
 on the temperament of man." 
 
 De Maupassant's dramatic instinct was supremely 
 powerful. He seems to select unerringly the one thmg 
 in which the soul of the scene is prisoned, and, mak- 
 ing that his keynote, gives a picture in words which 
 haunt the memory like a strain of music. The de- 
 scription of the ride of Madame Tellier and her com- 
 panions in a country cart through a Norman landscape 
 is an admirable example. You smell the masses of 
 the colza in blossom, you see the yellow carpets of 
 ripe corn spotted here and there by the blue coronets 
 of the cornflower, and rapt by the red blaze of the 
 poppy beds and bathed in the fresh greenery of 
 the landscape, you share in the emotions felt by the 
 happy party in the country cart. And yet with all 
 his vividness of description, De Maupassant is always 
 sober and brief. He had the genius of condensation 
 and the reserve which is innate in power, and to 
 his reader could convey as much in a paragraph as 
 could be expressed in a page by many of his prede- 
 cessors and contemporaries, Flaubert not excepted. 
 
 Apart from his novels, De Maupassant's tales may 
 be arranged under three heads: Those that concern 
 themselves with Norman peasant life; those that deal
 
 XXxiv GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 with Government employees (Maupassant himself had 
 long been one) and the Paris middle classes, and 
 those that represent the life of the fashionable world, 
 as well as the weird and fantastic ideas of the later 
 years of his career. Of these three groups the tales 
 of the Norman peasantry perhaps rank highest. He 
 depicts the Norman farmer in surprisingly free and 
 bold strokes, revealing him in all his caution, astute- 
 ness, rough gaiety, and homely virtue. 
 
 The tragic stage of De Maupassant's life may, I 
 think, be set down as beginning just before the drama 
 of "'Musotte" was issued, in conjunction with Jacques 
 Normand, in 189 1. He had almost given up the hope 
 of interpreting his puzzles, and the struggle between 
 the falsity of the life which surrounded him and the 
 nobler visions which possessed him was wearing him 
 out. Doubtless he resorted to unwise methods for the 
 dispelling of physical lassitude or for surcease from 
 troubling mental problems. To this period belong such 
 weird and horrible fancies as are contained in the short 
 stories known as "He" and "The Diary of a Mad- 
 man." Here and there, we know, were rising in 
 him inklings of a finer and less sordid attitude 'twixt 
 man and woman throughout the world and of a purer 
 constitution of existing things which no exterior force 
 should blemish or destroy. But with these yearningly 
 prophetic gleams came a period of mental death. 
 Then the physical veil was torn aside and for Guy 
 de Maupassant the riddle of existence was answered.
 
 MADEMOISELLE FIFI 
 
 ■ HE Major Graf* von Farlsberg, the 
 Prussian commandant, was reading 
 his newspaper, lying back in a great 
 armchair, with his booted feet on 
 the beautiful marble fireplace, where 
 his spurs had made two holes, which 
 grew deeper every day, during the three 
 months that he had been in the chateau 
 of Urville. 
 A cup of coffee was smoking on a small, 
 inlaid table, which was stained with liquors, 
 burnt by cigars, notched by the penknife of 
 the victorious officer, who occasionally would 
 stop while sharpening a pencil, to jot down fig- 
 ures, or to make a drawing on it, just as it took his 
 fancy. 
 
 When he had read his letters and the German 
 newspapers, which his baggage-master had brought 
 him, he got up, and after throwing three or four 
 enormous pieces of green wood on to the fire — for 
 these gentlemen were gradually cutting down the 
 park in order to keep themselves warm — he went 
 
 * Count. 
 
 Maup. 1- 
 
 (I)
 
 2 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 to the window. The rain was descending in tor- 
 rents, a regular Normandy rain, which looked as if 
 it were being poured out by some furious hand, a 
 slanting rain, which was as thick as a curtain, and 
 which formed a kind of wall with oblique stripes, 
 and which deluged everything, a regular rain, such as 
 one frequently experiences in the neighborhood of 
 Rouen, which is the watering-pot of France. 
 
 For a long time the officer looked at the sodden 
 turf, and at the swollen Andelle beyond it, which 
 was overflowing its banks, and he was drumming 
 a waltz from the Rhine on the window-panes, with 
 his fingers, when a noise made him turn round; it 
 was his second in command, Captain Baron von Kel- 
 weinstein. 
 
 The major was a giant, with broad shoulders, 
 and a long, fair beard, which hung like a cloth on 
 to his chest. His whole, solemn person suggested the 
 idea of a military peacock, a peacock who was 
 carrying his tail spread out on to his breast. He 
 had cold, gentle, blue eyes, and the scar from a 
 sword-cut, which he had received in the war with 
 Austria; he was said to be an honorable man, as 
 well as a brave officer. 
 
 The captain, a short, red-faced man, who was 
 tightly girthed in at the waist, had his red hair 
 cropped quite close to his head, and in certain lights 
 almost looked as if he had been rubbed over with 
 phosphorus. He had lost two front teeth one night, 
 though he could not quite remember how. This de- 
 fect made him speak so that he could not always be 
 understood, and he had a bald patch on the top of 
 his head, which made him look rather like a monk.
 
 MADEMOISELLE FIFl 3 
 
 with a fringe of curly, bright, golden hair round the 
 circle of bare skin. 
 
 The commandant shook hands with him, and 
 drank his cup of coffee (the sixth that morning) at 
 a draught, while he listened to his subordinate's 
 report of what had occurred; and then they both 
 went to the window, and declared that it was a 
 very unpleasant outlook.. The major, who was a 
 quiet man, with a wife at home, could accommodate 
 himself to everything; but the captain, who was 
 rather fast, being in the habit of frequenting low 
 resorts, and much given to women, was mad at hav- 
 ing been shut up for three months in the compulsory 
 chastity of that wretched hole. 
 
 There was a knock at the door, and when the 
 commandant said, "Come in," one of their auto- 
 matic soldiers appeared, and by his mere presence 
 announced that breakfast was ready, in the dining- 
 room, they met three other officers of lower rank : 
 a lieutenant, Otto von Grossling, and two sub- 
 lieutenants, Fritz Scheunebarg, and Count von Eyrick, 
 a very short, fair-haired man, who was proud and 
 brutal toward men, harsh toward prisoners, and very 
 violent. 
 
 Since he had been in France, his comrades had 
 called him nothing but "Mademoiselle Fifi." They 
 had given him that nickname on account of his 
 dandified style and small waist, which looked as if 
 he wore slays, from his pale face, on which his bud- 
 ding mustache scarcely showed, and on account 
 of the habit he had acquired of employing the French 
 expression, fi, fi done, which he pronounced with
 
 4 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 a slight whistle, when he wished to express hu» 
 sovereign contempt for persons or things. 
 
 The dining-room of the chateau was a magnificent 
 long room, whose fine old mirrors, now cracked by 
 pistol bullets, and Flemish tapestry, now cut to rib- 
 bons and hanging in rags in places, from sword-cuts, 
 told too well what Mademoiselle Fifi's occupation 
 was during his spare time. 
 
 There were three flimily portraits on the walls ; a 
 steel-clad knight, a cardinal, and a judge, who were 
 all smoking long porcelain pipes, which had been in- 
 serted into holes in the canvas, while a lady in a long, 
 pointed waist proudly exhibited an enormous pair 
 of mustaches, drawn with a piece of charcoal. 
 
 The officers ate their breakfast almost in silence in 
 that mutilated room, which looked dull in the rain, 
 and melancholy under its vanquished appearance, 
 although its old, oak floor had become as solid as 
 the stone floor of a public-house. 
 
 When they had finished eating, and were smok- 
 ing and drinking, they began, as usual, to talk about 
 the dull life they were leading. The bottles of brandy 
 and of liquors passed from hand to hand, and all sat 
 back in their chairs, taking repeated sips from their 
 glasses, and scarcely removing the long, bent stems, 
 which terminated in china bowls painted in a manner 
 to delight a Hottentot, from their mouths. 
 
 As soon as their glasses were empty, they filled 
 them again, with a gesture of resigned weariness, 
 but Mademoiselle Fifi emptied his every minute, and 
 a soldier immediately gave him another. They were 
 enveloped in a cloud of strong tobacco smoke ; they
 
 MADEMOISELLE FIFI 5 
 
 seemed to be sunk in a state of drowsy, stupid in- 
 toxication, in that dull state of drunkenness of men 
 who have nothing to do, when suddenly, the baron 
 sat up, and said: "By heavens! This cannot go on; 
 we must think of something to do." And on hear- 
 ing this, Lieutenant Otto and Sub-lieutenant Fritz, who 
 pre-eminently possessed the grave, heavy German 
 countenance, said: "What, Captain?" 
 
 He thought for a few moments, and then replied: 
 "What? Well, we must get up some entertainment, 
 if the commandant will allow us." 
 
 "What sort of an entertainment, captain?" the 
 major asked, taking his pipe out of his mouth. 
 
 "I will arrange all that, commandant," the baron 
 said. "I will send Le Devoir to Rouen, who will 
 bring us some ladies. I know where they can be 
 found. We will have supper here, as all the mate- 
 rials are at hand, and, at least, we shall have a jolly 
 evening." 
 
 Graf von Farlsberg shrugged his shoulders with a 
 smile: "You must surely be mad, my friend." 
 
 But all the other officers got up, surrounded their 
 chief, and said: "Let the captain have his own 
 way, commandant ; it is terribly dull here." 
 
 And the major ended by yielding. "Very well," 
 he replied, and the baron immediately sent for Le 
 Devoir. 
 
 The latter was an old corporal who had never 
 been seen to smile, but who carried out all the orders 
 of his superiors to the letter, no matter what they 
 might be. He stood there, with an impassive face, 
 while he received the baron's instructions, and then 
 went out; five minutes later a large wagon belonging
 
 5 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 to the military train, covered witli a miller's tilt, gal- 
 loped off as fast as four horses could take it, under 
 the pouring rain, and the officers all seemed to 
 awaken from their lethargy, their looks brightened, 
 and they began to talk. 
 
 Although it was raining as hard as ever, the major 
 declared that it was not so dull, and Lieutenant von 
 Grossling said with conviction, that the sky was clear- 
 ing up, while Mademoiselle Fifi did not seem to be 
 able to keep in his place. He got up, and sat down 
 again, and his bright eyes seemed to be looking for 
 something to destroy. Suddenly, looking at the lady 
 with the mustaches, the young fellow pulled out his 
 revolver, and said: "You shall not see it." And 
 without leaving his seat he aimed, and with two suc- 
 cessive bullets cut out both the eyes of the portrait. 
 
 "Let us make a mine!" he then exclaimed, and the 
 conversation was suddenly interrupted, as if they had 
 found some fresh and powerful subject of interest. 
 The mine was his invention, his method of destruc- 
 tion, and his favorite amusement. 
 
 When he left the chateau, the lawful owner. Count 
 Fernand d'Amoys d'Urville, had not had time to carry 
 away or to hide anything, except the plate, which had 
 been stowed away in a hole made in one of the walls, 
 so that, as he was very rich and had good taste, the 
 large drawing-room, which opened into the dining- 
 room, had looked like the gallery in a museum, before 
 his precipitate flight. 
 
 Expensive oil-paintings, water-colors, and drawings 
 hung upon the walls, while on the tables, on the hang- 
 ing shelves, and in elegant glass cupboards, there were 
 a thousand knickknacks : small vases, statuettes.
 
 MADEMOISELLE FIFI y 
 
 groups in Dresden china, grotesque Chinese figures, 
 old ivory, and Venetian glass, which tilled the large 
 room with their precious and fantastical array. 
 
 Scarcely anything was L-lt no\v; not that the things 
 had been stolen, for the major would not have allowed 
 that, but Mademoiselle Fill zi'oiiIJ have a mine, and 
 on that occasion all the officers thoroughly enjoyed 
 themselves for five minutes. The little marquis went 
 into the drawing-room to get what he wanted, and he 
 brought back a small, delicate china teapot, which he 
 filled with gunpowder, and carefully introduced a 
 piece of German tinder into it, through the spout. 
 Then he lighted it, and took this infernal machine 
 into the next room; but he came back immediately, 
 and shut the door. The Germans all stood expect- 
 antly, their faces full of childish, smiling curiosity, and 
 as soon as the explosion had shaken the chateau, they 
 all rushed in at once. 
 
 Mademoiselle Fifi, who got in first, clapped his 
 hands in delight at the sight of a terra-cotta Venus, 
 whose head had been blown off, and each picked up 
 pieces of porcelain, and wondered at the strange 
 shape of the fragments, while the major was looking 
 with a paternal eye at the large drawing-room which 
 had been wrecked in such a Neronic fashion, and 
 v/hich was strewn with the fragments of works of 
 art. He went out first, and said, with a smile: "He 
 managed that very well!" 
 
 But there was such a cloud of smoke in the dining- 
 room, mingled with the tobacco smoke, that they could 
 not breathe, so the commandant opened the window, 
 and all the officers, who had gone into the room for 
 a glass of cognac, went up to it.
 
 8 WORKS OF GU.Y DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 The moist air blew into the room, and brought a 
 sort of spray with it, which powdered their beards. 
 They looked at the tall trees which were dripping with 
 the rain, at the broad valley which was covered with 
 mist, and at the church spire in the distance, which 
 rose up like a gray point in the beating rain. 
 
 The bells had not rung since their arrival. That 
 was the only resistance which the invaders had met 
 with in the neighborhood. The parish priest had 
 not refused to take in and to feed the Prussian sol 
 diers; he had several times even drunk a bottle 4 
 beer or claret with the hostile commandant, wl o 
 often employed him as a benevolent intermediary; 
 but it was no use to ask him for a single stroke of 
 the bells; he would sooner have allowed himself to 
 be shot. That was his way of protesting against 
 the invasion, a peaceful and silent protest, the only 
 one, he said, which was suitable to a priest, who 
 was a man of mildness, and not of blood; and every- 
 one, for twenty-five miles round, praised Abbe Chan- 
 tavoine's firmness and heroism, in venturing to pro- 
 claim the public mourning by the obstinate silence 
 of his church bells. 
 
 The whole village grew enthusiastic over his resist- 
 ance, and was ready to back up their pastor and to 
 risk anything, as they looked upon that silent protest 
 as the safeguard of the national honor. It seemed to 
 the peasants that thus they had deserved better of 
 their country than Belfort and Strassburg, that they 
 had set an equally valuable example, and that the 
 name of their little village would become immor- 
 talized by that; but with that exception, they refused 
 their Prussian conquerors nothing.
 
 MADEMOISELLE FIFl 9 
 
 The commandant and his officers laughed among 
 themselves at that inoffensive courage, and as the 
 people in the whole country round showed them- 
 selves obliging and compliant toward them, they will- 
 ingly tolerated their silent patriotism. Only little 
 Count Wilhelm would have liked to have forced 
 them to ring the bells. He was very angry at his 
 superior's politic compliance with the priest's scruples, 
 and every day he begged the commandant to allow 
 him to sound "ding-dong, ding-dong," just once, 
 only just once, just by way of a joke. And he asked 
 it like a wheedling woman, in the tender voice of 
 some mistress who wishes to obtain something, but 
 the commandant would not yield, and to console Jier- 
 self, Mademoiselle Fill made a mine in the chateau. 
 
 The five men stood there together for some 
 minutes, inhaling the moist air, and at last, Lieu- 
 tenant Fritz said, with a laugh: "The ladies will 
 certainly not have fine weather for their drive." 
 Then they separated, each to his own duties, while 
 the captain had plenty to do in seeing about the 
 dinner. 
 
 When they met again, as it was growing dark, 
 they began to laugh at seeing each other as dandi- 
 fied and smart as on the day of a grand review. 
 The commandant's hair did not look as gray as it 
 did in the morning, and the captain had shaved — 
 had only kept his mustache on, which made him 
 look as if he had a streak of fire under his nose. 
 
 In spite of the rain, they left the window open, 
 and one of them went to listen from time to time. 
 At a quarter past six the baron said he heard a rum- 
 bling in the distance. They all rushed down, and
 
 lO V/ORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 soon the wagon drove up at a gallop with its four 
 horses, splashed up to their backs, steaming and pant- 
 ing. Five women got out at the bottom of the steps, 
 five handsome girls whom a comrade of the captain, 
 to whom Le Devoir had taken his card, had selected 
 with care. 
 
 They had not required much pressing, as they were 
 sure of being well treated, for they had got to know 
 the Prussians in the three months during which they 
 had had to do with tliem. So thev resigned them- 
 selves to the men as they did to the state of affairs. 
 *'It is part of our business, so it must be done," 
 they said as they drove along; no doubt to allay 
 some slight, "secret scruples of conscience. 
 
 They went into the dining-room immediately, 
 which looked still more dismal in its dilapidated 
 state, when it was lighted up; while the table cov- 
 ered with choice dishes, the beautiful china and 
 glass, and the plate, which had been found in the 
 hole in the wall where its owner had hidden it, gave 
 to the place the look of a bandits' resort, where they 
 were supping after committing a robbery. The cap- 
 tain was radiant; he took hold of the women as if he 
 were familiar with them; appraising them, kissing 
 them, valuing them for what they were worth as 
 ladies of pleasure; and when the three young men 
 wanted to appropriate one each, he opposed them 
 autnoritatively, reserving to himself the right to appor- 
 tion them justly, according to their several ranks, so 
 as not to wound the hierarchy. Therefore, so as to 
 avoid all discussion, jarring, and suspicion of partiality, 
 he placed them all in a line according to height, and 
 addressing the tallest, he said in a voice of command:
 
 MADEMOISELLE FIFI II 
 
 "What is your name?" 
 ''Pamela," she replied, raising her voice. 
 Then he said: "Number One, called Pamela, is 
 adjudged to the commandant." 
 
 Then, having kissed Blondina, the second, as a sign 
 of proprietorship, he proffered stout Amanda to Lieu- 
 tenant Otto, Eva, -the Tomato," to Sub-lieutenant 
 Fritz, and Rachel, the shortest of them all, a very 
 young, dark girl, with eyes as black as ink, a Jewess, 
 whose snub nose confirmed by exception the rule 
 which allots hooked noses to all her race, to the 
 youngest officer, frail Count Wilhelm von Eyrick. 
 
 Thev were all pretty and plump, without any dis- 
 tinctive features, and all were very much ahke in 
 look and person, from their daily dissipation, and 
 the life common to houses of public accommoda- 
 tion. „ , . 
 The three younger men wished to carry ott tneir 
 women immediately, under the pretext of finding 
 them brushes and soap; but the captain wisely 
 opposed this, for he said they were quite fit to si 
 down to dinner, and that those who went up w'ould 
 wish for a change when they came down, and so 
 would disturb the other couples, and his experience 
 in such matters carried the day. There were only 
 many kisses; expectant kisses. 
 
 Suddenlv Rachel choked, and began to cough 
 until the te'ars came into her eyes, while smoke came 
 through her nostrils. Under pretense of kissing her, 
 the count had blown a whiff of tobacco into her 
 mouth. She did not fly into a rage, and did not say 
 a word, but she looked at her possessor with latent 
 hatred in her dark eyes.
 
 12 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 They sat down to dinner. The commandant 
 seemed delighted; he made Pamela sit on his right, 
 and Blondina on his left, and said, as he unfolded his 
 table napkin: "That was a delightful idea of yours, 
 captain." 
 
 Lieutenants Otto and Fritz, who were as polite as 
 if they had been with fashionable ladies, rather intimi- 
 dated their neighbors, but Baron von Kelweinstein 
 gave the reins to all his vicious propensities, beamed, 
 made doubtful remarks, and seemed on fire with his 
 crown of red hair. He paid them compliments in 
 French from the other side of the Rhine, and sput- 
 tered out gallant remarks, only fit for a low pot- 
 house, from between his two broken teeth. 
 
 They did not understand him, however, and their 
 intelligence did not seem to be av/akened until he 
 uttered nasty words and broad expressions, which 
 were mangled by his accent. Then all began to 
 laugh at once, like mad women, and fell against each 
 other, repeating the words, which the baron then 
 began to say all wrong, in order that he might have 
 the pleasure of hearing them say doubtful things. They 
 gave him as much of that stuff as he wanted, for 
 they were drunk after the first bottle of wine, and, 
 becoming themselves once more, and opening the 
 door to their usual habits, they kissed the mustaches 
 on the right and left of them, pinched their arms, 
 uttered furious cries, drank out of every glass, and 
 sang French couplets, and bits of German songs, 
 which they had picked up in their daily intercourse 
 with the enemy. 
 
 Soon the men themselves, intoxicated by that 
 which was displayed to their sight and touch, grew
 
 MADEMOISELLE FIFI 
 
 13 
 
 very amorous, shouted and broke the plates and 
 dishes, while the soldiers behind them waited on 
 them stolidly. The commandant was the only one 
 who put any restraint upon himself. 
 
 Mademoiselle Fifi had taken Rachel on to his 
 knees, and, getting excited, at one moment kissed 
 the little black curls on her neck, inhaling the pleas- 
 ant warmth of her body, and all the savor of her 
 person, through the slight space there was between 
 her dress and her skin, and at another pinched her 
 furiously through the material, and made her scream, 
 for he was seized with a species of ferocity, and tor- 
 mented by his desire to hurt her. He often held her 
 close to him, as if to make her part of himself, and 
 put his lips in a long kiss on the Jewess's rosy 
 mouth, until she lost her breath; and at last he bit 
 her until a stream of blood ran down her chin and 
 on to her bodice. 
 
 For the second time, she looked him full in the 
 face, and as she bathed the wound, she said: "You 
 will have to pay for that!" 
 
 But he merely laughed a hard laugh, and said: "I 
 will pay." 
 
 At dessert, champagne was served, and the com- 
 mandant rose, and in the same voice in which he 
 would have drunk to the health of the Empress 
 Augusta, he drank: "To our ladies!" Then a series 
 of toasts began, toasts worthy of the lowest soldiers 
 and of drunkards, mingled with filthy jokes, which 
 were made still more brutal by their ignorance of the 
 language. They got up, one after the other, trying 
 to say something witty, forcing themselves to be 
 funny, and the women, who were so drunk that
 
 M 
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 they almost fell off their chairs, with vacant looks 
 and clammy tongues, applauded madly each time. 
 
 The captain, who no doubt wished to impart an 
 appearance of gallantry to the orgy, raised his glass 
 again, and said: "To our victories over hearts!" 
 Thereupon Lieutenant Otto, who was a species of 
 bear from the Black Forest, jumped up, inflamed and 
 saturated with drink, and seized by an access of 
 alcoholic patriotism, cried: "To our victories over 
 France!" 
 
 Drunk as they were, the women were silent, and 
 Rachel turned round with a shudder, and said: 
 "Look here, I know some Frenchmen, in whose 
 presence you would not dare to say that." But the 
 little count, still holding her on his knees, began to 
 laugh, for the wine had made him very merry, and 
 said: "Ha! ha! ha! I have never met any of them, 
 myself. As soon as we show ourselves, they run 
 av/ay! " 
 
 The girl, who was in a terrible rage, shouted into 
 his face: "You are lying, you dirty scoundrel!" 
 
 For a moment, he looked at her steadily, with his 
 bright eyes upon her, as he had looked at the 
 portrait before he destroyed it with revolver bullets, 
 and then he began to laugh: "Ah! yes, talk about 
 them, my dear! Should we be here now, if they were 
 brave?" Then getting excited, he exclaimed: "We 
 are the masters! France belongs to us!" She jumped 
 off his knees with a bound, and threw herself into 
 her chair, while he rose, held out his glass over the 
 table, and repeated: "France and the French, the 
 woods, the fields, and the houses of France belong 
 to us!"
 
 MADEiMOISELLE FIFI 
 
 15 
 
 The others, who were quite drunk, and who were 
 suddenly seized by mihtary enthusiasm, the enthusiasm 
 of brutes, seized their ghisscs, and shouting, "Long 
 live Prussia!" emptied them at a draught. 
 
 The girls did not protest, for they were reduced to 
 silence, and were afraid. Hvcn Rachel did not. say a 
 W'Ord, as she had no reply to make, and then the 
 little count put his champagne glass, which had 
 just been refilled, on to the head of the Jewess, and 
 exclaimed: "All the women in France belong to us, 
 also!" 
 
 At that she got up so quickly that the glass upset, 
 spilling the amber eolorcd wine on to her black hair 
 as if to baptize her, and broke into a hundred frag- 
 ments as it fell on to the floor. V/ith trembling lips, 
 she defied the looks of the officer, who was still laugh- 
 ing, and she stammered out, in a voice choked with 
 rage: "That — that — that — is not true, — for you shall 
 certainly not have any French women." 
 
 He sat down again, so as to laugh at his ease, and 
 trying ineffectually to speak in the Parisian accent, he 
 said: "That is good, very good! Then what did you 
 come here for, my dear?" 
 
 She was thunderstruck, and made no reply for a 
 moment, for in her agitation she did not understand 
 him at (Irst; but as soon as she grasped his mean- 
 ing, she said to him indignantly and vehemently: "I! 
 I! I am not a woman; 1 am only a strumpet, and that 
 is all that Prussians want." 
 
 Almost before she had finished, he slapped her full 
 in her face; but as he was raising his hand again, as 
 if he would strike her, she, almost mad with passion, 
 took up a small dessert knife from the table, and stabbed
 
 |6 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSATH 
 
 him right in the neck, just above the breastbone. 
 Something that he was going to say, was cut short in 
 his throat, and he sat there, with his mouth half open, 
 and a terrible look in his eyes. 
 
 All the officers shouted in horror, and leaped up 
 tumultuously; but throwing her chair between Lieu- 
 tenant Otto's legs, who fell down at full length, she 
 ran to the window, opened it before they could seize 
 her, and jumped out into the night and pouring rain. 
 
 In two minutes, Mademoiselle Fifi was dead. 
 Fritz and Otto drew their swords and wanted to kill 
 the women, who threw themselves at their feet and 
 clung to their knees. With some difficulty the major 
 stopped the slaughter, and had the four terrified girls 
 locked up in a room under the care of two soldiers. 
 Then he organized the pursuit of the fugitive, as care- 
 fully as if he were about to engage in a skirmish, 
 feeling quite sure that she would be caught. 
 
 The table, which had been cleared immediately, 
 now served as a bed on which to lay Fifi out, and 
 the four officers made for the window, rigid and 
 sobered, with the stern faces of soldiers on duty, and 
 tried to pierce through the darkness of the night, 
 amid the steady torrent of rain. Suddenly, a shot 
 was heard, and then another, a long way off; and for 
 four hours they heard, from time to time, near or dis- 
 tant reports and rallying cries, strange words uttered 
 as a call, in guttural voices. 
 
 In the morning they all returned. Two soldiers 
 had been killed and three others wounded by their 
 comrades in the ardor of that chase, and in the con- 
 fusion of such a nocturnal pursuit, but they had not 
 caught Rachel.
 
 T'/!A.'e.-;/MADEMaiBELlJE- FJFI Sf>iOW i^ 
 
 '■■^Then the inliabitants of the district were tercor-^ 
 Ized, tiie houses were turned topsy-turvy, the countTy 
 was scoured and beaten up, ov€r and over 'againi but 
 the Jewess did ' not ; seem toi ' have^ ^ left i a i ^single. ^ti-aee 
 of her passage behind heri^sb ti->/,?7iirl hru; .i\u^ .:'f)At-;d 
 
 When the general iwas told of -it, he gave order*^ 
 to hush' up the affair, feo'a^'nnbt 'to iet ia 'bad example 
 to the army, but he severely censured' -the' comm.an- 
 dant, who in turn punished his inferiors. The general 
 had said: "One does not go to war in order to 
 amuse oneself, and to caress prostitutes:'' And Graf 
 von Farlsberg, in his exasperation; made up his mrnd 
 to have his revenge on the dist'rlct;;bOt'ds 'he required 
 a pretext for showing severity, he sent for the priest, 
 and ordered him to have the bell tolled at the funeral 
 of Count von Eyrick. 
 
 Contrary to all expectation, the priest showed him- 
 self humble and most respectful, and when Made- 
 moiselle Fifi's body left the Chateau d'Urville on its 
 way to the cemetery, carried by soldiers, preceded, sur- 
 rounded, and follov/ed by soldiers, who marched with 
 loaded rifles, for the first time the bell sounded its 
 funereal knell in a lively manner, as if a friendly hand 
 were caressing it. At night it sounded again, and 
 the next day. and every day; it rang as much as any- 
 one could desire. Sometimes even, it would start at 
 night, and sound gently through the darkness, seized 
 by strange joy, awakened, one could not tell why. 
 All the peasants in the neighborhood declared that it 
 was bewitched, and nobody, except the priest and 
 the sacristan would now go near the church tower, 
 and they went because a poor girl was living there 
 Mail p. 1—2
 
 l8 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 in grief and solitude, secretly nourished by those two 
 men. 
 
 She remained there until the German troops de- 
 parted, and then one evening the priest borrowed the 
 baker's cart, and himself drove his prisoner to Rouen. 
 When they got there, he embraced her, and she 
 quickly went back on foot to the establishment from 
 •which she had come, where the proprietress, who 
 thought that she was dead, was very glad to see her. 
 
 A short time afterward, a patriot who had no 
 prejudices, who liked her because of her bold deed, 
 and who afterward loved her for herself, married her, 
 and made a lady of her.
 
 AN AFFAIR OF STATE 
 
 0"'^ l~^ARis had just heard of the disaster 
 ^^ff^^ 1^ of Sedan. The Republic was pro- 
 claimed. All France was panting 
 from a madness that lasted until the 
 time of the Commonwealth. Every- 
 body was playing at soldier from one 
 end of the country to the other. 
 Capmakers became colonels, assuming 
 the duties of generals ; revolvers and 
 daggers were displayed on large rotund 
 j^, bodies, enveloped in red sashes: common citi- 
 W' zens turned warriors, commanding battalions of 
 '^ noisy volunteers, and swearing like troopers to 
 ^ emphasize their importance. 
 
 The ve.'-y fact of bearing arms and handling guns 
 with a system excited a people who hitherto had 
 only handled scales and measures, and made them 
 formidable to the first comer, without reason. I'hey 
 even executed a few innocent people to prove that 
 they knew how to kill; and, in roaming through vir- 
 gin fields still belonging to the Prussians, they shot 
 stray dogs, cows chewing the cud in peace, or sick 
 
 (19)
 
 20 WORKS OF GuY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 liorse*; put out to pasture. Each believed himself called 
 upon to play a great role in military affairs. The 
 cafes of the smallest villages, full of tradesmen in 
 uniform, resembled barracks or tield hospitals. 
 
 Now, the town of Canneville did not yet know 
 the exciting news of the army and the Capital. It 
 had, however, been greatly agitated for a month over 
 an encounter between the rival political parties. l\\<i 
 mayor, Viscouitiit de jVarnetot, a ,sraa|l, thin man» 
 already old', remained 'tme to 'the Eitipi're, especially 
 since he saw rising up against him a powerful adver- 
 sary, in the greatj, sanguine form of Doctor Massarel, 
 head of the Republican pdrty^ih' the district, venerable 
 chief of the -Masoriic' lodge, president"' of the Society 
 of 'Agriculture ' arid ' o^ the" Fi'rfe' Department, and 
 orgariizer of' the ' rural rnihtia designed to save the 
 country. - 
 
 "In two weeks he had iriduted sixty-thi-ee' men, to 
 volunteer ih'"defens'6- of 'tHeit country'^ married men, 
 fathers of falnili^s, pi^uddnt farhie^s iin'd merchants ot 
 the toWn. ' These h^ drillecl evet^y hiorhin^ iq front 
 of'ihe'maydi'"s window!. . , ' ■ ,' , 
 
 ' Whenever the mayor happened '^o ap^edf, Com- 
 rtiandei- Massarel; covered with pistols', passing proudly 
 uji and' down' In front of 'his trobi3s,'''"^ould make 
 them shout, "Long hve our country!"' Arid this, they 
 n6'ticed, •dis'turbfid' the little viscount, A^ho no doubt 
 hedrdiii it' menace and defiance, and perhaps some 
 Odious t^etbllection of the great Revolution. •*■• • v'-'^' 
 
 ■ On the mornirig of the fifth of Septembefj''ii*i^UHi-' 
 fbi'm, his revolver on the table, the doctor gave con- 
 SLlltati'on to an old' peasant couple. Thehusband had' 
 buffered With '^^ varicose Wein fdr seven years, but had
 
 '^'^'>^' AN AFFAIR OF SI M^.^ ^^""^^ M 
 
 «sraitea u'ritil hfs wife had one too; so that' th^ytVifgtvt 
 ^o and hunt up a physician together, 'guided by nhe 
 postman when he should come with the ne^'spaper. 
 Dr. Massarel opened the door, grew 'pale, straight^ 
 ehed himself abruptly and, raising his arms to heaven 
 in a gesture of exaltation, cried out With all his 
 might, in the face 6f the arnkz^d-mstics: "' <n;H' 
 
 "Long live the Republic!'' Long live^ the Republicl 
 
 Long live the Republic'!"' '■'''" ' '••'»''• -(i-i-ti'V^- j'. 
 
 -Then he dropped ifiib"' 'his ■aT'm'dhail"''^^ak'^ with 
 
 ehiotion. ' -"'"- ■■•• ■ '■-"' ''^ ■ ''" - ■ " " 
 
 When the peasant yxphirted'^lhiat thfs ' sickness 
 commenced with a feeling as if antfeWere'ru'nning up 
 and down in his legs, the"dbctor'^^claimed':'" Hold 
 your peace, 'r have spen^ 'tbd" rhucH time with ' you 
 stupid people. The Republic 'is ' proclaimed !• 'The 
 Emperor is a prisoner! (France is saved!- Long' livfe 
 the Republic!" And, 'funning to the ^ dooi^, -he bel- 
 \6^ed: "Celeste! Quick! Celeste! "i '!> ' •*' 
 
 The frightened maid hastened 'in. ''5-16' stuttered,' ^so 
 rapidly did he try 'to speak: *'My boots, myi saber 
 — niy cartridge box — and — the Spanish dagger, 
 which is oh my high! table. Hurry nowK- •J^noqafc 
 
 The obstinate peasant, 'taking 'advantage 'of the 
 moment's silence, began-again: '/This Seemed ' like 
 some cysts' that hurt nle When I walked. '^'^ < 
 
 The exasperated physician Shouted: ! "Hdld'yoiiT 
 peace! For Heaven's sake! If you had Washed your 
 feet oftener, it would not have happened."^ Then, 
 seizing him by Xh6 neck, he hissed in.^hi's fgce: 
 "Can you n6t Cohipfehehd that we are living in a 
 Republic, stupid ?'■*->•''-' »J^Y f-'^i •'JI"^ o) vMiiorituL /Aii 
 
 But professional sentiment calmed him suddenly.
 
 22 WORKS OF GUV DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 and he let the astonished old couple out of the house, 
 repeating all the time; 
 
 "Return to-morrow, return to-morrow, my friends: 
 I have no more time to-day." 
 
 While equipping himself from head to foot, he 
 gave another series of urgent orders to the maid: 
 
 "Run to Lieutenant Picard's and to Sub-lieutenant 
 Pommers and say to them that I want them here 
 immediately. Send Torcheboeuf to me, too, with his 
 drum. Quick, now! Quick!" And when Celeste 
 was gone, he collected his thoughts and prepared to 
 surmount the difficulties of the situation. 
 
 The three men arrived together. They were in 
 their working clothes. The Commander, who had ex- 
 pected to see them in uniform, had a fit of surprise. 
 
 "You know nothing, then? The Emperor has 
 been taken prisoner. A Republic is proclaimed. My 
 position is delicate, not to say perilous." 
 
 He reflected for some minutes before the aston- 
 ished faces of his subordinates and then continued: 
 
 "It is necessary to act, not to hesitate. Minutes 
 now are worth hours at other times. Evervthing 
 depends upon promptness of decision. You, Picard. 
 go and find the curate and get him to ring the bell 
 to bring the people together, while I get ahead of 
 them. You, Torcheboeuf, beat the call to assemble 
 the militia in arms, in the square, from even as far 
 as the hamlets of Gerisaie and Salmare. You, Pommel, 
 put on your uniform at once, that is, the jacket and 
 cap. We, together, are going to take possession of 
 the mairie and summon M. de Varnetot to transfer 
 his authority to me. Do you understand?" 
 
 "Yes."
 
 AN AFFAIR OF STATE 
 
 2^ 
 
 "Act, then, and promptly, I will accompany you 
 to your house, Pommel, since we are to work 
 together." 
 
 Five minutes Inter, the Commander and his sub- 
 altern, armed to the teeth, appeared in the square, 
 just at the moment when the little Viscount de 
 Varnetot, with hunting gaiters on and his rifle on his 
 shoulder, appeared by another street, walking rapidly 
 and followed by three guards in green jackets, each 
 carrying a knife at his side and a gun over his 
 shoulder. 
 
 While the doctor stopped, half stupefied, the four 
 men entered the mayor's house and the door closed 
 behind them. 
 
 "We are forestalled," murmured the doctor; "it 
 will be necessary now to wait for re-enforcements; 
 nothing can be done for a quarter of an hour." 
 
 Here Lieutenant Picard appeared: "The curate 
 refuses to obey," said he; "he has even shut himself 
 up in the church with the beadle and the porter." 
 
 On the other side of the square, opposite the 
 white, closed front of the mai'rie, the church, mute 
 and black, showed its great oak door with the 
 wrought-iron trimmings. 
 
 Then, as the puzzled inhabitants put their noses 
 out of the windows, or came out upon the steps of 
 their houses, the rolling of a drum was heard, and 
 Torcheboeuf suddenly appeared, beating with fury the 
 three quick strokes of the call to arms. He crossed 
 the square with disciplined step, and then disappeared 
 on a road leading to the country. 
 
 The Commander drew his sword, advanced alone 
 to the middle distance between the two buildings
 
 24^ 
 
 WORKS. .OF, CIJY DB . MAUPASSANT 
 
 ^A(h^re tbfi enemy, w^s barricade,d i and,, ; waving his 
 weapon, labove iiis head, rqared^at the top >'0f hiS; 
 lungs: "Long live the Flepublic! Death to traitors!"' 
 Then he fell back i where his officers, were. The 
 butcher, the; baker, afid the apothecary, .feeling a little 
 uncertain, put up their .shutters ajidi closed;,, their, 
 Sfhopso The grocery alone. iremained: open* . .i,.t-;'ir\' 
 
 yiiiyleanwhUe \the" men ofiith©. pvilitianwere arriving, 
 little, by; littk,, variously clothed, but, all 'Wearing, caps,; 
 the; cap/ constituting! the whole Mtmifomii of the icarps. 
 They were armed with their old, rusty guns< guns 
 that! had huragincn ichiulney-piecesi in kitchens for 
 thirty years, and ii<i>oked-' quite like a 'detachment; ofi 
 country soldiers. ,' >; ! ini ;.i 
 
 ■ ; When there!! wereM; about "thirty around him, the 
 Commander, explainedi in- a.tfew words, the state; of 
 affairs. Then,, turning, toward his major, he saidli 
 "Now, we. must! act.^'jij! i i ' ■ !> 
 
 While the inhabitants collected, talked over and 
 discussed ^he :mUtter,;!the idoictojt • !qui^:;kly formed'; his., 
 plan of. campaign; .. :,; i-i; .: mi 
 
 •.i:i'.t:Liduteoiant Pic^rd, you- liidvanoe to the Windows 
 of'ithe; raayur's'.hQUse and order ,M.. d6 Varnetot i to 
 turn over the townhall to m.e, ;:in the name of the 
 Republic. ''!r ri.r. :-rn!:)i'h;i!nr h')!\N; ^ 
 
 to Bijitt'thei^lieutenant was a .masterrraason and re* 
 fused,' .' ,;'. ) !.! j^niiloi tjfll .^.-^Huod "liadj 
 
 'jdr'SYoUiiare^ a ^ scamp; yo.u> tare. \ 1. Tiding :.to,;make, a 
 tiarget'of itiSe! . Those. felJOwsiin there are gOod,shotsii 
 you. k^OtWi that,'; No, ,l],^aak$.!.,!;E?ieGmteiiyour.c(i>'Enmish 
 sions yourself!" '/>ni:!', -..ilj ,,,i ^iiiihi-! 1,^; r ,;,. 
 
 ' oThef. Commander turnedi reds! 'Mbordi^riyau.to. go 
 i%ithdiiDame of discip-hne;!' said.ihe.'ib .'ilLbnu arij oi
 
 U> AN AFFAIR OF STATE 25 
 
 yni**il:am not spoiling my features without knowing 
 whyv'' the' lieutenant returnedJ . ujn-i.iii- 
 
 fi-ivjMai ;Of influence^ inia group neai''' by, were heard 
 laughing. One of -them called out: "■You are right/ 
 Pfcard) it is not the proper time." The doctor, ^uhder 
 his- breath, muttered: ' "Cowards^!;!' , And, ;. placing 
 his sword and his revolver 'in the hitndsOf'a soldier,: 
 he advanced with measured: step, his eye fixed on 
 the windows, as if he expected to; see' a^gun or a 
 cannon pointed at him'. :^'Mi!o-,j !!h,i;-;Ji!->! I 'mIT 
 ^.O'When he was within a 1 few Steps of the building 
 the doors at the two extremities, affording an en- 
 trahce^ tditwo s'chools, opened, 'land' a flood of little 
 <treaturesi iboyson one si'd!e, '^irlson thfe other,' poured 
 out anid' began playing in the', open space,; chattering 
 around tile ^doctor like a floc!k> of' ■ birds. ;■ Hescarxiely 
 knew what to make, of It. "l !: . ,-!,';, -i^:,,, .!.i 
 Ji As soon as the hst \vere outj the doO^rs -closed. 
 The greater part of the little monkeys flrlally scattered] 
 and then the Commander called out in a loud voice i 
 
 "Monsieur de Varnetot?" A window in' the first 
 stony bperred and-M.de Varnetot a pip eared: [/.a -'jH 
 '.i'iThe Commander began:; " Monsieurj you' are aware 
 Of the. great events which have changed the' system 
 of Governnient. ' The party you represent no longer 
 exists. The side I' represent . noW comes into power.' 
 Under these sxid, but decisive' circumstances, i icomd 
 to demand you, in liie name of the Republic, to put 
 rrt en y. hand -the; authority vested ;in you by th^d out- 
 going' paweriflii:J»L i: tiv>i\ rjvi.';l ';'. ; ' 
 
 M.de^Vdrnetot replied: ^^' Doctor Massarel, 1 am 
 mayor of Gunneville, so placed by the proper author- 
 ities) and mayor of Canneville 1 shall remain until the
 
 26 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 title is revoked and replaced by an order from my 
 superiors. As mayor, I am at home in the mairie, 
 and there I shall stay. Furthermore, just try to put 
 me out." And he closed the window. 
 
 The Commander returned to his troops. But, be- 
 fore explaining anything, measuring Lieutenant Picard 
 from head to foot, he said: 
 
 '"You are a numskull, you are, — a goose, the 
 disgrace of the army. I shall degrade you." 
 
 The Lieutenant replied: "I'll attend to that my- 
 self" And he went over to a group of muttering 
 civilians. 
 
 Then the doctor hesitated. What should he do? 
 Make an assault? Would his men obey him? And 
 then, was he surely in the right? An idea burst upon 
 him. He ran to the telegraph office, on the other 
 side of the square, and hurriedly sent three dispatches: 
 "To the Members of the Republican Government, at 
 Paris"; "To the New Republican Prefect of the Lower 
 Seine, at Rouen"; "To the New Republican Sub-Pre- 
 fect of Dieppe." 
 
 He exposed the situation fully; told of the danger 
 run by the commonwealth from remaining in the 
 hands of the monarchistic mayor, offered his devout 
 services, asked for orders and signed his name, fol- 
 lowing it up with all his titles. Then he returned to 
 his army corps and, drawing ten francs out of his 
 pocket, said: 
 
 "Now, my friends, go and eat and drink a little 
 something. Only leave here a detachment of ten 
 men, so that no one leaves the mayor's house." 
 
 Ex-Lieutenant Picard chatting with the watch- 
 maker, overheard this. With a sneer he remarked:
 
 AN AFFAIR OF STATE 27 
 
 "Pardon me, but if they go out, there will be an 
 opportunity for you to go in. Otherwise, I can't see 
 how you are to get in there!" 
 
 The doctor made no reply, but went away to 
 luncheon. In the afternoon, he disposed of offices all 
 about town, having the air of knowing of an impend- 
 ing surprise. Many times he passed before the doors 
 of the mairie and of the church, without noticing 
 anything suspicious; one could have believed the two 
 buildings empty. 
 
 The butcher, the baker, and the apothecary re- 
 opened their shops, and stood gossiping on the steps. 
 If the Emperor had been taken prisoner, there must 
 be a traitor somewhere. They did not feel sure of 
 the revenue of a new Republic. 
 
 Night came on. Toward nine o'clock, the doctor 
 returned quietly and alone to the mayor's residence, 
 persuaded that his adversary had retired. And, as he 
 was trying to force an entrance with a few blows of 
 a pickaxe, the loud voice of a guard demanded sud- 
 denly: "Who goes there.?" Monsieur Massarel beat 
 a retreat at the top of his speed. 
 
 Another day dawned without any change in the 
 situation. The militia in anus occupied the square. 
 The inhabitants stood around awaiting the solution. 
 People from neighboring villages came to look on. 
 Finally, the doctor, realizing that his reputation was 
 at stake, resolved to settle the thing in one way or 
 another. He had just decided that it must be some- 
 thing energetic, when the door of the telegraph office 
 opened and the little servant of the directress ap- 
 peared, holding in her hand two papers. 
 
 She went directly to the Commander and gave
 
 38 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 him one of the dispatches; then, crossing' thft'^uire, 
 intimidated by so many eyes fixed upon' he|-, \^1th 
 lowered head and mincing steps^ she* rapped gentlH? 
 at the door of the barricaded house, afe'"ff ighbrant 
 that a pat^t of the army Was concealed there^.'^^^'' ''"*^ 
 r ! The do6r opened shghtly; ' the hahd' 5f' ^ -m'an 
 received the message, and the girl returned',' blushing 
 and ready to weep, from being- stared at. >' ^ '• ' 
 
 The doctor' demanded, with stirring A^oivtS:^'' "'A 
 little silence, if you please." And, after the pic^^iilade 
 became qiiiet, he continued pibudly:. ''^'^I'^f'"'' "^'1 ' 
 
 "Here is a communication which 'I have' received 
 from the Government.'" 'And raising the dispatch, he 
 read: • /iv/oMto^ tutiKif j, xi- 
 
 "Old mayor deposed. Advise us. of what is most . necessary. 
 
 Instructions later. " '" ' ' '^"•''^ '*^i<''' 
 
 "For the Sub-Pfefect, '/ttiinp h<-.rt {Mf-n 
 
 He had triumphed. His heart Was ^beating with 
 joy. His hand trembled, when Picard, 'his " old ■ siub- 
 alterh,' cried out to him from a neighb^niig g!^(9Up: 
 "That's all right; but if the others in 'there Wofl't' go 
 'Oiiit,i your paper h.nsn't a leg to sta'nd' 'drt.'"'- The 
 doctor grew a little pale. If they would not go' 6ut 
 -^ in fact, he must go ahead now. It Wa's hot ohly 
 his right, but his duty. And h^ looked' knxlotisfy 
 at the house of the mayoralty, hopihg' that 'he might 
 see the door* opeiii and his adversary' show Mrnself. 
 -But the door-rerrtained closed. What'-Was4o be d'one ? 
 The crowd was increasing, surrounding' th'e militii. 
 -Some laughed. '"' i>n.'. bon ">.:|o 
 
 One thought,; especially, tortured the!'4(bcfor.' Tf "'he 
 should mak6 an assault, he must march' 'at -the head
 
 ■m> ;AN :^FfAIR;i Of,: STATE ^^ow 29 
 
 of Hsipenp. and as, with him. dead, all contest would, 
 cepse,, it would be at him^ and at him a|one.,that. 
 Mwjide.j V;irrfcetat: aod,-. the:, three! guards would- aira.j 
 And their aim wa3 good, very good! ; Picard hadr^T* 
 minded. hini; of; IhatM jii r !,ij;niiii f.ijninli" :.' 
 
 But an idea shone in upon him, and turning tp 
 Rommel,' h0 saidt ? Go, quickly, and ask the apoth- 
 ecaryjtjQ send me a.papkin and a pole-," r ..:• ■i: 
 The ! -Lieutenant hurried off. The doctor was ; 
 going to make a. political banner, a white one, that 
 would pe-rhapsiiejoi.ee ,the iheartof thajtiold kgitiipist,( 
 the mayors V- loj Miii ' , JiiMVif'iljni -li-ull Jii jni.; 
 
 : uPommel !returned with the required linen and a 
 broom; handle. With. some pieces of string, they im-, 
 pnovised'.a , standard, which Massare] seized in both 
 hands. Again, he advanced toward thei ; house of 
 mayoralty, bearing the standard before hini. When 
 in front of the door, he called out: " M.onsiejur, de 
 Varnetot!'' iivnj.- ./.Mynnvn ni;Mi -xif iido;-; },ii/ 
 
 snTiie.1 door opened sudd^Jnly, and M. d^ .Varnetot 
 and the three;; guards appeared on the threshold. 
 The idoctor. recoiled, instinctively* Then, :he saluted 
 his ■ enemy i' courteously, and announced, almost 
 strangled by emotion: " 1 have come, sir, ; to com- 
 municate to you the instructions I, havei just received." 
 That gentleman, without any salutation whatever^ 
 replied;' "i am .going to withdraw, sir, but you must 
 utideratand. that it is not because of fear, on in obedi-i 
 ence. 10 ;ani( odious government that has usurped the 
 power." And, biting off each word, he declared: "I 
 do not wish; to have the appearance Of i^erving the 
 
 Republic for a, single day. That iS.^ll.V, iiu v/i. ■! 
 
 vt. Massarel, - amazed> made no reply; and M. d©
 
 30 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 Varnetct, lA^alking off at a rapid pace, disappeared 
 around the corner, followed closely by his escort. 
 Then the doctor, slightly dismayed, returned to the 
 crowd. When he was near enough to be heard, he 
 cried: "Hurrah! Hurrah! The Republic triumphs all 
 along the line! " 
 
 But no emotion was manifested. The doctor tried 
 again. "Tiie people are free! You are free and in- 
 dependent! Do you understand? Be proud of it!" 
 
 The hstless villagers looked at him with eyes un- 
 lit by glory. In his turn, he looked at them, indig- 
 nant at their indifference, seeking for som.e word 
 that could make a grand impression, electrify this 
 placid country and make good his mission. The in- 
 spiration came, and turning to Pommel, he said: 
 "Lieutenant, go and get the bust of the ex-Emperor, 
 which is , in the Council Hall, and bring it to me 
 with a chair." 
 
 And soon the man reappears, carrying on his 
 right shoulder, Napoleon 111. in plaster, and holding 
 in his left hand a straw-bottomed chair. 
 
 Massarel met him, took the chair, placed it on the 
 ground, put the white image upon it, fell back a few 
 steps and called out, in sonorous voice: 
 
 "Tyrant! Tyrant! Here do you fall! Fall in the 
 dust and in the mire. An expiring country groans 
 under your feet. Destiny has called you the Avenger. 
 Defeat and shame cling to you. You fall conquered, 
 a prisoner to the Prussians, and upon the ruins of 
 the crumbling Empire the young and radiant Repub- 
 lic arises, picking up your broken sword." 
 
 He awaited applause. But there was no voice, no 
 sound. The bewildered peasants remained silent. And
 
 AN AFFAIR OF STATE ^I 
 
 the bust, with its pointed mustaches extending 
 beycnd the cheeks on each side, the bust, so motion- 
 less and well groomed as to be tit for a hairdresser's 
 sign, seemed to be looking at M. Massarel with a 
 plaster smile, a smile ineffaceable and mocking. 
 
 They remained thus face to face, Napoleon on the 
 chair, the doctor in front of him about three steps 
 away. Suddenly the Commander grew angry. What 
 was to be done .^ What was there that would move 
 this people, and bring about a definite victory in 
 opinion? His hand happened to rest on his hip and 
 to come in contact there with the butt end of 
 his revolver, under his red sash. No inspiration, no 
 further word would come. But he drew his pistol, 
 advanced two steps, and, taking aim, fired at the 
 late monarch. The ball entered the forehead, leaving 
 a little, black hole, like a spot, nothing more. There 
 was no effect. Then he fired a second shot, which 
 made a second hole, then, a third; and then, without 
 stopping, he emptied his revolver. The brow of 
 Napoleon disappeared in white powder, but the eyes, 
 the nose, and the fine points of the mustaches 
 remained intact. Then, exasperated, the doctor over- 
 turned the chair with a blow of his fist and, resting 
 a foot on the remainder of the bust in a position of 
 triumph, he shouted: "So let all tyrants perish!" 
 
 Still no enthusiasm was manifest, and as the 
 spectators seemed to be in a kind of stupor from 
 astonishment, the Commander called to the militia- 
 men: "You may now go to your homes." And he 
 went toward his own house with great strides, as if 
 he were pursued. 
 
 His maid, when he appeared, told him that some
 
 ^ WORKS: OF GUY Dl MAUPASSANT 
 
 patiants' ;had'ibeen waiting in his office for ' thrfed 
 hours. He hastened in. There were th'e' tw6' varicbsfe^ 
 vein patients, who had returned at dayb'rfeakV'ebstf^ 
 nate^hut patient. ' ;i; :;:ii-i'">t nn r,i l>-^rin'>/ jiyji;: 
 
 The old man ImniMhtely'^e^m hh ■■'^i(plM'Ai\6ki 
 '-This began by ^ 'feeling like, aifits mnni%' oj^ -and 
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 THE ARTIST 
 
 ah! Monsieur," the old mountebank 
 said to me; "it is a matter of ex- 
 ercise and habit, that is all! Of 
 course, one requires to be a little 
 gifted that way and not to be butter- 
 fingered, but what is chiefly necessary 
 is patience and daily practice for long, 
 long years." 
 His modesty surprised me all the more, 
 jL K because of all performers who are gener- 
 v\-^— *» ally infatuated with their own skill, he was 
 the most wonderfully clever one I had met. 
 Certainly I had frequently seen him, for every- 
 body had seen him in some circus or other, or 
 even in traveling shows, performing the trick that 
 consists of putting a man or woman with extended 
 arms against a wooden target, and in throwing 
 knives between their fmgers and round their heads, 
 from a distance. There is nothing very extraordi- 
 nary in it, after all, when one knows ihe tricks 
 of the trade, and that the knives are not the least 
 sharp, and stick into the wood at some distance from 
 Maup. 1—3 (33)
 
 3^ THE ARTIST 
 
 the flesh. !t is the rapidity of the throws, the 
 gutter of the blades, and the curve which the handles 
 make toward their living object, which give an air of 
 danger to an exhibition that has become common- 
 place, and only requires very middling skill. 
 
 But here there was no trick and no deception, and 
 no dust thrown into the eyes. It was done in good 
 earnest and in all sincerity. The knives were as 
 sharp as razors, and the old mountebank planted 
 them close to the flesh, exactly in the angle between 
 the fingers. He surrounded the head with a perfect 
 halo of knives, and the neck with a collar from which 
 nobody could have extricated himself without cutting 
 his carotid artery, while, to increase the difficulty, the 
 eld fellow went through the performance without 
 seeing, his whole face being covered with a close 
 mask of thick oilcloth. 
 
 Naturally, like other great artists, he was not un- 
 derstood by the crowd, who confounded him with 
 vulgar tricksters, and his mask only appeared to them 
 a trick the more, and a very common trick into the 
 bargain. 
 
 "Me must Ijiink us very stupid," they said. "How 
 could he possibly aim without having his eyes open.?" 
 
 And they thought there must be imperceptible 
 holes in the oilcloth, a sort of latticework concealed 
 in the material. Il was useless for him to allow the 
 public to examine the mask for themselves before the 
 exhibition began. It was all very well that they 
 could not discover any trick, but they v/ere only all 
 the more convinced that they were being tricked. 
 Did not the people know that they ought to be 
 tricked?
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 35 
 
 I had recognized a great artist in the old mounte- 
 bank, and I was quite sure that he was altogether 
 incapable of any trickery. 1 told him so, while 
 expressing my admiration to hini; and he had been 
 touched by my open admiration and above ail by the 
 justice I had done him. Thus we became good friends, 
 and he explained to me, very modestly, the real trick 
 which the crowd do not understand, the eternal trick 
 contained in these simple words: "To be gifted by 
 nature and to practice every day for long, long years." 
 
 He had been especially struck by the certainty 
 which I expressed that any trickery must become 
 impossible to him. "Yes," he said to me; "quite 
 impossible! Impossible to a degree which you can- 
 not imagine. If I were to tell you! But where would 
 be the use.^" 
 
 His face clouded over, and his eyes filled with 
 tears. I did not venture to force myself into his 
 confidence. My looks, however, were not so discreet 
 as my silence, and begged him to speak; so he 
 responded to their mute appeal. 
 
 "After all," he said: "why should I not tell you 
 about it? You will understand me." And he added, 
 wilh a look of sudden ferocity: "She understood it, 
 at any rate! " 
 
 "Who?" 1 asked. 
 
 "My strumpet of a wife," he replied. "Ah! Mon- 
 sieur, what an abominable creature she was — if you 
 only knew! Yes, she understood it too well, too 
 well, and that is why 1 hate her so; even more on 
 that account, than for having deceived me. For that 
 is a natural fault, is it not, and may be pardoned? 
 But the other thing was a crime, a horrible crime."
 
 36 THE ARTIST 
 
 The woman, who stood against the wooden target 
 every night with her arms stretched out and her 
 finger extended, and whom the old mountebank 
 fitted with gloves and with a halo formed of his 
 knives, which were as sharp as razors and which he 
 planted close to her, was his wife. She might hav^. 
 been a woman of forty, and must have been fairly 
 pretty, but with a perverse prettiness; she had an 
 impudent mouth, a mouth that was at the same time 
 sensual and bad, with the lower lip too thick for the 
 thin, dry upper lip.. 
 
 I had several times noticed that every time he 
 planted a knife in the board, she uttered a laugh, so 
 low as scarcely to be heard, but which was very 
 significant when one heard it, for it was a hard and 
 very mocking laugh. 1 had always attributed that 
 sort of reply to an artitlce which the occasion 
 required. It was intended, 1 thought, to accentuate 
 the danger she incurred and the contempt that she 
 felt for it, thanks to the sureness of the thrower's 
 hands, and so 1 was very much surprised when the 
 mountebank said to me: 
 
 ".Have you observed her laugh, 1 say? Her evil 
 laugh which makes fun of me, and her cowardly 
 laugh which defies me ? Yes, cowardly, because she 
 knows that nothing can happen to her, nothing, in 
 spite of all she deserves, in spite of all that I ought 
 to do to her, in spite of all that 1 wafit to do to 
 her." 
 
 "What do you want to do?" 
 
 "Confound it! Cannot you guess? I want to kill 
 her." 
 
 "To kill her, because she has — "
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 57 
 
 '' Because she has deceived me? No, no, not that, 
 I tell you again. I have forgiven her for that a long 
 time ago, and I am too much accustomed to it I But 
 the worst of it is that the first time I forgave her, 
 when I told her that all the same 1 might some day 
 have my revenge by cutting her throat, if 1 chose, 
 without seeming to do it on purpose, as if it were 
 an accident, mere awkwardness — " 
 
 "Oh! So you said that to her?" 
 
 "Of course I did. and 1 meant it. I thought T 
 might be able to do it, for you see 1 had the perfect 
 right to do so. It was so simple, so easy, so tempt- 
 ing! Just think! A mistake of less than half an inch, 
 and her skin would be cut at the neck where the 
 jugular vein is, and the jugular would be severed. 
 My knives cut very well! And when once the jugu- 
 lar is cut — good-bye. The blood would spurt out, 
 and one, two, three red jets, and all would be over; 
 she would be dead, and I should have had my re- 
 venge! " 
 
 "That is true, certainly, horribly true!" 
 
 "And without any risk to m.e, eh? An accident, 
 that is all; bad luck, one of those mistakes which 
 happen every day in our business. What could they 
 accuse me of? Whoever would think of accusing 
 me, even ? Homicide through imprudence, that would 
 be all! They would even pity me, rather than accuse 
 me. 'My wife! My poor wife!' I should say, sob- 
 bing. 'My wife, who is so necessary to me, who is 
 half the breadwinner, who takes part in my per- 
 formance!' You must acknowledge that 1 should be 
 pitied!" 
 
 "Certainly; there is not the least doubt about that."
 
 38 
 
 THE ARTIST 
 
 "And you must allow that such a revenge would 
 be a veiT nice revenge, the best possible revenge 
 which 1 could have with assured impunity." 
 
 "Evidently that is so." 
 
 "Very well! But when 1 told her so, as I have 
 told you, and more forcibly still; threatening her, as 1 
 was mad with rage and ready to do the deed that 
 I had dreamed of on the spot, what do you think 
 she said.^" 
 
 "That you were a good fellov/, and would cer- 
 tainly not have the atrocious courage to — " 
 
 "Tut! tut! tut! 1 am not such a good fellow as 
 you think. I am not frightened of blood, and that I 
 have proved already, though it would be useless to 
 tell you how and where. But I had no necessity to 
 prove it to her, for she knows that I am capable of a 
 good many things; even of crime; especially of one 
 crime." 
 
 "And she was not frightened?" 
 
 "No. She merely replied that I could not do 
 what I said; you understand. That I could not 
 do it!" 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Ah! Monsieur, so you do not understand? Why 
 do you not? Have I not explained to you by what 
 constant, long, daily practice I have learned to plant 
 my knives without seeing what I am doing?" 
 
 "Yes, well, what then?" 
 
 "Well! Cannot you understand what she has un- 
 derstood with such terrible results, that now my 
 hand would no longer obey me if I wished to make 
 a mistake as 1 threw?" 
 
 "Is it possible?"
 
 WORKS OF GUV DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 39 
 
 "Nothing is truer, I am sorry to say. For I really 
 have wished to have the revenge which I have 
 dreamed of, and which I thought so easy. Exasper- 
 ated by that bad wuman's insolence and confidence 
 in her own safety, I have several times made up my 
 mind to kill her, and have exerted all my energy and 
 all my skill to make my knives fly aside when 1 
 threw them to make a border round her neck. 1 
 have tried with all my might to make them deviate 
 half an inch, just enough to cut her throat. I wanted 
 to, and I have never succeeded, never. And always 
 the slut's horrible laugh makes fun of me, always, 
 always." 
 
 And with a deluge of tears, with something like a 
 roar of unsatiated and muzzled rage, he ground his 
 teeth as he wound up: "She knows me, the jade; 
 she is in the secret of my work, of my patience, of 
 my trick, routine, whatever you may cnll it! She 
 lives in my innermost being, and sees into it more 
 closely than you do, or than I do myself. She 
 knows what a faultless machine I have become, the 
 machine of which she makes fun, the machine which 
 is too well wound up, the machine which cannot get 
 out of order — and she knows that I cannot make a 
 mistake."
 
 THE HORLA 
 
 
 M 
 
 V& 
 
 
 AT 8. What a lovely day ! I 
 have spent all the morning lying 
 on the grass in front of my house, 
 under the enormous plantain tree 
 which covers and shades and shel- 
 ters the whole of it. I like this 
 part of the country; 1 am fond ot 
 _-^ hving here because 1 am attached to it 
 ~^^^ ' by deep roots, the profound and delicate 
 roots which attach a man to the soil on 
 fr /i)~-s' which his ancestors were born and died, to 
 their traditions, their usages, theif food, the 
 local expressions, the peculiar language of the 
 
 peasants, the smell of the soil, the hamlets, and 
 to the atmosphere itself. 
 
 I love the house in which I grew up. From my 
 windows 1 can see the Seine, which flows by the side 
 of my garden, on the other side of the road, almost 
 through my grounds, the great and wide Seine, which 
 goes to Rouen and Havre, and which is covered with 
 boats passing to and fro. 
 
 On the left, down yonder, lies Rouen, populous 
 Rouen with its blue roofs massing under pointed-.
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 41 
 
 Gotbic towers. Innumerable are they, delicate or 
 broad, dominated by the spire of the cathedral, full of 
 bells which sound through the blue air on line morn- 
 ings, sending their sweet and distant Iron clang to 
 me, their metallic sounds, now stronger and now 
 weaker, according as the wind is strong or light. 
 
 What a delicious morning It was I About eleven 
 o'clock, a long line of boats drawn by a steam-tug, 
 as big a lly, and which scarcely puffed while emitting 
 its thick smoke, passed my gate. 
 
 After two English schooners, whose red flags 
 fluttered toward the sky, there came a magnificent 
 Brazilian three-master; It was perfectly white and 
 wonderfully clean and shining. I sal^l^d it, 1 hardly 
 know why, except that the sight of the vessel gave 
 me great pleasure. 
 
 May 12. I have had a slight feverish attack for 
 the last few days, and 1 feel ill, or rather I feel low- 
 spirited. 
 
 Whence come those mysterious influences which 
 change our happiness into discouragement, and our 
 self-confidence into diffidence ? One might almost 
 say that the air, the invisible air, is full of unknow- 
 able Forces, whose mysterious presence we have to 
 endure. I wake up in the best of spirits, with an in- 
 clination to sing in my heart. Why ? I go down by 
 the side of the water, and suddenly, after walking a 
 short distance, 1 return home wretched, as if some 
 misfortune were awaiting me there. Why? Is it a 
 cold shiver which, passing over my skin, has upset 
 my nerves and given me a fit of low spirits? Is it 
 the form of the clouds, or the tints of the sky, or the 
 colors of the surrounding objects which are so change-
 
 42 THE HORLA 
 
 able, whicn have troubled my thoughts as they passed 
 before my eyes? Who can tell? Everything that 
 surrounds us, everything that we see without looking 
 at it, everything that we touch without knowing it, 
 everything that we handle without feeling it, every- 
 thing that we meet without clearly distinguishing it, 
 has a rapid, surprising, and inexplicable effect" upon 
 us and upon our organs, and through thern on our 
 ideas and on our being itself. 
 
 Mow profound that mystery of the Invisible is! 
 We cannot fathom it with our miserable senses: our 
 eyes are unable to perceive what is either too small 
 or too great, too near to or too far from us; we can 
 see neither the inhabitants of a star nor of a drop of 
 water; our ears deceive us, for they transmit to us 
 the vibrations of the air in sonorous notes. Our 
 senses are fairies who work the miracle of changing 
 that movement into noise, and by that metamorphosis 
 give birth to music, which makes the mute agitation 
 of natiire a harmony. So with our sense of smell, 
 which is weaker than that of a dog, and so with our 
 sense of taste, which can scarcely distinguish the age 
 of a wine! 
 
 Oh! U we only had other organs which could 
 work other miracles in our favor, what a number of 
 fresh things we might discover around us! 
 
 May 1 6. I am ill, decidedly! I was so well last 
 month! I am feverish, horribly feverish, or rather I 
 am in a state of feverish enervation, which makes my 
 mind suffer as much as my body. I have without 
 ceasing the horrible sensation of some danger threat- 
 ening me, the apprehension of some coming mis- 
 fortune or of approaching death, a presentiment which
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 4^ 
 
 is, no doubt, an attack of some illness still unnamed, 
 which germinates in the flesh and in the blood. 
 
 Maj' iS. I have just come from consulting my 
 medical man, for I can no longer get any sleep. 
 He found that my pulse was high, my eyes dilated, 
 my nerves highly strung, but no alarming symptoms. 
 I must have a course of shower baths and of bromide 
 of potassium. 
 
 May 25. No change! My stale is really very 
 peculiar. As the evening comes on, an incompre- 
 hensible feeling of disquietude seizes me, just as if 
 night concealed some terrible menace toward me. I 
 dine quickly, and then try to read, but 1 do not un- 
 derstand the words, and can scarcely distinguish the 
 letters. Then 1 walk up and down my drawing- 
 room, oppressed by a feeling of confused and irre- 
 sistible fear, a fear of sleep and a fear of my bed. 
 
 About ten o'clock I go up to my room. As soon 
 as I have entered I lock and bolt the door. I am 
 frightened — of what ? Up till the present time I have 
 been frightened of nothing. 1 open my cupboards, 
 and look under my bed; I'listcn — I listen — to what? 
 How strange it is that a simple feeling of discomfort. 
 of impeded or heightened circulation, perhaps the 
 irritation of a nervous center, a slight congestion, a 
 small disturbance in the imperfect and delicate func- 
 tions of our living machinery, can turn the most 
 light-hearted of men into a melancholy one. and make 
 a coward of the bravest? Then. 1 go tn bed, and I 
 wait for sleep as a man might wait for tlic execu- 
 tioner. I wait for its coming with dread, and my 
 heart beats and my legs tremble, while my whole 
 body shivers beneath the warmth of the bedclothes,
 
 44 THE HORLA 
 
 until the moment when I suddenly fall asleep, as = 
 man throws himself into a pool of stagnant water in 
 order to drown. I do not feel this perfidious sleep 
 coming over me as 1 used to, but a sleep which is 
 close to me and watching me, which is going to 
 seize me by the head, to close my eyes and annihi- 
 late me. 
 
 I sleep — a long time — two or three hours per- 
 haps — then a dream — no — ^a nightmare lays hold on 
 me. I feel that 1 am in bed and asleep — I feel it and 
 I know it — and I feel also that somebody is coming 
 close to me, is looking at me, touching me, is get- 
 ting on to my bed, is kneeling on my chest, is tak- 
 ing my neck between his hands and squeezing it — 
 squeezing it with all his might in order to strangle 
 me. 
 
 I struggle, bound by that terrible powerlessness 
 which paralyzes us in our dreams; I try to cry out — 
 but I cannot; I want to move — I cannot; I try, with 
 the most violent efforts and out of breath, to turn 
 over and throw off this being which is crushing and 
 suffocating me — 1 cannot! 
 
 ^ And then suddenly 1 wake up, shaken and bathed 
 in perspiration; I light a candle and find that I am 
 alone, and after that crisis, which occurs every night, 
 I at length fall asleep and slumber tranquilly till 
 morning. 
 
 June 2. My state has grown worse. What is the 
 matter with me ? The bromide does me no good, 
 and the shower-baths have no effect whatever. 
 Sometimes, in order to tire myself out, though I am 
 fatigued enough already, I go for a walk in the forest 
 of Roumare. 1 used to think at first that the fresh
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 45 
 
 light and soft air, impregnated with the odor of 
 herbs and leaves, would instill new life into my veins 
 and impart fresh energy to my heart. One day 1 
 turned into a broad ride in tiie wood, and then I 
 diverged toward La Bouille, through a narrow path, 
 between two rows of exceedingly tall trees, which 
 placed a thick, green, almost black roof between the 
 sky and me. 
 
 A sudden shiver ran through me, not a cold 
 shiver, but a shiver of agony, and so I hastened my 
 steps, uneasy at being alone in the wood, frightened 
 stupidly and without reason, at the profound solitude. 
 Suddenly it seemed as if 1 were being followed, that 
 somebody was walking at my heels, close, quite close 
 to me, near enough to touch me. 
 
 1 turned round sudde-^ly, but I was alone. I saw 
 nothing behind me except the straight, broad ride, 
 empty and bordered by high trees, horribly empty; 
 on the other side also It extended until it was lost 
 in the distance, and looked just the same — terrible. 
 
 1 closed my eyes. Why? And then I began to 
 turn round on one heel very quickly, just like a top. 
 I nearly fell down, and opened my eyes; the trees 
 were dancing round me and the earth heaved; I was 
 obliged to sit down. Then, ah! I no longer remem- 
 bered how 1 had come! What a strange idea! What 
 a strange, strange idea! 1 did not the least know. 
 I started off to the right, and got back into the 
 avenue which had led me into the middle of the 
 forest. 
 
 June ^. I have had a terrible night. I shall go 
 away for a few weeks, for no doubt a journey will 
 ^l me up agam.
 
 46 THE HORLA 
 
 July 2. I have come back, quite cured, and have 
 had a most delightful trip into the bargain. I have 
 been to Mont Saint-iViichel, which I had not seen be- 
 fore. 
 
 What a sight, when one arrives as I did, at 
 Avranches toward the end of the day! The town 
 stands on a hill, and I was taken into the public 
 garden at the extremity of the town. I uttered a cry 
 of astonishment. An extraordinarily large bay lay 
 extended before me, as far as my eyes could reach, 
 between two hills which were lost to sight in the 
 mist; and in the middle of this immense yellow bay, 
 under a clear, golden sky, a peculiar hill rose up, 
 somber and pointed in the midst of the sand. The 
 sun had just disappeared, and under the still flaming 
 sky stood out the outline of that fantastic rock, 
 which bears on its summit a picturesque monument. 
 
 At daybreak I went to' it. The tide was low, as 
 it had been the night before, and 1 saw that wonder- 
 ful abbey rise up before me as I approached it. 
 After several hours' walking, I reached the enormous 
 mass of rock which supports the little town, domi- 
 nated by the great church. Having climbed the steep 
 and narrow street, 1 entered the most wonderful 
 Gothic building that has ever been erected to God on 
 earth, large as a town, and full of low rooms which 
 seem buried beneath vaulted roofs, and of lofty gal- 
 leries supported by delicate columns. 
 
 I entered this gigantic granite jewel, which is as 
 light in its effect as a bit of lace and is covered with 
 towers, with slender belfries to which spiral staircases 
 ascend. The flying buttresses raise strange heads that 
 bristle with chimeras, with devils, with fantastic ani-
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 47 
 
 mals, with monstrous flowers, are joined together by 
 finely carved arches, to the blue sky by day, and to 
 the black sky by night. 
 
 When I had reached the summit, I said to the 
 monk who accompanied me: "Father, how happy 
 you must be here!" And he repHed: "it is very 
 windy, Monsieur"; and so we began to talk while 
 watching the rising tide, which ran over the sand 
 and covered it with a steel cuirass. 
 
 And then the monk told me stories, all the old 
 stories belonging to the place — legends, nothing but 
 legends. 
 
 One of them struck me forcibly. The country 
 people, those belonging to the Mornet, declare that at 
 night one can hear talking going on in the sand, and 
 also that two goats bleat, one with a strong, the other 
 with a weak voice. Incredulous people declare that 
 it is nothing but the screaming of the sea birds, 
 which occasionally resembles blcatings. and occasion- 
 ally human lamentations; but belated fishermen swear 
 that they have met an old shepherd, whose cloak- 
 covered head they can never see, wandering on the 
 sand, between two tides, round the little town 
 placed so far out of the world. They declare he is 
 guiding and walking before a he-goat with a man's 
 face and a she-goat with a woman's face, both with 
 white hair, who talk incessantly, quarreling in a 
 strange language, and then suddenly cease talking in 
 order to bleat with all liieir might. 
 
 "Do you believe it?" I asked the monk. "1 
 scarcely know," he replied; and 1 continued: "If 
 there are other beings besides ourselves on this earth, 
 how comes it that we have not known it for so long
 
 48 THE HORLA ' 
 
 a time, or v/hy have you not seen them ? How is it 
 that I have not seen them ? " 
 
 He replied: "Do we see the hundred-thousandth 
 part of what exists? Lool^ here; there is the wind, 
 which is the strongest force in nature. It knocks 
 down men, and blows down buildings, uproots trees, 
 raises the sea into mountains of water, destroys cliffs 
 and casts great ships on to the breakers; it kills, it 
 whistles, it sighs, it roars. But have you ever seen 
 it, and can you see it ? Yet it exists for all that." 
 
 I was silent before this simple reasoning. That 
 man was a philosopher, or perhaps a fool; I could 
 not say which exactly, so I held my tongue. What 
 he had said had often been in my own thoughts. 
 
 July ^. I have slept badly; certainly there is some 
 feverish influence here, for my coachman is suflFering 
 in the same way as I am. When I went back home 
 yesterday, I noticed his singular paleness, and I 
 asked him: "What is the matter with you, Jean.^" 
 
 "The matter is that I never get any rest, and my 
 nights devour my days. Since your departure, Mon- 
 sieur, there has been a spell over me." 
 
 However, the other servants are all well, but I am 
 very frightened of having another attack, myself. 
 
 July 4. 1 am decidedly taken again; for my old 
 nightmares have returned. Last night I felt some- 
 body leaning on me who was sucking my life from 
 between my lips with his mouth. Yes, he was suck- 
 ing it out of my neck like a leech would have done. 
 Then he got up, satiated, and I woke up, so beaten, 
 crushed, and annihilated that I could not move. If 
 this continues for a few days, I shall certainly go 
 away again.
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 49 
 
 July 5. Have I lost my reason ? What has hap- 
 pened? What I saw last night is so strange that 
 my head wanders when I think of it! 
 
 As I do now every evening, I had locked my door; 
 then, being thirsty, I drank half a glass of water, and 
 I accidentally noticed that the water-bottle was full 
 up to the cut-glass stopper. 
 
 Then 1 went to bed and fell into one of iny terri- 
 ble sleeps, from which 1 was aroused in about two 
 hours by a still more terrible shock. 
 
 Picture to yourself a sleeping man who is being 
 murdered, who wakes up with a knife in his chest, 
 a gurgling in his throat, is covered with blood, can 
 no longer breathe, is going to die and does not un- 
 derstand anything at all about it — there you have it. 
 
 Having recovered my senses, I was thirsty again, 
 so I lighted a candle and went to the table on which 
 my water-bottle was. I lifted it up and tilted it over 
 my glass, but nothing came out. It was empty! It 
 was completely empty! At fust I could not under- 
 stand it at all; then suddenly I was seized by sach a 
 terrible feeling that I had to sit down, or rather fall 
 into a chair! Then 1 sprang up with a bound to 
 look about me; then 1 sat down again, overcome by 
 astonishment and fear, in front of the transparent 
 crystal bottle! 1 looked at it with fixed eyes, trying 
 to solve the puzzle, and my hands trembled! Some- 
 body had drunk the water, but who? I? 1 without 
 any doubt. It could surely only be I ? In that case 
 I was a somnambulist — was living, without knowing 
 it, that double, mysterious life which makes us doubt 
 whether there are not two beings in us — whether a 
 strange, unknowable, and invisible being does not, 
 Maup. I — i
 
 50 THE HORLA 
 
 during our moments of mental and physical torpor, 
 animate the inert body, forcing it to a more willing 
 obedience than it yields to ourselves. 
 
 Oh! Who will understand my horrible agony P 
 Who will understand the emotion of a man sound in 
 mind, wide-awake, full of sense, who looks in horror 
 at the disappearance of a little water while he was 
 asleep, through the glass of a water-bottle! And I 
 remained sitting until it w^as daylight, without ven- 
 turing to go to bed again. 
 
 July 6. I am going mad. Again all the contents 
 of my water-bottfe have been drunk during the night; 
 or rather 1 have drunk it! 
 
 But is it I ? Is it I } Who could it be .? Who ? 
 Oh! God! Am 1 going mad.? Who will save me? 
 
 July 10. I have just been through some surpris- 
 ing ordeals. Undoubtedly I must be mad! And yet! 
 
 On July 6, before going to bed, I put some wine, 
 milk, water, bread, and strawberries on my table. 
 Somebody drank — I drank — all the water and a lit- 
 tle of the milk, but neither the wine, nor the bread, 
 nor the strawberries were touched. 
 
 On the seventh of July I renewed the same experi- 
 ment, with the same results, and on July 8 I left out 
 the water and the milk and nothing was touched. 
 
 Lastly, on July 9 I put only water and milk on 
 my table, taking care to wrap up the bottles in white 
 muslin and to tie down the stoppers. Then I rubbed 
 my lips, mv beard, and my hands with pencil lead, 
 and went to bed. 
 
 Deep slumber seized me, soon followed by a ter- 
 rible awakening. 1 had not moved, and my sheets 
 were not marked. I rushed to the table. The mus-
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 5 1 
 
 lin round the bottles remained intact; I undid the 
 string, trembling with fear. All the water had been 
 drunk, and so had the milk! Ah! Great God! I must 
 start for Paris immediately. 
 
 July 12 Paris. 1 must have lost my head during 
 the last few days! I must be the plaything of my 
 enervated imagination, unless I am really a somnam- 
 bulist, or I have been brought under the power of 
 one of those influences — hypnotic suggestion, for 
 example — which are known to exist, but have hith- 
 erto been inexplicable. In any case, my mental state 
 bordered on madness, and twenty-four hours of Paris 
 sufficed to restore me to my equilibrium. 
 
 Yesterday after doing some business and paying 
 some visits, which instilled fresh and invigorating 
 mental air into me, I wound up my evening at the 
 Theatre Fran^ais. A drama by Alexander Dumas the 
 Younger was being acted, and his brilliant and pow- 
 erful play completed my cure. Certainly solitude is 
 dangerous for active minds. We need men who can 
 think and can talk, around us. When we are alone 
 for a long time, we people s})ace with phantoms. 
 
 I returned along the boulevards to my hotel in 
 excellent spirits. Amid the jostling of the crowd I 
 thought, not without irony, of my terrors and sur- 
 mises of the previous week, because I believed, yes, 
 I believed, that an invisible being lived beneath my 
 roof. How weak our mind is; how quickly it is ter- 
 rified and unbalanced as soon as we are confronted 
 with a small, incomprehensible fact. Instead of dis- 
 missing the problem with: "We do not understand 
 because we cannot find the cause," we immediately 
 imagine terrible mysteries and supernatural powers.
 
 52 THE HORLA 
 
 July 14. Fete of the Republic. I walked through 
 the streets, and the crackers and flags amused me 
 like a child. Still, it is very foolish to make merry 
 on a set date, by Government decree. People are 
 like a flock of sheep, now steadily patient, now in 
 ferocious revolt. Say to it: "Amuse yourself," and 
 it amuses itself. Say to it: "Go and fight with 
 your neighbor," and it goes and figiits. Say to if: 
 "Vote for the Emperor," and it votes for the Enr- 
 peror; then say to it: "Vote for the Republic," aid 
 it votes for the Republic. 
 
 Those who direct it are stupid, too; but instead of 
 obeying men they obey principles, a course which 
 can only be foolish, ineffective, and false, for the very 
 reason that principles are ideas which are considered 
 as certain and unchangeable, whereas in this world 
 one is certain of nothing, since light is an illusion 
 and noise is deception. 
 
 July 16. 1 saw some things yesterday that troubleU 
 me very much. 
 
 I was dining at my cousin's, Madame Sable, whose 
 husband is colonel of the Seventy-sixth Chasseurs at 
 Limoges. There were two young women there, one 
 of whom had married a medical man. Dr. Parent, 
 who devotes himself a great deal to nervous diseases 
 and to the extraordinary manifestations which just 
 now experiments in hypnotism and suggestion are 
 producing. 
 
 He related to us at some length the enormous re- 
 sults obtained by English scientists and the doctors 
 of the medical school at Nancy, and the facts which 
 he adduced appeared to me so strange, that I de- 
 clared that I was altogether incredulous.
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 53 
 
 "We are," he declared, "on the point of discov- 
 ering one of the most important secrets of nature, I 
 mean to say, one of its most important secrets on 
 this earth, for assuredly there are sonie up in the 
 stars, yonder, of a different kind of importance. Ever 
 since man has thought, since he has been able to ex- 
 press and write down his thoughts, he has felt him- 
 self close to a mystery which is impenetrable to his 
 coarse and imperfect senses, and he endeavors to sup- 
 plement the feeble penetration of his organs by the 
 efforts of his intellect. As long as that intellect re- 
 mained in its elementary stage, this intercourse with 
 invisible spirits assumed forms which were common- 
 place though terrifying. Thence sprang the popular 
 belief in the supernatural, the legends of wandering 
 spirits, of fairies, of gnomes, of ghosts, I might even 
 say the conception of God, for our ideas of the 
 Workman-Creator, from whatever religion they may 
 have come down to us, are certainly the most medi- 
 ocre, the stupidest, and the most unacceptable inven- 
 tions that ever sprang from the frightened brain of 
 any human creature. Nothing is truer than what 
 Voltaire says: 'If God made man in His own image, 
 man has certainly paid Him back again.' 
 
 "But for rather more than a century, men seem 
 to have had a presentiment of something new. Mes- 
 mer and some others have put us on an unexpected 
 track, and within the last two or three years espec- 
 ially, we have arrived at results really surprising." 
 
 My cousin, who is also very incredulous, smiled, 
 and Dr. Parent said to her: "Would you like me to 
 try and send you to sleep, Madame?" 
 
 " Yes, certainly."
 
 54 IHE HORLA 
 
 She sat down In an easy-chair, and he began to 
 look at her fixedly, as if to fascinate her. I suddenly 
 felt myself somewhat discomposed; my heart beat 
 rapidly and 1 had a choking feeling in my throat. I 
 saw that Madame Sable's eyes were growing heavy, 
 her mouth twitched, and her bosom heaved, and at 
 the end of ten minutes she was asleep. 
 
 "Go behind her," the doctor said to me; so I 
 took a seat behind her. He put a visiting-card into 
 her hands, and said to her: "This is a looking-glass; 
 what do you see in it ? " 
 
 She replied: "I see my cousin." 
 
 "What is he doing?" 
 
 "He is twisting his mustache." 
 
 "And now?" 
 
 "He is taking a photograph out of his pocket." 
 
 "Whose photograph is it?" 
 
 "His own." 
 
 That was true, for the photograph had been given 
 me that same evening at the hotel. 
 
 "What is his attitude in this portrait?" 
 
 "He is standing up with his hat in his hand." 
 
 She saw these things in that card, in that piece 
 of white pasteboard, as if she had seen them in a 
 looking-glass. 
 
 The young women were frightened, and exclaimed: 
 "That is quite enough! Quite, quite enough!" 
 
 But the doctor said to her authoritatively: "You 
 will get up at eight o'clock to-morrow morning; then 
 you will go and call on your cousin at his hotel and 
 ask him to lend you the five thousand francs which 
 your husband asks of you, and which he will ask for 
 when he sets out on his coming journey."
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 55 
 
 Then he woke her up. 
 
 On returning to my hotel, I thought over this 
 curious seance and I was assailed by doubts, not as 
 to my cousin's absolute and undoubted good faith, 
 for I had known her as well as if she had been my 
 own sister ever since she was a child, but as to a 
 possible trick on the doctor's part. Had not he, per- 
 haps, kept a glass hidden in his hand, which he 
 showed to the young woman in her sleep at the 
 same time as he did the card ? Professional conjur- 
 ers do things which are just as singular. 
 
 However, I went to bed, and this morning, at 
 about half past eight, I was awakened by my foot- 
 man, who said to me: "Madame Sable has asked to 
 see you immediately, Monsieur." I dressed hastily and 
 went to her. 
 
 She sat down in some agitation, with her eyes on 
 the floor, and without raising her veil said to me: "My 
 dear cousin, I am going to ask a great favor of you." 
 
 "What is it, cousin? " 
 
 "I do not like to tell you, and yet I must. I am 
 in absolute want of five thousand francs." 
 
 "What, you?" 
 
 "Yes, I, or rather my husband, who has asked 
 me to procure them for him." 
 
 1 was so stupefied that I hesitated to answer. I 
 asked myself whether she had not really been 
 making fun of me with Dr. Parent, if it were not 
 merely a very well-acted farce which had been got 
 up beforehand. On looking at her attentively, how- 
 ever, my doubts disappeared. She was trembling 
 with grief, so painful was this step to her, and 1 
 was sure that her throat was full of sobs.
 
 56 THE HORLA 
 
 I knew that she was very rich and so I contin- 
 ued: "What! Has not your husband five thousand 
 francs at his disposal? Come, think. Are you sure 
 that he commissioned you to ask me for them?" 
 
 She hesitated for a few seconds, as if she were 
 making a great effort to search her memory, and then 
 she rephed: "Yes — yes, 1 am quite sure of it." 
 
 "He has written to you?" 
 
 She hesitated again and reflected, and I guessed 
 the torture of her thoughts. She did not know. 
 She only knev\^ that she was to borrow five thou- 
 sand francs of me for her husband. So she told 
 a He. 
 
 "Yes, he has written to me." 
 
 "When, pray? You did not mention it to me 
 yesterday." 
 
 "I received his letter this morning." 
 
 "Can you show it to me?" 
 
 "No; no — no — it contained private matters, things 
 too personal to ourselves. I burned it." 
 
 "So your husband runs into debt?" 
 
 She hesitated again, and then murmured: " I do 
 not know." 
 
 Thereupon I said bluntly: "I have not five thou- 
 sand francs at my disposal at this moment, my dear 
 cousin." 
 
 She uttered a cry, as if she were in pairj and said: 
 "Oh! oh! I beseech you, I beseech you to get them 
 for me." 
 
 She got excited and clasped her hands as if she 
 were praying to me ! I heard her voice change its 
 tone; she wept and sobbed, harassed and dominated 
 by the irresistible order that she had received.
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 57 
 
 "Oh ! oh ! I beg you to — if 3^ou knew what I am 
 suflfering — I want them to-day." 
 
 I had pity on her: "You shall have them by and 
 by, I swear to you." 
 
 "Oh! thank you! thank you! How kind you 
 are." 
 
 I continued: "Do you remember what took place 
 at your house last night?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Do you remember that Dr. Parent sent you to 
 sleep?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Oh! Very well then; he ordered you to come 
 to me this morning to borrow five thousand francs, 
 and at this moment you are obeying that sugges- 
 tion." 
 
 She considered for a few moments, and then 
 replied: "But as it is my husband who wants 
 them—" 
 
 For a whole hour I tried to convince her, but 
 could not succeed, and when she had gone I went to 
 the doctor. He was just going out, and he listened 
 to me with a smile, and said: "Do you believe 
 now?" 
 
 "Yes, I cannot help it." 
 
 "Let us go to your cousin's." 
 
 She was already resting on a couch, overcome 
 with fatigue. The doctor felt her pulse, looked at 
 her for some time with one hand raised toward her 
 eyes, which she closed by degrees under the irresisti- 
 ble power of this magnetic influence. When she was 
 asleep, he said: 
 
 "Your husband does not require the five thousand
 
 58 THE HORlJi 
 
 francs any longer! You must, therefore, forget <^hat 
 you asked your cousin to lend them to you, and, if 
 he speaks to you about it, you will not understand 
 him." 
 
 Then he woke her up, and I took out a pocket- 
 book and said: "Here is what you asked me for 
 this morning, my dear cousin." But she was so sur- 
 prised, that I did not venture to persist; nevertheless, 
 I tried to recall the circumstance to her, but she 
 denied it vigorously, thought that I was making fun 
 of her, and in the end, very nearly lost her temper. 
 
 There! I have just come back, and I have not been 
 able to eat any lunch, for this experiment has alto- 
 gether upset me. 
 
 July ig. Many people to whom I have told the 
 adventure have laughed at me. I no longer know 
 what to think. The wise man says: Perhaps? 
 
 July 21. I dined at Bougival, and then I spent 
 the evening at a boatmen's ball. Decidedly every- 
 thing depends on place and surroundings. It would 
 be the height of folly to believe in the supernatural 
 on the He de la Grenoiiilliere.* But on the top of 
 Mont Saint-Michel or in India, we are terribly under 
 the influence of our surroundings. I shall return home 
 next week. 
 
 July JO. I came back to my own house yester- 
 day. Everything is going on well. 
 
 August 2. Nothing fresh; it .is splendid weather, 
 and I spend my days in watching the Seine flow 
 past. 
 
 ■ Frog-island.
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 59 
 
 August 4. Quarrels among my servants. They 
 declare that the glasses are broken in the cupboards 
 at night. The footman accuses the cook, she accuses 
 the needlewoman, and the latter accuses the other 
 two. Who is the culprit? It would take a clever 
 person to tell. 
 
 August 6. This time, I am not mad. I have seen 
 
 — I have seen — I have seen! — I can doubt no longer 
 
 — / have seen it! 
 
 I was walking at two o'clock among my rose- 
 trees, in the full sunlight — in the walk bordered by 
 autumn roses which are beginning to fall. As I 
 stopped to look at a Geant de Bataille, which had 
 three splendid blooms, I distinctly saw the stalk of 
 one of the roses bend close to me, as if an invisible 
 hand had bent it, and then break, as if that hand had 
 picked it! Then the flower raised itself, following 
 the curve which a hand would have described in 
 carrying it toward a mouth, and remained suspended 
 in the transparent air, alone and motionless, a terrible 
 red spot, three yards from my eyes, in desperation 
 I rushed at it to take it! I found nothing; it had 
 disappeared. Then 1 was seized with furious rage 
 against myself, for it is not wholesome for a reason- 
 able and serious man to have such hallucinations. 
 
 But was it a hallucination ? I turned to look for 
 the stalk, and I found it immediately under the bush, 
 freshly broken, between the two other roses which 
 remained on the branch. I returned home, then, 
 with a much disturbed mind; Uir 1 am certain now, 
 certain as 1 am of the alternation of day and night, 
 that there exists close to me an invisible being who 
 iives on milk and on water, who can touch objects.
 
 6o THE HORLA 
 
 take them and change their places; who is, conse- 
 quently, endowed with a material nature, although 
 imperceptible to sense, and who lives as I do, under 
 my roof — 
 
 August /. I slept tranquilly. He drank the water 
 out of my decanter, but did not disturb my sleep. 
 
 1 ask myself whether 1 am mad. As I was walk- 
 ing just now in the sun by the riverside, doubts as 
 to my own sanity arose in me; not vague doubts 
 such as I have had hitherto, but precise and absolute 
 doubts. I have seen mad people, and I have known 
 some who were quite intelligent, lucid, even clear- 
 sighted in every concern of life, except on one point. 
 They could speak clearly, readily, profoundly on every- 
 thing; till their thoughts were caught in the breakers 
 of their delusions and went to pieces there, were 
 dispersed and swamped in that furious and terrible 
 sea of fogs and squalls which is called madness. 
 
 I certainly should think that I was mad, abso- 
 lutely mad, if I were not conscious that I knew my 
 state, if I could not fathom it and analyze it with the 
 most complete lucidity. 1 should, in fact, be a rea- 
 sonable man laboring under a hallucination. Some 
 unknown disturbance must have been excited in my 
 brain, one of those disturbances which physiologists 
 of the present day try to note and to fix precisely, 
 and that disturbance must have caused a profound 
 gulf in my mind and in the order and logic of my 
 ideas. Similar phenomena occur in dreams, and lead 
 us through the most unlikely phantasmagoria, without 
 causing us any surprise, because our verifying 
 apparatus and our sense of control have gone to 
 sleep, while our imaginative faculty wakes and works.
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 6l 
 
 Was it not possible that one of the imperceptible 
 keys of the cerebral finger-board had been paralyzed 
 in me ? Some men lose the recollection of proper 
 names, or of verbs, or of numbers, or merely of dates, 
 in consequence of an accident. The localization of 
 all the avenues of thought has been accomplished 
 nowadays; what, then, would there be surprising in 
 the fact that my faculty of controlling the unreality of 
 certain hallucinations should be destroyed for the 
 time being? 
 
 I thought of all this as I walked by the side of the 
 water. The sun was shining brightly on the river 
 and made earth delightful, while it filled me with 
 love for life, for the swallows, whose swift agility is 
 always delightful in my eyes, for the plants by the 
 riverside, whose rustling is a pleasure to my ears. 
 
 By degrees, however, an inexplicable feeling of 
 discomfort seized me. It seemed to me as if some 
 unknown force were numbing and stopping me, were 
 preventing me from going further and were calling 
 me back. I felt that painful wish to return which 
 comes on you when you have left a beloved invalid 
 at home, and are seized by a presentiment that he is 
 worse. 
 
 1, therefore, returned despite of myself, feeling cer- 
 tain that 1 should find some bad news awaiting me, 
 a letter or a telegram. There was nothing, however, 
 and I was surprised and uneasy, more so than il I 
 had had another fantastic vision. 
 
 August 8. I spent a terrible evening, yesterday. 
 He does not show himself any more, but 1 feel that 
 He is near me, watching me, looking at me, pene- 
 trating me, dominating me, and more terrible to me
 
 62 THE HORLA 
 
 when He hides himself thus than if He were to 
 manifest his constant and invisible presence by super- 
 natural phenomena. However, I slept. 
 
 August g. Nothing, but I am afraid. 
 
 August 10. Nothing; but what will happen to- 
 morrow ? 
 
 August II. Still nothing. I cannot stop at home 
 with this fear hanging over me and these thoughts in 
 my mind; I shall go away. 
 
 August 12. Ten o'clock at night. All day long I 
 have been trying to get away, and have not been 
 able. 1 contemplated a simple and easy act of liberty, 
 a carriage ride to Rouen — and I have not been able 
 to do it. What is the reason ? 
 
 August ij. When one is attacked by certain 
 maladies, the springs of our physical being seem 
 broken, our energies destroyed, our muscles relaxed, 
 our bones to be as soft as our flesh, and our blood 
 as liquid as water. 1 am experiencing the same in 
 my moral being, in a strange and distressing man- 
 ner. I have no longer any strength, any courage, 
 any self-control, nor even any power to set my own 
 will in motion. 1 have no power left to wtl! any-r 
 thing, but some one does it for me and I obey. 
 
 August 14. 1 am lost! Somebody possesses my 
 soul and governs it! Somebody orders all my acts, all 
 my movements, all my thoughts. 1 am no longer 
 master of myself, nothing except an enslaved and 
 terrified spectator of the things which I do. I wish 
 to go out; 1 cannot. He does not wish to; and so I 
 remain, trembling and distracted in the armchair in 
 which he keeps me sitting. I merely wish to get up 
 and to rouse myself, so as to think that I am still
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 6^ 
 
 master of myself: I cannot! I am riveted to my 
 chair, and my chair adheres to the floor in such a 
 manner that no force of mine can move us. 
 
 Then suddenly, I must, I TJiust go to the foot of 
 my garden to pick some strawberries and eat them 
 ■ — and I go there. I pick the strawberries and I eat 
 them! Oh! my God! my God! Is there a God.^ If 
 there be one, deliver me! save me! succor me! Par- 
 don! Pity! Mercy! Save me! Oh! what sufferings! 
 what torture! what horror! 
 
 August 75. Certainly this is the way in which 
 my poor cousin was possessed and swayed, when she 
 came to borrow five thousand francs of me. She 
 was under the power of a strange will which had 
 entered into her, like another soul, a parasitic and 
 ruling soul. Is the world coming to an end.^ 
 
 But who is he, this invisible being that rules me, 
 this unknowable being, this rover of a supernatufal 
 race ? 
 
 Invisible beings exist, then I How is it, then, that 
 since the beginning of the world they have never 
 manifested themselves in such a manner as they do to 
 me? I have never read anything that resembles what 
 goes on in my house. Oh! If 1 could only leave it, 
 if 1 could only go away and flee, and never return, I 
 should be saved; but I cannot. 
 
 August 16. I managed to escape to-day for two 
 hours, like a prisoner who (Inds the door of his dun- 
 geon accidentally open. I suddenly felt that I was 
 free and that He was far away, and so I gave orders 
 to put the horses in as quickly as possible, and I 
 drove to Rouen. Oh! how delightful to be able to 
 say to my coachman: "Go to Rouen!"
 
 64 THE HORLA 
 
 I made him pull up before the library, and I 
 begged them to lend me Dr. Herrmann Herestauss's 
 treatise on the unknown inhabitants of the ancient 
 and modern world. 
 
 Then, as 1 was getting into my carriage, I intended 
 to say: "To the railway station!" but instead of 
 this I shouted — I did not speak, but I shouted — in 
 such a loud voice that all the passers-by turned 
 round: "Home!" and 1 fell back on to the cushion 
 of my carriage, overcome by mental agony. He had 
 found me out and regained possession of me. 
 
 August ly. Oh! Whcit a night! what a night! 
 And yet it seems to me that I ought to rejoice. I 
 read until one o'clock in the morning! Herestauss, 
 Doctor of Philosophy and Theogony, wrote the his- 
 tory and the manifestation of all those invisible beings 
 which hover around man, or of whom he dreams. 
 He describes their origin, their domains, their power; 
 but none of them resembles the one which haunts 
 me. One might say that man, ever since he has 
 thought, has had a foreboding and a fear of a new 
 being, stronger than himself, his successor in this 
 world, and that, feeling him near, and not being able 
 to foretell the nature of the unseen one, he has, in 
 his terror, created the whole race of hidden beings, 
 vague phantoms born of fear. 
 
 Having, therefore, read until one o'clock in the 
 morning, I went and sat down at the open window, 
 in order to cool my forehead and my thoughts in the 
 calm night air. It was very pleasant and warm! 
 How I should have enjoyed such a night formerly! 
 
 There .was no moon, but the stars darted out their 
 rays in the dark heavens. Who inhabits those worlds i
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 65 
 
 What forms, what Hving beings, what animals are 
 there yonder? Do those who are thinkers in those 
 distant worlds know more than we do ? What can 
 they do more than we? W^hat do they see which we 
 do not ? Will not one of them, some day or other, 
 traversing space, appear on our earth to conquer it, 
 just as formerly the Norsemen crossed the sea in 
 order to subjugate nations feebler than themselves? 
 
 We are so weak, so powerless, sc ignorant, so 
 small — we who live on this particle of niud which 
 revolves in liquid air. 
 
 1 fell asleep, dreaming thus in the cool night air, 
 and then, having slept for about three quarters of an 
 hour, I opened my eyes without moving, awakened 
 by an indescribably confused and strange sensation. 
 At first I saw nothing, and then suddenly it appeared 
 to me as if a page of the book, which had remained 
 open on my table, turned over of its own accord. 
 Not a breath of air had come in at my window, and 
 1 was surprised and waited. In about four minutes, 
 I saw, I saw — yes I saw with my own eyes — an- 
 other page lift itself up and fall down on the others, 
 as if a finger had turned it over. My armchair was 
 empty, appeared empty, but \ knew that He was there, 
 He, and sitting in my place, and that He was reading. 
 With a furious bound, the bound of an enraged wild 
 beast that wishes to disembowel its tamer, I crossed 
 my room to seize him, to strangle him, to kill him! 
 But before I could reach it, my chair fell over as if 
 somebody had run away from me. My table rocked, 
 my lamp fell and went out, and my window closed 
 as if some thief had been surprised and had fled out 
 into the night, shutting it behind him. 
 
 Maup. 1 — 5
 
 o6 THE HORLA 
 
 So He had run away; He had been afraid; He, 
 afraid of me! 
 
 So to-morrow, or later- -some day or other, I 
 should be able to hold him in my dutches and crush 
 him against the ground! Do not dogs occasionally 
 bite and strangle their masters ? 
 
 August i8. I have been thinking the whole day 
 long. Oh! yes, 1 will obey Him, follow His impulses, 
 fulfill all His wishes, show myself humble, submissive, 
 a coward. He is the stronger; but an hour will 
 come. 
 
 August ig. I know, I know, I know all! I have 
 just read the following in the "Revue du Monde 
 Scientifique": "A curious piece of news comes to 
 us from Rio de Janeiro. Madness, an epidemic of 
 madness, which may be compared to that contagious 
 madness which attacked the people of Europe in the 
 Middle Ages, is at this moment raging in the Province 
 of San-Paulo. The frightened inhabitants are leaving 
 their houses, deserting their villages, abandoning their 
 land, saying that they are pursued, possessed, gov- 
 erned like human cattle by invisible, though tangible 
 beings, by a species of vampire, which feeds on their 
 life while they are asleep, and which, besides, drinks 
 water and milk without appearing to touch any other 
 nourishment. 
 
 "Professor Don Pedro Henriques, accompanied by 
 several medical savants, has gone to the Province of 
 San-Paulo, in order to study the origin and the mani 
 festations of this surprising madness on the spot, and 
 to propose such measures to the Emperor as may 
 appear to him to be most fitted to restore the mad 
 population to reason."
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 67 
 
 Ah ! Ah ! I remember now that fine BraziHan 
 three-master which passed in front of my windows 
 as it was going- up the Seine, on the eighth of last 
 May ! I thought it looked so pretty, so white and 
 bright ! That Being was on board of her, coming 
 from there, where its race sprang from. And it saw 
 me ! It saw my house, which was also white, and 
 He sprang from the ship on to the land. Oh ! Good 
 heavens ! 
 
 Now I know, I can divine. The reign of man is 
 over, and He has come. He whom disquieted priests 
 exorcised, whom sorcerers evoked on dark nights, 
 without seeing him appear, He to whom the imagina- 
 tions of the transient masters of the world lent all the 
 Fionstrous or graceful forms of gnomes, spirits, genii, 
 f'liries, and familiar spirits. After the coarse concep- 
 tions of primitive fear, men more enlightened gave 
 him a truer form. Mcsmer divined him, and ten years 
 ago physicians accurately discovered the nature of his 
 power, even before He exercised it himself. They 
 played with that weapon of their new Lord, the sway 
 of a mysterious will over the human soul, which had 
 become enslaved. They called it mesmerism, hypno- 
 tism, suggestion, I know not what ? I have seen 
 them diverting themselves liKe rash children with this 
 horrible power 1 Woe to us! Woe to man! He has 
 come, the — the — what does He call himself — the — 
 1 fancy that he is shouting out his name to me and 
 I do not hear him — the — yes — He is shouting it 
 out — 1 am listening — I cannot — repeat — it — Horla — 
 I have heard — the Horla — it is He — the Horla — He 
 has come! — 
 
 Ah! the vulture has eaten the pigeon, the wolf
 
 5p THE HORLA 
 
 has eaten the lamb; the Hon has devoured the sharp- 
 horned buffalo; man has killed the lion with an ar- 
 row, with a spear, with gunpowder; but the Horla 
 will make of man what man has made of the horse 
 and of the ox: his chattel, his slave, and his food, by 
 the mere power of his will. Woe to us! 
 
 But, nevertheless, sometimes the animal rebels and 
 kills the man who has subjugated it. 1 should also 
 like — I shall be able to — but I must know Him, 
 touch Him, see Him! Learned men say that eyes of 
 animals, as they differ from ours, do not distinguish 
 as ours do. And my eye cannot distinguish this 
 newcomer who is oppressing me. 
 
 Why? Oh! Now 1 remember the words of the 
 monk at Mont Saint-Michel: "Can we see the hun- 
 dred-thousandth part of what exists? Listen; there 
 is the wind which is the strongest force in nature; 
 it knocks men down, blows down buildings, up- 
 roots trees, raises the sea into mountains of water, 
 destroys cliffs, and casts great ships on to the breakers; 
 it kills, it whistles, it sighs, it roars,— have you ever 
 seen it, and can you see it? It exists for all that, 
 however!" 
 
 And I went on thinking: my eyes are so weak, so 
 imperfect, that they do not even distinguish hard 
 bodies, if they are as transparent as glass! If a 
 glass without quicksilver behind it were to bar my 
 way, I should run into it, just like a bird which 
 has flown into a room breaks its head against the 
 windowpanes. A thousand things, moreover, de- 
 ceive a man and lead him astray. How then is it 
 surprising that he cannot perceive a new body which 
 is penetrated and pervaded by the light?
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 6q 
 
 A new being! Why not? It was assuredly bound 
 to come! Why should we be the last? We do not 
 distinguish it, like all the others created before us? 
 The reason is, that its nature is more delicate, its 
 body finer and more finished than ours. Our make- 
 up is so weak, so awkwardly conceived; our body is 
 encumbered with organs that are always tired, always 
 being strained like locks that are too complicated; 
 it lives like a plant and like an animal nourishing 
 itself with difficulty on air, herbs, and flesh; it is a 
 brute machine which is a prey to maladies, to mal- 
 formations, to decay; it is broken-winded, badly 
 regulated, simple and eccentric, ingeniously yet 
 badly made, a coarse and yet a delicate mechanism, 
 in brief, the outline of a being which might become 
 intelligent and great. 
 
 There are only a few — so few — stages of devel- 
 opment in this world, from the oyster up to man. 
 Why should there not be one more, when once that 
 period is accomplished which separates the successive 
 products one from the other? 
 
 Why not one more ? Why not, also, other trees 
 with immense, splendid fiowers, perfuming whole 
 regions? Why not other elements beside fire, air, 
 earth, and water? There are four, only four, nursing 
 fathers of various beings! What a pity! Why should 
 not there be forty, four hundred, four thousand! 
 How poor everything is, how mean and wretched — 
 grudgingly given, poorly invented, clumsily made ! 
 Ah! the elephant and the hippopotamus, what power! 
 And the camel, what suppleness! 
 
 But the butterfly, you will say, a flying flowerl 
 1 dream of one that should be as large as a hundred
 
 JO THE HORLA 
 
 worlds, with wings whose shape, beauty, colors, and 
 motion I cannot even express. But I see it — it flut- 
 ters from star to star, refreshing them and perfuming 
 them with the light and harmonious breath of its 
 flight! And the people up there gaze at it as it 
 passes in an ecstasy of delight! 
 
 What is the matter with me? It is He, the Horia 
 who haunts me, and who makes me think of these 
 foolish things! He is within me, He is becoming my 
 soul; I shall kill him! 
 
 Aiigtist 20. 1 shall kill Him. I have seen Him! 
 Yesterday I sat down at my table and pretended to 
 write very assiduously. I knew quite well that He 
 would come prowling round me, quite close to me, 
 so close that I might perhaps be able to touch him, 
 to seize him. And then — then I should have the 
 strength of desperation; 1 should have my hands, my 
 knees, my chest, my forehead, my teeth to strangle 
 him, to crush him, to bite him, to tear him to pieces. 
 And I watched for him with all my overexcited 
 nerves. 
 
 I had lighted my two lamps and the eight wax 
 candles on my mantelpiece, as if, by this light 1 should 
 discover Him. 
 
 My bed, my old oak bed with its columns, was 
 opposite to me; on my right was the fireplace; on 
 my left the door, which was carefully closed, after I 
 had left it open for some time, in order to attract 
 Him; behind me was a very high wardrobe with a 
 looking-glass in it, which served me to dress by every 
 day, and in which I was in the habit of inspecting 
 myself from head to foot every time I passed it.
 
 WORKS OF GUY DK jMAlJf'ASSANT 71 
 
 So I pretended to be writing in order to deceive 
 Him, for He also was watching me, and suddenly I 
 felt, I was certain, that He was reading over my 
 shoulder, that He was there, almost touching my ear. 
 
 I got up so quickly, with my hands extended, that 
 1 almost fell. Horror! It was as bright as at mid- 
 day, but 1 did not see myself in the glass! It was 
 empty, clear, profound, full of light! But my figure 
 was not reflected in it — and I, I was opposite to it I 
 I saw the large, clear glass from top to bottom, and 
 I looked at it with unsteady eyes. I did not dare 
 advance; I did not venture to make a movement; 
 feeling certain, nevertheless, that He was there, but 
 that He would escape me again, He whose impercep- 
 tible body had absorbed my reflection. 
 
 How frightened 1 was! And then suddenly I be- 
 gan to see myself through a mist in the depths of 
 the looking-glass, in a mist as it were, or through a 
 veil of water; and it seemed to me as if this water 
 were flowing slowly from left to right, and making 
 my figure clearer every moment. It was like the end 
 of an eclipse. Whatever hid me did not appear to 
 possess any clearly defined outlines, but was a sort 
 of opaque transparency, which gradually grew clearer. 
 
 At last 1 was able to distinguish myself completely, 
 as I do every day when I look at myself. 
 
 I had seen Him! And the horror of it remained with 
 me, and makes me shudder even now. 
 
 August 21. How could 1 kill Him, since I could not 
 get hold of Him } Poison .^ But He would see me mix 
 it with the water; and then, would our poisons have 
 any effect on His impalpable body.^ No — no — no 
 doubt about the matter. Then? — thenj*
 
 72 THE HORLA 
 
 August 22. I sent for a blacksmith from Rouen 
 and ordered iron shutters of him for my room, 
 such as some private hotels in Paris have on the 
 ground floor, for fear of thieves, and he is going to 
 make me a similar door as well. 1 have made my- 
 self out a coward, but I do not care sbout that I 
 
 ^■■- September jo. Rouen, Hotel Continental. It is 
 done; it is done — but is He dead? My mind is 
 thoroughly upset by what I have seen. 
 
 Well then, yesterday, the locksmith having put on 
 the iron shutters and door, I left everything open 
 until midnight, although it was getting cold. 
 
 Suddenly I felt that He was there, and joy, mad 
 joy took possession of me. I got up softly, and I 
 walked to the right and left for some time, so that He 
 might not guess anything; then 1 took off my boots 
 and put on my slippers carelessly; then I fastened the 
 iron shutters and going back to the door quickly I 
 double-locked it with a padlock, putting the key into 
 my pocket. 
 
 Suddenly I noticed that He was moving restlessly 
 round me, that in his turn He was frightened and 
 was ordering me to let Him out. I nearly yielded, 
 though I did not quite, but putting my back to the 
 door, I half opened it, just enough to allow me to go 
 out backward, and as I am very tall, my head touched 
 the lintel. 1 was sure that He had not been able to 
 escape, and I shut Him up quite alone, quite alone. 
 What happiness! I had Him fast. Then I ran down- 
 stairs into the drawing-room which was under my 
 bedroom, I took the two lamps and poured all the 
 oil on to the carpet, the furniture, everywhere; then
 
 WORKS OF CUy DE MAUPASSANT y^ 
 
 I set fire to it and made my escape, after having 
 
 carefully double locked the door. 
 
 1 went and bid myself at the bottom of the gar- 
 den, in a dump of laurel bushes. How long it was! 
 how long it was! Everything was dark, silent, mo- 
 tionless, not a breath of air and not a star, but heavy 
 banks of clouds which one could not see, but which 
 weighed, oh! so heavily on my soul. 
 
 I looked at my house and waited. How long it 
 was! I already began to think that the fire had gone 
 out of its own accord, or that He had extinguished 
 it, when one of the lower windows gave way under 
 the violence of the flames, and a long, soft, caressing 
 sheet of red flame mounted up the white wall, and 
 kissed it as high as the roof. The light fell on to the 
 trees, the branches, and the leaves, and a shiver of 
 fear pervaded them also! The birds awoke; a dog 
 began to howl, and it seemed to me as if the day 
 were breaking! Almost immediately two other win- 
 dows flew into fragments, and \ saw that the whole 
 of the lower part of my house was nothing but a 
 terrible furnace. But a cry, a horrible, shrill, heart- 
 rending cry, a woman's cry, sounded through the 
 night, and two garret windows were opened! I had 
 forgotten the servants! 1 saw the terror-struck faces, 
 and the frantic waving of their arms! 
 
 Then, overwhelmed with horror, I ran off to the 
 village, shouting: "Help! help! fire! fire!" Meeting 
 some people who were already coming on to the 
 scene, I went back with them to see! 
 
 By this time the house was nothing but a horrible 
 and magnificent funeral pile, a monstrous pyre which 
 lit up the whole country, a pyre where men were
 
 74 THE HORLA 
 
 burning, and where He was burning also, He, He, 
 my prisoner, that new Being, the new Master, the 
 Horla! 
 
 Suddenly the whole roof fell in between the walls, 
 and a volcano of flames darted up to the sky. 
 Through all the windows which opened on to that 
 furnace, I saw the flames darting, and 1 reflected that 
 He was there, in that kiln, dead. 
 
 Dead? Perhaps.^ His body? Was not his body, 
 which was transparent, indestructible by such means { 
 
 as would kill ours ? 
 
 If He were not dead ? Perhaps time alone has 
 power over that Invisible and Redoubtable Being. 
 Why this transparent, unrecognizable body, this body 
 belonging to a spirit, if it also had to fear ills, in- 
 firmities, and premature destruction ? 
 
 Premature destruction ? All human terror springs 
 from that! After man the Horla. After him who can 
 die every day, at any hour, at any moment, by any 
 accident, He came. He who was only to die at his 
 own proper hour and minute, because He had touched 
 the limits of his existence! 
 
 No — no — there is no doubt about it — He is not 
 dead. Then — then — I suppose I must kill myself!
 
 MISS HARRIET 
 
 HERE were seven of us in a four- 
 in-hand, four women and three 
 men, one of whom was on the 
 box seat beside the coachman. We 
 were following, at a foot pace, the 
 broad highway which serpentines 
 along the coast. 
 Setting out from Etretat at break of 
 day, in ord(T to visit the ruins of Tan- 
 carville, we were still asleep, chilled by 
 the fresh air of the morning. The women, 
 especially, who were but little accustomed 
 to these early excursions, let their eyelids fall 
 and rise every moment, nodding their heads 
 or yawning, quite insensible to the glory of the 
 dawn. 
 
 it was autumn. On both sides of the road the 
 bare fields stretched out, yellowed by the corn and 
 wheat stubble which covered the soil like a bristling 
 growth of beard. The spongy earth seemed to smoke. 
 Larks were singing high up in the air, while other 
 birds piped in the bushes. 
 
 (75)
 
 76 
 
 MISS HARRIET 
 
 At length the sun rose in front of us, a blight 
 red on the plane of the horizon; and as it ascended, 
 growing clearer from minute to minute, the country 
 seemed to awake, to smile, to shake and stretch 
 itself, like a young girl who is leaving her bed in 
 her white airy chemise. The Count d'Etraille, who 
 was seated on the box, cried: 
 
 "Look! look! a hare!" and he pointed toward the 
 left, indicating a piece of hedge. The leveret threaded 
 its way along, almost concealed by the field, only its 
 large ears visible. Then it swerved across a deep 
 rut, stopped, again pursued its easy course, changed 
 its direction, stopped anew, disturbed, spying out 
 every danger, and undecided as to the route it should 
 take. Suddenly it began to run, with great bounds 
 from its hind legs, disappearing finally in a large 
 patch of beet-root. All the men had woke up to 
 watch the course of the beast. 
 
 Rene Lemanoir then exclaimed: 
 
 "We are not at all gallant this morning," and 
 looking at his neighbor, the little Baroness of S^rennes, 
 who was struggling with drowsiness, he said to her 
 in a subdued voice: "You are thinking of your hus- 
 band. Baroness. Reassure yourself; he will not re- 
 turn before Saturday, so you have still four days." 
 
 She responded to him with a sleepy smile: 
 
 "How rude you are." Then, shaking off her tor- 
 por, she added: "Now, let somebody say something 
 that will make us all laugh. You, Monsieur Chenal, 
 who have the reputation of possessing a larger for- 
 tune than the FJuke of Richelieu, tell us a love story 
 in which you have been mixed up, anything you 
 like."
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 77 
 
 Leon Chenal, an old painter, who had once been 
 very handsome, very strong, who was very proud of 
 his physique and very amiable, took his long white 
 beard in his hand and smiled; then, after a few 
 moments' reflection, he became suddenly grave. 
 
 "Ladies, it will not be an amusing tale; for I am 
 going to relate to you the most lamentable love affair 
 of my life, and I sincerely hope that none of my 
 friends has ever passed through a similar experience. 
 
 I. 
 
 "At that time I was twenty-five years old, and was 
 making daubs along the coast of Normandy. I call 
 'making daubs' that wandering about, with a bag on 
 one's back, from mountain to mountain, under the 
 pretext of studying and of sketching nature. I know 
 nothing more enjoyable than that happy-go-lucky 
 wandering life, in which you are perfectly free, with- 
 out shackles of any kind, without care, without pre- 
 occupation, without thought even of to-morrow. You 
 go in any direction you please, without any guide 
 save your fancy, without any counselor save your 
 eyes. You pull up, because a running brook seduces 
 you, or because you are attracted, in front of an inn, 
 by the smell of potatoes frying. Sometimes it is the 
 perfume of clematis which decides you in your choice, 
 or the naive glance of the servant at an inn. Do not 
 despise me for my affection for these rustics. These 
 girls have soul as well as feeling, not to mention firm 
 cheeks and fresh lips; while their hearty and willing 
 kisses have the flavor of wild fruit. Love always has
 
 78 MISS HARRIET 
 
 lis price, come whence it may. A heart that beats 
 v/hen you make your appearance, an eye that weeps 
 v^'hen you go away, these are things so rare, so 
 sweet, so precious, that they must never be despised. 
 
 "1 have had rendezvous in ditches in which cattle 
 repose, and in barns among the straw, still steaming 
 from the heat of the day. I have recollections of 
 canvas spread on rude and creaky benches, and of 
 hearty, fresh, free kisses, more delicate, free from 
 affectation, and sincere than the subtle attractions of 
 charming and distinguished women. 
 
 "But what you love most amid all these varied 
 adventures are the country, the woods, the risings of 
 the sun, the twilight, the light of the moon. For 
 the painter these are honeymoon trips with Nature. 
 You are alone with her in that long and tranquil 
 rendezvous. You go to bed in the fields amid mar- 
 guerites and wild poppies, and, with eyes wide open, 
 you watch the going down of the sun, and descry in 
 the distance the little village, with its pointed clock- 
 tower, which sounds the hour of midnight. 
 
 "You sit down by the side of a spring which 
 gushes out from the foot of an oak, amid a covering 
 of fragile herbs, growing and redolent of life. You 
 go down on your knees, bend forward, and drink 
 the cold and pellucid water, wetting your mustache 
 and nose; you drink it with a physical pleasure, as 
 though you were kissing the spring, lip to lip. Some- 
 times, when you encounter a deep hole, along the 
 course of these tiny brooks, you plunge into it, quite 
 naked, and on your skin, from head to foot, like an 
 icy and delicious caress, you feel the lovely and 
 gentle quivering of the current.
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 79 
 
 "You are gay on the hills, melancholy on the 
 verge of pools, exalted when the sun is crowned in 
 an ocean of blood-red shadows, and when it casts on 
 the rivers its red reflection. And at night, under the 
 moon, as it passes across the vault of heaven, you 
 think of things, singular things, which would never 
 have occurred to your mind under the brilliant light 
 of day. 
 
 "So, in wandering through the same country we 
 are in this year, I came to the little village of Be- 
 nouville, on the Falaise, between Yport and Etretat. 
 I came from Fecamp, following the coast, a high 
 coast, perpendicular as a wall, with projecting and 
 rugged rocks falling sheer down into the sea. I 
 had walked since the morning on the close chpped 
 grass, as smooth and as yielding as a carpet. Sing- 
 ing lustily, I walked with long strides, looking some- 
 times at the slow and lazy flight of a gull, with its 
 short, white wings, sailing in the blue heavens, 
 sometimes at the green sea, or at the brown sails of 
 a fishing bark. In short, I had passed a happy day, 
 a day of listlessness and of liberty. 
 
 "I was shown a little farmhouse, where travelers 
 were put up, a kind of inn, kept by a peasant, which 
 stood in the center of a Norman court, surrounded 
 by a double row of beeches. 
 
 "Quitting the Falaise. I gained the hamlet, which 
 was hemmed in by great trees, and I presented my- 
 self at the house of Mother Lecacheur. 
 
 "She was an old, wrinkled, and austere rustic, 
 who always seemed to yield to the pressure of new 
 customs with a kind of contempt. 
 
 "It was the month of May: the spreading apple-
 
 So MISS HARRIET 
 
 trees covered the court with a whirling shower of 
 blossoms which rained unceasingly both upon people 
 and upon the grass. 
 
 "I said: 
 
 "'Well, Madame Lecacheur, have ycu a room for 
 me?' 
 
 "Astonished to find that I knew her name, she 
 answered: 
 
 "'That depends; everything is let; but, all the 
 same, there will be no harm in looking.' 
 
 " In five minutes we were in perfect accord, and I 
 deposited my bag upon the bare floor of a rustic 
 room, furnished with a bed, two chairs, a table, and 
 a washstand. The room opened into the^ large and 
 smoky kitchen, where the lodgers took their meals 
 with the people of the farm and with the farmer 
 himself, who was a widower. 
 
 "I washed my hands, after which I went out. 
 The old woman was fricasseeing a chicken for dinner 
 in a large fireplace, in which hung the stew-pot, 
 black with smoke. 
 
 "'You have travelers, then, at the present time?' 
 said 1 to her. 
 
 "She answered in an offended tone of voice: 
 
 "'I have a lady, an English lady, who has at- 
 tained to years of maturity. She is occupying my 
 other room.' 
 
 "By means of an extra five sous a day, I ob- 
 tained the privilege of dining out in the court when 
 the weather was fine, 
 
 " My cover was then placed in front of the door, 
 and I commenced to gnew with hunger the lean 
 members of the Normandy chicken, to drink the clear 
 
 J 
 
 M
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 8l 
 
 cider, and to munch the hunk of white bread, which, 
 though four days old, was excellent. 
 
 "Suddenly, the wooden barrier which opened on 
 to the highway was opened, and a strange person 
 directed her steps toward the house. She was very 
 slender, very tall, enveloped in a Scotch shav^i with 
 red borders. You would have believed that she had 
 no arms, if you had not seen a long hand appear just 
 above the hips, holding a white tourist umbrella. 
 The face of a mummy, surrounded with sausage rolls 
 of plaited gray hair, which bounded at every step she 
 took, made me think, I know not why, of a sour 
 herring adorned with curling papers. Lowering her 
 eyes, she passed quickly in front of mc, and entered 
 the house. 
 
 "This smgular apparition made me curious. She 
 undoubtedly was my neighbor, the aged English lady 
 of whom our hostess had spoken. 
 
 " I did not see her again that day. The next 
 day, when 1 had begun to paint at the end of that 
 beautiful valley, which you know extends as far as 
 Etretat, lifting my eyes suddenly, I perceived some- 
 thing singularly attired standing on the crest of the 
 declivity; it looked like a pole decked out with flags. 
 It was she. On seeing mc, she suddenly disappeared. 
 1 re-entered the house at midday for lunch, and took 
 my seat at the common table, so as to make the ac- 
 quaintance of this old and original creature. But she 
 did not respond to my polite advances, was insensi- 
 ble even to my little attentions. I poured water out 
 for her with great alacrity, I passed her the dishes 
 with great eagerness. A slight, almost imperceptible 
 movement of the head, and an English word, mur- 
 
 Maup. i — 6
 
 82 MliS HARRIET 
 
 mured so low that I did not understand it, were her 
 only acknowledgments. 
 
 "I ceased occupying myself with her, although 
 she had disturbed my thoughts. At the end of three 
 days, 1 knew as much about her as did Madame 
 Lecacheur herself. 
 
 "She was called Miss Harriet. Seeking out a se- 
 cluded village in which to pass the summer, she had 
 been attracted to Benouville, some six months before, 
 and did not seem disposed to quit it. She never 
 spoke at table, ate rapidly, reading all the while a 
 small book, treating of some Protestant propaganda. 
 She gave a copy of it to everybody. The cure him- 
 self had received no less than four copies, at the hands 
 of an urchin to whom she had paid two sous' com- 
 mission. She said sometimes to our hostess, abruptl}'', 
 without preparing her in the least for the declaration: 
 
 " '1 love the Saviour more than all; I worship him 
 in all creation; I adore him in all nature; I carry him 
 always in my heart.' 
 
 "And she would immediately present the old 
 woman with one of her brochures which weie des- 
 tined to convert the universe. 
 
 "In the village she was not liked. In fact, the 
 schoolmaster had declared that she was an atheist, 
 and that a sort of reproach attached to her. The 
 cure, who had -been consulted by Madame Lecacheur, 
 responded: 
 
 "'She is a heretic, but God does not wish the 
 death of the sinner, and 1 believe her to be a person 
 of pure morals.' 
 
 "These words, 'atheist,' 'heretic,' words which no 
 one can precisely define, threw doubts into some
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT S^ 
 
 minds. It was asserted, however, that this English- 
 woman was rich, and that she had passed her hfe in 
 travehng through every country in the world, because 
 her family had thrown her off. Why had her family 
 thrown her off? Because of her natural impiety.? 
 
 "She was, in fact, one of those people of exalted 
 principles, one of those opinionated puritans of whom 
 England produces so many, one of those t-oci and 
 insupportable old women who haunt the fal>/cs d'hote 
 of every hotel in Europe, who spoil Italy, poison 
 Switzerland, render the charming cities of the Med- 
 iterranean uninhabitable, carry everywhere their fan- 
 tastic manias, their petrified vestal manners, their 
 indescribable toilettes, and a certain odor of india- 
 rubber, which makes one believe that at night they 
 slip themselves into a case of that material. When I 
 meet one of these people in a hotel, I act like birds 
 which see a manikin in a field. 
 
 "This woman, however, appeared so singular that 
 she did not displease me. 
 
 "Madame Lecacheur, hostile by instinct to every- 
 thing that was not rustic, felt in her narrow soul a 
 kind of hatred for the ecstatic extravagances of the 
 old girl. She had found a phrase by which to 
 describe her, I know not how, but a phrase assuredly 
 contemptuous, which had sprung to her lips, invented 
 probably by some confused and mysterious travail of 
 soul. She said: 'That woman is a demoniac' This 
 phrase, as uttered by that austere and sentimental 
 creature, seemed to me irresistibly comic. I, myself, 
 never called her now anything else but 'the demo- 
 niac' feeling a singular pleasure in pronouncing this 
 word on seeing her.
 
 84 MISS HARRIET 
 
 "I would ask Mother Lecacheur: 'Well, what is 
 our demoniac about to-day?' To which my rustic 
 friend would respond, with an air of having been 
 scandaHzed: 
 
 '''What do you think, sir? She has picked up a 
 toad which has had its leg battered, and carried it to 
 her room, and has put it in her washstand, and 
 dressed it up like a man. If that is not profanation, 
 I should lik.' to know what is!' 
 
 "On another occasion, when walking along the 
 Falaise, she had bought a large fish which had just been 
 caught, simply to throw it back into the sea again. 
 The sailor, from whom she had bought it, though 
 paid handsomely, was greatly provoked at this act — ■ 
 more exasperated, indeed, than if she had put her 
 hand into his pocket and taken his money. For a 
 whole month he could not speak of the circumstance 
 without getting into a fury and denouncing it as an 
 outrage. Oh yes! She was indeed a demoniac, this 
 Miss Harriet, and Mother Lecacheur must have had 
 an inspiration of genius in thus christening her. 
 
 "The stable-boy, who was called Sapeur, because 
 he had served in Africa in his youth, entertained 
 other aversions. He said, with a roguish air: 'She 
 is an old hag who has hved her days.' If the poor 
 woman had but known! 
 
 "Little kind-hearted Celeste did not wait upon her 
 willingly, but I was never able to understand why. 
 Probably her only reason was that she was a stranger, 
 of another race, of a different tongue, and of another 
 religion. She was in good truth a demoniac! 
 
 "She passed her time wandering about the coun- 
 try, adoring and searching for God in nature. I
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 85 
 
 found her one evening on her knees in a cluster of 
 bushes. Having discovered something red through 
 the leaves, I brushed aside the branches, and Miss 
 Harriet at once rose to her feet, confused at having 
 been found thus, looking at me with eyes as terrible 
 as those of a wild cat surprised in open day. 
 
 "Sometimes, when I was working among the 
 rocks. .1 would suddenly descry her on the banks of 
 the Falaise standing like a semaphore signal. She 
 gazed passionately at the vast sea, glittering in the 
 sunlight, and the boundless sky empurpled with fire. 
 Sometimes I would distinguish her at the bottom of 
 a valley, walking quickly, with her elastic English 
 step; and I would go toward her, attracted by I 
 know not what, simply to see her illuminated visage, 
 her dried-up features, which seemed to glow with an 
 ineffable, inward, and profound happiness. 
 
 "Often I would encounter her in the corner of d 
 field sitting on the grass, under the shadow of an 
 apple-tree, with her little Bible lying open on her knee, 
 while she looked meditatively into the distance. 
 
 "I could no longer tear myself away from that 
 quiet country neighborhood, bound to it as I was by 
 a thousand links of love for its soft and sweeping 
 landscapes. At this farm I was out of the world, far 
 removed from everything, but in close proximity to 
 the soil, the good, healthy, beautiful green soil. 
 And, must 1 avow it, there was something besides 
 curiosity which retained me at the residence of 
 Mother Lecachcur. 1 wished to become acquainted 
 a little with this strange Miss Harriet, and to learn 
 what passes in the solitary souls of those wandering 
 old, English dames.
 
 86 MISS HARRIET 
 
 11. 
 
 "We became acquainted in a rather singular man- 
 ner. I had just finished a study which appeared to 
 me to disphiy genius and power; as it must have, 
 since it was sold for ten thousand francs, fifteen 
 years later. It was as simple, however, as that tv/o 
 and two make four, and had nothing to do with 
 academic rules. The whole of the right side of my 
 canvas represented a rock, an enormous rock, cov- 
 ered with sea-wrack, brown, yellow, and red, across 
 which the sun poured like a stream of oil. The 
 light, without which one could see the stars con- 
 cealed in the background, fell upon the stone, and 
 gilded it as if with fire. That was all. A first stupid 
 attempt at dealing with light, with burning rays, 
 with the sublime. 
 
 "On the left was the sea, not the blue sea, the 
 slate-colored sea, but a sea of jade, as greenish, 
 milky, and thick as the overcast sky. 
 
 "I was so pleased with my work that I danced 
 from sheer delight as I carried it back to the inn. 1 
 wished that the whole world could have seen it at 
 one and the same moment. I can remember that I 
 showed it to a cow, which was browsing by the 
 wayside, exclaiming, at the same time: 'Look at 
 that, my old beauty; you will not often see its like 
 again.' 
 
 "When I had reached the front of the house, I 
 immediately called out to Mother Lecacheur, shouting 
 with all my might:
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 87 
 
 '"Ohe! Ohe! my mistress, come here and look at 
 this.' 
 
 "The rustic advanced and looked at my work 
 with stupid eyes, which distinguished nothing, and 
 did not even recognize whether the picture was the 
 reprc'sentation of an ox or a house. 
 
 "Miss Harriet came into the house, and passed in 
 rear of me just at the moment when, holding out my 
 canvas at arm's length, I was exhibiting it to the 
 female innkeeper. The 'demoniac* could not help 
 but see it, for I took care to exhibit the thing in such 
 a way that it could not escape her notice. She 
 stopped abruptly and stood motionless, stupefied. It 
 was her rock which was depicted, the one which she 
 usually climbed to dream away her time undisturbed. 
 
 "She uttered a British 'Oh,' which was at once 
 so accentuated and so flattering, that I turned round 
 to her, smiling, and said: 
 
 "'This is my last work. Mademoiselle.' 
 
 "She murmured ecstatically, comically, and ten- 
 derly : 
 
 '"Oh! Monsieur, you must understand what it is 
 to have a palpitation.' 
 
 "I colored up, of course, and was more excited 
 by that compliment than if it had come from a queen. 
 I was seduced, conquered, vanquished. 1 could have 
 embraced her — upon my honor. 
 
 "I took my seat at the table beside her, as I had 
 always done. For the first time, she spoke, drawling 
 out in a loud voice:, 
 
 "'Oh! 1 love nature so much.' 
 
 "I offered her some bread, some water, some 
 wine. She now accepted these with the vacant smile
 
 88 MISS HARRIET 
 
 of a mummy. I then began to converse with her 
 about the scenery. 
 
 "After the meal, we rose from the table together 
 and walked leisurely across the court; then, attracted 
 by the fiery glow which the setting sun cast over the 
 surface of the sea, I opened the outside gate which 
 faced in the direction of the Falaise, and we walked 
 on side by side, as satisfied as any two persons could 
 be who have just learned to understand and penetrate 
 each other's motives and feelings. 
 
 "It was a misty, relaxing evening, one of those 
 enjoyable evenings which impart happiness to mind 
 and body alike. All is joy, all is charm. The lus- 
 cious and balmy air, loaded with the perfumes of 
 herbs, with the perfumes of grass-wrack, with the odor 
 of the wild flowers, caresses the soul with a pene- 
 trating sweetness. We were going to the brink of 
 the abyss which overlooked the vast sea and rolled 
 past us at the distance of less than a hundred meters. 
 
 "We drank with open mouth and expanded chest, 
 that fresh breeze from the ocean which glides slowly 
 over the skin, salted as it is by long contact with 
 the waves. 
 
 "Wrapped up in her square shawl, inspired by 
 the balmy air and with teeth firmly set, the English- 
 woman gazed fixedly at the great sun-ball, as it de- 
 scended toward the sea. Soon its rim touched the 
 waters, just in rear of a ship which had appeared 
 on the horizon, until, by degrees, it was swallowed 
 up by the ocean. We watched it plunge, diminish, 
 and finally disappear. 
 
 "Miss Harriet contemplated with passionate re- 
 gard he last glimmer of the flaming orb of day.
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 89 
 
 "She muttered: 'Oh! I love — I love — ' I saw 
 a tear start in her eye. She continued: *I wish I 
 were a little bird, so that I could mount up into the 
 firmament.' 
 
 "She remained standing as I ha^' often before seen 
 her, perched on the river bank, her face as red as 
 her flaming shawl. I should have liked to have 
 sketched her in my album. It would have been an 
 ecstatic caricature. I turned my face away from her 
 so as to be able to laugh. 
 
 "I then spoke to her of painting, as I would have 
 done to a fellow-artist, using the technical terms 
 common among the devotees of the profession. She 
 listened attentively to me, eagerly seeking to divine 
 the sense of the obscure words, so as to penetrate 
 my thoughts. From time to time, she would ex- 
 claim: 'Oh! I understand, 1 understand. This is very 
 interesting.' We returned home. 
 
 "The next day, on seeing me, she approached me 
 eagerly, holding out her hand; and we became firm 
 friends immediately. 
 
 "She was a brave creature, with an elastic sort of 
 a soul, which became enthusiastic at a bound. She 
 lacked equilibrium, like all women who are spinsters 
 at the age of fifty. She seemed to be pickled in vin- 
 egary innocence, though her heart still retained some- 
 thing of youth and of girlish effervescence. She 
 loved both nature and animals with a fervent ardor, a 
 love like old wine, mellow through age, with a sen- 
 sual love that she had never bestowed on men. 
 
 "One thing is certain: a mare roaming in a 
 meadow with a foal at its side, a bird's nest full of 
 young ones, squeaking, with their open mouths and
 
 qo MISS HARRIET 
 
 enormous heads, made her quiver with the mo^t vio- 
 lent emotion. 
 
 "Poor solitary beings! Sad wanderers from tabl^ 
 d'hote to table d'hote, poor beings, ridiculous and 
 lamentable, I love you ever since I became acquainted 
 with Miss Harriet! 
 
 "I soon discovered that she had something she 
 would like to tell me, but dared not, and I was 
 amused at her timidity. When I started out in the 
 mornmg with my box on my back, she would ac- 
 company me as far as the end of the village, silent, 
 but evidently struggling inwardly to find words with 
 which to begin a conversation. Then she would 
 leave me abruptly, -and, with jaunty step, walk away 
 quickly. 
 
 "One day, however, she plucked up courage: 
 
 "'I would like to see how you paint pictures? 
 Will you shov/ meP I have been very curious.' 
 
 "And she colored up as though she had given 
 utterance to words extremely audacious. 
 
 "I conducted her to the bottom of the Petit- Val, 
 where I had commenced a large picture. 
 
 "She remained standing near me, following all 
 my gestures with concentrated attention. Then, sud- 
 denly, fearing, perhaps, that she was disturbing me, 
 she said to me: * Thank you,' and walked away. 
 
 "But in a short time she became more familiar, 
 and accompanied me every day, her countenance ex- 
 hibiting visible pleasure. She carried her folding stool 
 under her arm, would not consent to my carrying it, 
 and she sat always by my side. She would remain 
 there for hours immovable and mute, following with 
 her eye the point of my brush in its every move-
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT qi 
 
 ment. When I would obtain, by a large splatch of 
 color spread on with a knife, a striking and unex- 
 pected effect, she would, in spite of herself, give 
 vent to a half-suppressed 'Oh!' of astonishment, of 
 joy, of admiration. She had the most tender respect 
 for my canvases, an almost religious respect for that 
 human reproduction of a part of nature's work divine. 
 My studies appeared to her to be pictures of sanctity, 
 and sometimes she spoke to me of God, with the 
 idea of converting me. 
 
 "Ohl He was a queer good-natured being, this 
 God of hers. He was a sort of village philosopher 
 without any great resources, and without great power; 
 for she always llgured him to herself as a being 
 quivering over injustices committed under his eyes, 
 and helpless to prevent them. 
 
 "She was, however, on excellent terms with him, 
 affecting even to be the confidant of his secrets and 
 of his whims. She said: 
 
 "'God wills, or God does not will,' just like a 
 sergeant announcing to a recruit: 'The colonel has 
 commanded.* 
 
 "At the bottom of her heart she deplored my 
 ignorance of the intentions of the Eternal, which she 
 strove, nay, felt herself compelled, to impart to me. 
 
 "Almost every day, I found in my pockets, in my 
 hat when I lifted it from the ground, in my box of 
 colors, in my polished shoes, standing in the morn- 
 ings in front of my door, those little pious brochures, 
 which she, no doubt, received directly from Para- 
 dise. 
 
 "I treated her as one would an old friend, with 
 unaffected cordiality. But I soon perceived that she
 
 92 MISS HARRIET 
 
 had changed somewhat in her manner; but, for a 
 while, I paid little attention to it. 
 
 "When I walked about, whether to the bottom 
 of the valley, or through some country lanes, I would 
 see her suddenly appear, as though she were return- 
 ing from a rapid walk. She would then sit down 
 abruptly, out of breath, as though she had been 
 running or overcome by some profound emotion. 
 Her face would be red, that English red which is 
 denied to the people of all other countries; then, 
 without any reason, she would grow pale, become 
 the color of the ground, and seem ready to faint 
 away. Gradually, however, I would see her regain 
 her ordinary color, whereupon she would begin to 
 speak. 
 
 "Then, without warning, she would break off in 
 the middle of a sentence, spring up from her seat, 
 and march off so rapidly and so strangely, that it 
 would, sometimes, put me to my wits' end to try 
 and discover whether I had done or said anything to 
 displease or offend her. 
 
 "I finally came to the conclusion that this arose 
 from her early habits and training, somewhat modi- 
 fied, no doubt, in honor of me, since the first days 
 of our acquaintanceship. 
 
 "When she returned to the farm, after walking 
 for hours on the wind-beaten coast, her long curled 
 hair would be shaken out and hanging loose, as 
 though it had broken away from its bearings. It was 
 seldom that this gave her any concern; though some- 
 times she looked as though she had been dining sans 
 cerimonie; her locks having become disheveled by 
 the breezes. •
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 95 
 
 "She would then go up to her room in order to 
 adjust what I called her glass lamps. When I would 
 say to her, in familiar gallantry, which, however, 
 always offended her: 
 
 "'You are as beautiful as a planet to-day, Miss 
 Harriet,' a little blood would immediately mount into 
 her cheeks, the blood of a young maiden, the blood 
 of sweet fifteen. 
 
 "Then she would become abruptly savage and 
 cease coming to watch me paint. But I always 
 thought: 
 
 "'This is only a fit of temper she is passing 
 through.' 
 
 " But it did not always pass away. When I spoke 
 to her sometimes, she would answer me, either with 
 an air of affected indifference, or in sullen anger; and 
 she became by turns rude, impatient, and nervous. 
 For a time 1 never saw her except at meals, and we 
 spoke but little. I concluded, at length, that I must 
 have offended her in something: and, accordingly, I 
 said to her one evening: 
 
 "'Miss Harriet, why is it that you do not act 
 toward me as formerly ? What have I done to dis- 
 please you.^ You are causing me much pain!' 
 
 "She responded, in an angry tone, in a manner 
 altogether sui generis: 
 
 "'1 am always with you the same as formerly. 
 It is not trwe, not true,' and she ran upstairs and 
 shut herself up in her room. 
 
 "At times she would look upon me with strange 
 eyes. Since that time I have often said to myself 
 that those condemned to death must look thus when 
 informed that their last day has come. In her eye
 
 94 MISS HARRIET 
 
 there lurked a species of folly, a folly at once mys- 
 terious and violent — even more, a fever, an exasper- 
 ated desire, impatient, at once incapable of being 
 realized and unrealizable! 
 
 "Nay, it seemed to me that there was also going 
 on within her a combat, in which her heart struggled 
 against an unknown force that she wished to over- 
 come — perhaps, even, something else. But what 
 could I know ? What could I know ? 
 
 III. 
 
 "This was indeed a singular revelation. 
 
 "For some time I had commenced to work, as 
 , soon as daylight appeared, on a picture, the subject 
 of which was as follows: 
 
 "A deep ravine, steep banks dominated by two 
 declivities, lined with brambles and long rows of 
 trees, hidden, drowned in milky vapor, clad in that 
 misty robe which sometimes floats over valleys at 
 break of day. At the extreme end of that thick and 
 transparent fog, you see coming, or rather already 
 come, a human couple, a stripling and a maiden 
 embraced, interlaced, she, with head leaning on him, 
 he, inclined toward her, and lip to lip. 
 
 '•A ray of the sun, glistening through the branches, 
 has traversed the fog of dawn and illuminated it with 
 a rosy reflection^ just behind the rustic lovers, whose 
 vague shadows are reflected on it in clear silvei. It 
 was well done, yes, indeed, well done.
 
 WORKS OF GUY Dli MAUPASSANT 9=^ 
 
 *'I was working on the declivity which led to the 
 Val d'Etretat. This particular morning, I had, by 
 chance, the sort of floating vapor which was neces- 
 sary for my purpose. Suddenly, an object appeared 
 in front of me, a kind of phantom; it was Miss Har- 
 riet. On seeing me, she took to flight. But I called 
 after her saying: 'Come here, come here, Mademoi- 
 selle, I have a nice little picture for you." 
 
 "She came forward, though with seemmg reluc- 
 tance. I handed her my sketch. She said nothing, 
 but stood for a long time motionless, looking at it. 
 Suddenly she burst into tears. She wept spasmodic- 
 ally, like men who have been struggling hard against 
 shedding tears, but who can do so no longer, and 
 abandon themselves to grief, though unwillingly. I 
 got up, trembling, moved myself by the sight of a 
 sorrow I did not comprehend, and I took her by the 
 hand with a gesture of brusque affection, a true 
 French impulse which impels one quicker than one 
 thinks. 
 
 "She let her hands rest in mine for a few seconds, 
 and I felt them quiver, as if her whole nervous sys- 
 tem was twisting and turning. Then she withdrew 
 her hands abruptly, or, rather, tore them out of mine. 
 
 "I recognized that shiver as soon as I had felt it; 
 I was deceived in nothing. Ah! the love shudder of 
 a woman, whether she is fifteen or fifty years of age. 
 whether she is one of the people or one of the 
 monde, goes so straight to my heart that I never had 
 any difficulty in understanding it! 
 
 "Her whole frail being trembled, vibrated., yielded. 
 I knew it. She walked away before I had time to 
 say a word, leaving me as surprised as if I had wit-
 
 96 
 
 MIGS HARRIET 
 
 nessed a miracle, and as troubled as if I had com- 
 mitted a crime. 
 
 "I did not go in to breakfast. I took a walk on 
 the banks of the Falaise, feeling that I could just as 
 soon weep as laugh, looking on the adventure as 
 both comic and deplorable, and my position as ridic- 
 ulous, fain to believe that I had lost my head. 
 
 "I asked myself what I ought to do. I debated 
 whether 1 ought not to take my leave of the place 
 and almost immediately my resolution was formed. 
 
 "Somewhat sad and perplexed, I wandered about 
 until dinner time, and entered the farmhouse just when 
 the soup had been served up. 
 
 "I sat down at the table, as usual. Miss Harriet 
 was there, munching away solemnly, without speak- 
 ing to anyone, without even lifting her eyes. She 
 wore, however, her usual expression, both of counte- 
 nance and manner. 
 
 "1 waited, patiently, till the meal had been fin- 
 ished. Then, turning toward the landlady, I saidi 
 'Madame Lecacheur, it will not be long now before I 
 shall have to take my leave of you.' 
 
 "The good woman, at once surprised and troubled, 
 replied in a quivering voice: 'My dear sir, what is 
 it I have just heard you say? Are you going to 
 leave us, after I have become so much accustomed to 
 you?' 
 
 "I looked at Miss Harriet from the corner of my 
 eye. Her countenance did not change in the least; 
 but the under-servant came toward me with eyes 
 wide open. She was a fat girl, of about eighteen 
 years of age, rosy, fresh, strong as a horse, yet pos- 
 sessing a rare attribute in one in her position — she
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 97 
 
 was very neat and clean. I had kissed her at odd 
 times, in out of the way corners, in the manner of a 
 mountain guide, nothing more. 
 
 "The dinner being over, I went to smoke my 
 pipe under the apple-trees, walking up and down at 
 my ease, from one end of the court to the other. 
 All the reflections which I had made during the day, 
 the strange discovery of the morning, that grotesque 
 and passionate attachment for me, the recollections 
 which that revelation had suddenly called up, recol- 
 lections at once charming and perplexing, perhaps, 
 also, that look which the servant had cast on me at 
 the announcement of mv departure — all these things, 
 mixed up and combined, put me now in an excited 
 bodily state, with the tickling sensation of kisses 
 on my lips, and in my veins something which urged 
 me on to commit some folly. 
 
 "Night having come on, casting its dark shadows 
 under the trees, 1 descried Celeste, who had gone to 
 shut the hen-coops, at the other end of the inclosure. 
 I darted toward her, running so noiselessly that she 
 heard nothing, and as she got up from closing the 
 small faps by which the chickens went in and out, I 
 clasped her in my arms and rained on her coarse, fat 
 face a shower of kisses. She made a struggle, laugh- 
 ing all the same, as she was accustomed to do in 
 such circumstances. What made me suddenly loose 
 my grip of her? Why did I at once experience a 
 shock? What was it that 1 heard behind me? 
 
 " It was Miss Harriet who had come upon us, 
 who had seen us, and who stood in front of us, as 
 motionless as a specter. Then she disappeared in the 
 darkness. 
 
 Maup. 1—7
 
 Oti> MISS HARRIET 
 
 y 
 
 "\ was ashamed, embarrassed, more annoyed at 
 having been surprised by her than if she had caught 
 me committing some criminal act. 
 
 '1 slept badly that night; I was worried and 
 haunted by sad thoughts. I seemed to hear loud 
 weeping; but in this I was no doubt deceived. More- 
 over, I thought several times that I heard some one 
 walking up and down in the house, and that some 
 one opened my door from the outside. 
 
 "Toward morning, I was overcome by fatigue, 
 and sleep seized on me. I got up late and did not 
 go downstairs until breakfast time, being still in a 
 bewildered state, not knowing what kind of face to 
 put on. 
 
 "No one had seen Miss Harriet. We waited for 
 her at table, but she did not appear. At length, 
 Mother Lecacheur went to her room. The English- 
 woman had gone out. She must have set out at 
 break of day, as she was wont to do, in order to see 
 the sun rise. 
 
 "Nobody seemed astonished at this and we began 
 to eat in silence. 
 
 "The weather was hot, very hot, one of those 
 still sultry days when not a leaf stirs. The table 
 had been placed out of doors, under an apple-tree; 
 and from time to time Sapeur had gone to the cellar 
 to draw a jug of cider, everybody was so thirsty. 
 Celeste brought the dishes from the kitchen, a ragout 
 of mutton with potatoes, a cold rabbit, and a salad. 
 Afterward she placed before us a dish of strav/berries, 
 the first of the season. 
 
 "As I wanted to wash and freshen these, I begged 
 the servant to go and bring a pitcher of cold water.
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 99 
 
 "In about five minutes she returned, declaring that 
 the well was dry. She had lowered the pitcher to 
 the full extent of the cord, and had touched the bot- 
 tom, but on drawing the pitcher up again, it was 
 empty. Mother Lecacheur, anxious to examine the 
 thing for herself, went and looked down the hole. 
 She returned announcing that one could see clearly 
 something in the well, something altogether unusual. 
 But this, no doubt, was pottles of straw, which, out 
 of spite, had been cast down it by a neighbor. 
 
 "I v/ished also to look down the well, hoping to 
 clear up the mystery, and perched myself close to its 
 brink. I perceived, indistinctly, a white object. 
 What could it be ? I then conceived the idea of low- 
 ering a lantern at the end of a cord. When I did so, 
 the yellow flame danced on the layers of stone 
 and gradually became clearer. All four of us were 
 leaning over the opening, Sapeur and Celeste having 
 now joined us. The lantern rested on a black and 
 white, indistinct mass, singular, incomprehensible, 
 Sapeur exclaimed: 
 
 "'It is a horse. I see the hoofs. It must have 
 escaped from the meadow, during the night, and 
 fallen in headlong.' 
 
 "But, suddenly, a cold shiver attacked my spine, 
 I first recognized a foot, then a clothed limb; the 
 body was entire, but the other limb had disappeared 
 under the water. 
 
 "I groaned and trembled so violently that the 
 light of the lamp danced hither and thither over the 
 object, discovering a slipper. 
 
 "'It is a woman! who — who — can it be? It is 
 Miss Harriet.'
 
 iOO MISS HARRIET 
 
 "Sapeur alone did not manifest horror. He had 
 witnessed many such scenes in Africa. 
 
 " Mother Lecacheur and Celeste began to scream 
 and to shriek, and ran away. 
 
 "But it was necessary to recover the corpse of 
 the dead. 1 attached the boy securely by the loins 
 to the end of the pulley-rope; then I lowered him 
 slowly, and watched him disappear in the darkness. 
 In the one hand he had a lantern, and held on to the 
 rope with the other. Soon 1 recognized his voice, 
 which seemed to come from the center of the earth, 
 crying: 
 
 "'Stop.' 
 
 "I then saw him fish something out of the water. 
 It was the other limb. He bound the two feet to- 
 gether, and shouted anew: 
 
 "'Haul up.' 
 
 "I commenced to wind him up, but I felt my 
 arms strain, my muscles twitch, and was in terror 
 lest I should let the boy fall to the bottom. When 
 his head appeared over the brink, 1 asked: 
 
 "'What is it?' as though 1 only expected that he 
 would tell me what he had discovered at the bottom. 
 
 "We both got on to the stone slab at the edge 
 of the well, and, face to face, hoisted the body. 
 
 "Mother Lecacheur and Celeste watched us from a 
 distance, concealed behind the wall of the house. 
 When they saw, issuing from the well, the black 
 shppers and white stockings of the drowned person, 
 they disappeared. 
 
 "Sapeur seized the ankles of the poor chaste 
 woman, and we drew it up, inclined, as it was, in 
 the most immodest posture. The head was in a
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT lOI 
 
 shocking state, bruised and black; and the long, gray 
 hair, hanging down, was tangled and disordered. 
 ■ "'In the name of all that is holy, how lean she 
 is!' exclaimed Sapeur, in a contemptuous tone. 
 
 "We carried her into the room, and as the 
 women did not put in an appearance, I, with the as- 
 sistance of the lad, dressed the corpse for burial. 
 
 "I washed her disfigured face. By the touch of 
 my hand an eye was slightly opened; it seemed to 
 scan me with that pale stare, with that cold, that 
 terrible look which corpses have, a look which seems 
 to come from the beyond. I plaited up, as well as I 
 could, her disheveled hair, and I adjusted on her 
 forehead a novel and singularly formed lock. Then I 
 took off her dripping wet garments, baring, not 
 without a feeling of shame, as though I had been 
 guilty of some profanation, her shoulders and her 
 chest, and her long arms, slim as the twigs of 
 branches. 
 
 "I next went to fetch some flowers, corn pop- 
 pies, blue beetles, marguerites, and fresh and per- 
 fumed herbs, with which to strew her funeral couch. 
 
 "Being the only person near her, it was necessary 
 for me to perform the usual ceremonies. In a letter 
 found in her pocket, written at the last moment, she 
 asked that her body be buried in the village in which 
 she had passed the last days of her life. A frightful 
 thought then oppressed my heart. Was it not on my 
 account that she wished to be laid at rest in this 
 place ? 
 
 "Toward the evening, all the female gossips of 
 the locality came to view the remains of the defunct; 
 but I would not allow a single person to enter; J
 
 I02 MISS HARRIET 
 
 wanted to be alone; and I watched by the corpse the 
 whole night. 
 
 "By the flickering light of the candles, I looked 
 at the body of this miserable woman, wholly un- 
 known, who had died so lamentably and so far away 
 from home. Had she left no friends, no relatives 
 behind her ? What had her infancy been ? What had 
 been her life? Whence had she come thither, all 
 alone, a wanderer, hke a dog driven from home.? 
 What secrets of suffering and of despair were sealed 
 up in that disagreeable body, in that spent and with- 
 ered hodv. that impenetrable hiding place of a mystery 
 which had driven her far away from affection and 
 from love ? 
 
 "How many unhappy beings there are! I felt 
 that upon that human creature weighed the eternal 
 injustice of implacable nature ! Life was over with 
 her, without her ever having experienced, perhaps, that 
 which sustains the most miserable of us all — to wit, 
 the hope of being once loved ! Otherwise, why 
 should she thus have concealed herself, have fled from 
 the face of others? Why did she love everything so 
 tenderly and so passionately, everything living that 
 was not a man ? 
 
 "I recognized, also, that she believed in a God, 
 and that she hoped for compensation from him for 
 the miseries she had endured. She had now begun 
 to decompose, and to become, in turn, a plant. She 
 who had blossomed in the sun was now to be eaten 
 up by the cattle, carried away in herbs, and in the 
 flesh of beasts, again to become human flesh. F^ut 
 that which is called the soul had been extinguished 
 at. the bottom of the dark well. She suffered no
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT I05 
 
 longer. She had changed her Hfe foi that of others 
 yet to be born, 
 
 "Hours passed away in this silent and sinister 
 communion with the dead. A pale hght at length 
 announced the dawn of a new day, and a bright ray 
 glistened on the bed, shedding a dash of fire on the 
 bedclothes and on her hands. This was the hour 
 she had so much loved, when the waking birds be- 
 gan to sing in the trees. 
 
 "I opened the windov/ to its fullest extent, I drew 
 back the curtains, so that the whole heavens might 
 look in upon us. Then bending toward the glassy 
 f.orpse, I took in my hands the mutilated head, and 
 slowly, without terror or disgust, imprinted a long, 
 \ong kiss upon those lips which had never before 
 received the salute of love. " 
 
 ******* 
 
 Leon Chenal remained silent. The women wept. 
 We heard on the box seat Count d'Etraille blow his 
 nose, from time to time. The coachman alone had 
 gone to sleep. The horses, which felt no longer the 
 sting of the whip, had slackened their pace and 
 dragged softly along. And the four-in-hand, hardly 
 moving at all, became suddenly torpid, as if laden 
 with sorrow.
 
 THE HOLE 
 
 UTS AND WOUNDS WHICH CAUSED DEATH. 
 
 That was the heading of the charge 
 which brought Leopold Renard, up- 
 holsterer, before the Assize Court. 
 Round him were the principal 
 witnesses, Madame Flameche, widow 
 of the victim, Louis Ladureau, cabi- 
 netmaker, and Jean Durdent, plumber. 
 
 Near the criminal was his wife, 
 dressed in black, a little ugly woman, 
 who looked like a monkey dressed as a 
 lady. 
 
 This is how Renard described the drama: 
 "Good heavens, it is a misfortune of which 
 I am the first and last victim, and with which my will 
 has nothing to do. The facts are their own commen- 
 tary, Monsieur le President. I am an honest man, a 
 hard-working man, an upholsterer in the same street 
 for the last sixteen years, known, liked, respected, and 
 esteemed by all, as my neighbors have testified, even 
 the porter, who is not foldtre every day. I am fond 
 of work, I am fond of saving, I like honest men, and 
 (104)
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 105 
 
 respectable pleasures. That is what has ruined me, 
 so much the worse for me; but as my will had noth- 
 ing to do with it, I continue to respect m^^self. 
 
 "Every Sunday for the last five years, my wife 
 and I have spent the day at Pussy. We get fresh 
 air, not to say that we are fond of fishing — as fond 
 of it as we are of small onions. Melie inspired me 
 with that passion, the jade; she is more enthusiastic 
 than I am, the scold, and all the mischief in this 
 business is her fault, as you will see immediately. 
 
 "I am strong and mild-tempered, without a 
 pennyworth of malice in me. But she 1 oh ! la ! la 1 
 she looks insignificant, she is short and thin, but she 
 does more mischief than a weasel. I do not den}' 
 that she has some good qualities; she has some, and 
 those very important to a man in business. But 
 her character ! Just ask about it in the neighbor- 
 hood; even the porter's wife, who has just ' sent 
 me about my business — she will tell you something 
 about it. 
 
 "Every day she used to find fnilt with my mild 
 temper: 'I would not put up with this! 1 would 
 not put up with that.' If 1 had listened to her, 
 Monsieur le President, I should have had at least 
 three bouts of fisticuffs a month." 
 
 Madame Renard interrupted him: "And for good 
 reasons too; they laugh best who laugh last." 
 
 He turned toward her frankly: "Oh! very well, 
 I can blame you, since you were the cause of it." 
 
 Then, facing the President again he said: 
 
 "I will continue. We used to go to Passy every 
 Saturday evening, so as to be able to begin fishing 
 at daybreak the next morning. It is a habit which
 
 I06 THE HOLE 
 
 has become reccnd nature with us, as the saying is, 
 Tiiree 3^ears ago this summer I discovered a place, 
 oh ! such a spot ! There, in the shade, were eiglit 
 feet of water at least and perhaps ten, a hole with a 
 reiour under the bank, a regular retreat for fish and 
 a paradise for any fisherman. 1 might look upon 
 that hole as my property, Monsieur le President, as I 
 was its Christopher Columbus. Everybody in the 
 neighborhood knew it, without making any opposi- 
 tion. They used to say: 'That is Renard's place'; 
 and nobody would have gone to it, not even Monsieur 
 Plumsay, who is renowned, be it said without any 
 offense, for appropriating other people's places. 
 
 "Well, I went as usual to that place, of which I 
 felt as certain as if I had owned it. I had scarcely 
 got there on Saturday, when I got into 'Delila,' 
 with my wife. 'Delila' is my Norwegian boat, 
 which I had built by Fourmaise, and which is light 
 and safe. Well, as I said, we got into the boat and 
 we were going to bait, and for baiting there is no- 
 body to be compared with me, and they all know it. 
 You want to know with what I bait? 1 cannot an- 
 swer that question; it has nothing to do with the 
 accident; I cannot answer, that is my secret. There 
 are more than three hundred people who have asked 
 me; I have been offered glasses of brandy and liquors, 
 fried fish, matelots,* to make me tell! But just go 
 and try whether the chub will come. Ah! they have 
 patted my stomach to get at my secret, my recipe. 
 Only my wife knows, and she will not tell it, any 
 more than I shall! Is not that so, Melie?" 
 
 * A preparation of several kinds of fish, with a sharp sauce.
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 107 
 
 The President of the Court interrupted him : 
 
 "Just get to the facts as soon as you can." 
 
 The accused continued: "I am getting to them; I 
 am getting to them. Weil, on Saturday. July 8, we left 
 by the five twenty-five train, and before dinner we 
 went to ground-bait as usual. The weather promised 
 to keep fine, and I said to Mclie: 'All right for to- 
 morrow!' And she replied: 'It looks like it.' We 
 never talk more than that together. 
 
 "And then we returned to dinner. I was happy 
 and thirsty, and that was the cause of everything. 
 I said to Melie: 'Look here Melie, it is fine weather, 
 so suppose I drink a bottle of Casque a mcche. That 
 is a little white wine which we have christened so, 
 because if you drink too much of it it prevents you 
 from sleeping and is the opposite of a nightcap. Do 
 you understand me,? 
 
 "She replied: 'You can do as you please, but you 
 will be ill again, and will not be able to get up to- 
 morrow.' That was true, sensible, prudent, and clear- 
 sighted, I must confess. Nevertheless, 1 could not 
 withstand it, and I drank my bottle. It ?X\ comes 
 from that. 
 
 "Well, I could not sleep. By Jove! It kept me 
 awake till two o'clock in the morning, and then I 
 went to sleep so soundly that 1 should not have 
 heard the angel shouting at the Last Judgment. 
 
 "In short, my wife woke me at six o'clock and I 
 jumped out of bed, hastily put on my trousers and 
 jersey, washed my face and jumped on board 'De- 
 lila.' But it was too late, for when I arrived at my 
 hole it was already taken! Such a thing had never 
 happened to me in three years, and it made me {tt\
 
 I08 THE HOLE 
 
 as if I were being robbed under my own eyes. ' 
 said to myself, 'Confound it all! confound it!' An 1 
 then my wife began to nag at me. 'Eh! Whar 
 about your Casque a tnechel Get along, you drunk- 
 ard! Are you satisfied, you great fool?' I could say 
 nothing, because it was all quite true, and so I 
 landed all the same near the spot and tried to profit 
 by what was left. Perhaps after all the fellow might 
 catch nothing, and go away. 
 
 "He was a little thin man, in white linen coat 
 and waistcoat, and with a large straw hat, and his 
 wife, a fat woman who was doing embroidery, was 
 behind him. 
 
 "When she saw us take up our position close 
 to their place, she murmured: 'I suppose there are 
 no other places on the river!' And my wife, who 
 was furious, replied: 'People who know how to be- 
 have make inquiries about the habits of the neigh- 
 borhood before occupying reserved spots.' 
 
 "As I did not want a fuss, I said to her: 'Hold 
 your tongue, Melie. Let them go on, let them go 
 on; we shall see.' 
 
 "Well, we had fastened 'Delila' under the willow- 
 trees, and had landed and were fishing side by side 
 Melie and I, close to the two others; but here. 
 Monsieur, I must enter into details. 
 
 "We had only been there about five minutes 
 M/hen our male neighbor's float began to go down 
 two or three times, and then he pulled out a chub 
 as thick as my thigh, rather less, perhaps, but nearly 
 as big! My heart beat, and the perspiration stood on 
 my forehead, and Melie said to me: 'Well, you sot, 
 did you see that?'
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT I09 
 
 "Just thtn, Monsieur Bru, the grocer of Poissy, 
 who was fond of gudgeon fishing, passed in a boat, 
 and called out to me: 'So somebody has taken your 
 usual place, Monsieur Renard?' And 1 replied: 'Yes, 
 Monsieur Bru, there are some people in this world 
 who do not know the usages of common politeness.' 
 
 "The little man in linen pretended not to hear, 
 nor his fat lump of a wife, either." 
 
 Here the F*resident interrupted him a second time: 
 "Take care, you are insuhing the widow, Madame 
 Flameche, who is present." 
 
 Renard made his excuses: "I beg your pardon, 
 I beg your pardon, my anger carried me away. Well, 
 not a quarter of an hour had passed when the little 
 man caus:ht another chub and another almost imme- 
 diately, and another live minutes later. 
 
 '•The tears were in my eyes, and then I knew 
 that Madame Renard was boiling with rage, for she 
 kept on nagging at me: 'Oh! how horrid! Don't 
 you see that he is robbing you of your tish ? Do you 
 think that you will catch anything? Not even a frog, 
 nothing whatever. Why, my hands are burning, just 
 to think of it.' 
 
 "But 1 said to myself: 'Let us wait until twelve 
 o'clock. Then this poaching fellow will go to lunch, 
 and I shall get my place again.' As for me. Monsieur 
 le President, I lunch on the spot every Sunday; we 
 bring our provisions in 'Delila.' But there! At 
 twelve o'clock, the wretch produced a fowl out of a 
 newspaper, and while he was eating, actually he 
 caught another chub! 
 
 "Mclie and I had a morsel also, just a mouthful, a 
 mere nothing, for our heart was not in it.
 
 no THE HOLE 
 
 "Then I took up my newspaper, to aid my 
 digestion. Every Sunday I read the 'Gil Bias' in the 
 shade like that, by the side of the water. It is Colum- 
 bine's day, you know, Columbine who writes the 
 articles in the 'Gil Bias.' I generally put Madame 
 Renard into a passion by pretending to know this 
 Columbine. It is not true, for 1 do not know her, 
 and have never seen her, but that does not matter; 
 she writes very well, and then she says things straight 
 out for a woman. She suits me, and there are not 
 many of her sort. 
 
 "Well, I began to tease my wife, but she got 
 angry immediately, and very angry, and so I held my 
 tongue. At that moment our two witnesses, who are 
 present here. Monsieur Ladureau and Monsieur Dur- 
 dent, appeared on the other side of the river. We 
 knew each other by sight. The little man began to 
 fish again, and he caught so many that I trembled 
 with vexation, and his wife said: 'It is an uncom- 
 monly good spot, and we will come here always. 
 Desire.' As for me, a cold shiver ran down my back, 
 and Madame Renard kept repeating: 'You are not a 
 man; you have the blood of a chicken in your veins'; 
 and suddenly I said to her: 'Look here, I v/ould 
 rather go away, or I shall only be doing something 
 foohsh.' 
 
 "And she whispered to me as if she had put a 
 red-hot iron under my nose: 'You are not a man. 
 Now you are going to run away, and surrender your 
 place ! Off you go, Bazaine ! ' 
 
 "Well, I felt that, but yet I did not move, while 
 the other fellow pulled out a bream. Oh ! I never 
 saw such a large one before, never I And then my
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT I if 
 
 wife began to talk aloud, as if she were thinking, 
 and you can see her trickery. She said: 'That is 
 what one might call stolen fish, seeing that we baited 
 the place ourselves. At any rate, they ought to give 
 us back the money we have spent on bait.' 
 
 "Then the fat woman in the cotton dress said in 
 turn: 'Do you mean to call us thieves, Madame?' 
 And they began to explain, and then they came to 
 words. Oh ! Lord ! those creatures know some good 
 ones. They shouted so loud, that our two witnesses, 
 who were on the other bank, began to call out by 
 way of a joke: 'Less noise over there; you will pre- 
 vent your husbands from fishing.' 
 
 "The fact is that neither of us moved any more 
 than if we had been two tree-stumps. We remained 
 there, with our noses over the water, as if we had 
 heard nothing, but by Jove, we heard all the same. 
 'You are a mere liar.' 
 
 "'You are nothing better than a street-walker.' 
 
 "'You are only a trollop.' 
 
 "'You are a regular strumpet.' 
 
 "And so on, and so on; a sailor could not have 
 said more. 
 
 "Suddenly I heard a noise behind me, and turned 
 round. It was the other one, the fat woman who 
 had fallen on to my wife with her parasol. Whack! 
 whack f Melic got two of them, but she was furious, 
 and she hits hard when she is in a rage, so she 
 caught the fat woman by the hair and then, tliitmp, 
 thump. Slaps in the face rained down like ripe 
 plums. I should have let them go on — women 
 among themselves, men among themselves — it does 
 not do to mix the blows, but the little man in the
 
 112 THE HOLE 
 
 linen jacket jumped up like a devil and was going to 
 rush at my wife. Ah ! no, no, not that, my friend ! 
 I caught the gentleman with the end of my fist, 
 rrash, crash, one on the nose, the other in the 
 stomach. He threw up his arms and legs and fell on 
 his back into the river, just into the hole. 
 
 "I should have fished him out most certainly, 
 Monsieur le President, if 1 had had the time. But unfor- 
 tunately the fat woman got the better of it, and she 
 was drubbing Melie terribly. I know that 1 ought not 
 to have assisted her while the man was drinking his 
 fill, but I never thought that he would drown, and 
 said to myself: 'Bah, it will cool him.' 
 
 "I therefore ran up to the women to separate 
 them, and all I received was scratches and bites. 
 Good Lord, what creatures! Well, it took me five 
 minutes, and perhaps ten, to separate those two vira- 
 goes. When I turned round, there was nothing to 
 be seen, and the water was as smooth as a lake. 
 The others yonder kept shouting: 'Fish him out!' 
 It was all very well to say that, but 1 cannot swim 
 and still less dive! 
 
 "A: last the man from the dam came, and two 
 gentlemen with boat-hooks, but it had taken over a 
 quarter of an hour. He was found at the bottom of 
 the hole in eight feet of water, as I have said, but he 
 was dead, the poor little man in his linen suit! There 
 are the facts, such as I have sworn to. I am inno- 
 cent, on my honor." 
 
 The witnesses having deposed to the same effect, 
 the accused was acquitted.
 
 LOVE 
 
 THREE PAGES FROM A SPORTSMAN'S BOOK 
 
 HAVE just read among the general 
 news in one of the papers a drama 
 of passion. He killed her and then 
 he killed himself, so he must have 
 loved her. What matters He or She ? 
 Their love alone matters to me; and 
 it does not interest me because it 
 moves me or astonishes me, or because 
 ■ it softens me or makes me think, but be- 
 cause it recalls to my mind a remembrance 
 f my youth, a strange recollection of a hunt- 
 C^^ ' ing adventure where Love appeared to me, 
 /^» as the Cross appeared to the early Christians, in 
 -^ the midst of the heavens. 
 
 I was born with all the instincts and the senses of 
 primitive man, tempered by the arguments and the 
 restraints of a civilized being. 1 am passionately fond 
 of shooting, yet the sight of the wounded animal, of 
 the blood on its feathers and on my hands, affects 
 my heart so as almost to make it stop. 
 
 That year the cold weather set in suddenly to- 
 ward the end of autumn, and I was invited by one 
 Maup. 1—8 (113)
 
 114 LOVE 
 
 of my cousins, Karl de Rauville, to go with him and 
 shoot ducks on the marshes, at daybreak. 
 
 My cousin was a jolly fellow of forty, with red 
 hair, very stout and bearded, a country gentleman, 
 an amiable semi-brute, of a happy disposition and 
 endowed with that Gallic wit which makes even 
 mediocrity agreeable. He lived in a house, half farm- 
 house, half chateau, situated in a broad valley through 
 which a river ran. The hills right and left were cov- 
 ered with woods, old manorial woods where mag- 
 nificent trees still remained, and where the rarest 
 feathei-ed game in that part of France was to be 
 found. Eagles were shot there occasionally, and birdy of 
 passage, such as rarely venture into our over-populated 
 part of the country, invariably lighted amid these giant 
 oaks, as if they knew or recognized some little corner 
 of a primeval forest which had remained there to serve 
 them as a shelter during their short nocturnal halt. 
 
 In the valley there were large meadows watered 
 by trenches and separated by hedges; then, further 
 on, the river, which up to that point had been kept 
 between banks, expanded into a vast marsh. That 
 marsh was the best shooting ground I ever saw. It 
 was my cousin's chief care, and he kept it as a 
 preserve. Through the rushes that covered it, and 
 made it rustling and rough, narrow passages had been 
 cut, through which the flat-bottomed boats, impelled 
 and steered by poles, passed along silently over dead 
 water, brushing up against the reeds and making the 
 swift fish take refuge in the weeds, and the wild fowl, 
 with their pointed, black heads, dive suddenly. 
 
 I am passionately fond of the water: of the sea, 
 though It is tco vast, too full of movement, impossi-
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT II5 
 
 ble to hold; of the rivers which are so beautiful, but 
 which pass on, and flee away; and above all of the 
 marshes, where the whole unknown existence of 
 aquatic animals palpitates. The marsh is an entire 
 world in itself on the world of earth — a different 
 world, which has its own life, its settled inhabitants 
 and its passing travelers, its voices, its noises, and 
 above all its mystery. Nothing is more impressive, 
 nothing more disquieting, more terrifying occasion- 
 ally, than a fen. Why should a vague terror hang 
 over these low plains covered with water? Is it the 
 low rustling of the rushes, the strange will-o'-the- 
 wisp lights, the silence which prevails on calm nights, 
 the still mists which hang over the surface like a 
 shroud; or is it the almost inaudible splashing, so 
 slight and so gentle, yet sometimes more terrifying 
 than the cannons of men or the thunders of the 
 skies, ' which make these marshes resemble coun- 
 tries one has dreamed of, terrible countries holding an 
 unknown and dangerous secret.'^ 
 
 No, something else belongs to it — another mys- 
 tery, profounder and graver, floats amid these thick 
 mists, perhaps the mystery of the creation itself! For 
 was it not in stagnant and muddy water, amid the 
 heavy humidity of moist land under the heat of the 
 sun, that the first germ of life pulsated and expanded 
 to the day? 
 
 I arrived at my cousin's in the evening. It was 
 freezing hard enough to split the stones. 
 
 During dinner, in the large room whose side- 
 boards, walls, and ceiling were covered with stuffed 
 birds, with wings extended or perched on branches
 
 Il6 LOVE 
 
 to which they were nailed, — hawks, herons, owls, 
 nightjars, buzzards, tiercels, vultures, falcons, — my 
 cousin who, dressed in a sealskin jacket, himself re- 
 sembled some strange animal from a cold country, 
 told me what preparations he had made for that same 
 night. 
 
 We were to start at half past three in the morn- 
 ing, so as to arrive at the place which he had chosen 
 for our watching-place at about half past four. On 
 that spot a hut had been built of lumps of ice, so as 
 to shelter us somewhat from the trying wind which 
 precedes daybreak, a wind so cold as to tear the flesh 
 like a saw, cut it like the blade of a knife, prick 
 it like a poisoned sting, twist it like a pair of pincers, 
 and burn it like fire. 
 
 My cousin rubbed his hands: "1 have never known 
 such a frost," he said; "it is already twelve degrees 
 below zero at six o'clock in the evening." 
 
 I threw myself on to my bed immediately after we 
 had finished our meal, and went to sleep by the light 
 of a bright fire burning in the grate. 
 
 At three o'clock he woke me. In my turn, I put 
 on a sheepskin, and found my cousin Karl covered 
 with a bearskin. After having each swallowed two 
 cups of scalding coffee, followed by glasses of liqueur 
 brandy, we started, accompanied by a gamekeeper 
 and our dogs, Plongeon and Pierrot. 
 
 From the first moment that I got outside, I felt 
 chilled to the very marrow. It was one of those 
 nights on which the earth seems dead with cold. 
 The frozen air becomes resisting and palpable, such 
 pain does it cause; no breath of wind moves it, 
 it is fixed and motionless; it bites you, pierces
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT II7 
 
 through you, dries you, kills the trees, the plants, the 
 insects, the small birds themselves, who fall from the 
 branches on to the hard ground, and become stiff 
 themselves under the grip of the cold. 
 
 The moon, which was in her last quarter and 
 was inclining all to one side, seemed fainting in the 
 midst of space, so weak that she was unable to 
 wane, forced to stay up yonder, seized and paralyzed 
 by the severity of the weather. She shed a cold, 
 mournful light over the world, that dying and wan 
 light which she gives us every month, at the end of 
 her period. 
 
 Karl and I walked side by side, our backs bent, our 
 hands in our pockets and our guns under our arms. 
 Cur boots, which were wrapped in wool so that we 
 might be able to walk without slipping on the frozen 
 river, made no sound, and I looked at the white vapor 
 which our dogs' breath made. 
 
 We were soon on the edge of the marsh, and 
 entered one of the lanes of dry rushes which ran 
 through the low forest. 
 
 Our elbows, which touched the long, ribbonlike 
 leaves, left a slight noise behind us, and 1 was seized, 
 as I had never been before, by the powerful and sin- 
 gular emotion which marshes cause in me. This one 
 was dead, dead from cold, since we were walking on 
 it, in the middle n( its population of dried rushes. 
 
 Suddenly, at the turn of one of the lanes, 1 per- 
 ceived the ice-hut which had been constructed to 
 shelter us. I went in, and as we had nearly an hour 
 to wait before the wandering birds would awake, I 
 rolled myself up in my rug in order to try and get 
 warm. Then, lying on my back, I began to look at
 
 n8 LOVE 
 
 the misshapen moon, which had four horns through 
 the vaguely transparent walls of this polar house. 
 But the frost of the frozen marshes, the cold of these 
 walls, the cold from the firmament penetrated me so 
 terribly that I began to cough. My cousin Karl be- 
 came uneasy. 
 
 "No matter if we do not kill much to-day," he 
 said: " I do not want you to catch cold; we will light 
 a fire." And he told the gamekeeper to cut some 
 rushes. 
 
 We mxade a pile in the middle of our hut which 
 had a hole in the middle of the roof to let out the 
 smoke, and when the red flames rose up to the clear, 
 crystal blocks they began to melt, gently, impercep- 
 tibly, as if they were sweating. Karl, who had re- 
 mained outside, called out to me: "Come and look 
 here!" I went out of the hut and remained struck 
 with astonishment. Our hut, in the shape of a cone, 
 looked like an enormous diamond with a heart of fire, 
 which had been suddenly planted there in the midst 
 of the frozen water of the marsh. And inside, we 
 saw two fantastic forms, those of our dogs, who were 
 warming themselves at the fire. 
 
 But a peculiar cry, a lost, a wandering cry, passed 
 over our heads, and the light from our hearth showed 
 us the wild birds. Nothing moves one so much as 
 the first clamor of a life which one does not see, 
 which passes through the somber air so quickly and 
 so far off, just before the first streak of a winter's day 
 appears on the horizon. It seems to me, at this glacial 
 hour of dawn, as if that passing cry which is carried 
 away by the wings of a bird is the sigh of a soul 
 from the world!
 
 WORKS OF GUY DH MAUPASSANT II9 
 
 "Put out the tire," said Karl, "it is getting day- 
 light." 
 
 The sky was, in fact, beginning to grow pale, and 
 the flights of ducks made long, rapid streaks which 
 were soon obliterated on the sky. 
 
 A stream of light burst out into the night; Karl 
 had fired, and the two dogs ran forward. 
 
 And then, nearly every minute, now he, now 1, 
 aimed rapidly as soon as the shadow of a flying flock 
 appeared above the rushes. And Pierrot and Plon- 
 geon, out of breath but happy, retrieved the bleeding 
 birds, whose eyes still, occasionally, looked at us. 
 
 The sun had risen, and it was a bright day with 
 a blue sky, and we were thinking of taking our de- 
 parture, when two birds with extended necks and 
 outstretched wings, glided rapidly over our head.;. I 
 fired, and one of them fell almost at my feet. It was 
 a teal, with a silver breast, and then, in the blue 
 space above me, 1 heard a voice, the voice of a bird. 
 It was a short, repeated, heart-rending lament; and the 
 bird, the little animal that had been spared began to 
 turn round in the blue sky, over our heads, looking 
 at its dead companion which 1 was holding in my 
 hand. 
 
 Karl was on his knees, his gun to his shoulder 
 watching it eagerly, until it should be within shot. 
 "You have killed the duck," he said, "and the drake 
 will not fly away." 
 
 He certainly did not fly away; he circled over 
 our heads continually, and continued his cries. Never 
 have any groans of suffering pained me so much as 
 that desolate appeal, as that lamentable reproach of 
 this poor bird which was lost in space.
 
 120 LOVE 
 
 Occasionally he took flight under the menace of 
 the gun which followed his movements, and seemed 
 ready to continue his flight alone, but as he could 
 not make up his mind to this, he returned to find 
 his mate. 
 
 "Leave her on the ground," Karl said to me, "he 
 will come within shot by and by." And he did in- 
 deed come near us, careless of danger, infatuated by 
 his animal love, by his affection for his mate, which 
 I had just killed. 
 
 Karl fired, and it was as if somebody had cut the 
 string which held the bird suspended. I saw some- 
 thing black descend, and I heard the noise of a faU 
 among the rushes. And Pierrot brought it to me. 
 
 1 put them — they were already cold — into the 
 same game-bag, and I returned to Paris the same 
 evening.
 
 THE INN 
 
 IKE all the little wooden inns in the 
 higher Alps, tiny auberges situated 
 in the bare and rocky gorges which 
 intersect the white summits of the 
 mountains, the inn of Schwarenbach 
 is a refuge for travelers v/ho are cross- 
 ing the Gem mi. 
 
 It is open six months in the year^ 
 and is inhabited by the family of Jean 
 [auser. As soon as the snow begins to 
 ^^.i— =4 fall, and fills the valley so as to make the 
 road down to Loeche impassable, the father, 
 with mother, daughter, and the three sons de- 
 part, leaving the house in charge of the old 
 guide, Gaspard Hari, with the young guide, Ulrich 
 Kunsi, and Sam, the great mountain dog. 
 
 The two men and the dog remain till spring in 
 their snowy prison, with nothing before their eyes 
 except immense, white slopes of the Balmhorn, sur- 
 rounded by light, glistening summits, and shut up, 
 blocked up, and buried by the snow which rises 
 around them, enveloping and almost burying the 
 little house up to the eaves. 
 
 (121)
 
 122 THE INN 
 
 It was the day on which the Hauser family were 
 going to return to Loeche, as winter was approach- 
 ing, and the descent was becoming dangerous. Three 
 mules started first, laden with baggage and led by 
 the three sons. Then the mother, Jeanne Hauser, and 
 her daughter Louise mounted a fourth mule, and set 
 off in their turn. The father followed them, ac- 
 companied by the two men in charge, who were 
 to escort the family as far as the brow of the 
 descent. First of all they skirted the small lake, now 
 frozen over, at the foot of the mass of rocks which 
 stretched in front of the inn; then they followed the 
 valley, which was dominated on all sides by snow- 
 covered peaks. 
 
 A ray of sunlight glinted into that little white, 
 glistening, frozen desert, illuminating it with a cold 
 and dazzling flame. No living thing appeared among 
 this ocean of hills; there was no stir in that immeas- 
 urable solitude, no noise disturbed the profound silence. 
 
 By degrees the young guide, Ulrich Kunsi, a tall, 
 long-legged Swiss, left daddy Hauser and old Gas- 
 pard behind, in order to catch up with the mule 
 which carried the two women. The younger one 
 looked at him as he approached, as if she would call 
 him with her sad eyes. She was a young, light- 
 haired peasant girl, whose milk-white cheeks and 
 pale hair seemed to have lost their color by long 
 dwelling amid the ice. When Ulrich had caught up 
 with the animal which carried the women, he put 
 his hand on the crupper, and relaxed his speed. 
 Mother Hauser began to talk to him, and enumerated 
 with minutest detail all that he would have to attend 
 to during the winter. It was the first winter he
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 123 
 
 would spend up there, while old Hari had already 
 spent fourteen winters amid the snow, at the inn of 
 Schwarenbach. 
 
 Ulrich KMHsi listened, without appearing to un- 
 derstand, and looked incessantly at the girl. From 
 time to time he replied: "Yes, Madame Hauser"; but 
 his thoughts seemed far away, and his calm features 
 remained unmoved. 
 
 They reached Lake Daube, whose broad, frozent 
 surfiice reached to the bottom of the valley. On the 
 right, the Daubenhorn showed its black mass, rising 
 up in a peak above the enormous moraines of the 
 Lommeon glacier, which soared above the Wildstru- 
 bel. As they approached the neck of the Gemmi, 
 where the descent to Loeche begins, the immense 
 horizon of the Alps of the Valais, from which the 
 broad, deep valley of the Rhone separated them, came 
 in view. 
 
 In the distance, there was a group of white, un- 
 equal, flat or pointed mountain summits, which glis- 
 tened in the sun; the Mischabel with its twin peaks, 
 the huge group of the Weisshorn, the heavy Bruneg- 
 ghorn, the lofty and formidable pyramid of Mont 
 Cervin, slayer of men, and the Dent Blanche, that 
 terrible coquette. 
 
 Then beneath them, as at the bottom of a terrible 
 abyss, they saw Loeche, its houses looking like grains 
 of sand which had been thrown into that enormous 
 crevice which finishes and closes the Gemmi, and 
 which opens, down below, on to the Rhone. 
 
 The mule stopped at the edge of the path, which 
 turns and twists continually, zigzagging fantastically 
 and strangely along the steep side of the mountain.
 
 124 
 
 THE INN 
 
 as far as the almost invisible little village at its feet. 
 The women jumped into the snow, and the two old 
 men joined them. 
 
 "Well," father Hauser said, "good-bye, and keep 
 up your spirits till next year, my friends," and old 
 Hari replied: "Till next year." 
 
 They embraced each other, and then Madame 
 Hauser in her turn, offered her cheek, and the girl 
 did the same. When Ulrich Kunsi's turn came, he 
 whispered in Louise's ear: 
 
 "Do not forget those up yonder," and she re- 
 plied: "No," in such a low voice, that he guessed 
 what she had said, without hearing it. 
 
 "Well, adieu," Jean Hauser repeated, "and don't 
 fall ill." Then, going before the two women, he 
 commenced the descent, and soon all three disap- 
 peared at the first turn in the road, while the two 
 men returned to the inn at Schwarenbach. 
 
 They walked slowly side by side, without speak- 
 ing. The parting was over, and they would be alone 
 together for four or five months. Then Gaspard Hari 
 began to relate his life last winter. He had remained 
 with Michael Canol, who was too old now to stand 
 it; for an accident might happen during that long 
 solitude. They had not been dull, however; the only 
 thing was to be resigned to it from the first, and in 
 the end one would find plenty of distraction, games 
 and other means of whiling away the time. 
 
 Ulrich Pyunsi listened to him with his eyes on the 
 ground, for in thought he was with those who were 
 descending to the village. They soon came in sight 
 of the inn, which was scarcely visible, so small did it 
 look, a mere black speck at the foot of that enormous
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 125 
 
 billow of snow. When they opened the door, Sam, 
 the great curly dog, began to romp round them. 
 
 "Come, my boy," old Gaspard said, "we have no 
 women now, so we must get our own dinner ready. 
 Go and peel the potatoes." And they both sat down 
 on wooden stools, and began to put the bread into 
 the soup. 
 
 The next morning seemed very long to Kunsi. 
 Old Hari smoked and smoked beside the hearth, 
 while the young man looked out of the window at 
 the snow-covered mountain opposite the house. In 
 the afternoon he went out, and going over the pre- 
 vious day's ground again, he looked for the traces of 
 the mule that had carried the two women; then when 
 he had reached the neck of the Gemmi, he laid him- 
 self down on his stomach, and looked at Loeche. 
 
 The village, in its rocky pit, was not yet buried 
 under the snow, although the white masses came 
 quite close to it, balked, however, of their prey by the 
 pine woods which protected the hamlet. From his 
 vantage point the low houses looked like paving- 
 stones in a large meadow. Hauser's little daughter 
 was there now in one of those gray-colored houses. 
 In which ? Ulrich Kunsi was too far away to be able 
 to make them out separately. How he would have 
 liked to go down while he was yet able! 
 
 But the sun had disappeared behind the lofty crest 
 of the Wildstrubel, and the young man returned to 
 the chalet. Daddy Hari was smoking, and, when he 
 saw his mate come in, proposed a game of cards to 
 him. They sat down opposite each other for a long 
 time and played the simple game called brisque; then, 
 they had supper and went to bed.
 
 126 THE INN 
 
 The following days were like the first, bright and 
 cold, without any more snow. Old Gaspard spent 
 his afternoons in watching the eagles and other rare 
 birds which ventured on to those frozen heights, 
 while Ulrich journeyed regularly to the neck of the 
 Gemmi to look at the village. In the evening they 
 played at cards, dice, or dominoes, and lost and 
 won trifling sums, just to create an interest in the 
 game. 
 
 One morning Hari, who was up first, called his 
 companion. A moving cloud of white spray, deep 
 and light, was falling on them noiselessly, and 
 burying them by degrees under a dark, thick coverlet 
 of foam. This lasted four days and four nights. 
 It was necessary to free the door and the windows, 
 to dig out a passage, and to cut steps to get over 
 this frozen powder, which a twelve-hours' frost had 
 made as hard as the granite of the moraines. 
 
 They lived like prisoners, not venturing outside 
 their abode. They had divided their duties and per- 
 formed them regularly. Ulrich Kunsi undertook the 
 scouring, washing, and everything that belonged to 
 cleanliness. He also chopped up the wood, while 
 Gaspard Hari did the cooking and attended to the 
 fire. Their regular and monotonous work was re- 
 lieved by long games at cards or dice, but they never 
 quarreled, and were always calm and placid. They 
 were never even impatient or ill-humored, nor did 
 they ever use hard words, for they had laid in a 
 stock of patience for this wintering on the top of the 
 mountain. 
 
 Sometimes old Gaspard took his rifle and went 
 after chamois, and occasionally killed one. Then
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 127 
 
 there was a feast in the inn at Schwarenbach, and 
 they reveled in fresh meat. One morning he went 
 out as usual. The thermometer outside marked 
 eighteen degrees of frost, and as the sun had not yet 
 risen, the hunter hoped to surprise the animals at 
 the approaches to the Wildstrubel. Ulrich, being 
 alone, remained in bed until ten o'clock. He was of 
 a sleepy nature, but would not have dared to give 
 way like that to his inclination in the presence of 
 the old guide, who was ever an early riser. He 
 breakfasted leisurely with Sam, who also spent his 
 days and nights in sleeping in front of the fire; 
 then he felt low-spirited and even frightened at 
 the solitude, and was seized by a longing for his 
 daily game of cards, as one is by the domination of 
 an invincible habit. So he went out to meet his 
 companion, who was to return at four o'clock. 
 
 The snow had leveled the whole deep valley, 
 filled up the crevasses, obliterated all signs of the 
 two lakes and covered the rocks, so that between the 
 high summits there was nothing but an immense, 
 white, regular, dazzling, and frozen surface. For 
 three weeks, Ulrich had not been to the edge of the 
 precipice, from which he had looked down on to the 
 village, and he wanted to go there before climbing 
 the slopes which led to the Wildstrubel. Loeche was 
 now covered by the snow, and the houses could 
 scarcely be distinguished, hidden as they were by 
 that white cloak. 
 
 Turning to the right, Ulrich reached the Liimmern 
 glacier. He strode along with a mountaineer's long 
 swinging pace, striking the snow, which was as hard 
 as a rock, with his iron-shod stick, and with piercing
 
 1^8 THE INN 1 
 
 eyes looking for the little black, moving speck in the 
 distance, on that enormous, white expanse. 
 
 When he reached the end of the glacier he 
 stopped, and asked himself whether the old man had 
 taken that road, and then he began to walk along 
 the moraines with rapid and uneasy steps. The day 
 was declining; the snow was assuming a rosy tint, 
 and a dry, frozen wind blew in rough gusts over its 
 crystal surface, Ulrich uttered a long, shrill, vibra- 
 ting call. His voice sped through the deathlike silence 
 in which the mountains were sleeping; it reached 
 into the distance, over the profound and motionless 
 waves of glacial foam, like the cry of a bird over 
 the waves of the sea; then it died away and nothing 
 answered him. 
 
 He started off again. The sun had sunk behind 
 the mountain tops, which still were purpled with the 
 reflection from the heavens; but the depths of the 
 valley were becoming gray, and suddenly the young 
 man felt frightened. It seemed to him as if the si- 
 lence, the cold, the solitude, the wintry death of these 
 mountains were taking possession of him, were stop- 
 ping and freezing his blood, making his limbs grow 
 stiff, and turning him into a motionless and frozen 
 object; and he began to run rapidly toward the dwel- 
 ling. The old man, he thought, would have returned 
 during his absence. He had probably taken another 
 road; and would, no doubt, be sitting before the fire, 
 with a dead chamois at his feet. 
 
 He soon came in sight of the inn, but no smoke 
 rose from it. Ulrich ran faster. Opening the door 
 he met Sam who ran up to him to greet him, but 
 Gaspard Hari had not returned. Kunsi, in his alarm,
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 12g 
 
 turned round suddenly, as if he had expected to find 
 his comrade hidden in a corner. Then he relighted 
 the fire and made the soup; hoping every moment to 
 see the old man come in. From time to time he 
 went out to see if Gaspard were not in sight. It 
 was night now, that wan night of the mountain, a 
 livid night, with the crescent moon, yellow and dim, 
 just disappearing behind the mountain tops, and 
 shining faintly on the edge of the horizon. 
 
 Then the young man went in and sat down to 
 warm his hands and feet, while he pictured to him- 
 self every possible sort of accident. Gaspard might 
 have broken a leg, have fallen into a crevasse, have 
 taken a false step and dislocated his ankle. Perhaps 
 he was lying on the snow, overcome and stiff with 
 the cold, in agony of mind, lost and perhaps shout- 
 ing for help, calling with all his might, in the silence 
 of the night. 
 
 But where ? The mountain was so vast, so rugged, 
 so dangerous in places, especially at that time of the 
 year, that it would have required ten or twenty 
 guides walking for a week in all directions, to fmd a 
 man in that immense space. Ulrich Kunsi, however, 
 made up his mind to set out with Sam, if Gaspard 
 did not return by one in the morning; and he made 
 his preparations. 
 
 He put provisions for two days into a bag, took 
 his steel climbing-irons, tied a long, thin, strong rope 
 round his waist and looked to see that his iron- 
 shod stick and his ax, which served to cut steps 
 in the ice, were in order. Then he waited. The 
 fire was burning on the hearth, the great dog was 
 snoring in front of it, and the clock was ticking in 
 
 Mail p. 1—9
 
 J3Q THE INN 
 
 its case of resounding wood, as regularly as a heart 
 beating. 
 
 He waited, his ears on the alert for distant sounds, 
 and shivered when the wind blew against the roof 
 and the walls. It struck twelve, and he trembled. 
 Then, as he felt frightened and shivery, he put some 
 water on the fire, so that he might have hot coffee 
 before starting. When the clock struck one he got 
 up, woke Sam, opened the door and went off in the 
 direction of the Wildstrubel. For five hours he 
 ascended, scaling the rocks by means of his climbing- 
 irons, cutting into the ice, advancing continually, and 
 occasionally hauling up the dog, who remained below 
 at the foot of some slope that was too steep for him, 
 by means of the rope. About six o'clock he reached 
 one of the summits to which old Gaspard often came 
 after chamois, and he waited till it should be day- 
 light. 
 
 The sky was growing pale overhead, and sud- 
 denly a strange light, springing, nobody could tell 
 whence, suddenly illuminated the immense ocean of 
 pale mountain peaks, which stretched for many leagues 
 around him. It seemed as if this vague brightness 
 arose from the snow itself, in order to spread itself 
 into space. By degrees the highest and most distant 
 Si^r^mits assumed a delicate, fleshlike rose color, and 
 the red sun appeared behind the ponderous giants of 
 the Bernese Alps. 
 
 Ulrich Kunsi set off again, walking hke a hunter, 
 stooping and looking for any traces, and saying to his 
 dog: "Seek old fellow, seekl" 
 
 He was descending the mountain now, scanning 
 the depths closely, and from time to time shouting,
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 131 
 
 Uttering a loud, prolonged familiar cry which soon 
 died away in that silent vastness. Then, he put his 
 ear to the ground, to listen. He thought he could 
 distinguish a voice, and so he began to run and shout 
 again. But he heard nothing more and sat down, 
 worn out and in despair. Toward midday he break- 
 fasted and gave Sam, who was as tired as himself, 
 something to eat also; then he recommenced his 
 search. 
 
 When evening came he was still walking, having 
 traveled more than thirty miles over the mountains. 
 As he was too far away to return home, and too 
 tired to drag himself along any further, he dug a hole 
 in the snow and crouched in it with his dog, under 
 a blanket which he had brought with him. The man 
 and the dog lay side by side, warming themselves 
 one against the other, but frozen to the marrow, 
 nevertheless. Ulrich scarcely slept, his mind haunted 
 by visions and his limbs shaking with cold. 
 
 Day was breaking when he got up. His legs 
 were as stiff as iron bars, and his spirits so low that 
 he was ready to weep, while his heart was beating 
 so that he almost fell with excitement whenever he 
 thought he heard a noise. 
 
 Suddenly he imagined that he also was going to 
 ■die of cold in the midst of this vast solitude. The 
 terror of such a death roused his energies and gave 
 him renewed vigor. He was descending toward the 
 inn, falling down and getting up again, and followed 
 at a distance by Sam, who was liraping on three legs. 
 They did not reach Schwarenbach until four o'clock 
 In ihe afternoon. The house was empty, and the 
 youiig man made a fire, had something to eat, and
 
 132 THE INN 
 
 went to sleep, so worn-out that he did not think of 
 anything more. 
 
 He slept for a long time, for a very long time, the 
 unconquerable sleep of exhaustion. But suddenly a 
 voice, a cry, a name: "Ulrich," aroused him from 
 his profound slumber, and made him sit up in bed. 
 Had he been dreaming? Was it one of those strange 
 appeals which cross the dreams of disquieted minds ? 
 No, he heard it still, that reverberating cry, — which 
 had entered at his ears and remained in his brain, — • 
 thrilling him to the tips of his sinewy fingers. Cer- 
 tainly, somebody had cried out, and called: "Ulrich!" 
 There was somebody there, near the house, there 
 could be no doubt of that, and he opened the door 
 and shouted: "Is it you, Gaspard?" with all the 
 strength of his lungs. But there was no reply, no 
 murmur, no groan, nothing. It was quite dark, and 
 the snow looked wan. 
 
 The wind had risen, that icy wind which cracks 
 the rocks, and leaves nothing alive on those deserted 
 heights. It came in sudden gusts, more parching and 
 more deadly than the burning wind of the desert, 
 and again Ulrich shouted: "Gaspard! Gaspard! Gas- 
 pard!" Then he waited again. Everything was 
 silent on the mountain! Then he shook with terror, 
 and v/ith a bound he was inside the inn. He shut 
 and bolted the door, and then fell into a chair, 
 trembling all over, for he felt certain that his comrade 
 had called him at the moment of dissolution. 
 
 He was certain of that, as certain as one is of con- 
 scious life or of taste when eating. Old Gaspard Hari 
 had been dying for two days and three nights some- 
 where, in some hole, in one of those deep, untrodden
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 133 
 
 ravines whose whiteness is more sinister than subter- 
 ranean darkness. He had been dying for two days 
 and three nights and he had just then died, thinking 
 of his comrade. His soul, almost before it was re- 
 leased, had taken its flight to the inn where Ulrich 
 was sleeping, and it had called him by that terrible 
 and mysterious power which the spirits of the dead 
 possess. That voiceless soul had cried to the v/orn- 
 out soul of the sleeper; it had uttered its last fare- 
 well, or its reproach, or its curse on the man who 
 had not searched carefully enough. 
 
 And Ulrich felt that it was there, quite close to 
 him, behind the wall, behind the door which he had 
 just fastened. It was wandering about, like a night 
 bird which skims a lighted window with his wings, 
 and the terrified young man was ready to scream 
 with horror. He wanted to run away, but did not 
 dare go out; he did not dare, and would never dare 
 in the future, for that phantom would remain there 
 day and night, round the inn, as long as the old 
 man's body was not recovered and deposited in the 
 consecrated earth of a churchyard. 
 
 Daylight came, and Kunsi recovered some of his 
 courage with the return of the bright sun. He pre- 
 pared his meal, gave his dog some food, and then 
 remained motionless on a chair, tortured at heart as 
 he thought of the old man lying on the snow. Then, 
 as soon as night once more covered the mountains, 
 new terrors assailed him. He now walked up and 
 down the dark kitchen, which was scarcely lighted 
 by the flame of one candle. He walked from one 
 end of it to the other with great strides, listening, 
 listening to hear the terrible cry of the preceding night
 
 134 
 
 THE INN 
 
 again break the dreary silence outside. He felt him- 
 self alone, unhappy man, as no man had ever been 
 alone before ! Alone in this immense desert of snow, 
 alone five thousand feet above the inhabited earth, 
 above human habitations, above that stirring, noisy, 
 palpitating life, alone under an icy sky ! A mad 
 longing impelled him to run away, no matter where, 
 to get down to Loeche by flinging himself over the 
 precipice; but he did not even dare to open the door, 
 as he felt sure that the other, the dead, man would 
 bar his road, so that he might not be obliged to 
 remain up there alone. 
 
 Toward midnight, tired with walking, worn-out 
 by grief and fear, he fell into a doze in his chair, for 
 he was afraid of his bed, as one is of a haunted 
 spot. But suddenly the strident cry of the preceding 
 evening pierced his ears, so shrill that Ulrich stretched 
 out his arms to repulse the ghost, and he fell on to 
 his back with his chair. 
 
 Sam, who was awakened by the noise, began to 
 howl as frightened dogs do, and trotted all about the 
 house trying to find out where the danger came 
 from. When he got to the door, he sniffed beneath 
 it, smelling vigorously, with his coat bristling and 
 his tail stiff while he growled angrily. Kunsi, who 
 was terrified, jumped up, and holding his chair by 
 one leg, cried: "Don't come in, don't come in, 
 or I shall kill you." And the dog, excited by this 
 threat, barked angrily at that invisible enemy who 
 defied his master's voice. By degrees^ however, he 
 quieted down, came back and stretched himself in 
 front of the fire. But he was uneasy, and kept his 
 head up, and growled between his teeth.
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 n5 
 
 Ulrich, in turn, recovered his senses, hut as he 
 felt faint with terror, he went and got a bottle of 
 brandy out of the sideboard, and drank otT several 
 glasses, one after another, at a gulp. His ideas became 
 vague, his courage revived, and a feverish glow ran 
 through his veins. 
 
 He ate scarcely anything the next day, and limited 
 himself to alcohol; so he lived for several days, like 
 a drunken brute. As soon as he thought of Gaspard 
 Hari he began to drink again, and went on drinking 
 until he fell on to the floor, overcome by intoxica- 
 tion. And there he remained on his face, dead 
 drunk, his limbs benumbed, and snoring with his 
 face to the ground. But scarcely had he digested the 
 maddening and burning liquor, than the same cry, 
 "Ulrich," woke him like a bullet piercing his brain, 
 and he got up, still staggering, stretching out his 
 hands to save himself from falling, and calling to 
 Sam to help him. And the dog, who appeared to 
 be going mad like his master, rushed to the door, 
 scratched it with his claws, and gnawed it with his 
 long white teeth, while the young man, his neck 
 thrown back, and his head in the air, drank the 
 brandy in gulps, as if it v/ere cold water, so that it 
 might by and by send his thoughts, his frantic terror, 
 and his memory, to sleep again. 
 
 In three weeks he had consumed all his stock of 
 ardent spirits. But his continual drunkenness only 
 lulled his terror, v/hich awoke more furiously than 
 ever, as soon as it was impossible for him to calm 
 it by drinking. His fixed idea, which had been in- 
 tensified by a month of drunkenness, and which was 
 continually increasing in his absolute solitude^ pene-
 
 1^6 IHE INN 
 
 trated him like a gimlet. He now walked about his 
 house like a wild beast in its cage, putting his ear to 
 the door to listen if the other were there, and defying 
 him through the wall. Then as soon as he dozed, 
 overcome by fatigue, he heard the voice which made 
 him leap to his feet. 
 
 At last one night, as cowards do when driven to 
 extremity, he sprang to the door and opened it, to 
 see who was calling him, and to force him to keep 
 quiet. But such a gust of cold wind blew into his 
 face that it chilled him to the bone. He closed and 
 bohed the door again immediately, without noticing that 
 Sam had rushed out. Then, as he was shivering with 
 cold, he threw some wood on the fire, and sat down 
 in front of it to warm himself. But suddenly he 
 started, for somebody was scratching at the wall, 
 and crying. In desperation he called out: "Go 
 away!" but was answered by another long, sorrow- 
 ful wail. 
 
 Then all his remaining senses forsook him, from 
 sheer fright. He repeated: "Go away!" and turned 
 round to find some corner in which to hide, while 
 the other person went round the house still crying, 
 and rubbing against the wall. Ulrich went to the 
 oak sideboard, which was full of plates and dishes 
 and of provisions, and lifting it up with superhuman 
 strength, he dragged it to the door, so as to form a 
 barricade. Then piling up all the rest of the furni- 
 ture, the mattresses, paillasses, and chairs, he stopped 
 up the windows as men do when assailed by an 
 enemy. 
 
 But the person outside now uttered long, plaintive, 
 mournful groans, to which the young man replied
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 157 
 
 by similar groans, and thus days and nights passed 
 without their ceasing to howl at each other. The 
 one was continually walking round the house and 
 scraped the walls with his nails so vigorously that it 
 seemed as if he wished to destroy them, while the 
 other, inside, followed all his movements, stooping 
 down, and holding his ear to the walls, and replying 
 to all his appeals with terrible cries. One evening, 
 however, Ulrich heard nothing more, and he sat 
 down, so overcome by fatigue that he went to sleep 
 immediately, and awoke in the morning without a 
 thought, without any recollection of what had hap- 
 pened, just as if his head had been emptied during 
 his heavy sleep. But he felt hungry, and he ate. 
 
 The winter was over, and the Gemmi pass was 
 practicable again, so the llauser family started off to 
 return to their inn. As soon as they had reached 
 the top of the ascent, the women mounted their 
 mule, and spoke about the two men who they would 
 meet again shortly. They were, indeed, rather sur- 
 prised that neither of them had come down a few 
 days before, as soon as the road became passable, in 
 order to tell them all about their long winter sojourn. 
 At last, however, they saw the inn, still covered with 
 snow, like a quilt. The door and the windows were 
 closed, but a little smoke was coming out of the 
 chimney, which reassured old Mauser; on going up 
 to the door, however, he saw the skeleton of an 
 animal which had been torn to pieces by the eagles, 
 a large skeleton lying on its side. 
 
 They all looked closely at it, and the mother said: 
 "That must be Sam." Then she shouted: " Hi I
 
 U8 
 
 THE INN 
 
 Gaspard ! " A cry from the interior of the house 
 answered her, so sharp a cry that one might have 
 thought some animal uttered it. Old Hauser repeated: 
 "Hi! Gaspard!" and they heard another cry, simi- 
 lar to the first. 
 
 Then the three men, the father and the two sons, 
 tried to open the door, but it resisted their efforts. 
 From the empty cow-stall they took a beam to serve 
 as a battering-ram, and hurled it against the door 
 with all their might. The wood gave way, and the 
 boards flew into splinters; then the house was shaken 
 by a loud voice, and inside, behind the sideboard 
 which was overturned, they saw a man standing 
 upright, his hair falling on to his shoulders and a 
 beard descending to his breast, with shining eyes 
 and nothing but rags to cover him. They did not 
 recognize him, but Louise Hauser exclaimed: "It is 
 Ulrich, mother." And her mother declared that it 
 was Ulrich, although his hair was white. 
 
 He allowed them to go up to him, and to touch 
 him, but he did not reply to any of their questions, 
 and they were obliged to take him to Loeche, where 
 the doctors found that he was mad. Nobody ever 
 knew what had become of his companion. 
 
 Little Louise Hauser nearly died that summer of 
 decline, which the medical men attributed to the cold 
 air of the mountains.
 
 A FAMILY 
 
 WAS going to see my friend Simon Ra- 
 
 devin once more, for I had not seen 
 
 iiim for fifteen years. Formerly he was 
 
 my most intimate friend, and I used to 
 
 spend long, quiet, and happy evenings 
 
 with him. He was one of those men 
 
 to whom one tells the most intimate 
 
 aflfairs of the heart, and in whom one 
 
 finds, when quietly talking, rare, clever, 
 
 ingenious, and refined thoughts — thoughts 
 
 which stimulate and capture the mind. 
 
 For years we h.id scarcely been separated: 
 'e had lived, traveled, thought, and dreamed 
 _;ther; had liked the same things with the 
 same liking, admired the same books, comprehended 
 the same works, shivered with the same sensations, 
 and very often laughed at the same individuals, whom 
 we understood completely, by merely exchanging a 
 glance. 
 
 Then he married — quite unexpectedly married a 
 little girl, from the provinces, who had come to Paris 
 in search of a husband. How ever could that little, 
 (139)
 
 I40 
 
 A FAMILY 
 
 thin, insipidly fair girl, with her weak hands, her 
 light, vacant eyes, and her clear, silly voice, who was 
 exactly like a hundred thousand marriageable dolls, 
 have picked up that intelligent, clever young fellow? 
 Can anyone understand these things? No doubt he 
 had hoped for happiness, simple, quiet, and long- 
 enduring happiness, in the arms of a good, tender, 
 and faithful woman; he had seen all that in the 
 transparent looks of that schoolgirl with light hair. 
 
 He had not dreamed of the fact that an active, 
 living, and vibrating man grows tired as soon as he 
 has comprehended the stupid reality of a common- 
 place life, unless indeed, he becomes so brutahzed 
 as to be callous to externals. 
 
 What would he be lik.e when I met him again? 
 Still lively, witty, light-hearted, and enthusiastic, or in 
 a state of mental torpor through provincial life ? A 
 man can change a great deal in the course of fifteen 
 years 1 
 
 The train stopped at a small station, and as I got 
 out of the carriage, a stout, a very stout man with 
 red cheeks and a big stomach rushed up to me with 
 open arms, exclaiming: "George!" 
 
 I embraced him, but I had not recognized him, 
 ■and then I said, in astonishment: "By Jove! You 
 have not grown thin I " 
 
 And he replied with a laugh: "What did you 
 expect ? Good living, a good table, and good nights ! 
 Eating and sleeping, that is my existence ! " 
 
 I looked at him closely, trying to find the features 
 I held so dear in that broad face. His eyes alone 
 had not altered, but 1 no longer saw the same looks
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT " 141 
 
 in them, and I said to myself: "If looks be the 
 reflection of the mind, the thoughts in that head are 
 not what they used to be — those thoughts which 
 I knew so well." 
 
 Yet his eyes were bright, full of pleasure and 
 friendship, but they had not that clear, intelligent 
 expression which tells better than do words the value 
 of the mind. Suddenly he said to me: 
 
 "Here are my two eldest children." A girl of 
 fourteen, who was almost a woman, and a boy of 
 thirteen, in the dress of a pupil from a lycee, came 
 forward in a hesitating and awkward manner, and I 
 said in a low voice: "Are they yours?" 
 
 "Of course they are," he replied laughing. 
 
 "How many have you?" 
 
 "Five! There are three more indoors." 
 
 He said that in a proud, self-satislied, almost 
 triumphant manner, and I felt profound pity, mingled 
 with a feeling of vague contempt for this vainglorious 
 and simple reproducer of his species, who spent his 
 nights in his country house in uxorious pleasures. 
 
 I got into a carriage, which he drove himself, and 
 we set off through the town, a dull, sleepy, gloomy 
 town where nothing was moving in the streets save 
 a few dogs and two or three maidservants. Here 
 and there a shopkeeper standing at his door took off 
 his hat, and Simon returned the salute and told me 
 the man's name — no doubt to show me that he 
 knew all the inhabitants personally. The thought 
 struck me that he was thinking of becoming a candi- 
 date for the Chamber of Deputies, that dream of all 
 who have buried themselves in the provinces. 
 
 We were soon out of the town; the carriage
 
 j^2 A FAMILY ' 
 
 turned into a garden which had some pretensions to 
 a park, and stopped in front of a turreted house, 
 which tried to pass for a chateau. 
 
 "That is my den," Simon said, so that he might 
 be comphmented on it, and I rephed that it was de- 
 lightful. 
 
 A lady appeared on the steps, dressed up for a 
 visitor, her hair done for a visitor, and with phrases 
 ready prepared for a visitor. She was no longer the 
 light-haired, insipid girl 1 had seen in church fifteen 
 years previously, but a stout lady in curls and flounces, 
 one of those ladies of uncertain age, without intellect, 
 without any of those things which constitute a woman. 
 In short she was a mother, a stout, commonplace 
 mother, a human layer and brood mare, a machine of 
 flesh which procreates, without mental care save for 
 her children and her housekeeping book. 
 
 She welcomed me, and I went into the hall, where 
 three children, ranged according to their height, were 
 ranked for review, like firemen before a mayor. "Ah! 
 ah! so there are the others?" said 1. And Simon, 
 who was radiant with pleasure, named them: "Jean, 
 Sophie, and Gontran." 
 
 The door of the drawing-room was open. I went 
 in, and in the depths of an easy-chair I saw some- 
 thing trembling, a man, an old, paralyzed man. 
 Madame Radevm came forward and said: "This is 
 my grandfather. Monsieur; he is eighty-seven." And 
 then she shouted into the shaking old man's ears: 
 "This is a friend of Simon's, grandpapa." 
 
 The old gentleman tried to say "Good day" to 
 me, and he muttered: "Oua, oua, oua," and waved 
 his hand.
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 143 
 
 I took a seat saying: "You are very kind, Mon- 
 sieur." 
 
 Simon had just come in, and he said with a laugh: 
 *'So! You have made grandpapa's acquaintance. He 
 is priceless, is that old man. He is the delight of the 
 children, and he is so greedy that he almost kills him- 
 self "at every meal. You have no idea what he would 
 eat if he were allowed to do as he pleased. But you 
 will see, you will see. He looks all the sweets over 
 as if they were so many girls. You have never seen 
 anything funnier; you v/ill see it presently." 
 
 I was then shown to my room to change my 
 dress for dinner, and hearing a great clatter behind 
 me on the stairs, 1 turned round and saw that all the 
 children were following me behind their father — to do 
 me honor, no doubt. 
 
 My windows looked out on to a plain, a bare, 
 interminable plain, an ocean of grass, of wheat, and of 
 oats, without a clump of trees or any rising ground, 
 a striking and melancholy picture of the life which 
 they must be leading in that house. 
 
 A bell rang; it was for dinner, and so I went 
 downstairs. Madame Radevin took my arm in a 
 ceremonious manner, and we went into the dining- 
 room. A footman wheeled in the old man's arm- 
 chair, who gave a greedy and curious look at the 
 dessert, as with difficulty he turned his shaking head 
 from one dish to the other. 
 
 Simon rubbed his hands, saying: "You will be 
 amused." All the children understood that I was 
 going to be indulged with the sight of their greedy 
 grandfather and they began to laugh accordingly, 
 while their mother merely smiled and shrugged her
 
 144 
 
 A FAMILY 
 
 shoulders. Simon, making a speaking trumpet of his 
 hands, shouted at the old man: "This evening there 
 is sweet rice-cream," and the wrinkled face" of the 
 grandfather brightened, he trembled violently all over, 
 showing that he had understood and was very 
 pleased. The dinner began. 
 
 "Just lookl" Simon whispered. The grandfather 
 did not like the soup, and refused to eat it; but he 
 was made to, on account of his health. The footman 
 forced the spoon into his mouth, while the old man 
 blew energetically, so as not to swallow the soup, 
 which was thus scattered like a stream of water on 
 to the table and over his neighbors. The children 
 shook with delight at the spectacle, while their father, 
 who was also amused, said: "Isn't the old man 
 funny?" 
 
 During the whole meal they were all taken up 
 solely with him. With his eyes he devoured the 
 dishes which were put on the table, and with trem- 
 bling hands tried to seize them and pull them to 
 him.. They put them almost within his reach to see 
 his useless efforts, his trembling clutches at them, 
 the piteous appeal of his whole nature, of his eyes, 
 of his mouth, and of his nose as he smelled them. He 
 slobbered on to his table napkin with eagerness, 
 while uttering inarticulate grunts, and the whole 
 family was highly amused at this horrible and gro- 
 tesque scene. 
 
 Then they put a tiny morsel on to his plate, 
 which he ate with feverish gluttony, in order to get 
 something more as soon as possible. When the rice- 
 cream was brought in, he nearly had a fit, and 
 groaned with greediness. Gontran called out to
 
 WORKS OF GUY DH MAUPASSANT ij.=, 
 
 him: "You have ealen too much already; you wil! 
 have no more." And they pretended not lo give him 
 any. Then he began to cry — cry and tremble more 
 violently than ever, while all the children laughed. 
 At last, however, they gave him his helping, a very 
 small piece. As he ate the first mouthful of the pud- 
 ding, he made a comical and greedy noise in his throat, 
 and a movement with his neck like ducks do, when 
 they swallow too large a morsel, and then, when he 
 had done, he began to stamp his feet, so as to get 
 more. 
 
 1 was seized with pity for this pitiable and ridic- 
 ulous Tantalus, and interposed on his behalf: "Please, 
 will you not give him a little more rice.^" 
 
 But Simon replied: "Oh! no my dear fellow, if 
 he were to eat too much, it might harm him at his 
 age." 
 
 I held my tongue, and thought over these words. 
 Oh! ethics! Oh! logic! Oh! wisdom! At his age! 
 So they deprived him of his only remaining pleasure 
 out of regard for his health! His health! What 
 would he do with it, inert and trembling wreck that 
 he was? They v/ere taking care of his life, so they 
 said. His life? How many days? Ten, twenty, fifty, 
 or a hundred? Why? For his own sake? Or to 
 preserve for some time longer, the spectacle of his 
 impotent greediness in the family. 
 
 There was nothing loft for him to do in this life, 
 nothing whatever. He had one single wish left, one 
 sole pleasure; why not grant him that last solace 
 constantly, until he died ? 
 
 After playing cards for a long time, I went up to 
 my room and to bed; 1 was low-spirited and sad, 
 
 Maup. I— 10
 
 146 
 
 A FAMILY 
 
 sad, sad! I sat at. my window, but I heard nothing 
 but the beautiful watbling of a bird in a tree, some- 
 where in the distance. No doubt the bird was sing- 
 ing thus in a low voice during the night, to lull his 
 mate, who was sleeping on her eggs. 
 
 And I thought of my poor friend's five children, 
 and to myself pictured him snoring by the side of 
 his ugly wife.
 
 BELLFLOWER* 
 
 ^— <I5^ Y Y o\v Strange are those old recol- 
 
 lections which haunt us, without 
 our being able to get rid of them I 
 This one is so very old that I 
 cannot understand how it has clung 
 so vividly and tenaciously to my 
 ■ aiemory. Since then 1 have seen so 
 many sinister things, either affecting 
 or terrible, that I am astonished at not 
 )eing able to pass a single day without 
 face of Mother Bellflower recurring to 
 my mind's eye, just as 1 knew her for- 
 merly, long, long ago, when I was ten or 
 twelve years old. 
 She was an old seamstress who came to my 
 parents' house once a week, every Thursday, to mend 
 the linen. My parents lived in one of those country 
 houses called chateaux, which are merely old houses 
 with pointed roofs, to which are attached three or 
 Tour adjacent farms. 
 
 * Clochette. 
 
 (147)
 
 1^8 BELLFLOWER 
 
 The village, a large village, almost a small market 
 town, was a few hundred yards off, and nestled 
 round the church, a red brick church, which had be- 
 come black with age. 
 
 Well, every Thursday Mother Bellflower came be- 
 tween half past six and seven in the morning, and 
 went immediately into the linen-room and began to 
 work. She was a tall, thin, bearded or rather hairy 
 woman, for she had a beard all over her face, a sur- 
 prising, an unexpected beard, growing in improbable 
 tufts, in curly bunches which looked as if they had 
 been sown by a madman over that great face, the 
 face of a gendarme in petticoats. She had them on 
 her nose, under her nose, round her nose, on her 
 chin, on her cheeks; and her eyebrows, which were 
 extraordinarily thick and long, and quite gray, bushy 
 and bristling, looked exactly like a pair of mustaches 
 stuck on there by mistake. 
 
 She limped, but not like lame people generally do, 
 but like a ship pitching. When she planted her 
 great, bony, vibrant body on her sound leg, she 
 seemed to be preparing to mount some enormous 
 wave, and then suddenly she dipped as if to disap- 
 pear in an abyss, and byried herself in the ground. 
 Her walk reminded one of a ship in a storm, and her 
 head, which was always covered with an enormou? 
 white cap, whose ribbons fluttered down her back, 
 seemed to traverse the horizon from North to South 
 and from South to North, at each limp. 
 
 I adored Mothei Bellflower. As soon as I was up 
 I used to go into the linen-room, where 1 found her 
 installed at work, with a foot-warmer under her feet. 
 As soon as I arrived, she made me take the foot-
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT I49 
 
 warmer and sit upon it, so that I might not catch 
 cold in that large., chilly room under the roof. 
 
 "That draws the blood from your head," she would 
 say to me. 
 
 She told me stories, while mending the linen with 
 her long, crooked, nimble fingers; behind her magni- 
 fying spectacles, for age had impaired her sight, her 
 eyes appeared enormous to me, strangely profound, 
 double. 
 
 As far as I can remember from the things which 
 she told me and by which my childish heart was 
 moved, she had the large heart of a poor wcman. 
 She told me what had happened in the village, how a 
 cow had escaped from the cowhouse and had been 
 found the next morning in front of Prosper Malet's 
 mill, looking at the sails turning, or about a hen's 
 egg which had been found in tl;e church belfry with- 
 out anyone being able to understand what creature 
 had been there to "lay it, or the queer story of Jean 
 Pila's dog, who had gone ten leagues to bring back 
 his master's breeches which a tramp had stolen while 
 they were hanging up to dry out of doors, after he 
 had been caught in the rain. She told me these sim- 
 ple adventures in such a manner that m my mind 
 they assumed the proportions of ncver-to-be-forgottcn 
 dramas, of grand and mysterious poems; and the 
 ingenious stories invented by the poets, which my 
 mother told me in the evening, had none of the 
 flavor, none of the fullness or of the vigor of the 
 peasant woman's narratives. 
 
 Well, one Thursday when 1 had spent all the morn- 
 ing in listening to Mother Clochette, I wanted to go 
 upstairs to her again during the day, after pickmg
 
 150 BELI.FLOWER 
 
 hazelnuts with the manservant in the wood behind 
 the farm. I remember it ail as clearly as what hap- 
 pened only yesterday. 
 
 On opening the door of the linen-room, 1 saw the 
 old seamstress lying on the floor by the side of her 
 chair, her face turned down and her arms stretched 
 out, but still holding her needle in one hand and 
 one of my shirts in the other. One of her legs 
 in a blue stocking, the longer one no doubt, was 
 extended under her chair, and her spectacles glis- 
 tened by the wall, where they had rolled away from 
 her. 
 
 I ran away uttering shrill cries. They all came 
 running, and in a few minutes 1 was told that Mother 
 Clochette was dead. 
 
 I cannot describe the profound, poignant, terrible, 
 emotion which stirred my childish heart. 1 went 
 slowly down into the drawing-room and hid myself 
 in a dark corner, in the depths of a great, old arm- 
 chair, where I knelt and wept. I remained there for 
 a long time no doubt, for night came on. Suddenly 
 someone came in with a lamp — without seeing me, 
 however — and 1 heard my father and mother talking 
 v/;th the medical man, whose voice I recognized. 
 
 He had been sent for immediately, and he was 
 explaining the cause of the accident, of which I un- 
 derstood nothing, however. Then he sat down and 
 had a glass of liqueur and a biscuit. 
 
 He went on talking, and what he then said will 
 remain engraved on my mind until I die! 1 think 
 that 1 can give the exact words which he used. 
 
 "Ah!" said he, "the poor woman! she broke her 
 leg the day of my arrival here. I had not even had
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 151 
 
 time to wash my hands after getting off the dili- 
 gence before I was sent for in ail haste, for it was a 
 bad case, very bad. 
 
 "She was seventeen, and a pretty girl, very 
 pretty! Would anyone believe it? I have never told 
 her story before, in fact no one but myself and one 
 other person, who is no longer living in this part of 
 the country, ever knew it. Now that she is dead, I 
 may be less discreet. 
 
 "A young assistant teacher had just come to live 
 in the village; he was good-looking and had the bear- 
 ing of a soldier. All the girls ran after him, but he 
 was disdainful. Besides that, he was very much 
 afraid of his superior, the schoolmaster, old Grabu, 
 who occasionally got out of bed the wrong foot 
 first. 
 
 "Old Grabu already employed pretty Hortense, 
 who has just died here, and who was afterward 
 nicknamed Clochette. The assistant master singled 
 out the pretty young girl, who was no doubt flat- 
 tered at being chosen by this disdainful conqueror; 
 at any rate, she fell in love with him, and he suc- 
 ceeded in persuading her to give him a first meeting 
 in the hayloft behind the school, at night, after she 
 had done her day's sewing. 
 
 "She pretended to go home, but instead of going 
 downstairs when she left the Grabus', she went up- 
 stairs and hid among the hay, to wait for her lover. 
 He soon joined her, and he was beginning to say 
 pretty things to her, when the door of the hayloft 
 opened and the schoolmaster appeared, and asked: 
 'What are you doing up there, Sigisbert ? ' Feeling 
 sure that he would be caught, the young school-
 
 152 BELLFLOWER 
 
 master lost hi"-, presence of mind and replied stupidly: 
 'I came up here to rest a little among the bundles of 
 hfly, Monsieur Grabu.' 
 
 "Tile loft was very large and absolutely dark. 
 Sigisbert pusiied tlie frightened girl to the further end 
 and said: 'Go there and hide yourself. 1 shall lose 
 my situation, so get away and hide yourself/ 
 
 " When the schoolmaster heard the whispering, he 
 continued: 'Why, you are not by yourself?' 
 
 "'Yes 1 am, Monsieur Grabu!' 
 
 *' ' But you are not, for you are talking.' 
 
 " * 1 swear 1 am, Monsieur Grabu.' 
 
 "'1 will soon find out,' the old man replied, and 
 double-locking the door, he went down to get a 
 light. 
 
 "Then the young man, who was a coward such 
 as one sometimes .meets, lost his head, and he re- 
 peated, having grown furious all of a sudden: 'Hide 
 yourself, so that he may not find you. You will de- 
 prive me of my L-read for my whole life; you will 
 ruin my whole career! Do hide yourself!' 
 
 "They could hear the key turning in the lock 
 again, and Hortense ran to the window which looked 
 out on to the street, opened it quickly, and then in 
 a low and determined voice said: 'You will come 
 and pick me up when he is gone,' and she jumped 
 out. 
 
 "Old Grabu found nobody, and went dov/n again 
 in great surprise. A quarter of an hour later. Mon- 
 sieur Sigisbert came to me and related his adventure. 
 The girl had remained at the foot of the wall unable 
 to get up, as she hiid follen from the second story, 
 and I went with him to fetch hen It was raining in
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 15^ 
 
 torrents, and I brought the unfortunate girl honr 
 with me, for the right leg was broken in three places, 
 and the bones had come out through the flesh. She 
 did not complain, and merely said, with admirable 
 resignation: 'I am punished, well punished!' 
 
 "1 sent for assistance and for the workgirl's 
 friends and told them a made-up story of a runaway 
 carriage which had knocked her down and lamed 
 her, outside my door. They believed me, and the 
 gendarmes for a whole month tried in vain to find 
 the author of this accident. 
 
 "That is all! Now 1 say that this woman was a 
 heroine, and had the fiber of those who accomplish 
 the grandest deeds in history. 
 
 "That was her only love aiYair, and she died a 
 virgin. She was a martyr, a noble soul,, a sublimely 
 devoted woman! And if 1 did not absolutely admire 
 her, I should not have told you this story, which I 
 would never tell anyone during her life: you under- 
 stand why." 
 
 The doctor ceased; mamma cried and papa said 
 some words which 1 did not catch; then they left the 
 room, and 1 remained on my knees in the armchair 
 and sobbed, while 1 heard a strange noise of heavy 
 footsteps and something knocking against the side of 
 the staircase. 
 
 They were carrying away Clochette's body.
 
 WHO KNOWS? 
 
 Y God! ?vly God! I am going to 
 write down at last what has hap- 
 pened to me. But how can I ? 
 How dare I ? The thing is so 
 bizarre, so inexplicable, so incom- 
 prehensible, so silly! 
 
 if I were not perfectly sure of 
 v/hat 1 have seen, sure that there was 
 '*' not in my reasoning any defect, any 
 error in my declarations, any lacuna in 
 the inflexible sequence of my observa- 
 tions, 1 should believe myself to be the 
 dupe of a simple hallucination, the sport of 
 a singular vision. After all, who kaows? 
 Yesterday I was in a private asylum, but I went 
 there voluntarily, out of prudence and fear. Only one 
 single human being knows my history, and that is 
 the doctor of the said asylum. 1 am going to write 
 to him. I really do not know why? To disembarrass 
 myself? Yea, 1 feel as though weighed down by an 
 intolerable nightmare. 
 Let me explain. 
 (^54)
 
 WHO KNOV/S? 155 
 
 I have cilways been a recluse, a dreamer, a kind of 
 Isolated philosophci. easy-going, content with but lit- 
 tle, harboring ill-feeling against no man, and without 
 even a grudge against heaven. I have constantly 
 lived alone; consequentlv, a kind of torture takes hold 
 of me when I fmd myself in the presence of others. 
 How is this to be explained.^ I do not know. I am 
 not averse to going out into the world, to conversa- 
 tion, to dining with friends, but when they are near 
 me for any length of time, even the most intimate of 
 them, they bore me, fatigue me, enervate me, and I 
 experience an overwhelming, torturing desire to see 
 them get up and go, to take themselves away, and to 
 leave me by myself. 
 
 That desire is more than a craving; it is an ir- 
 resistible necessity. And if the presence of people 
 with whom I fmd myself were to be continued; if I 
 were compelled, not only to listen, but also to follow, 
 for any length of time, their conversation, a serious 
 accident would assuredly take place. What kind of 
 accident ? Ah ! who knows ? Perhaps a slight par- 
 alytic stroke.^ Probably! 
 
 I like solitude so much that I cannot even endure 
 the vicinage of other beings sleeping under the same 
 roof. 1 cannot live in Paris, because there I suffer 
 the most acute agony. I lead a moral life, and am 
 therefore tortured in body and in nerves by that im- 
 mense crowd which swarms and lives even when it 
 sleeps. Ah! the sleeping of others is more painful 
 still than their conversation. And 1 can never find 
 repose when I know and feci that on the other side 
 of a wall several existences are undergoing these reg- 
 ular eclipses of reason.
 
 156 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 Why am I thus? Who knows? The cause of it 
 is very simple perhaps. I get tired very soon of 
 everything that does not emanate from me. And 
 there arc many people in similar case. 
 
 We are, on earth, two distinct races. Those who 
 have need of others, whom others amuse, engage 
 soothe, whom solitude harasses, pains, stupefies, like 
 the movement of a terrible glacier or the traversing 
 of the desert; and those, on the contrary, whom 
 others weary, tire, bore, silently torture, whom isola- 
 tion calms and bathes in the repose of independency, 
 and plunges into the humors of their own thoughts. 
 In fine, there is here a normal, physical phenomenon. 
 Some are constituted to live a life outside of them.« 
 selves, others, to live a life within themselves. As 
 for me, my exterior associations are abruptly and 
 painfully short-lived, and, as they reach their limits, I 
 experience in my whole body and in my whole intel- 
 ligence an intolerable uneasiness. 
 
 As a result of this, I became attached, or rather 
 had become much attached, to inanimate objects, 
 v/hich have for me the importance of beings, and my 
 house has or had become a world in which I lived 
 an active and solitary life, surrounded by all manner 
 of things, furniture, familiar knickknacks, as sympa- 
 thetic in my eyes as the visages of human beings. I 
 had filled my mansion with them; little by little, I had 
 adorned it with them, and I felt an inward content 
 and satisfaction, was more happy than if 1 had been 
 in the arms of a beloved girl, whose wonted caresses 
 had become a soothing and delightful necessity. 
 
 I had had this house constructed in the center of 
 a beautiful garden, which hid it from the public high-
 
 WHO KNOWS? 157' 
 
 ways, and which was near the entrance to a city 
 where I could find, on occasion, the resources of 
 society, for which, at moments, I had a longing. 
 All my domestics slept in a separate building, which 
 was situated at some considerable distance from my 
 house, at the far end of the kitchen garden, which 
 m turn was surrounded by a high wall. The ob- 
 scure envelopment of night, in the silence of my 
 concealed habitation, buried under the leaves of great 
 trees, was so reposeful and so dehcious, that before 
 retiring to my couch I lingered every evening for 
 several hours in order to enjoy the solitude a little 
 longer. 
 
 One day "Signad" had been played at one of the 
 city theaters. It was the first time that I had listened 
 to that beautiful, musical, and fairy-like drama, and I 
 had derived from it the liveliest pleasures. 
 
 I returned home on foot with a light step, my head 
 full of sonorous phrases, and my mind haunted by 
 delightful visions. It was night, the dead of night, 
 and so dark that I could hardly distinguish the broad 
 highway, and consequently I stumbled into the ditch 
 more than once. From the custom-house, at the bar- 
 riers, to my house, was about a mile, perhaps a little 
 more — a leisurely walk of about twenty minutes. It 
 was one o'clock in the morning, one o'clock or maybe 
 half-past one; the sky had by this time cleared some- 
 what and the crescent appeared, the gloomy crescent 
 of the last quarter of the moon. The crescent of the 
 first quarter is that which rises about five or si>t 
 o'clock in the evening and is clear, gay, and fretted with 
 silver; but the one which rises after midnight is red- 
 dish, sadf and desolating — it is the true Sabbath cres-
 
 158 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 cent. Every prowler by night has made the same 
 observation. The first, though slender as a thread, 
 throws a faint, joyous light which rejoices the heart 
 and lines the ground with distinct shadows; the last 
 sheds hardly a dying glimmer, and is so wan that it 
 occasions hardly any shadows. 
 
 In the distance, 1 perceived the somber mass of 
 my garden, and, I know not why, was seized with 
 a feeling of uneasiness at the idea of going inside. I 
 slackened my pace, and walked very softly, the thick 
 cluster of trees having the appearance of a tomb in 
 which my house was buried. 
 
 I opened my outer gate and entered the long 
 avenue of sycamores which ran in the direction of 
 the house, arranged vault-wise like a high tunnel, 
 traversing opaque masses, and winding round the turf 
 lawns, on which baskets of flowers, in the pale dark- 
 ness, could be indistinctly discerned. 
 
 While approaching the house, I was seized by a 
 strange feeling. I could hear nothing, I stood still. 
 Through the trees there was not even a breath of air 
 stirring. "What is the matter with me?" I said to 
 myself. For ten years 1 had entered and re-entered 
 in the same way, without ever experiencing the least 
 inquietude. 1 never had any fear at nights. The 
 sight of a man, a marauder, or a thief would have 
 thrown me into a fit of anger, and I would have 
 rushed at him without any hesitation. Moreover, I 
 was armed — I had my revolver. But I did not touch 
 it, for I was anxious to resist that feeling of dread 
 with which I was seized. 
 
 What was it? Was it a presentiment — that mys- 
 terious presentiment which takes hold of the senses
 
 WHO KNOWS? 159 
 
 of men who have witnessed something which, to 
 them, is inexplicable? Perhaps? Who knows? 
 
 In proportion as I advanced, I felt my skin quiver 
 more and more, and when I was close to the wall, 
 near the outhouses of my large residence, I felt that 
 it would be necessary for me to wait a few minutes 
 before opening the door and going inside. I sat 
 down, then, on a bench, under the windows of my 
 drawing-room. 1 rested there, a little disturbed, with 
 my head leaning against the wall, my eyes wide open, 
 under the shade of the foliage. For the first few 
 minutes, I did not observe anything unusual around 
 me; I had a humming noise in fuy ears, but that has 
 happened often to me. Sometimes it seemed to me 
 that I heard trains passing, that I heard clocks strik- 
 ing, that I heard a multitude on the march. 
 
 Very soon, those humming noises became more 
 distinct, more concentrated, more determinable, 1 was 
 deceiving myself It was not the ordinary tingling of 
 my arteries which transmitted to my ears these rum- 
 bling sounds, but it was a very distinct, though con- 
 fused, noise which came, without any doubt whatever, 
 from the interior of my house. Through the walls J 
 distinguished this continued noise, — 1 should rather 
 say agitation than noise, — an indistinct moving about 
 of a pile of things, as if people were tossing about, 
 displacing, and carrying away surreptitiously all my 
 furniture. 
 
 I doubted, however, for some considerable time 
 yet, the evidence of my ears. But having placed my 
 ear against one of the outhouses, the better to dis- 
 cover what this strange disturbance was, inside my 
 house, I became convinced, certain, that something
 
 l6o WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 was taking place in my residence which v/as a!l.O' 
 gether abnormal and incomprehensible. I had no 
 fear, but I was — how shall I express it — paralyzed 
 by astonishment. I did not draw my revolver, 
 knowing very well that there was no need of my 
 doing so. 
 
 I listened a long time, but could come to no reso- 
 lution, my mind being quite clear, though in myself 
 I was naturally anxious. 1 got up and waited, listen- 
 ing always to the noise, which gradually increased, 
 and at intervals grew very loud, and which seemed 
 to become an impatient, angry disturbance, a myste- 
 rious commotion. 
 
 Then, suddenly, ashamed of my timidity, I seized 
 my bunch of keys. 1 selected the one I wanted, 
 guided it into the lock, turned it twice, and pushing 
 the door with all my might, sent it banging against 
 the partition. 
 
 The collision sounded like the report of a gun, and 
 there responded to that explosive noise, from roof to 
 basement ot my residence, a formidable tumult. It 
 was so sudden, so terrible, so deafening, that I re- 
 coiled a few steps, and though I knew it to be 
 wholly useless, I pulled my revolver out of its 
 case. 
 
 I continued to listen for some time longer. I could 
 distinguish now an extraordinary p^attcring upon the 
 steps of my grand staircase, on the waxed floors, on 
 the carpets, not of boots, or of naked feet, but of 
 iron and wooden crutches, which resounded like 
 cymbals. Then I suddenly discerned, on the thresh- 
 old of my door, an armchair, my large reading 
 easy-chair, which set off waddling. It went away
 
 WHO KNOWS? iCi 
 
 through my garden. Others followed it, those of my 
 drawing-room, then my sofas, dragging themselves 
 along like crocodiles on their short paws; then all 
 my chairs, bounding like goats, and the little foot- 
 stools, hopping like rabbits. 
 
 Oh! what a sensation! 1 slunk back into a clump 
 of bushes where I remained crouched up, watching, 
 meanwhile, my furniture defile past — for everything 
 walked away, the one behind the other, briskly or 
 slowly, according to its weight or size. My piano, 
 my grand piano, bounded past with the gallop of a 
 horse and a murmur of music in its sides; the 
 smaller articles slid along the gravel like snails, my 
 brushes, crystal, cups and saucers, which glistened 
 in the moonlight. I saw my writing desk appear, a 
 rare curiosity of the last century, which contained all 
 the letters I had ever received, all the history of my 
 heart, an old history from which I have suffered so 
 much! Besides, there were inside of it a great many 
 cherished photographs. 
 
 Suddenly — I no longer had any fear — 1 threw 
 myself on it, seized it as one would seize a thief, as 
 one would seize a wife about to run away; but it 
 pursued its irresistible course, and despite my efforts 
 and despite my anger, I could not even retard its 
 pace. As I was resisting in desperation that insuper- 
 able force, I was thrown ta the ground. It then 
 rolled me over, trailed me along the gravel, and the 
 rest of my furniture, which followed it, began to 
 march over mc, tramping on my legs and injuring 
 them. When 1 loosed my hold, other articles had passed 
 over my body, just as a charge of cavalry does over 
 the body of a dismounted soldier, 
 Mfiup. I — 11
 
 l62 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 Seized at last with terror, I succeeded in drag- 
 ging myself out of the main avenue, and in conceal- 
 ing myself again among the shrubbery, so as to 
 watch the disappearance of the most cherished ob- 
 jects, the smallest, the least striking, the least unknown 
 which had once belonged to me. 
 
 I then heard, in the distance, noises which came 
 from my apartments, which sounded now as if the 
 house were empty, a loud noise of shutting of doors. 
 They were being slammed from top to bottom of my 
 dwelling, even the door which I had just opened 
 myself unconsciously, and which had closed of itself, 
 when the last thing had taken its departure. I took 
 flight also, running toward the city, and only re- 
 gained my self-composure, on reaching the boulevards, 
 where I met belated people. 1 rang the bell of a 
 hotel were 1 was known. 1 had knocked the dust 
 off my clothes with my hands, and 1 told the porter 
 that I had lost my bunch of keys, which included 
 also that to the kitchen garden, where my servants 
 slept in a house standing by itself, on the other side 
 of the wall of the inclosure which protected my 
 fruits and vegetables from the raids of marauders. 
 
 I covered myself up to the eyes in the bed which 
 was assigned to me, but could not sleep; and I 
 waited for the dawn listening to the throbbing of my 
 heart. I had given orders that my servants were to 
 be surnmoned to the hotel at daybreak, and my valet 
 de chambre knocked at my door at seven o'clock in 
 the morning. 
 
 His countenance bore a woeful look. 
 
 "A great misfortune has happened during the 
 night, Monsieur," said he.
 
 WHO KNOWS? l6^ 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Somebody has stolen the whole of Monsieur's 
 furniture, all, everything, even to the smallest arti- 
 cles." 
 
 This news pleased me. Why ? Who knows ? I 
 was complete master of myself, bent on dissimula- 
 ting, on telling no one of anything 1 had seen; deter- 
 mined on concealing and in burying in my heart of 
 hearts a terrible secret. I responded: 
 
 "They must then be the same people who have 
 stolen my keys. The police must be informed im- 
 mediately. I am going to get up, and I will join 
 you in a few moments." 
 
 The investigation into the circumstances under 
 which the robbery might have been committed lasted 
 lor five months. Nothing was found, not even the 
 smallest of my knickknacks, nor the least trace of the 
 thieves. Good gracious! If I had only told them 
 what I knew — If I had said — I should have been 
 locked up — 1, not the thieves — for I was the only 
 person who had seen everything from the first. 
 
 Yes! but 1 knew how to keep silence. I shall 
 never refurnish my house. That were indeed useless. 
 The same thing would happen again. I had no 
 desire even to re-enter the house, and I did not 
 re-enter it; 1 never visited it again. I moved to Paris, 
 to the hotel, and consulted doctors in regard to the 
 condition of my nerves, which had disquieted me a 
 good deal ever since that awful night. 
 
 They advised me to travel, and I followed their 
 counsel.
 
 1 64 WORKS OF GUY DB MAUPASSANT 
 
 11 
 
 I began by making an excursion into Italy, The 
 sunsiiine did me much good. For six months I wan- 
 dered about from Genoa to Venice, from Venice to 
 Florence, from Florence to Rome, from Rome to 
 Naples. Then I traveled over Sicily, a country cele- 
 brated for its scenery and its monuments, relics left 
 by the Greeks and the Normans. Passing over into 
 Africa, I traversed at my ease that immense desert, 
 yellow and tranquil, in which camels, gazelles, and 
 Arab vagabonds roa.m about — where, in the rare and 
 transparent atmosphere, there hover no vague haunt- 
 ings, where there is never any night, but always day. 
 
 I returned to France by Marseilles, and in spite of 
 all its Provencal gaiety, the diminished clearness of 
 the sky made me sad. I experienced, in returning to 
 the Continent, the peculiar sensation of an illness 
 v/hich 1 believed had been cured, and a dull pain 
 which predicted that the seeds of the disease had 
 not been eradicated. 
 
 I then returned to Paris. At the end of a month 
 I was very dejected. It was in the autumn, and ) 
 determined to make, before winter came, an excursion 
 through Normandy, a country with which I was un- 
 acquainted. 
 
 I began my journey, in the best of spirits, av' 
 Rouen, and for eight days 1 wandered about, passive, 
 ravished, and enthusiastic, in that ancient city, that 
 astonishing museum of extraordinary Gothic monu- 
 ments.
 
 WHO KNOWS? 165 
 
 But one afternoon, about four o'clock, as I was 
 sauntering slowly through a seemingly unattractive 
 street, by which there ran a stream as black as the 
 ink called "Eau de Robec," my attention, fixed for 
 the moment on the quaint, antique appearance of 
 some of the houses, was suddenly attracted by the 
 view of a series of second-hand furniture shops, 
 which followed one another, door after door. 
 
 Ah! they had carefully chosen their locality, these 
 sordid traffickers in antiquities, in that quaint little 
 street, overlooking the sinister stream of water, under 
 those tile and slate-pointed roofs on which still 
 grinned the vanes of bygone days. 
 
 At the end of these grim storehouses you saw 
 piled up sculptured chests, Rouen, Sevres, and 
 Moustier's pottery, painted statues, others of oak, 
 Christs, Virgins, Saints, church ornaments, chasubles, 
 capes, even sacred vases, and an old gilded wooden 
 tabernacle, where a god had hidden himself away. 
 What singular caverns there are in those lofty houses, 
 crowded with objects of every description, where the 
 existence of things seems to be ended, things which 
 have survived their original possessors, their century, 
 their times, their fashions, in order to be bought as 
 curiosities by new generations. 
 
 My affection for antiques was awakened in that 
 city of antiquaries. I went from shop to shop, cross- 
 ing in two strides, the rotten four plank bridges 
 thrown over the nauseous current of the "Eau de 
 Robec." 
 
 Heaven protect me! What a shock! At the end 
 of a vault, which was crowded with articles of every 
 description and v/hich seemed to be the entrance to
 
 l66 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 the catacombs of a cemetery of ancient furniture, ! 
 suddenly descried one of my most beautiful ward- 
 robes. I approached it, trembling m every limb, 
 trembling to such an extent that I dared not touch it. 
 ! put forth my hand, I hesitated. Nevertheless it 
 was indeed my wardrobe; a unique wardrobe of the 
 time of Louis XIII., recognizable by anyone who had 
 seen it only once. Casting my eyes suddenly a little 
 farther, toward the more somber depths of the gal- 
 lery, I perceived three of my tapestry covered chairs; 
 and farther on still, my two Henry II. tables, such 
 rare treasures that people came all the way from 
 Paris to see them. 
 
 Think! only think in what a state of mind I now 
 was! I advanced, haltingly, quivering with emotion, 
 but I advanced, for I am brave — I advanced like a 
 knight of the dark ages. 
 
 At every step I found something that belonged to 
 me; my brushes, my books, my tables, my silks, my 
 arms, everything, except the bureau full of my letters, 
 and that I could not discover. 
 
 1 walked on, descending to the dark galleries, in 
 order to ascend next to the floors above. I was 
 alone; I called out, nobody answered, I was alone; 
 there was no one in that house — a house as vast 
 and tortuous as a labyrinth. 
 
 Night came on, and I was compelled to sit down 
 in the darkness on one of my own chairs, for I liad 
 no desire to go away. From time to time I shouted, 
 "Hallo, hallo, somebody." 
 
 I had sat there, certainly, for more than an hour 
 when I heard steps, steps soft and slow, I knew not 
 where. I was unable to locate them, but bracing
 
 WHO KNOWS? 167 
 
 myself up, I called out anew, whereupon I perceived 
 a glimmer of light in the next chamber. 
 
 "Who is there?" said a voice. 
 
 "A buyer," i responded. 
 
 "It is too late to, enter thus into a shop." 
 
 "I have been waiting for you for more than an 
 "hour," I answered. 
 
 "You can come back to-morrow." 
 
 "To-morrow I must quit Rouen." 
 
 I dared not advance, and he did not come to me. 
 1 saw always the glimmer of his light, which was 
 shining on a tapestry on which were two angels fly- 
 ing over the dead on a field of battle. It belonged 
 to mie also. I said: 
 
 "Well, comie here." 
 
 "I am at your service," he answered. 
 
 I got up and went toward him. 
 
 Standing in the center of a large room, was a 
 little man, very short, and very f^it, phenomenally 
 fat, a hideous phenomenon. 
 
 He had a singular straggling beard, white and 
 yellow, and not a hair on his head — not a hair! 
 
 As he held his candle afoft at arm's length in 
 order to see mc, his cranium appeared to me to re- 
 semble a little moon, in that vast chamber encum- 
 bered with old furniture. His features were wrinkled 
 ard blown, and his eyes could not be seen. 
 
 I bought three chairs which belonged to myself, 
 and paid at once a large sum for them, giving him 
 merely the number of my room at the hotel. They 
 were to be delivered the next day before nine o'clock. 
 
 I then started off. He conducted me, with much 
 politeness, as far as the doon
 
 1 68 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 I immediately repaired to the coinmissaire's office 
 at the central police depot, and told the comrnissaire 
 of the robbery v/hich had been perpetrated and of 
 the discovery I had just made. He required time to 
 communicate by telegraph with the authorities who 
 had originally charge of the case, for information, 
 and he begged me to wait in his office until an an- 
 swer came back. An hour later, an answer came 
 back, which was in accord with my statements. 
 
 "I am going to arrest and interrogate this man, 
 at once," he said to me, "for he may have conceived 
 some sort of suspicion, and smuggled away out of 
 sight what belongs to you. Will you go and dine 
 and return in two hours: I shall then have the man 
 here, and I shall subject him to a fresh interrogation 
 in your presence." 
 
 "Most gladly, Monsieur. I thank you with my 
 whole heart." 
 
 I went to dine at my hotel and I ate better than 
 I could have believed. I was quite happy now, 
 thinking that man was in the hand:; of the police. 
 
 Two hours later 1 returned to the office of the 
 police functionary, who was waiting for me. 
 
 "Well, Monsieur," said he, on perceiving me, 
 "we have not been able to find your man. My 
 agents cannot put their hands on liim." 
 
 Ah! I felt my heart sinking. 
 
 "But you have at least found his house?" I 
 asked, 
 
 "Yes, certainly; and what is more, it is now be- 
 ing watched and guarded until his return. As for 
 him, he has disappeared." 
 
 "Disappeared?"
 
 WHO KNOY.'S? 169 
 
 '*Yes, disappeared. He ordinarily passes his even- 
 ings at the house of a female neighbor, who is also 
 a furniture broker, a queer sort of sorceress, the 
 widow Bidoin. She has not seen him this evening 
 and cannot give any information in regard to him. 
 We must wait until to-morrow." 
 
 I went away. Ah! how sinister the streets of 
 Rouen seemed to me, now troubled and haunted! 
 
 I slept so badly that I had a fit of nightmare 
 every time 1 went off to sleep. 
 
 As ! did not wish to appear too restless or eager, 
 I waited till ten o'clock the next day before reporting 
 myself to the police. 
 
 The merchant had not reappeared. His shop re- 
 mained closed. 
 
 The commissary said to me: 
 
 "1 have taken all the necessary steps. The court 
 has been made acquainted with the affair. We shall 
 go together to that shop and have it opened, and you 
 shall point out to me all that belongs to you." 
 
 We drove there in a cab. Police agents were 
 stationed round the building; there was a locksmith, 
 too, and the door of the shop was soon opened. 
 
 On entering, 1 could not discover my wardrobes, 
 my chairs, my tables; 1 saw nothing, nothing of that 
 which had furnished my house, no, nothing, although 
 on the previous evening, I could not take a step with- 
 out encountering something that belonged to me. 
 
 The chief commissary, much astonished, regarded 
 me at first with suspicion. 
 
 -My God, Monsieur," said I to him, "the disap- 
 pearance of these articles of furniture coincides 
 Strangely with that of the merchant."
 
 170 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT;. 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 "That is true. You did wrong in buying and 
 paying for the articles which were your own prop- 
 erty, yesterday. It was that which gave him the 
 cue." 
 
 "What seems to me incompi-ehensible," I replied, 
 **is that all the places that were occupied by my 
 furniture are now filled by other furniture." 
 
 "Oh!" responded the commissary, "he has had all 
 night, and has no doubt been assisted by accomplices. 
 This house must communicate with its neighbors. 
 But have no fear, Monsieur; I will have the affair 
 promptly and thoroughly investigated. The brigand 
 shall not escape us for long, seeing that we are in 
 charge of the den." 
 
 ******* 
 
 Ah! My heart, my heart, my poor heart, how it 
 beats ! 
 
 I remained a fortnight at Rouen. The man did 
 not return. Heavens! good heavens! That man, what 
 was it that could have frightened and surprised him! 
 
 But, on the sixteenth day, early in the m.orning, 1 
 received from my gardener, now the keeper of my 
 empty and pillaged house, the following strange letter: 
 
 *' Monsieur: 
 
 "I have the honor to inform Monsieur that something happened, 
 the evening befote last, which nobody can understand, and the police 
 no more than the rest of us. The whole of the furniture has been 
 returned, not one piece is missing — everything is in its place, up to 
 the very smallest article. The house is now the same in every re- 
 spect as it was before the robbery took place. It is enough to make 
 one lose one's head. The thing took place duiing the night Fiiday — 
 Satuiday. The roads are dug up as though the whole fence had
 
 WHO KNOWS? l-]! 
 
 been dragged from its place up to the door. The same thing was 
 ctiserved the day after the disappearance of the furniture. 
 
 "We are anxiously expecting Monsieur, whose very humble and 
 obedient setvant, I am, Phillipe Raudin." 
 
 "Ah! no, no, ah! never, never, ah! no. 1 shall 
 never return there!" 
 
 I took the letter to the commissary of police. 
 
 "It is a very clever restitution," said he. "Let 
 us bury the hatchet. We shall nip tlie man one of 
 these days." 
 
 ^ JjC 5|C 2jt -{C SS o^ 
 
 But he has never been nipped. No. They have 
 not nipped him, and 1 am afraid of him now, as of 
 some ferocious animal that has been let loose behind 
 me. 
 
 Inexplicable! It is inexplicable, this chimera of 
 a moon-struck skull! We shall never solve or com- 
 prehend it. 1 shall not return to my former residence. 
 What does it matter to me ? I am afraid of encoun- 
 tering that man again, and 1 shall not run the risk. 
 
 And even if he returns, if he takes possession of 
 his shop, who is to prove that my furniture was on 
 his premises ? There is only my testimony against 
 him; and 1 feel that that is not above suspicion. 
 
 Ah! no! This kind of existence has become un- 
 endurable. 1 have not been able to guard the secret 
 of what 1 have seen. 1 could not continue to live 
 like the rest of the world, with the fear upon me 
 that those scenes might be re-enacted. 
 
 So 1 have come to consult the doctor who directs 
 this lunatic asylum, and I have told him everything. 
 
 After questioning me for a long time, he said to 
 me:
 
 173 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 *'WiII you consent, Monsieur, to remain here for 
 some time?" 
 
 "Most willingly, Monsieur." 
 
 "You have some means?" 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur." 
 
 "Will you have isolated apartments?" 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur," 
 
 "Would you care to receive any friends?" 
 
 "No, Monsieur, no, nobody. The man from 
 Rouen might take it mto his head to pursue me 
 here, to be revenged on me." 
 
 ******* 
 
 I have been alone, alone, all, all alone, for three 
 months. I am growing tranquil by degrees. I have 
 no longer any fears. If the antiquary should become 
 mad . . . and if he should be brought into this 
 asylum ! Even prisons themselves are not places of 
 security.
 
 THE DEVIL 
 
 r 
 
 HE peasant was standing oppo- 
 site the doctor, by the bedside 
 of the dying old woman, and 
 she, cahiily resigned and quite lucid, 
 j^ looked at them and listened to their 
 talking. She was going to die, and she 
 ^'* did not rebel at it, for her life was 
 over — she was ninety-two. 
 *•- The July sun streamed in at the win- 
 dow and through the open door and cast 
 its hot flames on to the uneven brown clay 
 floor, which had been stamped down by four 
 , generations of clodhoppers. The smell of the 
 > fields came in also, driven by the brisk wind, 
 and parched by the noontide heat. The grasshoppers 
 chirped themselves hoarse, filling the air with their 
 shrill noise, like that of the wooden crickets which 
 are sold to children at fair time. 
 
 The doctor raised his voice and said: "Honore, 
 you cannot leave your mother in this state; she may 
 die at any moment." And the peasant, in great dis- 
 tress, replied: "But 1 must get in my wheat, for it 
 has been lying on the ground a long time, and the 
 weather is just right for it; what do you say about 
 
 (173)
 
 174 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 it, mother?" And the dying woman, still possessed 
 by her Norman avariciousness, replied yes with her 
 eyes and her forehead, and so urged her son to get 
 in his wheat, and to leave her to die alone. But the 
 doctor got angry, and stamping his foot he said: 
 "You are no better than a brute, do you hear, and I 
 will not allow you to do it. Do you understand? 
 And if you must get in your wheat to-day, go and 
 fetch Rapet's wife and make her look after your 
 mother. I will have it. And if you do not obey me, 
 I will let you die like a dog, when you are ill in 
 your turn; do you hear me?" 
 
 The peasant, a tall, thin fellow with slow move- 
 ments, who was tormented by indecision, by his fear 
 of the doctor and his keen love of saving, hesitated, 
 calculated, and stammered out: "How much does La 
 Rapet charge for attending sick people?" 
 
 "How should I know?" the doctor cried. "That 
 depends upon how long she is wanted for. Settle it 
 with her, by Jove! But I want her to be here within 
 an hour, do you hear." 
 
 So the man made up his mind. "I will go for 
 her," he replied; "don't get angry, doctor." And 
 the latter left, calling out as he went: "Take care, 
 you know, for I do not joke when 1 am angry!" 
 And as soon as they were alone, the peasant turned 
 to his mother, and said in a resigned voice: "I will 
 go and fetch La Rapet, as the man will have it. 
 Don't go off while I am away." 
 
 And he went out in his turn. 
 
 La Rapet, who was an old washerwoman, watched 
 the dead and the dying of the neighborhood, and then,
 
 THE DEVIL 175 
 
 as soon as she had sewn her customers into that 
 Unen cloth from which they would emerge no more, 
 she went and took up her irons to smooth the Wnen 
 of the hving. Wrinkled like a last year's apple, 
 spiteful, envious, avaricious with a phenomenal avarice, 
 bent double, as if she had been broken in half across 
 the loins, by the constant movement of the iron over 
 the hnen. one might have said that she had a kind of 
 m.onstrous and cynical affection for a death struggle. 
 She never spoke of anything but of the people she 
 had seen die, of the various kinds of deaths at which 
 she had been present, and she related, with the 
 grreatest minuteness, details which were always the 
 same, just like a sportsman talks of his shots. 
 
 When Honore Bontemps entered her cottage, he 
 found her preparing the starch for the collars of the 
 village women, and he said: "Good evening; I hope 
 you are pretty well. Mother Rapet." 
 
 She turned her head round to look at him and 
 said: "Fairly well, fairly well, and you?" 
 
 "Oh ! as for mc, 1 am as well as I could wish, 
 but my mother is very sick." 
 
 "Your mother.''" 
 
 "Yes, my mother ! " 
 
 "What's the matter with her?" 
 
 "She is going to turn up her toes, that's what's 
 the matter with her ! " 
 
 The old woman took her hands out of the water 
 and asked with sudden sympathy: "Is she as bad 
 as all that?" 
 
 "The doctor says she will not last till morning." 
 
 "Then she certainly is very bad!" Honore 
 hesitated, for he wanted to make a few preliminary
 
 176 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 remarks before coming to his proposal, but as he 
 could hit upon nothing, he made up his mind sud- 
 denly. 
 
 "How much are you going to ask to stop with 
 her till the end? You know that I am not rich, and 
 I cannot even afford to keep a servant-girl. It is just 
 that which has brought my poor mother to this state, 
 too much work and fatigue I She used to work for 
 ten, in spite of her ninety-two years. You don't find 
 any made of that stuff nowadays ! " 
 / La Rapet answered gravely: "There are two 
 prices; Forty sous by day and three francs by night 
 for the rich, and twenty sous by day, and forty by 
 night for the others. You shall pay me the twenty 
 and forty." But the peasant reflected, for he knew 
 his mother well. He knew how tenacious of life, 
 how vigorous and unyielding she was. He knew, 
 too, that she might last another week, in spite of the 
 doctor's opinion, and so he said resolutely: "No, ! 
 would rather you would fix a price until the end. I 
 will take my chance, one way or the other. The 
 doctor says she will die very soon. If that happens, 
 so much the better for you, and so much the worse 
 for me, but if she holds out till to-morrow or longer, 
 so much the better for me and so much the worse 
 for you ! " 
 
 The nurse looked at the man in astonishment, for 
 she had never treated a death as a speculative job, 
 and she hesitated, tempted by the idea of the possible 
 gain. But almost immediately she suspected that he 
 wanted to juggle her. "I can say nothing until I have 
 seen your mother," she replied. 
 
 "Then come with me and see her."
 
 THE DEVIL 177 
 
 She washed her hands, and went with him imme- 
 diately. They did not speak on the road; she walked 
 with short, hasty steps, while he strode on with his 
 long legs, as if he \\'ere crossing a brook at every 
 step. The cows lying down in the fields, overcome 
 by the heat, raised their heads heavily and lowed 
 feebly at the two passers-by, as if to ask them for 
 some green grass. 
 
 When they got near the house, Honore Bontemps 
 murmured: "Suppose it is all over.?" And the un- 
 conscious wish that it might be so showed itself in 
 the sound of his voice. 
 
 But the old woman was not dend. She was lying 
 on her back, on her wretched bed, her hands cov- 
 ered with a pink cotton counterpane, horiibly thin, 
 knotty paws, like some strange animal's, or lil:e 
 rrabs' claws, hands closed by rheumatism, fatigue, 
 and the work of nearly a century which she had ac- 
 complished. 
 
 La Rapet went up to the bed and looked at the 
 dying woman, felt her pulse, tapped her on the chest, 
 listened to her breathing, and asked her questions, so 
 as to hear her speak: then, having looked at her for 
 some time longer, she went out nf the room, fr^llowed 
 by Honore. His decided opinion was, that the old 
 woman would not last out the night, and h? asked: 
 "Well?" And the sick-nurse replied: "Well, she 
 may last two days, perhaps three. You will have to 
 give me six francs, everything included." 
 
 "Six francs! six francs!" he shouted. "Are you 
 
 out of your mind ? I tell you that she cannot last 
 
 more than five or six hours!" And they disputed 
 
 angrily for some time, but as the nurse said she would 
 
 Maup. 1—12
 
 lyS WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 go home, as the time was slipping away, and as his 
 wheat would not come to the farmyard of its own 
 accord, he agreed to her terms at last: 
 
 "Very well, then, that is settled; six francs includ- 
 ing everything, until the corpse is taken out." 
 
 "That is settled, six francs." 
 
 And he went away, with long strides, to his 
 wheat, which was lying on the ground under the hot 
 sun which ripens the grain, while the sick-nurse re- 
 turned to the house. 
 
 She had brought some work with her, for she 
 worked without stopping by the side of the dead 
 and dying, sometimes for herself, sometimes for the 
 family, who employed her as seamstress also, pay- 
 ing her rather more in that capacity. Suddenly she 
 asked: 
 
 "Have you received the last sacrament. Mother 
 Bontemps.?" 
 
 The old peasant woman said "No" with her 
 head, and La Rapet, who was very devout, got up 
 quickly: "Good heavens, is it possible? 1 will go 
 and fetch the cure"; and she rushed off to the par- 
 sonage so quickly, that the urchins in the street 
 thought some accident had happened, when they saw 
 her trotting off like that 
 
 The priest came immediately in his surplice, pre- 
 ceded by a choir-boy, who rang a bell to announce 
 the passage of the Host through the parched and 
 quiet country. Some men, working at a distance, 
 took off their large hats and remained motionless 
 until the white vestment had disappeared behind some 
 farm buildings; the women who were making up the
 
 THE DEVIL 179 
 
 sheaves stood up to make the sign of the cross; the 
 frightened black hens ran away along the ditch until 
 they reached a well-known hole through which they 
 suddenly disappeared, while a foal, which was tied 
 up in a meadow, took fright at the sight of the sur- 
 plice and began to gallop round at the length of its 
 rope, kicking violently. The choir-boy, in his red 
 cassock, walked quickly, and the priest, the square 
 biretta on his bowed head, followed him, muttering 
 some prayers. Last of all came La Rapet, bent al- 
 most double, as if she wished to prostrate herself; 
 she walked with folded hands, as if she were in 
 church. 
 
 Honore saw them pass in the distance, and he 
 asked: "Where is our priest going to?" And his 
 man, who was more acute, replied: "He is taking 
 the sacrament to your mother, of course!" 
 
 The peasant was not surprised and said: "That is 
 quite possible," and went on with his work. 
 
 Mother Bontemps confessed, received absolution 
 and extreme unction, and the priest took his depar- 
 ture, leaving the two women alone in the suffocating 
 cottage. La Rapet began to look at the dying 
 woman, and to ask herself whether it could last 
 much longer. 
 
 The day was on the wane, and a cooler air came 
 in stronger puffs, making a view of Hpinal, which 
 was fastened to the wall by two pins, llap up and 
 down. The scanty window curtains, which had 
 formerly been white, but were now yellow ana cov- 
 ered with fly-specks, looked as if they were going to 
 fly off", and seemed to struggle to get away, like the 
 old woman's soul.
 
 l8o WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 Lying motionless, with her eyes open; the old 
 mother seemed to await the death which was so near, 
 and which yet delayed its coming, with perfect in- 
 difference. Her short breath whistled in her throat, 
 it would stop altogether soon, and there would be 
 one woman less in the world, one whom nobody 
 would regret. 
 
 At nightfall Honore returned, and when he went 
 up to the bed and saw that his mother was still 
 alive he asked: "How is she?" just as he had done 
 formerly, when she had been sick. Then he sent La 
 Rapet away, saying to her: "To-morrow morning 
 at five o'clock, without fail." And she replied: "To* 
 morrow at five o'clock." 
 
 She came at daybreak, and found Honore eating" 
 his soup, which he had made himself, before going 
 to work. 
 
 "Well, is your mother dead?" asked the nurse. • 
 
 "She is rather better, on the contrary," he replied, 
 with a malignant look out of the corner of his eyes. 
 Then he went out. 
 
 La Rapet was seized with anxiety, and went up 
 to the dying woman, who was in the same state, 
 lethargic and impassive, her eyes open and her hands 
 clutohing the counterpane. The nurse perceived that 
 this might go on thus for two days, four days, eight 
 days, even, and her avaricious mind was seized with 
 fear. She was excited to fury against the cunning 
 fellow who had tricked her, and against the woman 
 who would not die. 
 
 Nevertheless, she began to sew and waited with 
 her eyes fixed on the wrinkled face of Mother Bon- 
 temps. When Honore returned to breakfast he seemed
 
 THE DEVIL l8l 
 
 quite satisfied, and even in a bantering humor, for lie 
 was carrying in his wheat under very favorable cir- 
 cumstances. 
 
 La Rapet was getting exasperated; every passing 
 minute now seemed to her so much time and money 
 stolen from her. She felt a mad inclination to choke 
 this old ass, this headstrong old fool, this obstinate 
 old wretch— to stop that short, rapid breath, which 
 was robbing her of her time and money, by squeezing 
 her throat a little. But then she reflected on the 
 danger of doing so, and other thoughts came into 
 her head, so she went up to the bed and said to her: 
 "Have you ever seen the Devil?" 
 
 Mother Bontemps whispered: "No." 
 
 Then the sick-nurse began to talk and to tell her 
 tales likely to terrify her weak and dying mind. 
 "Some minutes before one dies the Devil appears," 
 she said, "to all. He has a broom in his hand, a 
 .5.aucepan on his head and he utters loud cries. 
 When anybody had seen him, all was over, and that 
 person had only a few moments longer to live"; and 
 she enumerated all those to whom the Devil had ap- 
 peared that year: Josephine Loisel, Eulalie Ratier, 
 Sophie Padagnau, Seraphine Grospied. 
 
 Mother Bontemps, who was at last most disturbed 
 In mind, moved about, wrung her hands, and tried 
 to turn her head to look at the other end of the 
 room. Suddenly La Rapet disappeared at the foot of 
 the bed. She took a sheet out of the cupboard and 
 wrapped herself up in it; then she put the iron pot 
 on to her head, so that its three short bent feet rose 
 up like horns, took a broom in her right hand and a
 
 l82 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 tin pail in her left, which she threw up suddenly, so 
 that it might fail to the ground noisily. 
 
 Certainly when it came down, it made a terrible 
 noise. Then, climbing on to a chair, the nurse 
 showed herself, gesticulating and uttering shrill cries 
 into the pot which covered her face, while she men- 
 aced the old peasant woman, who was nearly dead, 
 with her broom. 
 
 Terrified, with a mad look on her face, the dying- 
 woman made a superhuman effort to get up and 
 escape; she even got her shoulders and chest out of 
 bed; then she fell back with a deep sigh. All was 
 over, and La Rapet calmly put everything back into 
 its place; the broom into the corner by the cup- 
 board, the sheet inside it, the pot on to the hearth, 
 the pail on to the floor, and the chair against the wall. 
 Then with a professional air, she closed the dead 
 woman's enormous eyes, put a plate on the bed and 
 poured some holy water into it, dipped the twig of 
 Boxwood into it, and kneeling down, she fervently 
 repeated the prayers for the dead, which she knew 
 by heart, as a matter of business. 
 
 When Honore returned in the evening, he found 
 her praying. He calculated immediately that she had 
 made twenty sous out of him, for she had only spent 
 three days and one night there, which made five 
 francs altogether, instead of the six which he owed 
 her.
 
 EPIPHANY 
 
 h!" said Captain the Count de 
 Garens, "I should rather think 
 that I do remember that Epiph- 
 any supper, during the war I 
 "At the time 1 was quarter- 
 master of cavahy, and for a fort- 
 night, I had been lurking about as 
 a scout in front of the German ad- 
 vanced guard. The evening before 
 we had cut down a few Uhhms and 
 had lost three men, one of whom was 
 that pour little Raudeville. You remem- 
 g^iy ber Joseph de Raudeville well, of course. 
 •^ "Well, on that day my captain ordered me 
 
 to take six troopers and occupy the village of Porterin, 
 where there had been five fights in three weeks, and 
 to hold it all night. There were not twenty houses 
 left standing, nay, not a dozen, in that wasp's nest. 
 So I took ten troopers, and set out at about four 
 o'clock; at five o'clock, while it was still pitch dark, 
 we reached the first houses of Porterin. I halied 
 and ordered Marchas — you know Pierre de Marchas, 
 
 (183)
 
 l84 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 who afterward married little Martel-Auvelin, the 
 daughter of the Marquis de Martel-Auvelin — to go 
 alone into the village and to report to me what he 
 saw. 
 
 "I had chosen nothing but volunteers, and all of 
 good family. When on service it is pleasant not to 
 be forced into intimacy with unpleasant fellows. 
 This Marchas was as sharp as possible, as cunning 
 as a fox, and as supple as a serpent. He could scent 
 the Prussians as well as a dog can scent a hare, 
 could find victuals where we should have died of 
 hunger without him, and could obtain information 
 from everybody — information which was always re- 
 liable — with incredible cleverness. 
 
 "In ten minutes he returned. 'All right,' he said; 
 'there have been no Prussians here for three days. 
 It is a sinister place, is this village. I have been 
 talking to a Sister of Mercy, who is attending to four 
 or five wounded men in an abandoned convent.' 
 
 "1 ordered them to ride on, and we penetrated 
 into the principal street. On the right and left we 
 could vaguely see roofless walls, hardly visible in th? 
 profound darkness. Here and there a light was burn- 
 ing in a room; some family had remained to keep its 
 house standing as long as they were able; a family of 
 brave, or of poor, people. The rain began to fall, a 
 fine, icy-cold rain, which froze us before it wetted 
 us through, by merely touching our cloaks. The 
 horses stumbled against stones, against beams, against 
 furniture. Marchas guided us, going before us on. 
 foot, and leading his horse by the bridle. 
 
 '"Where are you taking us to?' I asked him. 
 And he replied: '1 have a place for us to lodge in.
 
 EPIPHANY 
 
 185 
 
 and a rare good one.' And soon we stopped before 
 a small house, evidently belonging to some person of 
 the middle class, completely shut up, built on to the 
 street with a garden in the rear. 
 
 "Marchas broke open the lock by means of a big 
 stone, which he picked up near the garden gate; 
 then he mounted the steps, smashed in the front door 
 with his feet and shoulders, lighted a bit of wax can- 
 dle, which he was never without, and preceded us 
 into the comfortable apartments of some rich private 
 individual, guiding us with admirable assurance, just 
 as if he had lived in this house which he now saw 
 for the first time. 
 
 "Two troopers remained outside to take care of 
 our horses; then Marchas said to stout Ponderel, who 
 followed him: 'The stables must be on the left; I 
 s,aw that as we came in; go and put the animals up 
 there, for we do not want them,' and then turning 
 to me he said: 'Give your orders, confound it all!' 
 
 "Marchas always astonished me, and I replied 
 with a laugh: '1 shall post my sentinels at the coun- 
 try approaches and I will return to you here." 
 
 "'How many men are you going to take?' 
 
 " 'Five. The others will relieve them at five o'clock 
 in the evening.' 
 
 '"Very well. Leave me four to look after pro- 
 visions, to do the cooking, and to set the table, i 
 will go and find out where the wine is hidden away.' 
 
 "I went off to reconnoiter the deserted streets, 
 until they ended in the open country, so as to post 
 my sentries there. 
 
 "Half an hour later I was back, and found Mar- 
 chas lounging in a great armchair, the covering of
 
 1 86 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 which he had taken off, from love of luxury as he 
 said. He was warming his feet at the tire and smok- 
 ing an excellent cigar, whose perfume filled the room. 
 He was alone, his elbows resting on the arms of the 
 chair, his cheeks flushed, his eyes bright, and looking 
 delighted. 
 
 "I heard the noise of plates and dishes in the 
 next room, and Marchas said to me, smiling in a 
 beatific manner: 'This is famous; 1 found the cham- 
 pagne under the flight of steps outside, the brandy — 
 fifty bottles of the very finest — in the kitchen garden 
 under a pear-tree, which did not look to me to be 
 quite straigiit, when 1 looked at it by the light of my 
 lantern. As for solids, we have two fowls, a goose, 
 a duck, and three pigeons. They are being cooked 
 at this moment. It is a delightful part of the coun- 
 try." 
 
 "I had sat down opposite to him, and the fire in 
 the grate was burning my nose and cheeks. 
 
 '''Where did you find this wood.?' I asked. 
 
 "'Splendid wood,' he replied. 'The owner's car- 
 riage. It is the paint which is causing all this flame, 
 an essence of alcohol and varnish. A capital house!' 
 
 "I laughed, for I found the creature was funny, 
 and he went on: 'Fancy this being the Epiphany! 
 I have had a bean put into the goose, but there is no 
 queen; it is really very annoying!' And I repeated 
 hke an echo: 'It is annoying, but what do you want 
 me to do in the matter?' 
 
 "'To find some, of course.* 
 
 "'Some women. Women? — you must be mad!' 
 
 "'I managed to find the brandy under the pear- 
 tree, and the champagne under the steps; and yet
 
 EPIPHANY 187 
 
 there was nothing to guide me, while as for you, a 
 petticoat is a sure sign. Go and look, old fellow.' 
 
 "He looked so grave, so convinced, that I could 
 not tell whether he was joking or not. So I replied: 
 'Look here, Marchas, are you having a joke with 
 me.^' 
 
 "'I never joke on duty.' 
 
 "'But where the devil do you expect me to find 
 any women?* 
 
 "'Where you like; there must be two or three 
 remaining in the neighborhood, so ferret them out 
 and bring them here.' 
 
 "1 got up, for it was too hot in front of the fire, 
 and Marchas went on: 'Do you want an idea?* 
 "'Yes.' 
 
 "'Go and see the priest.' 
 '"The priest? What for?' 
 
 "'Ask him to supper, and beg bim to bring a 
 woman with him.' 
 
 "'The priest! A woman! Ha! ha! ha!* 
 "But Marchas continued with extraordinary grav- 
 ity: '1 am not laughing; go and find the priest and 
 tell him how we are situated, and, as he must be 
 horribly dull, he will come. But tell him that we 
 want one woman at least, a lady, of course, since we 
 are all men of the world. He is sure to have the 
 names of his female parishioners on the tips of his 
 fingers, and if there is one to suit us, and you man- 
 age it well, he will indicate her to you.' 
 
 '"Come, come, Marchas, what are you thinking 
 of?' 
 
 "'My dear Garcns, you can do this quite well, it 
 will be very funny. We are well bred, by Jove!
 
 l88 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 and we will put on our most distinguished manners 
 and our grandest style. Tell the abbe who we are, 
 make him laugh, soften him, seduce him, and per- 
 suade him!' 
 
 "'No, it is impossible,' 
 
 "He drew his chair close to mine, and as he knew 
 my weak side, the scamp continued: 'Just think 
 what a swagger thing it will be to do, and how 
 amusmg to tell about; the whole army will talk about 
 it, and it will give you a famous reputation.' 
 
 "I hesitated, for the adventure rather tempted me. 
 He persisted: 'Come, my little Garens. You are 
 in command of this detachment, and you alone can 
 go and call on the head of the church in this neigh- 
 borhood. I beg of you to go, and I promise you 
 that after the war, 1 will relate the whole affair in 
 verse in the "Revue des Deux Mondes." You owe 
 this much to your men, for you have made them 
 march enough during the last month.' 
 
 "I got up at last and asked: 'Where is the par- 
 sonage?' 
 
 "'Take the second turning at the end of the 
 street; you will then see an avenue, and at the end 
 of the avenue you will find the church. The parson- 
 age is beside it.' As 1 departed he called out: 'Tell 
 him the bill of fare, to make him hungry!' 
 
 "I discovered the ecclesiastic's little house with- 
 out any difficulty; it was by the side of a large, ugly, 
 brick church. As there was neither bell nor knocker, 
 I knocked at the door with my fist, and a loud voice 
 from inside asked: *Who is there?' to which I re- 
 plied: 'A quartermaster of hussars.*
 
 EPIPHANY 189 
 
 "I heard the noise of bohs, and of a key being; 
 turned. Then I found myself face to face with a tall 
 priest with a large stomach, the chest of a prize-fighter, 
 formidable hands projecting from turned-up sleeves, a 
 red face, and the looks of a kind man. I gave him 
 a military salute and said: 'Good day, Monsieur le 
 Cure.' 
 
 " He had feared a surprise, some marauders' am- 
 bush, and he smiled as he replied: 'Good day, 
 my friend; come in.' 1 followed him into a small 
 room, with a red tiled floor, in which a small fire was 
 burning, very different to Marchas's furnace. He gave 
 me a chair and said: 'What can I do for you?' 
 
 "'Monsieur, allow me first of all to introduce my- 
 self; and I gave him my card, which he took and 
 read half aloud: 'The Comte de Garens.' 
 
 "I continued: 'There are eleven of us here Mon- 
 sieur I'Abbe, five on grand guard, and six installed at 
 the house of an unknown inhabitant. The names of 
 the six are, Garens (that is I), Pierre de Marchas, 
 Ludovic de Ponderel, Baron d'Etreillis, Karl Massou- 
 ligny, the painter's son, and Joseph Herbon, a young 
 musician. 1 have come to ask you, in their name 
 and my own, to do us the honor of supping with us. 
 It is an Epiphany supper. Monsieur le Cure, and we 
 should like to make it a little cheerful.' 
 
 "The priest smiled and murmured: 'It seems to 
 me to be hardly a suitable occasion for amusing one- 
 self.' 
 
 "I replied: 'We are fighting every day, Mon- 
 sieur. Fourteen of our comrades have been killed in 
 a month, and three fell as late as yesterday. That is 
 war. We stake our life every moment: have we not,
 
 190 
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 therefore, the right to amuse ourselves freely? We 
 are Frenchmen, we like to laugh, and we can laugh 
 everywhere. Our fathers laughed on the scaffold! 
 This evening we should like to bright-en ourselves 
 up a little, like gentlemen, and not like soldiers; you 
 understand me, I hope. Are we wrong?' 
 
 "He replied quickly: 'You are quite right, my 
 friend, and I accept your invitation with great pleas- 
 ure.* Then he called out: 'Hermance!' 
 
 "An old, bent, wrinkled, horrible, peasant woman 
 appeared and said: 'What do you want?' 
 
 "'1 shall not dine at home, my daughter.' 
 
 '"Where are you going to dine then?' 
 
 "'With some gentlemen, hussars.' 
 
 "I felt inclined to say: 'Bring your servant with 
 you,' just to see Marchas's face, but I did not venture 
 to, and continued: 'Do you know anyone among 
 your parishioners, male or female, whom I could 
 invite as well?' He hesitated, reflected, and then said: 
 'No, I do not know anybody!' 
 
 "1 persisted: 'Nobody? Come, Monsieur, think; 
 it would be very nice to have some ladies, I mean to 
 say, some married couples! I know nothing about 
 your parishioners. The baker and his wife, the 
 grocer, the — the — the — watchmaker — the — shoema- 
 ker — the — the chemist with his wife. We have a 
 good spread, and plenty of wine, and we should be 
 enchanted to leave pleasant recollections of ourselves 
 behind us with the people here.' 
 
 "The priest thought again for a long time and 
 then said resolutely: 'No, there is nobody.' 
 
 "I began to laugh. 'By Jove, Monsieur le Cure, 
 it is very vexing not to have an Epiphany queen, for
 
 EPIPHANY 
 
 191 
 
 we have the bean. Come, think. Is there not a 
 married mayor, or a married deputy-mayor, or a mar- 
 ried municipal councilor, or schoolmaster?' 
 
 "'No, all the ladies have gone away.' 
 
 "'What, is there not in the whole place some 
 good tradesman's wife with her good tradesman, to 
 whom we might give this pleasure, for it would be 
 a pleasure to them, a great pleasure under present 
 circumstances.^' 
 
 "But suddenly the cure began to laugh, and he 
 laughed so violently that he fairly shook, and ex- 
 claimed: 'Ha! ha! ha! I have got what you want, 
 yes. I have got what you want! Ha! ha! ha! We 
 will laugh and enjoy ourselves, my children, we will 
 have some fun. How pleased the ladies will be, I 
 say, how delighted they will be. Ha! ha! Where 
 are you staying ?' 
 
 "I described the house, and he understood where 
 it was. 'Very good,' he said. 'It belongs to Mon- 
 sieur Bertin-Lavaille. I will be there in half an hour, 
 with four ladies. Ha! ha! ha! four ladies!' 
 
 "He went out with me, still laughing, and left 
 me, repeating: 'That is capital; in half an hour at 
 Bertin-Lavaille's house.' 
 
 "I returned quickly, very much astonished and 
 very much puzzled. 'Covers for how many.?' Mar- 
 chas asked, as soon as he saw me. 
 
 " 'Eleven. There are six of us hussars besides the 
 priest and four ladies.' 
 
 "He was thunderstruck, and I triumphant, and he 
 repeated: 'Four ladies! Did you say, four ladies?' 
 
 "'I said four women.' 
 
 " 'Real women?'
 
 192 
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 " 'Real women.' 
 
 "'Well, accept my com.plimentsl' 
 
 "'I will, for I deserve them.' 
 
 "He got out of his armchair, opened the door, 
 and I saw a beautiful, white tablecloth on a long 
 table, round which three hussars in blue aprons were 
 setting out the plates and glasses. 'There are some 
 women coming!' Marchas cried. And the three men 
 began to dance and to cheer with all their might. 
 
 "Everything was ready, and we were waiting. 
 We waited for nearly an hour, while a delicious smell 
 of roast poultry pervaded the whole house. At last, 
 however, a knock against the shutters made us all 
 jump up at the same moment. Stout Ponderel ran to 
 open the door, and in less than a minute a little Sis- 
 ter of Mercy appeared in the doorway. She was 
 thin, wrinkled, and timid, and successively saluted the 
 four bewildered hussars who saw her enter. Behind 
 her, the noise of sticks sounded on the tiled floor in 
 the vestibule. As soon as she had come into the 
 drawing-room 1 saw three old heads in white caps, 
 following each other one by one, balancing themselves 
 with different movements, one canting to the right, 
 while the other canted to the left. Then three worthy 
 women showed themselves, limping, dragging their 
 legs behind them, crippled by illness and deformed 
 through old age, three infirm old women, past serv- 
 ice, the only three pensioners who were able to walk 
 in the establishment which Sister Saint-Benedict mi;n- 
 aged. 
 
 "She had turned round to her invalids, full of 
 anxiety for them, and then seeing my quartermaster's 
 stripes, she said to me: 'I am much obliged to you 

 
 EPIPHANY 
 
 195 
 
 for thinking of these poor women. They have very 
 little pleasure in life, and you are at the same time 
 giving them a great treat and doing them a great 
 honor.' 
 
 "I saw the priest, who had remained in the ob- 
 scurity of the passage, and who was laughing heartily, 
 and I began to laugh in my turn, especially when I 
 saw Marchas's face. Then, motioning the nun to the 
 seats, I said: 'Sit down. Sister: we are very proud 
 and very happy that you have accepted our unpre- 
 tentious invitation.' 
 
 "She took three chairs which stood against the wall, 
 set them before the fire, led her three old women 
 to them, settled them on them, took their sticks 
 and shawls which she put into a corner, and then, 
 pointing to the first, a thin woman with an enormous 
 stomach, who was evidently suffering from the dropsy, 
 she said: 'This is Mother Paumelle, whose husband 
 was killed by falling from a roof, and whose son died 
 in Africa; she is sixty years old.' Then she pointed 
 to another, a tall woman, whose head shook unceas- 
 ingly: 'This is Mother Jean-Jean, who is sixty-seven. 
 She is nearly blind, for her face was terribly singed 
 in a fire, and her right leg was half burned off.' 
 
 "Then she pointed to the third, a sort of dwarf, 
 with protruding, round, stupid eyes, which she rolled 
 incessantly in all directions. 'This is La Putois, an 
 idiot. She is only forty-four.' 
 
 "I bowed to the throe women as if I were being 
 presented to some Royal Highness, and turning to 
 the priest 1 said: 'You are an excellent man, Mon- 
 sieur l'Abb6, and we all owe you a debt of grati- 
 tude.' 
 
 Maup. 1—13
 
 194 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 "Everybody was laughing, in fact, except Marchas, 
 wiio seemed furious, and just then Karl Massouligny 
 cried: 'Sister Saint-Benedict, supper is on the table!' 
 
 "I made her go first with the priest, then 1 
 helped up Mother Paumelle, whose arm I took and 
 dragged her into the next room, which was no easy 
 task, for her swollen stomach seemed heavier thnn a 
 lump of iron. 
 
 "Stout Ponderel gave his arm to Mother Jean- 
 Jean, who bemoaned her crutch, and little Joseph 
 Herbon took the idiot, La Putois, to the dining- 
 room, which was filled with the odor of the viands. 
 
 "As soon as we were opposite our plates, the 
 Sister clapped her hands three times, and, with the 
 precision of soldiers presenting arms, the women 
 made a rapid sign of the cross, and then the priest 
 slowly repeated the 'Benedictus' in Latin. Then we 
 sat down, and the two fowls appeared, brought in 
 by Marchas, who chose to wait rather than to sit 
 down as a guest at this ridiculous repast. 
 
 "But I cried: 'Bring the champagne at once!' 
 and a cork flew out with the noise of a pistol, and 
 in spite of the resistance of the priest and the kind 
 Sister, the three hussars sitting by the side of the 
 three invalids, emptied their three full glasses down 
 their throats by force. 
 
 "Massouligny, who possessed the faculty of mak- 
 ing himself at home, and of being on good terms 
 with everyone, wherever he was, made love to 
 Mother Paumelle, in the drollest manner. The drop- 
 sical woman, who had retained her cheerfulness in 
 spite of her misfortunes, answered him banteringly in 
 a high falsetto voice which seemed to be assumed,
 
 EPIPHANY 195 
 
 and she laughed so heartily at her neighbor's jokes 
 that her large stomach looked as if it were going to 
 rise up and get on to the table. Little Herbon had 
 seriously undertaken the task of making the idiot 
 drunk, and Baron d'Etreillis whose wits were not al- 
 ways particularly sharp, was questioning old Jean- 
 Jean about the life, the habits, and the rules in the 
 hospital. 
 
 "The nun said to Massouligny in consternation: 
 *0h! oh! you will make her ill; pray do not make 
 her laugh like that, Monsieur. Oh! Monsieur.' Then 
 she got up and rushed at Herbon to take a full glass 
 out of his hands which he was hastily emptying 
 down La Putois's throat, while the priest shook with 
 laughter, and said to the Sister: 'Never mind, just 
 this once, it will not hurt her. Do leave them alone.' 
 
 "After the two fowls they ate the duck, which 
 was flanked by the three pigeons and a blackbird, 
 and then the goose appeared, smoking, golden- 
 colored, and diffusing a warm odor of hot, browned 
 fat meat. La Paumelle who was getting lively, clapped 
 her hands; La Jean-Jean left off answering the Baron's 
 numerous questions, and La Putois uttered grunts of 
 pleasure, half cries and half sighs, like little children 
 do when one shows them sweets. 'Allow me to 
 carve this bird,' the cur6 said. '1 understand these 
 sort of operations better than most people.' 
 
 "'Certainly, Monsieur I'Abbe,' and the Sister said: 
 •How would it be to open the window a little; they 
 are too warm, and 1 am afraid they will be ill.' 
 
 "1 turned to Marchas: 'Open the window for a 
 minute.' He did so; the cold outer air as it came in 
 made the candles flare, and the smoke from the
 
 196 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 goose — which the cure was scientifically carving, with 
 a table napkin round his neck — whirl about. We 
 watched him doing it, without speaking now, for we 
 were interested in his attractive handiwork, and also 
 seized with renewed appetite at the sight of that 
 enormous golden-colored bird, whose limbs fell one 
 after another into the brown gravy at the bottom of 
 the dish. At that moment, in the midst of greedy 
 silence which kept us all attentive, the distant report 
 of a shot came in at the open window. 
 
 "I started to my feet so quickly that my chair 
 fell down behind me, and I shouted: 'Mount, all of 
 you! You, Marchas, will take two men and go and 
 see what it is. 1 shall expect you back here in five 
 minutes.' And while the three riders went off at full 
 gallop through the night, I got into the saddle with 
 my three remaining hussars, in front of the steps of 
 the villa, while the cure, the Sister, and the three old 
 women showed their frightened faces at the window. 
 
 "We heard nothing more, except the barking of 
 a dog in the distance. The rain had ceased, and it 
 was cold, very cold. Soon I heard the gallop of a 
 horse, of a single horse, coming back. It was Mar- 
 chas, and I called out to him: 'Well?' 
 
 '"It is nothing; Francois has wounded an old 
 peasant who refused to answer his challenge and who 
 continued to advance in spite of the order to keep 
 off. They are bringing him here, an4 we shall see 
 what is the matter.' 
 
 "I gave orders for the horses to be put back into 
 the stable, and I sent my two soldiers to meet the 
 others, and returned to the house. Then the cure.
 
 EPIPHANY 197 
 
 Marchas and I took a* mattress into the room to put 
 the wounded man on; the Sister tore up a table 
 napkin in order to make lint, while the three fright- 
 ened women remained huddled up in a corner. 
 
 "Soon I heard the rattle of sabers on the road, 
 and I took a candle to show a light to the men who 
 were returning. They soon appeared, carrying that 
 inert, soft, long, and sinister object which a human 
 body becomes when life no longer sustains it. 
 
 "They put the wounded man on the mattress 
 that 'had been prepared for him, and I saw at the 
 first glance that he was dying. He had the death 
 rattle, and was spitting up blood which ran out of 
 the corners of his mouth, forced out of his lungs by 
 his gasps. The man was covered with it! His 
 cheeks, his beard, his hair, his neck, and his clothes 
 seemed to have been rubbed, to have been dipped in 
 a red tub; the blood had congealed on him, and had 
 become a dull color which was horrible to look at. 
 
 "The old man, wrapped up in a large shepherd's 
 cloak, occasionally opened his dull, vacant eyes. 
 They seemed stupid with astonishment, like the eyes 
 of hunted animals which fall at the sportsman's feet, 
 half dead before the shot, stupefied with fear and 
 surprise. 
 
 "The cure exclaimed: 'Ah! there is old Placide, the 
 shepherd from Les Marlins. He is deaf, poor man, 
 and heard nothing. Ah! Oh, God! they have killed 
 the unhappy man!' The Sister had opened his blouse 
 and shirt, and was looking at a little blue hole in 
 the middle of his chest, which was not bleeding any 
 more. 'There is nothing to be done,' she said.
 
 198 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 "The shepherd was gasping terribly and bringing 
 up blood with every breath, hi his throat to the 
 very depth of his lungs, they could hear an ominous 
 and continued gurghng. The cure, standing in front 
 of him, raised his right hand, made the sign of the 
 cross, and in a slow and solemn voice pronounced 
 the Latin words which purify men's souls. But be- 
 fore they were finished, the old man was shaken by 
 a rapid shudder, as if something had broken inside 
 him; he no longer breathed. He was dead. 
 
 "When I turned round 1 saw a sight which was 
 even more horrible than the death struggle of this 
 unfortunate man. The three old women were stand- 
 ing up huddled close together, hideous, and grimac- 
 ing with fear and horror. I went up to them, and 
 they began to utter shrill screams, while La Jean-Jean, 
 whose leg had been burned and could not longer sup- 
 port her. fell to the ground at full length. 
 
 "Sister Saint-Benedict left the dead man, ran up 
 to her infirm old women, and without a word or a 
 look for me wrapped their shawls round them, gave 
 them th^ir crutches, pushed them to the door, made 
 them go out, and disappeared with them into the dark 
 night. 
 
 "I saw that I could not even let a hussar accom- 
 pany them, for the mere rattle of a sword would 
 have sent them mad with fear. 
 
 "The cure was still looking at the dead man; but 
 at last he turned to me and said: 
 
 "'Oh! What a horrible thing!'"
 
 SIMON'S PAPA 
 
 ooN had just struck. The school- 
 door opened and the youngsters 
 streamed out tumbling over one 
 another in their haste to get out 
 quickly. But instead of promptly 
 dispersing and going home to dinner 
 as was their daily wont, they stopped 
 t^ ^ ^^^ paces off, broke up into knots 
 
 X^s;:;^^::^ ' and set to whispering. 
 fS^'^ The fact was that that morning Sim.on, 
 
 ^ '• the son of La Blanchotte, had, for the 
 
 ■?'' first time, attended school. 
 
 They had all of them in their families 
 heard of La Blanchotte; and although in 
 public she was welcome enough, the mothers among 
 themselves treated her with compassion of a some- 
 what disdainful kind, which the children had caught 
 without in the least knowing why. 
 
 As for Simon himself, they did not know him, for 
 he never went abroad, and did not play around with 
 them through the streets of the village or along the 
 banks of the river. So they !oved him but little; and it 
 was with a certain delight, mingled with astonishment, 
 
 (199)
 
 200 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 that they gathered in groups this morning, repeating 
 to each other this sentence, concocted by a lad of 
 fourteen or fifteen who appeared to know all about 
 it, so sagaciously did he wink: "You know Simon 
 — well, he has no papa." 
 
 La Blanchotte's son appeared in his turn upon the 
 threshold of the school. 
 
 He was seven or eight years old, rather pale, very 
 neat, with a timid and almost awkward manner. 
 
 He was making his way back to his mother's 
 house when the various groups of his schoolfellows, 
 perpetually whispering, and watching him with the 
 mischievous and heartless eyes of children bent upon 
 playing a nasty trick, gradually surrounded him and 
 ended by inclosing him altogether. There he stood 
 amid them, surprised and embarrassed, not under- 
 standing what they were going to do with him. But 
 the lad who had brought the news, puffed up with 
 the success he had met with, demanded: 
 
 "What do you call yourself?" 
 
 He answered: "Simon." 
 
 "Simon what?" retorted the other. 
 
 The child, aUogether bewildered, repeated: 
 "Simon." 
 
 The lad shouted at him: "You must be named 
 Simon something! That is not a name — Simon in- 
 deed!" 
 
 And he, on the brink of tears, replied for the third 
 time: 
 
 "I am named Simon." 
 
 The urchins began laughing. The lad triumphantly 
 lifted up his voice: "You can see plainly that he 
 has no papa."
 
 SIMON'S PAPA 20I 
 
 A deep silence ensued. The children were dum- 
 founded by this extraordinary, impossibly monstrous 
 thing — a boy who had not a papa; they looked upon 
 him as a phenomenon, an unnatural being, and they 
 felt rising in them the hitherto inexplicable pity of 
 their mothers for La Blanchotte. As for Simon, he 
 had propped himself against a tree to avoid falling, 
 and he stood there as if paralyzed by an irreparable 
 disaster. He sought to explain, but he could think 
 of no answer for them, no way to deny this horrible 
 charge that he had no papa. At last he shouted at 
 them quite recklessly: *'Yes, I have one." 
 
 "Where is he?" demanded the boy. 
 
 Simon was silent, he did not know. The children 
 shrieked, tremendously excited. These sons of toil, 
 nearly related to animals, experienced the cruel crav- 
 ing which makes the fowls of a farmyard destroy one 
 of their own kind as soon as it is wounded. Simon 
 suddenly spied a little neighbor, the son of a widow, 
 whom he had always seen, as he himself was to be 
 seen, quite alone with his mother. 
 
 "And no more have you," he said, ''no more 
 have you a papa." 
 
 "Yes," replied the other, "I have one." 
 
 "Where is he?" rejoined Simon. 
 
 "He is dead," declared the brat with superb dig- 
 nity, "he is in the cemetery, is my papa." 
 
 A murmur of approval rose amid the scape^ 
 graces, as if the fact of possessing a papa dead in a 
 cemetery made their comrade big enough to cru^h 
 the other one who had no papa at all. And these 
 rogues, whose fathers were for the most part evil- 
 doers, drunkards, thieves, and ill-treaters of their
 
 202 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 wives hustled each other as they pressed closer and 
 closer to Simon as though they, the legitimate ones, 
 would stifle in their pressure one who was beyond 
 the law. 
 
 The lad next Simon suddenly put his tongue out 
 at him with a waggish air and shouted at him: 
 
 "No papa! No papa!" 
 
 Simon seized him by the hair with both hands 
 and set to work to demolish his legs with i<icks, 
 while he bit his cheek ferociously. A tremendous 
 struggle ensued between the two boys, and Simon 
 found himself beaten, torn, bruised, rolled on the 
 ground in the middle of the ring of applauding little 
 vagabonds. As he arose, mechanically brushing his 
 little blouse all covered with dust with his hand, 
 some one shouted at him: 
 
 "Go and tell your papa." 
 
 He then felt a great sinking in his heart. They 
 were stronger than he, they had beaten him and he 
 had no answer to give them, for he knew it was 
 true that he had no papa. Full of pride he tried for 
 some moments to struggle against the tears which 
 were suffocating him. He had a choking fit, and 
 then without cries he began to weep with great sobs 
 which shook him incessantly. Then a ferocious joy 
 broke out among his enemies, and, just like savages 
 in fearful festivals, they took one another by the hand 
 and danced in a circle about him as they repeated in 
 refrain: 
 
 "No papa! No papa!" 
 
 But suddenly Simon ceased sobbing. Frenzy over- 
 took him. There were stones under his feet; he 
 picked them up and with all his strength hurled
 
 SIMON'S PAPA 203 
 
 them at his tormentors. Two or three were struck 
 and ran away yelling, and so formidable did he ap- 
 pear that the rest became panic-stricken. Cowards, 
 like a jeering crowd in the presence of an exasper- 
 ated man, they broke up and fled. Left alone, the 
 little thing without a father set off running toward 
 the fields, for a recollection had been awakened which 
 nerved his soul to a great determination. He made 
 up his mind to drown himself in the river. 
 
 He remembered, in fact, that eight days ago a poor 
 devil who begged for his livelihood had thrown him- 
 self into the water because he had no more money. 
 Simon had been there when they fished him out again; 
 and the sight of the fellow, who had seemed to him 
 so miserable and ugly, had then impressed him — his 
 pale cheeks, his long drenched beard, and his open 
 eyes being full of calm. The bystanders had said: 
 
 "He is dead." 
 
 And some one had added: 
 
 "He is quite happy now." 
 
 So Simon wished to drown himself also because 
 he had no father, just as the wretched being did who 
 had no money. 
 
 He reached the water and watched it flowing. 
 Some fishes were rising briskly in the clear stream 
 and occasionally made little leaps and caught the flies 
 on the surface. He stopped crying in order to watch 
 them, for their feeding interested him vastly. But, at 
 intervals, as in the lulls of a tempest, when tremen- 
 dous gusts of wind snap off trees and then die away, 
 this thought would return to him with intense pain: 
 
 "I am about to drown myself because I have no 
 papa."
 
 204 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 It was very warm and fine weather. The pleasant 
 sunshine warmed the grass; the water shone hke a 
 mirror; and Simon enjoyed for some minutes the hap- 
 piness of that languor which follows weeping, de- 
 sirous even of falling asleep there upon the grass in 
 the warmth of noon, 
 
 A little green frog leaped from under his fdet. He 
 endeavored to catch it. It escaped him. He pursued 
 it and lost it three times following. At last he caught 
 it by one of its hind legs and began to laugh as he 
 saw the efforts the creature made to escape. It 
 gathered itself up on its large legs and then with a 
 violent spring suddenly stretched them out as stiff as 
 two bars. 
 
 Its eyes stared wide open in their round, golden 
 circle, and it beat the air with its front limbs, using 
 them as though they were hands. It reminded him 
 of a toy made with straight slips of wood nailed zig- 
 zag one on the other, which by a similar movement 
 regulated the exercise of the little soldiers fastened 
 thereon. Then he thought of his home and of his 
 mother, and overcome by great sorrow he again be- 
 gan to weep. His limbs trembled; and he placed 
 himself on his knees and said his prayers as before 
 going to bed. But he was unable to finish them, for 
 such hurried and violent sobs overtook him that he '{ 
 
 was completely overwhelmed. He thought no more, ! 
 
 he no longer heeded anything around him but was I 
 
 wholly given up to tears. 
 
 Suddenly a heavy hand was placed upon his shoul- 
 der, and a rough voice asked him: 
 
 "What is it that causes you so much grief, my , 
 
 fine fellow?" ^
 
 SIMON'S PAPA 20*- 
 
 Simon turned round. A tall workman, with a 
 black beard and hair all curled, was staring at him 
 good-naturedly. He answered with his eyes and 
 throat full of tears: 
 
 "They have beaten me because — I — I have no 
 papa — no papa." 
 
 "What!" said the man smiling, " why, everybody 
 has one." 
 
 The child answered painfully amid his spasms of 
 grief: 
 
 "But I — I — I have none." 
 
 Then the workman became serious. He had rec- 
 ognized La Blanchotte's son, and although a recent 
 arrival to the neighborhood he had a vague idea of her 
 history. 
 
 "Well," said he, "console yourself, my boy, and 
 come with me home to your mother. She will give 
 you a papa." 
 
 And so they started on the way, the big one 
 holding the little one by the hand. The man smiled 
 afresh, for he was not sorry to see this Blanchotte, 
 who by popular report was one of the prettiest girls 
 in the country-side — and, perhaps, he said to him- 
 self, at the bottom of his heart, that a lass who had 
 erred once might very well err again. 
 
 They arrived in front of a very neat little white 
 house. 
 
 "There it is," exclaimed the child, and he cried: 
 "Mamma." 
 
 A woman appeared, and the workman instantly 
 left off smiling, for he at once perceived that there 
 was no more fooling to be done with the tall pale 
 girl, who stood austerely at her door as though to
 
 2o6 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 defend from one man the threshold of that house 
 where she had already been betrayed by another. 
 Intimidated, his cap in his hand, he stammered out: 
 
 "See, Madame, I have brought you back your httle 
 boy, who had lost himself near the river." 
 
 But Simon flung his arms about his mother's ne'ck 
 and told her, as he again began to cry: 
 
 "No, mamma, I wished to drown myself, because 
 the others had beaten me — had beaten me — because 
 I have no papa." 
 
 A burning redness covered the young woman's 
 cheeks, and, hurt to the quick, she embraced her child 
 passionately, while the tears coursed down her face. 
 The man, much moved, stood there, not knowing how 
 to get away. But Simon suddenly ran to him and 
 said: 
 
 "Will you be my papa.?" 
 
 A deep silence ensued. La Blanchotte, dumb ancj 
 tortured with shame, leaned against the wall, her 
 hands upon her heart. The child, seeing that no an- 
 swer was made him, replied: 
 
 "If you do not wish it, I shall return to drown 
 myself." 
 
 The workman took the matter as a jest and an- 
 swered laughing: 
 
 "Why, yes, I wish it certainly.". 
 
 "What is your name, then," went on the child, 
 "so that 1 may tell the others when they wish to 
 know your name?" 
 
 "Philip," answered the man. 
 
 Simon was silent a moment so that he might get 
 the name well into his memory; then he stretched 
 out his arms, quite consoled, and said:
 
 SIMON'S PAPA 207 
 
 "Well, then, Philip, you are my papa." 
 
 The workman, lifting him from the ground, kissed 
 him hastily on both cheeks, and then strode away 
 quickly. 
 
 When the child returned to school next day he 
 was received with a spiteful laugh, and at the end of 
 school, when the lads were on the point of recom- 
 mencing, Simon threw these words at their heads as 
 he would have done a stone: "He is named Philip, 
 my papa." 
 
 Yells of delight burst out from all sides. 
 
 "Philip who? Philip what? What on earth is 
 Philip? Where did you pick up your Philip?" 
 
 Simon answered nothing; and immovable in faith 
 he defied them with his eye, ready to be martyred 
 rather than fly before them. The schoolmaster came 
 to his rescue and he returned home to his mother. 
 
 For a space of three months, the tall workman, 
 Philip, frequently passed by La Blanchotte's house, 
 and sometimes made bold to speak to her when he 
 saw her sewing near the window. She answered 
 him civilly, always sedately, never joking with him, 
 nor permitting him to enter her house. Notwith- 
 standing this, being, like all men, a bit of a coxcomb, 
 he imagined that she was often rosier than usual 
 when she chatted with him. 
 
 But a fallen reputation is so difficult to recover, 
 and always remains so fragile that, in spite of the 
 shy reserve La Blanchotte maintained, they already 
 gossiped in the neighborhood. 
 
 As for Simon, he loved his new papa much, and 
 walked with him nearly every evening when the day's 
 work was done. He went regularly to school and
 
 2o8 WORKS OF GUY DR MAUPASSANT 
 
 mixed in a dignified way with his schoolfellows 
 without ever answering them back. 
 
 One day, however, the lad who had first attacked 
 him said to him: 
 
 "You have lied. You have not a papa named 
 Philip." 
 
 "Why do you say that.?" demanded Simon, much 
 disturbed. 
 
 The youth rubbed his hands. He replied: 
 
 " Because if you had one he would be your 
 mamma's husband." 
 
 Simon was confused by the truth of this reason- 
 ing; nevertheless he retorted: 
 
 "He is my papa all the same." 
 
 "That can very well be," exclaimed the urchin 
 with a sneer, "but that is not being your papa al- 
 together." 
 
 La Blanchotte's little one bowed his head and went 
 off dreaming in the direction of the forge belonging 
 to old Loizon, where Philip worked. 
 
 This forge was entombed in trees. It was very dark 
 there, the red glare of a formidable furnace alone lit 
 up with great flashes five blacksmiths, who hammered 
 upon their anvils with a terrible din. Standing envel- 
 oped in flame, they worked like demons, their eyes 
 fixed on the red-hot iron they were pounding; and 
 their dull ideas rising and falling with their hammers. 
 
 Simon entered without being noticed and quietly 
 plucked his friend by the sleeve. Philip turned 
 round. All at once the work came to a standstill 
 and the men looked on very attentively. Then, in 
 the midst of this unaccustomed silence, rose the little 
 slender pipe of Simon:
 
 SIMON'S PAPA 209 
 
 *' Philip, explain to me what the lad at la 
 Michande has just told me, that you are not al- 
 together my papa." 
 
 "And why that?" asked the smith. 
 
 The child replied in all innocence: 
 
 " Because you are not my mamma's husband." 
 
 No one laughed. Philip remained standing, lean- 
 ing his forehead upon the back of his great hands, 
 which held the handle of his hammer upright upon 
 the anvil. He mused. His four companions watched 
 him, and, like a tiny mite among these giants, Simon 
 anxiously waited. Suddenly, one of the smiths, voic- 
 ing the sentiment of all, said to Philip: 
 
 "All the same La Blanchotte is a good and honest 
 girl, stalwart and steady in spite of her misfortune, 
 and one who would make a worthy wife for an 
 honest man." 
 
 "That is true," remarked the three others. 
 
 The smith continued: 
 
 "Is it the girl's fault if she has fallen? She had 
 been promised marriage, and I know more than one 
 who is much respected to-day and has sinned every 
 bit as much." 
 
 "That is true," responded the three men in chorus. 
 
 He resumed: 
 
 "How hard she has toiled, poor thing, to educate 
 her lad all alone, and how much she has wept since 
 she no longer goes out, save to church, God only 
 knows." 
 
 "That also is true," said the others. 
 
 Then no more was heard save the roar of the bel- 
 lows which fanned the fire of the furnace. Philip 
 hastily bent himself down to Simon: 
 
 Muup. I — ]4
 
 2 10 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 "Go and tell your mamma that I shall come to 
 speak to her." 
 
 Then he pushed the child out by the shoulders. 
 He returned to his work and in unison the five ham- 
 mers again fell upon their anvils. Thus they wrought 
 the iron until nightfall, strong, powerful, happy, like 
 Vulcans satisfied. But as the great bell of a cathedral 
 resounds upon feast days above the jingling of the 
 other bells, so Philip's hammer, dominating the noise 
 of the others, clanged second after second with a 
 deafening uproar. His eye on the fire, he plied his 
 trade vigorously, erect amid the sparks. 
 
 The sky was full of stars as he knocked at La 
 Blanchotte's door. He had his Sunday blouse on, a 
 fresh shirt, and his beard was trimmed. The young 
 woman showed herself upon the threshold and said 
 in a grieved tone: 
 
 "It is ill to come thus v/hen night has fallen, Mr. 
 Philip." 
 
 He wished to answer, but stammered and stood 
 confused before her. 
 
 She resumed: 
 
 "And you understand quite well that it will not 
 do that I should be talked about any more." 
 
 Then he said all at once: 
 
 "What does that matter to me, if you will be my 
 wife!" 
 
 No voice replied to him. but he believed that he 
 heard in the shadov/ of the room the sound of a 
 body falling. He entered very quickly; and Simon, who 
 had gone to his bed, distinguished the sound of a 
 kiss and some words that his mother said very softly. 
 Then he suddenly found himself lifted up by the
 
 SIMON'S PAPA 211 
 
 hands of his friend, who, holding him at the length 
 of his herculean arms, exclaimed to him: 
 
 "You will tell your school-fellows that your papa 
 is Philip Remy, the blacksmith, and that he will pull 
 the ears of ail who do you any harm." 
 
 On the morrow, when the school was full and 
 lessons were about to begin, little Simon stood up 
 quite pale with trembling lips: 
 
 "My papa," said he in a clear voice, "is Philip 
 Remy, the blacksmith, and he has promised to box 
 the ears of all who do me any harm." 
 
 This time no one laughed any longer, for he was 
 very well known, was Philip Remy, the blacksmith, 
 and he was a papa of whom anyone in the world 
 would be proud.
 
 WAITER, A ''BOCK"* 
 
 HY on this particular evening, 
 
 did I enter a certain beer 
 
 shop ? I cannot explain it. 
 
 It was bitterly cold. A fine rain, a 
 
 watery mist floated about, veiling the 
 
 gas jets in a transparent fog, making 
 
 the pavements under the shadow of 
 
 the shop fronts glitter, which revealed 
 
 the soft slush and the soiled feet of the 
 
 passers-by. 
 
 1 was going nowhere in particular; was 
 simply having a short walk after dinner. 
 1 had passed the Credit Lyonnais, the Rue 
 Vivienne, and several other streets. Suddenly 
 I descried a large cafe, which was more than half 
 full. I walked inside, with no object in mind. I was 
 not the least thirsty. 
 
 By a searching glance I detected a place where I 
 would not be too much crowded. So I went and sat 
 down by the side of a man who seemed to me to be 
 old, and who smoked a half-penny clay pipe, which 
 
 * Bavarian beer. 
 
 (213)
 
 WAITER, A "BOCK" 21 ; 
 
 had become as black as coal. From six to eie;ht beer 
 saucers were piled up on the table in front of him, 
 indicating the number of "bocks" he had already 
 absorbed. With that same glance I had recognized 
 in him a "regular toper," one of those frequenters of 
 beer-houses, who come in the morning as soon as 
 the place is open, and only go away in the evening 
 when it is about to close. He was dirty, bald to 
 about the middle of the cranium, while his long 
 gray haii fell over the neck of his frock coat. His 
 clothes, much too large for him, appeared to have 
 been made for him at a time when he was very stout. 
 One could guess that his pantaloons were not held 
 up by braces, and that this man could not take ten 
 paces without having to pull them up and readjust 
 them. Did he wear a vest? The mere thought of 
 his boots and the feet they enveloped filled me with 
 horror. The frayed cuffs were as black at the edges 
 as were his nails. 
 
 As soon as I had sat down near him, this queer 
 creature said to me in a tranquil tone of voice: 
 
 "How goes it with you.?" 
 
 I turned sharply round to him and closely scanned 
 his features, whereupon he continued: 
 
 "I see you do not recognize me." 
 
 "No, 1 do not." 
 
 "Des Barrets." 
 
 I was stupefied. It was Count Jean des ^arrets, 
 my old college chum. 
 
 I seized him by the hand, so dumfounded that I 
 could find nothing to say. 1, at length, managed to 
 stammer out: 
 
 "And you, how goes it with you?"
 
 214 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 He responded placidly: 
 
 ''With me? Just as I like." 
 
 He became silent. I v/anted to be friendly, and I 
 selected this phrase: 
 
 "What are you doing now?" 
 
 "You see what I am doing," he answered, quite 
 resignedly. 
 
 I felt my face getting red. I insisted: 
 
 "But every day?" 
 
 "Every day is alike to me," was his response, ac- 
 companied with a thick puff of tobacco smoke. 
 
 He then tapped on the top of the marble table 
 with a sou, to attract the attention of the waiter, and 
 called out : 
 
 "Waiter, two 'bocks.'" 
 
 A voice in the distance repeated: 
 
 "Two 'bocks,' instead of four." 
 
 Another voice, more distant still, shouted out: 
 
 "Here they are, sir, here they are." 
 
 Immediately there appeared a man v/ith a white 
 apron, carrying two "bocks," which he set down 
 foaming on the table, the foam running over the 
 edge, on to the sandy floor. 
 
 Des Barrets emptied his glass at a single draught 
 and replaced it on the table, sucking in the drops of 
 beer that had been left on his mustache. He next 
 asked: 
 
 "What is there new?" 
 
 "1 know of nothing new, worth mentioning, 
 really," 1 stammered: "But nothing has grown old 
 for me; 1 am a commercial man." 
 
 In an equable tone of voice, he said: 
 
 "Indeed — does that amuse you?"
 
 WAITER, A "BOCK" 21 5 
 
 "No, but what do you mean by that? Surely you 
 must do something!" 
 
 "What do you mean by that?" 
 "I only mean, how do you pass your time!" 
 "What's the use of occupying myself with any- 
 thing. For my part, I do nothing at all, as you see, 
 never anything. When one has not got a sou one 
 can understand why one has to go to work. What 
 is the good of working? Do you work for your- 
 self, or for others ? If you work for yourself you do 
 it for your own amusement, which is all right; if 
 you work for others, you reap nothing but ingrati- 
 tude." 
 
 Then sticking his pipe into his mouth, he called 
 out anew: 
 
 "Waiter, a 'bock.' It makes me thirsty to keep 
 calling so. I am not accustomed to that sort of thing. 
 Yes, I do nothing; 1 let things slide, and I am grow- 
 ing old. In dying I shall have nothing to regret. If so, 
 I should remember nothing, outside this public-house. 
 1 have no wife, no children, no cares, no sorrows, 
 nothing. That is the very best thing that could hap- 
 pen to one." 
 
 He then emptied the glass which had been brought 
 him, passed his tongue over his lips, and resumed his 
 pipe. 
 
 I looked at him stupefied and asked him: 
 "But you have not always been like that?" 
 "Pardon me, sir; ever since I left college." 
 "It is not a proper life to lead, my dear sir; it is 
 simply horrible. Come, you must indeed have done 
 something, you must have loved something, you must 
 have friends."
 
 2l6 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 "No; I get up at noon, I come here, I have my 
 breakfast, I clrink my 'bock'; I remain until the even- 
 ing, I have my dinner, I drink 'bock.' Then about 
 one in the morning, I return to my couch, because 
 the place closes up. And it is this latter that embit- 
 ters me more than anything. For the last ten years, 
 I have passed six-tenths of my time on this bench, 
 in my corner; and the other four-tenths in my bed, 
 never changing. I talk sometimes with the habitues." 
 
 "But on arriving in Paris what did you do at 
 first?" 
 
 "I paid my devoirs to the Cafe de Medicis." 
 
 "What next?" 
 
 "Next? I crossed the water and came here." 
 
 "Why did you take even that trouble?" 
 
 "What do you mean? One cannot remain all 
 one's life in the Latin Quarter. The students make 
 too much noise. But 1 do not move about any 
 longer. Waiter, a 'bock.'" 
 
 I now began to think that he was making fun of 
 me, and 1 continued: 
 
 "Come now, be frank. You have been the victim 
 of some great sorrow; despair in love, no doubt! It 
 is easy to see that you are a man whom misfortune 
 has hit hard. What age are you?" 
 
 "I am thirty years of age, but I look to be forty- 
 five at least." 
 
 I looked him straight in the face. His shrunken 
 figure, badly cared for, gave one the impression that 
 he was an old man. On the summit of his cranium, 
 a few long hairs shot straight up from a skin of 
 doubtful cleanness. He had enormous .eyelashes, a 
 large mustache, and a thick beard. Suddenly I had
 
 WAITER, A "BOCK" 217 
 
 a kind of vision, I know not why — the vision of a 
 basin filled with noisome water, the water which 
 should have been applied to that poll. 1 said to him: 
 
 "Verily, you look to be more than that age. Of 
 a certainty you must have experienced some great 
 disappointment." 
 
 He replied: 
 
 "1 tell you that I have not. I am old because I 
 never take air. There is nothing that vitiates the life 
 of a man more than the atmosphere of a caf6." 
 
 I could not believe him. 
 
 "You must surely have been married as well? 
 One could not get as baldheaded as you are without 
 having been much in love." 
 
 He shook his head, sending down his back little 
 hairs from the scalp: 
 
 "No, I have always been virtuous." 
 
 And raising his eyes toward the luster, which beat 
 down on our heads, he said: 
 
 "If 1 am baldheaded, it is the fault of the gas. 
 It is the enemy of hair. Waiter, a 'bock.' You 
 must be thirsty also?" 
 
 "No, thank you. But you certainly interest me. 
 When did you have your first discouragement? 
 Your life is not normal, is not natural. There is 
 something under it all." 
 
 "Yes, and it dates from my infancy. I received 
 a heavy blow when 1 was very young. It turned 
 my life into darkness, which will last to the end." 
 
 "How did it come about?" 
 
 "You wish to know about it? Well, then, lis- 
 ten. You recall, of course, the castle in which I was 
 brought up, seeing 'that you used to visit it for five
 
 2l8 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 or six months during the vacations ? You remernber 
 that large, gray building in the middle of a great 
 park, and the long avenues of oaks, which opened 
 toward the four cardinal points! You remember my 
 father and rny mother, both of whom were ceremo- 
 nious, solemn, and severe. 
 
 "I worshiped my mother; I was suspicious of 
 my father; but I respected both, accustomed always 
 as I was to see everyone bow beibrc them. In the 
 country, they were Monsieur le Comte and Madame 
 la Comtesse; and our neighbors, the Tannemares, the 
 Ravelets, the Brennevilles, showed the utmost consid- 
 eration for them. 
 
 "I was then thirteen years old, happy, satisfied 
 with everything, as one is at that age, and full of 
 joy and vivacity. 
 
 "Now toward the end of September, a few days 
 before entering the Lycee, while 1 was enjoying my- 
 self in the mazes of the park, climbing the trees 
 and swinging on the branches, I saw crossing an 
 avenue my father and mother, who were walking to- 
 gether. 
 
 "I recall the thing as though it were yesterday. 
 It was a very windy day. The whole line of trees 
 bent under the pressure of the wind, moaned and 
 seemed to utter cries — cries dull, yet deep — so that 
 the whole forest groaned under the gale. 
 
 "Evening had come on, and it was dark in the 
 thickets. The agitation of the wind and the branches 
 excited me, made me skip about like an idiot, and 
 howl in imitation of the wolves. 
 
 "As soon as I perceived my parents, I crept fur- 
 tively toward them, under the branches, in order to
 
 WAITER, A "BOCK" 219 
 
 surprise them, as though I had been a veritable wolf. 
 But suddenly seized with fear, I stopped a few paces 
 from them. My father, a prey to the most violent 
 passion, cried: 
 
 "'Your mother is a fool; moreover, it is not your 
 mother that is the question, it is you. I tell you 
 '^hat I want money, and I will make you sign this.' 
 
 "My mother responded in a firm voice: 
 
 "'I will not sign it. It is Jean's fortune, I shall 
 guard it for him and I will not allow you to devour 
 it with strange women, as you have your own her- 
 itage.' 
 
 "Then my father, full of rage, wheeled round and 
 seized his wife by the throat, and began to slap her 
 full in the face with the disengaged hand. 
 
 "Mv mother's hat fell off, her hair became di- 
 sheveled and fell down her back: she essayed to parry 
 the blows, but could not escape from them. And my 
 father, like a madman, banged and banged at her. 
 My mother rolled over on the ground, covering her 
 face in both her hands. Then he turned her over on 
 her back in order to batter her still more, pulling 
 away the hands which were covering her face. 
 
 "As for me, my friend, it seemed as though the 
 world had come to an end, that the eternal laws 
 had changed. I experienced the overwhelming dread 
 that one has in presence of things supernatural, in 
 presence of irreparable disaster. My boyish head 
 whirled round and soared. I began to cry with all 
 my might, without knov/ing why, a prey to terror, 
 to grief, to a dreadful bewilderment. My father 
 heard me, turned round, and, on seeing me, made as 
 though he would rush at me. I believed that he
 
 220 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 wanted to kill me, and I fled like a hunted animal, 
 running straight in front of me through the woods. 
 
 "1 ran perhaps for an hour, perhaps for two, I 
 know not. Darkness had set in, I tumbled over 
 some thick herbs, exhausted, and I lay there lost, 
 devoured by terror, eaten up by a sorrow capable 
 of breaking forever the heart of a child. I became 
 cold, 1 became hungry. At length day broke. I 
 dared neither get up, walk, return home, nor save 
 myself, fearing to encounter my father whom I did 
 not wish to see again. 
 
 "I should probably have died of misery and of 
 hunger at the foot of a tree if the guard had not 
 discovered me and led me away by force. 
 
 "1 found my parents wearing their ordinary aspect. 
 My mother alone spoke to me: 
 
 "'How you have frightened me, you naughty boy; 
 I have been the whole night sleepless.' 
 
 "I did not answer, but began to weep. My 
 father did not utter a single word. 
 
 "Eight days later I entered the Lycee. 
 
 "Well, my friend, it was all over with me. I had 
 witnessed the other side of things, the bad side; I 
 have not been able to perceive the good side since 
 that day. What things have passed in my mind, 
 what strange phenomena have warped my ideas, I do 
 not know. But I no longer have a taste for anything, 
 a wish for anything, a love for anybody, a desire for 
 anything whatever, no ambition, no hope. And 1 can 
 always see my poor mother lying on the ground, in. 
 the avenue, while my father was maltreating her. 
 My mother died a few years after; my father lives 
 stifl. I have not seen him since. Waiter, a 'bock.'"
 
 WAITER, A "BOCK" 221 
 
 A waiter brought him his "bock," which he swal- 
 Icwed at a gulp. But, in taking up his pipe again, 
 trembling as he was, he broke it. Then he made a 
 violent gesture: 
 
 "Zounds! This is indeed a grief, a real grief. I 
 have had it for a month, and it was coloring so 
 beautifully!" 
 
 Then he went off through the vast saloon, which 
 was now full of smoke and of people drinking, call- 
 ing out: 
 
 "Waiter, a * bock '-—and a new pipe."_
 
 THE 
 SEQJJEL TO A DIVORCE 
 
 ERTAiNLY, although he had been en- 
 gaged in the most extraordinary, 
 most anhivcly, most extravagant, 
 and funniest cases, and had won 
 legal games without a trump in his 
 hand — although he had worked out 
 the obscure law of divorce, as if it had 
 been a Californian gold mine, Maitre* 
 Garrulier, the celebrated, the only Garrulier, 
 K 21- B could not check a movement of surprise, 
 ^^•7^ nor a disheartening shake of the head, nor 
 a smile, when the Countess de Baudemont ex- 
 plained her affairs to him for the first time. 
 He had just opened his correspondence, and 
 his slender hands, on which he bestowed the greatest 
 attention, buried themselves in a heap of female let- 
 ters, and one might have thought oneself in the con- 
 fessional of a fashionable preacher, so impregnated 
 was the atmosphere with delicate perfumes. 
 
 •Title given to advocates in France. 
 (222)
 
 THE SEQUEL TO A DIVORCE 22? 
 
 Immediately — even before she had said a word — 
 with the sharp glance of a practised man of the 
 world, that look which made beautiful Madame de 
 Serpenoise say: "He strips your heart bare!" the 
 lawyer had classed her in the third category. Those 
 who suffer came into his first category, those who 
 love, into the second, and those v/ho are bored, into 
 the third — and she belonged to the latter. 
 
 She was a pretty windmill, whose sails turned and 
 flew round, and fretted the blue sky with a delicious 
 shiver of joy, as it were, and had the brain of a bird, 
 in which four correct and healthy ideas cannot exist 
 side by side, and in which all dreams and every kind 
 of folly are engulfed, like a great kaleidoscope. 
 
 Incapable of hurting a fly, emotional, charitable, 
 with a feeling of tenderness for the street girl who 
 sells bunches of violets for a penny, for a cab horse 
 which a driver is ill-using, for a melancholy pauper's 
 funeral, when the body, without friends or relations 
 to follow it, is being conveyed to the common grave, 
 doing anything that might afford five minutes' 
 amusement, not caring if she made men miserable for 
 the rest of their days, and taking pleasure in kindling 
 passions which consumed men's whole being, look- 
 ing upon life as too short to be anything else than 
 one uninterrupted round of gaiety and enjoyment, she 
 thought that people might find plenty of time for 
 being serious and reasonable in the evening of life, 
 when they are at the bottom of the hill, and their 
 lookinp-Ldasses reveal a wrinkled face, surrounded 
 with v/hite hair. 
 
 A thorough-bred Parisian, whom one would follow 
 to the end of the world, like a poodle; a woman
 
 224 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 whom one adores with the head, the heart, and the 
 senses until one is nearly driven mad, as soon as one 
 has inhaled the delicate perfume that emanates from 
 her dress and hair, or touched her skin, and heard 
 her laugh; a woman for whom one would fight a 
 duel and risk one's life without a thought; for whom 
 a man would remove mountains, and sell his soul to 
 the devil several times over, if the devil were still in 
 the habit of frequenting the places of bad repute on 
 this earth. 
 
 She had perhaps come to see this Garrulier, whom 
 she had so often heard mentioned at five o'clock teas, 
 so as to be able to describe him to her female 
 friends subsequently in droll phrases, imitating his 
 gestures and the unctuous inflections of his voice, 
 in order, perhaps, to experience some new sensation, 
 or, perhaps, for the sake of dressing like a woman 
 who was going to try for a divorce; and, certainly, 
 the whole effect was perfect. She wore a splendid 
 cloak embroidered with jet — which gave an almost 
 serious effect to her golden hair, to her small slightly 
 turned-up nose, with its quivering nostrils, and to her 
 large eyes, full of enigma and fun — over a dark stuff 
 dress, which was fastened at the neck by a sapphire 
 and a diamond pin. 
 
 The barrister did not interrupt her, but allowed 
 her to get excited and to chatter, to enumerate her 
 causes for complaint against poor Count de Baude- 
 mont, who certainly had no suspicion of his wife's 
 escapade, and who would have been very much 
 surprised if anyone had told him of it at that mo- 
 ment, when he was taking his fencing lesson at 
 the club.
 
 THE SEQUEL TO A DIVORCE 225 
 
 When she had quite finished, he said coolly, as if 
 he were throwing a pail of water on some burning 
 straw : 
 
 "But, Madame, there is not the sHghtest pretext 
 for a divorce in anything that you have told me 
 here. The judges would ask me whether I took the 
 Law Courts for a theater, and intended to make fun 
 of them." 
 
 And seeing how disheartened she was, — that she 
 looked like a child whose favorite toy had been 
 broken, that she was so pretty that he would have 
 liked to kiss her hands in his devotion, and as she 
 seemed to be witty, and very amusing, and as, more- 
 over, he had no objection to such visits being pro- 
 longed, when papers had to be looked over, while 
 sitting close together, — Maitre Garrulier appeared to be 
 considering. Taking his chin in his hand, he said: 
 
 "However, I will think it over; there is sure to 
 be some dark spot that can be made out worse. 
 Write to me, and come and see me again." 
 
 In the course of her visits, that black spot had 
 increased so much, and Madame de Baudemont had 
 followed her lawyer's advice so punctually, and had 
 played on the various strings so skillfully that a few 
 months later, after a lawsuit, which is still spoken of in 
 the Courts of Justice, and during the course of which 
 the President had to take off his spectacles, and to 
 use his pocket-handkerchief noisily, the divorce was 
 pronounced in favor of the Countess Marie Anne 
 Nicole Bournct de Baudemont, ndc de Tanchart de 
 Peothus. 
 
 The Count, who was nonplussed at such an ad- 
 venture turning out so seriously, first of all flew into 
 Muijp. 1 — 15
 
 226 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 a terrible rage, rushed off to the lawyer's office and 
 threatened to cut off his knavish ears for him. But 
 when his access of fury was over, and he thought 
 of it, he shrugged his shoulders and said: 
 
 "All the better for her, if it amuses her!" 
 
 Then he bought Baron Silberstein's yacht, and with 
 some friends, got up a cruise to Ceylon and India. 
 
 Marie Anne began by triumphing, and felt as 
 happy as a schoolgirl going home for the holidays; 
 she committed every possible folly, and soon, tired, 
 satiated, and disgusted, began to yawn, cried, and 
 found oat that she had sacrificed her happiness, like 
 a millionaire who has gone mad and has cast his 
 banknotes and shares into the river, and that she 
 was nothing more than a disabled waif and stray. 
 Consequently, she now married again, as the solitude 
 of her home made her morose from morning till 
 night; and then, besides, she found a woman requires 
 a mansion when she goes into society, to race meet- 
 ings, or to the theater. 
 
 And so, while she became a marchioness, and pro- 
 nounced her second "Yemf'i before a very few friends, 
 at the office of the mayor of the English urban dis- 
 trict, malicious people in the Faubourg were making 
 fun of the whole affair, and affirming this and that, 
 whether rightly or wrongly, and comparing the pres- 
 ent husband to the former one, even declaring that 
 he had partially been the cause of the former divorce. 
 Meanwhile Monsieur de Baudemont was wandering 
 over the four quarters of the globe trying to overcome 
 his homesickness, and to deaden his longing for love, 
 which had taken possession of his heart and of his 
 body, like a slow poison.
 
 THE SEQUEL TO A DIVORCE 22^] 
 
 He traveled through the most out-of-the-way places, 
 and the most lovely countries, and spent months and 
 months at sea, and plunged into every kind of dis- 
 sipation and debauchery. But neither the supple 
 forms nor the luxurious gestures of the bayaderes, 
 nor the large passive eyes of the Creoles, nor flirta- 
 tions with English girls with hair the color of new 
 cider, nor nights of waking dreams, when he saw 
 new constellations in the sky, nor dangers during 
 which a man thinks it is all over with him, and mut- 
 ters a few words of prayer in spite of himself, when 
 the waves are high, and the sky black, nothing was 
 able to make him forget that little Parisian woman 
 who smelled so sweet that she might have been taken 
 for a bouquet of rare flowers; who was so coaxing, 
 so curious, so funny; who never had the same ca- 
 price, the same smile, or the same look twice, and 
 who, at bottom, v/as worth more than many others, 
 either saints or sinners. 
 
 He thought of her constantly, during long hours 
 of sleeplessness. He carried her portrait about with 
 him in the breast pocket of his pea-jacket — a charm- 
 ing portrait in which she was smiling, and showing 
 her white teeth between her half-open lips. Her 
 gentle eyes with their magnetic look had a happy, 
 frank expression, and from the mere arrangement of 
 her hair, one could see that she was fair among the 
 fair. 
 
 He used to kiss that portrait of the woman who 
 had been his wife as if he wished to efface it, 
 would look at it for hours, and then throw himself 
 down on the netting and sob like a ciiild as he 
 looked at the infinite expanse before him, seeming to
 
 236 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 see their lost happiness, the joys of their perished 
 affections, and the divine remembrance of their love, 
 in the monotonous waste of green waters. And he 
 tried to accuse himself for all that had occurred, and 
 not to be angry with her, to think that his grievances 
 were imaginary, and to adore her in spite of every- 
 thing and always. 
 
 And so he roamed about the world, tossed to and 
 fro, suffering and hoping he knew not what. He 
 ventured into the greatest dangers, and sought for 
 death just as a man seeks for his mistress, and death 
 passed close to him without touching him, perhaps 
 amused at his grief and misery. 
 
 For he was as wretched as a stone-breaker, as 
 one of those poor devils who work and nearly break 
 their backs over the hard flints the whole day long, 
 under the scorching sun or the cold rain; and Marie 
 Anne herself was not happy, for she was pining for 
 the past and remembered their former love. 
 
 At last, however, he returned to France, changed, 
 tanned by exposure, sun, and rain, and transformed 
 as if by some witch's philter. 
 
 Nobody would have recognized the elegant and 
 effeminate clubman, in this corsair with broad shoul- 
 ders, a skin the color of tan, with very red lips, 
 who rolled a little in his walk; who seemed to be 
 stifled in his black dress-coat, but who still retained 
 the distinguished manners and bearing of a nobleman 
 of the last century, one of those who, when he was 
 ruined, fitted out a privateer, and fell upon the Eng- 
 lish wherever he met them, from St. Malo to Cal- 
 cutta. And wherever he showed himself his friends 
 exclaimed :
 
 THE SEQUEL TO A DIVORCE 229 
 
 "Why! Is that you? I should never have known 
 you again!" 
 
 He was very nearly starting off again immediately; 
 he even telegraphed orders to Havre to get the 
 steam-yacht ready for sea directly, when he heard 
 that Marie Anne had married again. 
 
 He saw her in the distance, at the Theatre Fran- 
 ^ais one Tuesday, and when he noticed how pretty, 
 how fair, how desirable she was, — looking so melan- 
 choly, with all the appearance of an unhappy soul that 
 regrets something, — his determination grew weaker, 
 and he delayed his departure from week to week, 
 and waited, without knowing why, until, at last, 
 worn out with the struggle, watching her wherever 
 she went, more in love with her than he had ever 
 been before, he wrote her long, mad, ardent letters 
 in which his passion overflowed like a stream of lava. 
 
 He altered his handwriting, as he remembered 
 her restless brain, and her many whims. He sent 
 her the flowers which he knew she liked best, and 
 told her that she was his life, that he was dying of 
 waiting for her, of longing for her, for her his idol. 
 
 At last, very much puzzled and surprised, guess- 
 ing — wlio knows? — from the instinctive beating of 
 her heart, and her general emotion, that it must be he 
 this time, he whose soul she had tortured with such 
 cold cruelty, and knowing that she could make amends 
 for the past and bring back their former love, she 
 replied to him, and granted him the meeting that he 
 asked for. She fell into his arms, and they both 
 .'.obbed with joy and ecstasy. Their kisses were those 
 which lips give only when they have lost each other 
 and found each other again at last, when they meet
 
 230 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 and exhaust themselves in each other's looks, thirst- 
 ing for tenderness, love, and enjoyment. 
 
 Last week Count de Baudemont carried off Marie 
 Anne quietly and coolly, just like one resumes pos- 
 session of one's house on returning from a journey, 
 and drives out the intruders. And when Maitre 
 Garrulier was told of this unheard of scandal, he 
 rubbed his hands — the long, delicate hands of a sen^ 
 sual prelate — and exclaimed: 
 
 "That is absolutely logical, and I should like to 
 be in their place."
 
 THE MAD WOMAN 
 
 
 I 
 
 CAN tell you a terrible story about 
 the Franco-Prussian war," Monsieur 
 d'Endolin said to some friends 
 assembled in the smoking-room of 
 Baron de Ravot's chateau. "You 
 know my house in the Faubourg de 
 Cormeil. 1 was living there when 
 the Prussians came, and 1 had for a 
 eighbor a kind of mad woman, who 
 d lost her senses in consequence of a 
 series of misfortunes. At the age of seven 
 and twenty she had lost her father, her 
 husband, and her newly born child, all in the 
 space of a mont-h. 
 "When death has once entered into a house, it 
 almost invariably returns immediately, as if it knew 
 the way, and the young woman, overwhelmed with 
 grief, took to her bed and was delirious for six weeks. 
 Then a species of calm lassitude succeeded that vio- 
 lent crisis, and she remained motionless, eating next to 
 nothing, and only moving her eyes. Every time they 
 tried to make her get up, she screamed as if they were 
 
 (231) 
 
 c^S:-*--
 
 23-i THE MAD WOMAN 
 
 about to kill her, and so they ended by leaving her 
 continually in bed, and only taking her out to wash 
 her, to change her linen, and to turn her mattress. 
 
 "An old servant remained with her, to give her 
 something to drink, or a little cold meat, from time 
 to time. What passed in that despairing mind ? No 
 one ever knew, for she did not speak at all now. 
 Was she thinking of the dead ? Was she dreaming 
 sadly, without any precise recollection of anything 
 that had happened ? Or v/as her memory as stagnant 
 as water without any current? But however this 
 may have been, for fifteen years she remained thus 
 inert and secluded. 
 
 "The war broke out, and in the beginning of De- 
 cember the Germans came lo Cormeil. I can re- 
 member it as if it were but yesterday. It was freezing 
 hard enough to split the stones, and I myself was 
 lying back in an armchair, being unable to move on 
 account of the gout, when I heard their heavy and 
 regular tread, and could see them pass from my 
 window. 
 
 "They defiled past interminably, with that peculiar 
 motion of a puppet on wires, which belongs to them. 
 Then the officers billeted their men on the inhab- 
 itants, and I had seventeen of them. My neighbor, 
 the crazy woman, had a dozen, one of whom was 
 the Commandant, a regular violent, surly swash- 
 buckler. 
 
 "During the first few days, everything went on as 
 usual. The officers next door had been told that the 
 lady was ill, and they did not trouble themselves 
 about that in the least, but soon that woman whom 
 they never saw irritated them. They asked what
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 •7 } 
 
 her illness was, and were told that she had beer m 
 bed for fifteen years, in consequence of terrible grief 
 No doubt they did not believe it, and tiious'.ht that 
 the poor mad creature would not leave her bed out 
 of pride, so that she might not come near the Prus- 
 sians, or speak to them or even see them. 
 
 "The Commandant insisted upon her receiving 
 him. He was. shown into the room and said to her 
 roughly: 'I must beg you to get up, Madame, and 
 to come downstairs so that we may all see you.' 
 But she merely turned her vague eyes on him, With- 
 out replying, and so he continued: '1 do not intend 
 to tolerate any insolence, and if you do not get up of 
 your own accord, I can easily find means to make 
 you walk without any assistance.' 
 
 "But she did not give any signs of having heard 
 him, and remained quite motionless. Then he got 
 furious, taking that calm silence for a mark of su- 
 preme contempt; so he added: ' If you do not come 
 downstairs to-morrow — ' And then he left the room. 
 
 "The next day the terrified old servant wished to 
 dress her, but the mad woman began to scream vio- 
 lently, and resisted with all her miglit. The officer 
 ran upstairs quickly, and the servant threw herself at 
 his feet and cried: 'She will not come down. Mon- 
 sieur, she will not. Forgive her, for she is so un- 
 happy.' 
 
 'The soldier was embarrassed, as in spite of his 
 anger, he did not venture to order his soldiers to 
 drag her out. But suddenly he began to laugh, and 
 gave some orders in German, and soon a party of 
 soldiers was seen coming out supporting a mattress
 
 234 THE MAD WOMAN 
 
 as if they were carrying a wounded man. On that 
 bed, which had not been unmade, the mad woman, 
 who was still silent, was lying quite quietly, for she 
 was quite indifferent to anything that went on, as 
 long as they let her lie. Behind her, a soldier was 
 carrying a parcel of feminine attire, and the officer 
 said, rubbing his hands: *We will just see whether 
 you cannot dress yourself alone, and take a little v/alk/ 
 "And then the procession went off in the direc- 
 tion of the forest of Imauville; in two hours the soldiers 
 came back alone, and nothing more was seen of the 
 mad woman. What had they done with her? Where 
 had they taken her to ? No one knew. 
 
 "The snow was falling day and night, and envel- 
 oped the plain and the woods in a shroud of frozen 
 foam, and the wolves came and howled at our very 
 doors. 
 
 "The thought of that poor lost woman haunted 
 me, and i made several applications to the Prussian 
 authorities in order to obtain some information, and 
 was nearly shot for doing so. When spring returned, 
 the army of occupation withdrew, but my neighbor's 
 house remained closed, and the grass grew thick in 
 the garden walks. The old servant had died during 
 the winter, and nobody troubled any longer about 
 the occurrence; I alone thought about it constantly. 
 What had they done with the woman ? Had she 
 escaped through the forest? Had somebody found 
 her, and taken her to a hospital, without being able 
 to obtain any information from her? Nothing hap- 
 pened to relieve my doubts; but by degrees, time 
 assuaged my fears.
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 235 
 
 "Well, in the following autumn the woodcock were 
 very plentiful, and as my gout had left me for a time, 
 I dragged myself as far as the forest. 1 had already 
 killed four or five of the long-billed birds, when I 
 knocked over one which fell into a ditch full of 
 branches, and I was obliged to get into it, in order to 
 pick it up, and I found that it had fallen close to a 
 dead, human body. Immediately the recollection of 
 the mad woman struck me hke a blow in the chest. 
 Many other people had perhaps died in the wood 
 during that disastrous year, but though I do not know 
 why, I was sure, sure, I tell you, that I should see the 
 head of that wretched maniac. 
 
 "And suddenly I understood, I guessed everything. 
 They had abandoned her on that mattress in the cold, 
 deserted wood; and, faithful to her fixed idea, she had 
 allowed herself to perish under that thick and light 
 counterpane of snow, without moving either arms or 
 
 Ipcrc 
 
 . "Then the wolves had devoured her, and the birds 
 had built their nests with the wool from her torn 
 bed, and I took charge of her bones. I only pray 
 *hat OLU' sons may never see any wars again."
 
 IN VARIOUS ROLES 
 
 j-''^?^ ^Si' T N THE following reminiscences will fre- 
 ^■is'^p^^ I qiiently be mentioned a lady who 
 wJ!^"^'"^^ X pl-^iyed a great part in the annals of 
 the police from 1848 to 1866. We 
 will call her "Wanda von Chabert." 
 Born in Galicia of German parents, and 
 carefully brought up in every way, when 
 only sixteen she married, from love, a 
 rich and handsome officer of noble birth. 
 The young couple, however, Hved beyond 
 their means, and when the husband died 
 suddenly, two years after they were married, 
 she was left anything but well off. 
 As Wanda had grown accustomed to luxury 
 and amusement, a quiet life in her parents' house did 
 not suit her any longer. Even while she was still in 
 mourning for her husband, she allowed a Hungarian 
 magnate to make love to her. She went off with 
 him at a venture, and continued the same extrava- 
 gant life which she had led when her husband was 
 alive, of her own volition. At the end of two years, 
 however, her lover left her in a town in North Italy, 
 almost without means. She was thinking of going 
 (236)
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 237 
 
 on the stage, when chance provided her with another 
 resource, which enabled her to reassert her position 
 in society. She became a secret pohce agent, and 
 soon was one of their most valuable members, in 
 addition to the proverbial charm and wit of a Polish 
 woman, she also possessed high linguistic attain- 
 ments, and spoke Polish, Russian, French, German, 
 English, and Italian, with almost equal fluency and cor- 
 rectness. Then she had that encyclopedic polish which 
 impresses people much more than the most profound 
 learning of the specialist. She was very attractive in 
 appearance, and she knew how to set off her good 
 looks by all the arts of dress and coquetry. 
 
 In addition to this, she was a woman of the 
 world in the widest sense of the term; pleasure- 
 loving, faithless, unstable, and therefore never in any 
 danger of really losing her heart, and consequently 
 her head. She used to change the place of her 
 abode, according to what she had to do. Sometimes 
 she lived in Paris among the Polish emigrants, in 
 order to find out what they were doing, and main- 
 tained intimate relations with the Tuileries and the 
 Palais Royal at the same time; sometimes she went 
 to London for a short time, or hurried off to Italy to 
 watch the Hungarian exiles, only to reappear suddenly 
 in Switzerland, or at one of the fashionable German 
 watering-places. 
 
 In revolutionary circles, she was looked upon as 
 an active member of the great League of Freedom, 
 and diplomatists regarded her as an influential friend 
 of Napoleon 111. 
 
 She knew everyone, but especially those men 
 whose names were to be met with every day in the
 
 238 IN VARIOUS ROLES 
 
 journals, and she counted Victor Emmanuel, Rouher, 
 Gladstone, and GortschakofF among her friends as 
 well as Mazzini, Kossuth, Garibaldi, Mieroslawsky, 
 and Bakunin. 
 
 In the spring of 185- she was at Vevey on the 
 lovely lake of Geneva, and went into raptures when 
 talking to an old German diplomatist about the 
 beauties of nature, and about Calame, Stifter, and 
 Turgenev, whose "Diary of a Hunter," had just be- 
 come fashionable. One day a man appeared at the 
 table d'hote, who excited unusual attention, and hers 
 especially, so that there was nothing strange in her 
 asking the proprietor of the hotel what his name was. 
 She was told that he was a wealthy Brazilian, and 
 that his name was Don Escovedo. 
 
 Whether it was an accident, or whether he re- 
 sponded to the interest which the young woman felt 
 for him, at any rate she constantly met him where- 
 ever she went, whether taking a walk, or on the lake 
 or looking at the newspapers in the reading-room. 
 At last she was obliged to confess to herself that he 
 was the handsomest man she had ever seen. Tall, 
 slim, and yet muscular, the young, beardless Brazilian 
 had a head which any woman might envy, features 
 not only beautiful and noble, but also extremely deli- 
 cate, dark eyes which possessed a wonderful charm, 
 and thick, auburn, curly hair, which completed the 
 attractiveness and the strangeness of his appearance. 
 
 They soon became acquainted, through a Prussian 
 officer whom the Brazilian had asked for an introduc- 
 tion to the beautiful Polish lady — for Frau von Cha- 
 bert was taken for one in Vevey. She, cold and 
 designing as she was, blushed slightly when he stood
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 239 
 
 before her for the first time; and when he gave her 
 his arm, he could feel her hand tremble slightly on 
 it. The same evening they went out riding together, 
 the next he was lying at her feet, and on the third 
 she was his. For four weeks the lovely Wanda and 
 the Brazilian lived together as if they had been in 
 Paradise, but he could not deceive her searching eyes 
 any longer. 
 
 Her sharp and practiced eye had already discov- 
 ered in him that indefinable something which makes 
 a man appear a suspicious character. Any other 
 woman would have been pained and horrified at such 
 a discovery, but she found the strange consolation in 
 it that her handsome adorer promised also to become 
 a very interesting object for pursuit, and so she began 
 systematically to watch the man who lay unsuspect- 
 ingly at her feet. 
 
 She soon found out that he was no conspirator; 
 but she asked herself in vain whether she was to 
 look for a common swindler, an impudent adven- 
 turer, or perhaps even a criminal in him. The day 
 that she had foreseen soon came; the Brazilian's 
 banker "unaccountably" had omitted to send him 
 any money, and so he borrowed some of her. "So 
 he is a male courtesan," she said to herself. The 
 handsome man soon required money again, and she 
 lent it to him again. Then at last he left suddenly 
 and nobody knew where he had gone to; only this 
 much, that he had left Vevey as the companion of 
 an old but wealthy Wallachian lady. So this time 
 clever Wanda was duped. 
 
 A year afterward she met the Braziliiin unexpect- 
 edly at Lucca, with an insipid-looking, light-haired,
 
 240 IN VARIOUS ROLES 
 
 thin Englishwoman on his arm. V/anda stood still 
 and looked at him steadily, but he glanced at her 
 quite indifferently; he did not choose to know her 
 again. 
 
 The next morning, however, his valet brought her 
 a letter from him, which contained the amount of his 
 debt in Italian hundred-lire notes, accompanied by a 
 very cool excuse. Wanda was satisfied, but she 
 wished to find out who the lady was, in whose com- 
 pany she constantly saw Don Escovedo. 
 
 "Don Escovedo." 
 
 An Austrian count, who had a loud and silly 
 laugh, said: 
 
 "Who has saddled you with that yarn ? The lady 
 is Lady Nitingsdale, and his name is Romanesco." 
 
 "Romanesco?" ^ 
 
 "Yes, he is a rich Boyar from Moldavia, where 
 he has extensive estates." 
 
 Romanesco ran a faro bank in his apartments, and 
 certainly cheated, for he nearly always won; it was 
 not long, therefore, before other people in good 
 society at Lucca shared Madame von Chabert's sus- 
 picions, and, consequently, Romanesco thought it 
 advisable to vanish as suddenly from Lucca as Es- 
 covedo had done from Vevey, and without leaving 
 any more traces behind him. 
 
 Some time afterward, Madame von Chabert was 
 on the island of Heligoland, for the sea-bathing; and 
 one day she saw Escovedo-Romancsco sitting oppo- 
 site to her at the table d'hote, in very animated con- 
 versation with a Russian lady; only his hair had 
 turned black since she had seen him last. Evidently 
 his light hair had become too compromising for him.
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 241 
 
 "The sea-water seems to have a very remarkable 
 effect upon your hair," Wanda said to him spitefully, 
 in a whisper. 
 
 "Do you think so?" he replied, condescendingly. 
 
 "I fancy that at one time your hair was fair." 
 
 "You are mistaking me for somebody else," the 
 Brazilian replied, quietly. 
 
 "I am not." 
 
 "For whom do you take me, pray?" he said with 
 an insolent smile. 
 
 "For Don Escovedo." 
 
 "1 am Count Dembizki from Valkynia," the former 
 Brazilian said with a bow; "perhaps you would like 
 to see my passport." 
 
 "Well, perhaps — " 
 
 And he had the impudence to show her his false 
 passport. 
 
 A year afterward Wanda met Count Dembizki in 
 Baden, near Vienna. I lis hair was still black, but he 
 had a magnificent, full, black beard; he had become a 
 Greek prince, and his name was Anastasio Maurokor- 
 datos. She met him once in one of the side walks 
 in the park, where he could not avoid her. "If it 
 goes on like this," she called out to him in a mock- 
 ing voice, "the next time I see you, you will be 
 king of some negro tribe or other." 
 
 That time, however, the Brazilian did not deny 
 his identity; on the contrary, he surrendered at dis- 
 cretion, and implored her not to betray him. As she 
 was not revengeful she pardoned him, after enjoying 
 his terror for a time, and promised him that she 
 would hold her tongue, as long as he did nothing 
 contrary to the laws. 
 Maup. 1—16
 
 242 
 
 IN VARIOUS ROLES 
 
 ** First of all, I must beg you not to gamble." 
 
 "You have only to command; and we do not 
 know each other in the future" 
 
 "I must certainly insist on that," she said mali- 
 ciously. 
 
 The " Exotic Prince " had, however, made a conquest 
 of the charming daughter of a wealthy Austrian count, 
 and had cut out an excellent young officer, who was 
 wooing her. The latter, in his despair, began to 
 make love to Frau von Chabert, and at last told her 
 he loved her. But she only laughed at him. 
 
 "You are very cruel," he stammered in confusion. 
 
 "1.? What are you thinking about?" Wanda re- 
 plied, still smiling; "all I mean is that you have 
 directed your love to the wrong address, for Coun- 
 tess — " 
 
 "Do not speak of her; she is engaged to another 
 man." 
 
 "As long as I choose to permit it," she said; "but 
 what will you do if I bring her back to your arms ? 
 Will you still call me cruel?" 
 
 "Can you do this?" the young officer asked, in 
 great excitement. 
 
 "Well, supposing I can do it, what shall I be 
 then?" 
 
 "An angel, whom I shall thank on my knees." 
 
 A few days later, the rivals met at a coffee-house; 
 the Greek prince began to lie and boast, and the 
 Austrian officer gave him the he direct. In conse- 
 quence, it was arranged that they should fight a duel 
 with pistols next morning in a wood close to Baden. 
 But as the officer was leaving the house with his 
 seconds the next mornmg, a Police Commissary came
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 243 
 
 up to him and begged him not to trouble himself any 
 further about the matter, but another time to be more 
 careful before accepting a challenge. 
 
 "What does it mean?" the otficer asked, in some 
 surprise. 
 
 "It means that this Maurokordatos is a dangerous 
 swindler and adventurer, whom we have just taken 
 into custody." 
 
 " He is not a prince ?" 
 
 "No; a circus rider." 
 
 An hour later, the officer received a letter from the 
 charming Countess, in which she humbly begged for 
 pardon. The happy lover set off to go and see her 
 immediately, but on the way a sudden thought struck 
 him, and so he turned back in order to thank beauti- 
 ful Wanda, as he had promised, on his knees.
 
 THE FALSE GEMS 
 
 Lantin had met the young 
 woman at a soiree, at the 
 home of the assistant chief 
 of his bureau, and at first sight 
 had fallen madly in love with her. 
 She was the daughter of a coun- 
 try physician who had died some 
 months previously. She had come to 
 ive in Paris, with her mother, who 
 'isited much among her acquaintances, 
 the hope of making a favorable mar- 
 riage for her daughter. They were poor and 
 honest, quiet and unatTected. 
 The young girl was a perfect type of the 
 virtuous woman whom every sensible young man 
 dreams of one day winning for life. Her simple 
 beauty had the charm of angelic modesty, and the im- 
 perceptible smile which constantly hovered about her 
 lips seemed to be the reflection of a pure and lovely 
 soul. Her praises resounded on every side. People 
 were never tired of saying: "Happy the man who 
 wins her love! He could not find a better wife." 
 
 (244)
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 245 
 
 Now M, Lantin enjoyed a snug little income of 
 $700, and, thinking he could safely assume the respon- 
 sibilities of matrimony, proposed to this model young 
 girl and was accepted. 
 
 He was unspeakably happy with her; she gov- 
 erned his household so cleverly and economically 
 that they seemed to live in luxury. She lavished 
 the most delicate attentions on her husband, coaxed 
 and fondled him, and the charm of her presence 
 was so great that six years after their marriage 
 M. Lantin discovered that he loved his wife even 
 more than during the first days of their honeymoon. 
 
 He only felt inclined to blame her for two things: 
 her love of the theater, and a taste for false jewelry. 
 Her friends (she was acquainted with some officers' 
 wives) frequently procured for her a box at the thea- 
 ter, often for the first representations of the new 
 plays; and her husband was obliged to accompany 
 her, whether he willed or not, to these amusements, 
 though they bored him excessively after a day's labor 
 at the office. 
 
 After a time, M. Lantin begged his wife to get 
 some lady of her acquaintance to accompany her. 
 She was at first opposed to such an arrangement; 
 but, after much persuasion on his part, she finally 
 consented — to the infinite delight of her husband. 
 
 Now, with her love for the theater came also the 
 desire to adorn her person. True, her costumes re- 
 mained as before, simple, and in the most correct 
 taste; but she soon began to ornament her ears with 
 huge rhinestones which glittered and sparkled like 
 real diamonds. Around her neck she wore strings of 
 false pearls, and on her arms bracelets of imitation gold.
 
 246 THE FALSE GEMS 
 
 Her husband frequently remonstrated with her, 
 saying: 
 
 "My dear, as you cannot afford to buy real dia- 
 monds, you ought to appear adorned with your beauty 
 and modesty alone, which are the rarest ornaments 
 of your sex." 
 
 But she would smile sweetly, and say: 
 
 "What can I do? I am so fond of jewelry. It 
 is my only weakness. We cannot change our 
 natures." 
 
 Then she would roll the pearl necklaces around her 
 fingers, and hold up the bright gems for her hus- 
 band's admiration, gently coaxing him: 
 
 "Look! are they not lovely.^ One would swear 
 they were real." 
 
 M. Lantin would then answer, smilingly: 
 
 "You have Bohemian tastes, my dear." 
 
 Often of an evening, when they were enjoying a 
 tete-a-tete by the fireside, she would place on the 
 tea table the leather box containing the "trash," as 
 M. Lantin called it. She would examine the false 
 gems with a passionate attention as though they 
 were in some way connected with a deep and secret 
 joy; and she often insisted on passing a necklace 
 around her husband's neck, and laughing heartily 
 would exclaim: "How droll you look!" Then she 
 would throw herself into his arms and kiss him af- 
 fectionately. 
 
 One evening in winter she attended the opera, 
 and on her return was chilled through and through. 
 The next morning she coughed, and eight days later 
 she died of inflammation of the lungs. 
 
 M. Lantin's despair was so great that his hair
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 247 
 
 became white in one month. He wept unceasingly; 
 his heart was torn with grief, and his mind was 
 haunted by the remembrance, the smile, the voice — 
 by every charm of his beautiful, dead wife. 
 
 Time, the healer, did not assuage his grief. Often 
 during office hours, while his colleagues were discuss- 
 ing the topics of the day, his eyes would suddenly 
 fill with tears, and he would give vent to his grief 
 in heartrending sobs. Everything in his wife's room 
 remained as before her decease; and here he was 
 wont to seclude himself daily and think of her who 
 had been his treasure — the joy of his existence. 
 
 But life soon became a struggle. His income, 
 which in the hands of his wife had covered all house- 
 hold expenses, was now no longer sufficient for his 
 own immediate wants; and he wondered how she 
 could have managed to buy such excellent wines, and 
 such rare delicacies, things which he could no longer 
 procure with his modest resources. 
 
 He incurred some debts and was soon reduced to 
 absolute poverty. One morning, finding himself with- 
 out a cent in his pocket, he resolved to sell something, 
 and, immediately, the thought occurred to him of dis- 
 posing of his wife's paste jewels. He cherished in 
 his heart a sort of rancor against the false gems. 
 They had always irritated him in the past, and the 
 very sight of them spoiled somewhat the memory of 
 his lost darling. 
 
 To the last days of her life, she had continued to 
 make purchases; bringing home new gems almost 
 every evening. He decided to sell the heavy necklace 
 which she seemed to prefer, and which, he thought, 
 outrht to be worth about six or seven francs; for
 
 248 THE FALSE GEMS 
 
 although paste it was, nevertheless, of very fine' 
 vv'orkmanship. 
 
 He put it in his pocket and started out in search 
 of a jeweler's shop. He entered the first one he saw; 
 feeling a little ashamed to expose his misery, and also 
 to offer such a worthless article for sale. 
 
 "Sir," said he to the merchant, "I would like to 
 know what this is worth." 
 
 The man took the necklace, examined it, called 
 his clerk and made some remarks in an undertone; 
 then he put the ornament back on the counter, and 
 looked at it from a distance to judge of the effect. 
 
 M, Lantin was annoyed by all this detail and was 
 on the point of saying: "Oh! 1 know well enough it 
 is not worth anytiiing," when the jeweler said: "Sir, 
 that necklace is worth from twelve to fifteen thousand 
 francs; but I could not buy it unless you tell me 
 now whence it comes." 
 
 The widower opened his eyes wide and remained 
 gaping, not comprehending the merchant's meaning. 
 Finally he stammered: "You say — are you sure?" 
 The other replied dryly: "You can search elsewhere 
 and see if anyone will offer you more. I consider 
 it worth fifteen thousand at the most. Come back 
 here if you cannot do better." 
 
 M. Lantin, beside himself with astonishment, took 
 up the necklace and left the store. He wished time 
 for reflection. 
 
 Once outside, he felt inclined to laugh, and said 
 to himself: "The fool! Had I only taken him at his 
 word! That jeweler cannot distinguish real diamonds 
 Irom paste." 
 
 A few minutes aftei, he entered another store in
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 249 
 
 the Rue de la Paix. As soon as the proprietor 
 glanced at the necklace, he cried out: 
 
 "Ah, parbleu! I know it well; it was bought 
 here." 
 
 M. Lanlin was disturbed, and asked: 
 
 "How much is it worth?" 
 
 "Well, I sold it for twenty thousand francs. I am 
 willing to take it back for eighteen thousand when 
 you inform me, according to our legal formality, how 
 it comes to be in your possession." 
 
 This time M. Lantin was dumfounded. He re- 
 plied: 
 
 "But — but — examine it well. Until this moment 
 I was under the impression that it was paste." 
 
 Said the jeweler: 
 
 "What is your name, sir?" 
 
 "Lantin — 1 am in the employ of the Minister of 
 the Interior. 1 live at No. 16 Rue des Martyrs." 
 
 The merchant looked through his books, found the 
 entry, and said: "That necklace was sent to Mme. 
 Lantin's address, 16 Rue des Martyrs, July 20, 1876." 
 
 The two men looked into each other's eyes — the 
 widower speechless with astonishment, the jeweler 
 scenting a thief. The latter broke the silence by say- 
 ing: 
 
 "Will you leave this necklace here for twenty-four 
 hours? I will give you a receipt." 
 
 "Certainly," answered M. Lantin, hastily. Then, 
 putting the ticket in his pocket, he left the store. 
 
 He wandered aimlessly through the streets, his 
 mind in a state of dreadful confusion. He tried to 
 reason, to understand. His wife could not afford to 
 purchase such a costly ornament. Certainly not. But,
 
 2 so THE FALSE GEMS 
 
 then, it must have been a present! — a present! — a 
 present from whom ? Why was it given her ? 
 
 He stopped and remained standing in the middle 
 of the street. A horrible doubt entered his mind — 
 she? Then all the other gems must have been pres- 
 ents, too! The earth seemed to tremble beneath him, 
 — the tree before him was falling — throwing up his 
 arms, he fell to the ground, unconscious. He re- 
 covered his senses in a pharmacy into which the 
 passers-by had taken him, and was then taken to his 
 home. When he arrived he shut himself up in his 
 room and wept until nighttall. Finally, overcome with 
 fatigue, lie threw himself on the bed, where he passed 
 an uneasy, restless night. 
 
 The following morning he arose and prepared to 
 go to the office. It was hard to work after such a 
 shock. He sent a letter to his employer requesting 
 to be excused. Then he remembered that he had to 
 return to the jeweler's. He did not like the idea; 
 but he could not leave the necklace with that man. 
 So he dressed and went out. 
 
 It was a lovely day; a clear blue sky smiled on 
 the busy city below, and men of leisure were strolling 
 about with their hands in their pockets. 
 
 Observing them, M. Lantin said to himself: "The 
 rich, indeed, are happy. With money it is possible 
 to forget even the deepest sorrow. One can go where 
 one pleases, and in travel find that distraction which 
 is the surest cure for grief. Oh! if I were only rich!" 
 
 He began to feel hungry, but his pocket was 
 empty. He again remembered the necklace. Eight- 
 een thousand francs! Eighteen thousand francs! 
 What a sum!
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 251 
 
 He soon arrived in the Rue de la Paix, opposite 
 the jeweler's. Eighteen thousand francs! Twenty 
 times he resolved to go in, but shame kept him back. 
 He was hungry, however, — very hungry, and had not 
 a cent in his pocket. He decided quickly, ran across 
 the street in order not to have time for reflection, and 
 entered the store. 
 
 The proprietor immediately came forward, and 
 politely offered him a chair; the clerks glanced at him 
 knowingly. 
 
 "I have made inquiries, M. Lantin," said the jew- 
 eler, "and if you are still resolved to dispose of the 
 gems, I am ready to pay you the price 1 offered." 
 
 "Certainly, sir," stammered M. Lantin. 
 
 Whereupon the proprietor took from a drawer 
 eighteen large bills, counted and handed them to M. 
 Lantin, who signed a receipt and with a trembling 
 hand put the money into his pocket. 
 
 As he was about to leave the store, he turned 
 toward the merchant, who still wore the same know- 
 ing smile, and lowering his eyes, said: 
 
 "1 have — I have other gems which I have re- 
 ceived from the same source. Will you buy them 
 also.?" 
 
 The merchant bowed: "Certainly, sir." 
 
 M. Lantin said gravely: " I will bring them to you." 
 An hour later he returned with the gems. 
 
 The large diamond earrings were worth twenty 
 thousand francs; the bracelets thirty-five thousand; 
 the rings, sixteen thousand; a set of emeralds and 
 sapphires, fourteen thousand; a gold chain with soli- 
 taire pendant, forty thousand — making the sum of 
 one hundred and forty-three thousand francs.
 
 2^2 THE FALSE GEMS 
 
 The jeweler remarked, jokingly: 
 
 "There was a person who invested all her earnings 
 in precious stones." 
 
 M. Lantin ''epiied, seriously: 
 
 "It is only another way of investing one's money." 
 
 That day he lunched at Voisin's and drank wine 
 worth twenty francs a bottle. Then he hired a car- 
 riage and made a tour of the Bois, and as he scanned 
 the various turn-outs with a contemptuous air he could 
 hardly refrain from crying out to the occupants: 
 
 "I, too, am rich! — I am worth two hundred 
 thousand francs." 
 
 Suddenly he thought of his employer. He drove 
 up to the office, and entered gaily, saying: 
 
 " Sir, I have come to resign my position. I have 
 just inherited three hundred thousand francs." 
 
 He shook hands with his former colleagues and 
 confided to them some of his projects for the future; 
 then he went off to dine at the Cafe Anglais. 
 
 He seated himself beside a gentleman of aristo- 
 cratic bearing, and during the meal informed the latter 
 confidentially that he had just inherited a fortune of 
 four hundred thousand francs. 
 
 For the first time in his life he was not bored at 
 the theater, and spent the remainder of the night in a 
 gay frolic. 
 
 Six months afterward he married again. His sec- 
 ond wife was a very virtuous woman, with a violent 
 temper. She caused him much sorrow.
 
 COUNTESS SATAN 
 
 I. 
 
 HEY were discussing dynamite, the 
 
 social revolution, Nihilism, and 
 
 even those who cared least about 
 
 politics had something to say. Some 
 
 were alarmed, others philosophized, 
 
 and others again tried to smile. 
 
 "Belli!" N said, "when we are 
 
 all blovv'n up, we shall see what it is 
 
 like. Perhaps, after all, it may be an 
 
 amusing sensation, provided one goes high 
 
 enough." 
 
 "But we shall not be blown up at all," 
 
 G , the optimist, said, interrupting him. "It 
 
 is all a romance." 
 "You are mistaken, my dear fellow," Jules de 
 replied. "It is like a romance, but with this 
 
 confounded Nihilism, everything is the same; it would 
 be a rnibtake to trust to it. For instance, the manner 
 in which I made Bakounine's acquaintance — "
 
 254 COUNTESS SATAN 
 
 They knew that he was a good narrator, and it 
 was no secret that his Hfe had been an adventurous 
 one, so they drew closer to him, and hstened intently. 
 This is what he told them; 
 
 II 
 
 **I met Countess Nioska W , that strange 
 
 woman who was usually called Countess Satan, in 
 Naples. I immediately attached myself to her out 
 of curiosity, and soon fell in love with her. Not 
 that she was beautiful, for she was a Russian with 
 the bad characteristics of the Russian type. She was 
 thin and squat at the same time, while her face 
 was sallow and putTy, with high cheek-bones and a 
 Cossack's nose. But her conversation bewitched 
 everyone. 
 
 "She was many-sided, learned, a philosopher, 
 scientifically depraved, satanic. Perhaps the word is 
 rather pretentious, but it exactly expresses what I 
 want to say, for in other words she loved evil for the 
 sake of evil. She rejoiced in other people's vices; 
 -she liked to sow the seeds of evil, in order to see it 
 flourish. And that, too, by fraud on an enormous scale. 
 It was not enough for her to corrupt individuals, she 
 only did that to keep her hand in; what she wished 
 to do was to corrupt the masses. By slightly alter- 
 ing it after her own fashion, she might have 
 used Caligula's famous wish. She also might have 
 wished that the whole human race had but one 
 head; not in order that she might cut it off, but
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 255 
 
 that she might make the philosophy of Nihilism 
 flourish there. 
 
 "What a temptation to become the lord and mas- 
 ter of such a monster! 1 allowed myself to be 
 tempted, and undertook the adventure. The means 
 came unsought for by me, and the only thing that I 
 had to do was to show myself more perverted and 
 Satanic than she was herself. And so 1 played the 
 dev^il. 
 
 "'Yes,' I said, 'we writers are the best work- 
 men for doing evil, as our books may be bottles of 
 poison. The so-called men of action only turn the 
 handle of the mitrailleuse which we have loaded. 
 Formulas will destroy the world, and it is we who 
 invent them.' 
 
 "'That is true,' said she, 'and that is what is 
 wanting in Bakounine, I am sorry to say.' 
 
 "That name was constantly in her mouth. So I 
 asked her for details, which she gave me, as she knew 
 the man intimately. 
 
 "'After all,' she said, with a contemptuous gri- 
 mace, 'he is only a kind of Garibaldi.' 
 
 "She told me, although she made fun cf him as 
 she did so, about that 'Odyssey' of the barricades and 
 of the hulks which made up Bakounine's history, and 
 which is, nevertheless, the exact truth; about his ad- 
 ventures as chief of the insurgents at Prague and then 
 at Dresden; of his first death sentence; about his 
 imprisonment at Olmutz, in the casemates of the 
 fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul, and in a subterra- 
 nean dungeon at Schusselburg; about his exile to 
 Siberia and his wonderful escape down the river 
 Amour, on a Japanese coasting-vessel, and about his
 
 256 COUNTESS SATAN 
 
 final arrival, by way of Yokohama and San Francisco, 
 in London, wlience he was directing all the opera- 
 tions of Nihilism. 
 
 "'You see,' she said, 'he is a thorough adven- 
 turer, and now all his adventures are over. He got 
 married at Tobolsk and became a mere respectable, 
 middle-class man. And then he has no individual 
 ideas. Herzen, the pamphleteer of "Kolokol," inspired 
 him with the only fertile phrase that he ever uttered: 
 "Land and Liberty!" But that is not yet the definite 
 formula, the general formula — what I may call the 
 dynamite formula. At best, Bakounine would only 
 become an incendiary, and burn down cities. And 
 what is that, 1 ask you? Bah! A second-hand Ros- 
 toptchin! He wants a prompter, and I offered to be- 
 come his, but he did not take me seriously.' 
 
 4: 4: 4c 4« ^ Hf * 
 
 "It would be useless to enter into all the psycho- 
 logical details which marked the course of my passion 
 for the Countess, and to explain to you more fully 
 the curious and daily growing attraction which she 
 had for me. It was getting exasperating, and the 
 more so as she resisted me as stoutly as the shyest 
 of innocents could have done. At the end of a 
 month of mad Satanism, I saw what her game was. 
 Do you know what she intended ? She meant to 
 make me Bakounine's prompter, or, at any rate, that 
 is what she said. But no doubt she reserved the 
 right to herself — at least that is how I understood 
 her — to prompt the prompter, and my passion for 
 her, which she purposely left unsatisfied, assured her 
 that absolute power over me.
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 257 
 
 "All this may appear madness to you, but it is, 
 nevertheless, the exact truth. In short, one morning 
 she bluntly made the offer: 
 
 "'Become Bakounine's soul, and you shall pos- 
 sess me.' 
 
 "Of course I accepted, for it was too fantastically 
 strange to refuse. Don't you think so ? What an 
 adventure! What luck! A number of letters between 
 the Countess and Bakounine prepared the way; I was 
 introduced to him at his house, and they discussed 
 me there. 1 became a sort of Western prophet, a 
 mystic charmer who was ready to nihilize the Latin 
 races, the Saint Paul of the new religion of nothing- 
 ness, and at last a day was fixed for us to meet in 
 London. He lived in a small, one-storied house in 
 Pimlico, with a tiny garden in front, and nothing 
 noticeable about it. 
 
 "We were first of all shown into the common- 
 place parlor of all English homes, and then upstairs. 
 The room where the Countess and 1 were left was 
 small, and very badly furnished. It had a square 
 table with writing materials on it, in the center of the 
 room. This was his sanctuary. The deity soon ap- 
 peared, and I saw him in flesh and bone — especially 
 in flesh, for he was enormously stout. His broad 
 face, with prominent cheek-bones, in spite of fat; 
 a nose like a double funnel; and small, sharp eyes, 
 which had a magnetic look, proclaimed the Tartar, 
 the old Turanian blood which produced the Attilas, 
 the Genghis-Khans, the Tamerlanes. The obesity 
 which is characteristic of nomad races, who are 
 always on horseback or driving, added to his Asiatic 
 look. The man was certainly not a European,' a 
 
 Muiip. 1—17
 
 258 COUNTESS SATAN 
 
 slave, a descendant of the deistic Aryans, but a 
 scion of the atheistic hordes who had several times 
 already almost overrun Europe, and who, instead of 
 ideas of progress, have Nihilism buried in their 
 hearts. 
 
 "I was astonished, for I had not expected that the 
 majesty of a whole race could be thus revived in a 
 man, and my stupefaction increased after an hour's 
 conversation. I could quite understand why such a 
 Colossus had not wished for the Countess as his 
 Egeria; she was a silly child to have dreamed of act- 
 ing such a part to such a thinker. She had not felt 
 the profoundness of that horrible philosophy which 
 was hidden under his material activity, nor had she 
 seen the prophet under this hero of the barricades. 
 Perhaps he had not thought it advisable to reveal 
 himself to her; but he revealed himself to me, and 
 inspired me with terror. 
 
 "A prophet? Oh! yes. He thought himself an 
 Attila, and foresaw the consequences of his revolu- 
 tion; it was not only from instinct but also from 
 theory that he urged a nation on to Nihilism. The 
 phrase is not his, but Turgenieff's, I believe, but 
 the idea certainly belonged to him. He got his pro- 
 gramme of agricultural communism from Herzen, 
 and his destructive radicalism from Pougatcheff, but 
 he did not stop there. I mean that he went on to 
 evil for the sake of evil. Herzen wished for the hap- 
 piness of the Slav peasant; Pougatcheff wanted to be 
 elected Emperor, but all that Bakounine wanted was 
 to overthrow the actual order of things, no matter by 
 what means, and to •'eplace social concentration by a 
 universal upheaval.
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 259 
 
 "It was the dream of a Tartar; it was true Nihi- 
 lism pushed to extreme and practical conclusions. It 
 was, in a word, the applied philosophy of chance, the 
 indeterminate end of anarchy. Monstrous it may be, 
 but grand in its monstrosity! 
 
 "And you must note that the typical man of ac- 
 tion so despised by the Countess was, in Bakounine, 
 the gigantic dreamer whom I have just shown to you. 
 His dream did not remain a dream, but began to be 
 realized. It was by the care of Bakounine that the 
 Nihilistic party became an entity; a party in which 
 there is a little of everything, you know, but on the 
 whole, a formidable party, the advanced guard of 
 which is true Nihilism, whose object is nothing less 
 than to destroy the Western world, to see it blossom 
 from under the ruins of a general dispersion, the las* 
 conception of modern Tartarism. 
 
 "I never saw Bakounine again, for the Countess's 
 conquest would have been too dearly bought by an) 
 attempt to act a comedy with this * Old-Man-of-the- 
 Mountain.' And besides that, after this visit, poor 
 Countess Satan appeared to me quite silly. Her Yi- 
 mous Satanism was nothing but the flicker of a 
 spirit-lamp, after the general conflagration of which 
 the other had dreamed. She had certainly shown 
 herself very silly, when she could not understand that 
 prodigious monster. And as she had seduced me 
 only by her intellect and her perversity, I was dis- 
 gusted as soon as she laid aside that mask. I left 
 her without telling her of my intention, and never 
 saw her again, either. 
 
 "No doubt they both took me for a spy from the 
 'Third Section of the Imperial Chancellery.' In that
 
 26o COUNTESS SATAN 
 
 case, they must have thought me very clever to have 
 escaped discovery, and all I have to do is to look 
 out, lest any affiliated members of their society rec- 
 ognize me! " 
 
 Then he smiled and, turning to the waiter who 
 had just come in, said: "Open another bottle of 
 champagne, and make the cork pop! It will, at 
 any rate, remind us of the day when we ourselves 
 shall be blown up with dynamite."
 
 THE COLONEL'S IDEAS 
 
 PON my word," said Colonel La- 
 
 porte, "1 am old and gouty, 
 
 my legs are as stiff as two 
 
 sticks, and yet if a pretty woman 
 
 were to tell me to go through the 
 
 eye of a needle, 1 believe I should take 
 
 a jump at it, like a clown through a 
 
 ."* hoop. I shall die like that; it is in the 
 
 ' blood. 1 am an old beau, one of the old 
 
 ^"\^ r^^z'wi', and the sight of a woman, a pretty 
 
 1^? woman, stirs me to the tips of my toes. 
 
 (>3fV There! 
 
 y^ "And then we are all very much alike in 
 > France; we remain cavaliers, cavaliers of love and 
 fortune, since God has been abolished, whose body- 
 guard we really were. But nobody will ever get the 
 woman out of our hearts; there she is, and there she 
 will remain; we love her, and shall continue to love 
 her, and to commit all kinds of frolics on her account, 
 so long as there is a France on the map of Europe. 
 And even if France were to be wiped off the map, 
 
 there would always be Frenchmen left. 
 
 (261)
 
 2^2 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 "When I am in the presence of a woman, of a 
 pretty woman, I feel capable of anything. By Jove, 
 when I feel her looks penetrating me, those confounded 
 looks which set your blood on fire, I could do any- 
 thing: fight a duel, have a row, smash the furniture, 
 anything just to show that I am the strongest, the 
 bravest, the most daring, and the most devoted of men. 
 
 "But I am not the only one — certainly not; the 
 whole French army is like me, that 1 will swear to. 
 From the common soldier to the general, we all go 
 forward, and to the very end, mark you, when there 
 is a woman in the case, a pretty woman. Remember 
 what Joan of Arc made us do formerly! Come, I'd 
 make a bet that if a pretty woman had taken com- 
 mand of the army on the eve of Sedan, when Mar- 
 shal MacMahon was wounded, we should have broken 
 through the Prussian lines, by Jove! and have had a 
 drink out of their guns. 
 
 "It was not Trochu, but Saint-Genevieve, who 
 was required in Paris, and 1 remember a little anec • 
 dote of the war which proves that we are capable of 
 everything in the presence of a woman. 
 
 "I was a captain, a simple captain, at the time, 
 and was in command of a detachment of scouts who 
 were retreating through a district swarming with 
 Prussians. We were surrounded, pursued, tired out, 
 and half dead with fatigue and hunger, and by the 
 next day we had to reach Bar-sur-Tain; otherwise we 
 should be done for, cut off from the main body and 
 killed. I do not know how we managed to escape 
 so far. However, we had ten leagues to go during 
 the night, ten leagues through the snow, and upon 
 empty stomachs. 1 thought to myself:
 
 THE COLONEL'S IDEAS 265 
 
 "'It is all ever; my poor fellows will never be 
 able to do it.' 
 
 "We had eaten nothing since the day before, and 
 the whole day long we remained hidden in a barn, 
 huddled dose together, so as not to feel the cold so 
 much; we did not venture to speak or even move, 
 and we slept by fits and starts, like you sleep when 
 you are worn out with fatigue. 
 
 "It was dark by five o'clock, that wan darkness 
 caused by the snow, and 1 shook up my men. Some 
 of them would not get up; they were almost incapa- 
 ble of moving or of standing upright, and their joints 
 were stiff from the cold and want of motion. 
 
 "In front of us there was a large expanse of flat, 
 bare country; the snow was still falling like a cur- 
 tain, in large, white flakes, which concealed every- 
 thing under a heavy, thick, frozen mantle, a mattress 
 of ice. You would have thought that it was the end 
 of things. 
 
 "'Come, my lads,' let us start.' 
 
 "They looked at the thick, white dust which was 
 coming down, and seemed to think: 'We have had 
 enough of this; we may just as well die here!' 
 Then 1 took out my revolver, and said: 
 
 "'I will shoot the first man who flinches.' And 
 so they set off, but very slowly, like men whose legs 
 were of very little use to them. I sent four of them 
 three hundred yards ahead, to scout, and the others 
 followed pellmell, walking at random and without 
 any order. I put the strongest in the rear, with 
 orders to quicken the pace of the sluggards with the 
 points of their bayonets in the back. 
 
 "The snow seemed as if it were going to bury
 
 264 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 US alive; it powdered our kSpis* and cloaks without 
 melting, and made phantoms of us, ghosts of worn- 
 out soldiers who were very tired, and 1 said to my- 
 self: 'We shall never get out of this, except by a 
 miracle.' 
 
 •'Sometimes we had to stop for a few minutes, 
 on account of those who could not follow us, hearing 
 nothing but the falling snow, that vague, almost in- 
 discernible sound which the flakes make, as ihey 
 come down together. Some of the men shook 
 themselves, but others did not move, and so 1 gave 
 the order to set off again; they shouldered their 
 rifles, and with weary feet we set out again, when 
 suddenly the scouts fell back. Something had 
 alarmed them; they had heard voices in front of 
 them, and so 1 sent six men and a sergeant on 
 ahead, and waited. 
 
 •'All at once a shrill cry, a woman's cry, pierced 
 through the heavy silence of the snow, and in a few 
 minutes they brought back two prisoners, an old 
 man and a girl, whom I questioned in a low voice. 
 They were escaping from the Prussians, who had oc- 
 cupied their house during the evening, and who had 
 got drunk. The father had become alarmed on his 
 daughter's account, and, without even telling their 
 servants, they had made their escape into the dark- 
 ness. I saw immediately that they belonged to the 
 upper classes, and, as I should have done in any 
 case, I invited them to come with us. So we started 
 off together, and as the old man knew the road, he 
 acted as our guide. 
 
 * Forage-caps.
 
 THE COLONEL'S IDEAS 265 
 
 "It had ceased snowing; the stars appeared, and 
 the cold became intense. The girl, who was leaning 
 on her father's arm, walked wearily and with jerks, 
 and several times she murmured: 
 
 "'1 have no feeling at all in my feet.' I suf- 
 fered more than she did, 1 believe, to see that poor 
 little woman dragging herself like that through the 
 snow. But suddenly she stopped, and said: 
 
 "'Father, I am so tired that 1 cannot go any 
 further.' 
 
 "The old man wanted to carry her, but he could 
 not even lift her up, and she fell on the ground with 
 a deep sigh. We all came round her, and as for me, 
 I stamped on the ground, not knowing what to do, 
 quite unable to make up my mind to abandon that 
 man and girl like that. Suddenly one of the soldiers, 
 a Parisian, whom they had nicknamed 'Pratique,' said: 
 
 " 'Come, comrades, we must carry the young lady, 
 otherwise we shall not show ourselves Frenchmen, 
 confound it!' 
 
 "I really believe that I swore v/ith pleasure, and 
 said: 'That is very good of you, my children; 1 v.iil 
 take my share of the burden.' 
 
 "We could indistinctly see the trees of a little 
 wood on the left, through the darkness. Several men 
 went into it, and soon came back with a bundle of 
 branches twisted into a litter. 
 
 "'Who will lend nis cloak? It is for a pretty 
 girl, comrades,' Pratique said, and ten cloaks were 
 thrown to him. In a moment, the girl was lying, 
 warm and comfortable, among them, and was raised 
 upon six shoulders. 1 placed myself at their head, on 
 the right, and very pleased I was with my charge.
 
 266 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 "We started off much more briskly, as if we had 
 been having a drink of wine, and I even heard a few 
 jokes. A woman is quite enough to electrify French- 
 men, you see. The soldiers, who were reanimated 
 and warm, had almost reformed their ranks, and an 
 old franc-tireiir* who was following the litter, wait- 
 ing for his turn to replace the first of his comrades 
 who might give in, said to one of his neighbors, loud 
 enough for me to hear: 
 
 *"1 am not a young man, now; but by Jove, there 
 is nothing like a v/oman to make you feel queer from 
 he,id to foot!' 
 
 "We went on, almost without stopping, until three 
 o'clock in the morning, when suddenly our scouts fell 
 back again. Soon the whole detachment showed 
 nothing but a vague shadow on the ground, as the 
 men lay on the snow, and 1 gave my orders in a low 
 voice, and heard the harsh, metallic sound of the 
 cocking of rifles. There, in the middle of the plain, 
 some strange object was moving about. It might 
 have been taken for some enormous animal running 
 about, which uncoiled itself like a serpent, or came 
 together into a coil, then suddenly went quickly to 
 the right or left, stopped, and then went on again. 
 But presently the wandering shape came near, and i 
 saw a dozen lancers, one behind the other, who were 
 trying to find their way, which they had lost. 
 
 "By this time they were so near that I could hear 
 the panting of the horses, the clink of the swords, 
 and the creaking of the saddles, and so cried: 'Fire!' 
 
 * Volunteers, in the Franco-German war of 1870-71, of whom the 
 Germans often made short work when caught.
 
 THE COLONEL'S IDEAS 267 
 
 "Fifty rifle-shots broke the stillness of the night; 
 then there were four or five reports, and at last one 
 single shot was heard. When the smoke had cleared 
 away we saw that the twelve men and nine horses 
 had fallen. Three of the animals were galloping away 
 at a furious pace. One of them was dragging the 
 body of its rider behind it. His foot had caught in 
 the stirrup, and his body rebounded from the ground 
 in a horrible way. 
 
 "One of the soldiei's behind me gave a harsh 
 laugh, and said: 'There are a few more widows now!' 
 
 " Perhaps he was married. And another added: 'It 
 did not take long! ' 
 
 "A head was put out of the litter: 
 
 '"What is the matter?' she asked; 'you are 
 fighting.?' 
 
 "'It is nothing, Mademoiselle,' I replied; 'we 
 have got rid of a dozen Prussians!' 
 
 "'Poor fellows!' she said. But as she was cold, 
 she quickly disappeared beneath the cloaks again, and 
 we started off once more. We marched on for a 
 long time, and at last the sky began to grow pale. 
 The snow became quite clear, luminous, and bright, 
 and a rosy tint appeared in the east. Suddenly a 
 voice in the distance cried: 
 
 " 'Who goes there?' 
 
 "The whole detachment halted, and I advanced to 
 say who we were. We had reached the French 
 lines, and as my men defiled before the outpost, a 
 commandant on horseback, whom 1 had informed of 
 what had taken place, asked in a sonorous voice, as 
 he saw the litter pass him: 
 
 "'What have you there?'
 
 268 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 "And immediately a small head, covered v/ith 
 light hair, appeared, disheveled and smiling, and re- 
 plied: * 
 
 " 'It is 1, Monsieur.* 
 
 "At this, the men raised a hearty laugh, and we 
 felt quite light-hearted, while Pratique, who was 
 walking by the side of the litter, waved his k^pi^ and 
 shouted: 
 
 ""Vive la France!' And I felt really moved. I 
 do not know why, except that I thought it a pretty 
 and gallant thing to say. 
 
 "It seemed to me as if we had just saved the whole 
 of France, and had done something that other men 
 could not have done, something simple, and really 
 patriotic. I shall never forget that little face, you may 
 be sure, and if I had to give my opinion about abol- 
 ishing drums, trumpets, and bugles, I should propose 
 to replace them in every regiment by a pretty girl, 
 and that would be even better than playing the 
 'Marseillaise.' By Jove! it would put some spirit 
 into a trooper to have a Madonna like that, a living 
 Madonna, by the colonel's side." 
 
 He was silent for a few moments, and then with 
 an air of conviction, and jerking his head, continued: 
 
 "You see, we are very fond of women, we 
 Frenchmen 1"
 
 TWO LITTLE SOLDIERS 
 
 VERY Sunday, the moment they were 
 dismissed, the two little soldiers made 
 off. Once outside the barracks, they 
 struck out to the right through Cour- 
 bevoie, walking with long rapid strides, 
 as though they were on a march. 
 When they were beyond the last of 
 the houses, they slackened pace along 
 the bare, dusty roadway which goes 
 toward B^zons. 
 They were both small and thin, and looked 
 / quite lost in their coats, which were too big 
 and too long. Their sleeves hung down over 
 their handS; and they found their enormous red 
 breeches, which compelled them to waddle, very much 
 in the way Under their stiff, high helmets their faces 
 had little character — two poor, sallow Breton faces, 
 simple with an almost animal simplicity, and with 
 gentle and quiet blue eyes. 
 
 They never conversed during these walks, but 
 went straight on, each with the same thought in his 
 head. This thought atoned for the lack of conversa- 
 tion; it was this, that just inside the little wood near 
 
 (269)
 
 270 TWO LITTLE SOLDIERS 
 
 Les Champioux they had found a place which re- 
 minded them of their own country, where they could 
 feel happy again. 
 
 When they arrived under the trees where the 
 roads from Colombes and from Chatou cross, they 
 would take off their heavy hehnets and wipe their 
 foreheads. They always halted on the Bezons bridge 
 to look at the Seine, and would remain there two or 
 three minutes, bent double, leaning on the parapet. 
 
 Sometimes they would gaze out over the great 
 basin of Argenteuil, where the skiffs might be seen 
 scudding, with their white, careening sails, recalling 
 perhaps the look of the Breton waters, the harbor of 
 Vanne, near which they hved, and the fishing-boats 
 standing out across the Morbihan to the open sea. 
 
 Just beyond the Seine they bought their provisions 
 from a sausage merchant, a baker, and a wine-seller. 
 A piece of blood-pudding, four sous' worth of bread, 
 and a liter of "petit bleu" constituted the provisions, 
 which they carried off in their handkerchiefs. After 
 they had left Bezons they traveled slowly and began 
 to talk. 
 
 In front of them a barren plain studded with 
 clumps of trees led to the wood, to the little wood 
 which had seemed to them to resemble the one at 
 Kermarivan. Grainfields and hayfields bordered the 
 narrow path, which lost itself in the young greenness 
 of the crops, and Jean Kerderen would always say to 
 Luc le Ganidec: 
 
 "It looks like it does near Plounivon." 
 
 "Yes; exactly " 
 
 Side by side they strolled, their souls filled with 
 vague memories of their own country, with awak-
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 27 1 
 
 ened images as naive as the pictures on the colored 
 broadsheets which you buy for a penny. They kept 
 on recognizing, as it were, now a corner of a field, 
 a hedge, a bit of moorland, now a crossroad, now 
 a granite cross. Then, too, they would always stop 
 beside a certain landmark, a great stone, because it 
 looked something like the cromlech at Locneuven. 
 
 Every Sunday on arriving at the first clump of 
 trees Luc le Ganidec wou'd cut a switch, a hazel 
 switch, and begin gently to peel off the bark, think- 
 ing meanwhile of the folk at home. Jean Kerderen 
 carried the provisions. 
 
 From time to time Luc would mention a name, or 
 recall some deed of their childhood in a few brief 
 words, which caused long thoughts. And their own 
 country, their dear, distant country, recaptured them 
 little by little, seizing on their imaginations, and send- 
 ing to them from afar her shapes, her sounds, her 
 well-known prospects, her odors — odors of the green 
 lands where the salt sea-air was blowing. 
 
 No longer conscious of the exhalations of the 
 Parisian stables, on which the earth of the hanlicuc 
 fattens, they scented the perfume of the flowering 
 broom, which the salt breeze of the open sea plucks 
 and bears away. And the sails of the boats from 
 the river banks seemed like the white wings of the 
 coasting vessels seen beyond the great plain which 
 extended from their homes to the very margin of the 
 sea. 
 
 They walked with short steps, Luc le Ganidec and 
 Jean Kerderen, content and sad, haunted by a. sweet 
 melancholy, by the lingering, ever-present sorrow of 
 a caged animal who remembers his liberty.
 
 2'-j2 TWO LITTLE SOLDIERS 
 
 By the time that Luc had stripped the slender 
 wand of its bark they reached the corner of the 
 wood where every Sunday they took breakfast. They 
 found the two bricks which they kept hidden in the 
 thicket, and kindled a little fire of twigs, over which 
 to roast the blood-pudding at the end of a bayonet. 
 
 When they had breakfasted, eaten their bread to 
 the last crumb, and drunk their wine to the last 
 drop, they remained seated side by side upon the 
 grass, saying nothing, their eyes on the distance, 
 their eyelids drooping, their fingers crossed as at 
 mass, their red legs stretched out beside the poppies 
 of the field. And the leather of their helmets and 
 the brass of their buttons glittered in the ardent sun, 
 making the larks, which sang and hovered above 
 their heads, cease in mid-song. 
 
 Toward noon they began to turn their eyes from 
 time to time in the direction of the village of Bezons, 
 because the girl with the cow was coming. She 
 passed by them every Sunday on her way to milk 
 and change the pasture of her cow — the only cow 
 in this district which ever went out of the stable to 
 grass. It was pastured in a narrow field along the 
 edge of the wood a little farther on. 
 
 They soon perceived the girl, the only human 
 being within vision, and were gladdened by the bril- 
 liant reflections thrown off by the tin milk-pail under 
 the rays of the sun. They never talked about her. 
 They were simply glad to see her, without under- 
 standing why. 
 
 She was a big strong wench with red hair, burned 
 by the heat of sunny days, a sturdy product of the 
 environs of Paris.
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 273 
 
 Once, finding them seated in the same phice, she 
 aid: 
 
 "Good morning. You two are always here, aren't 
 /ou?" 
 
 Luc ie Ganidec, the bolder, stammered: 
 
 "Yes, we come to rest." 
 
 That v/as all. But the next Sunday she laughed 
 on seeing them, laughed with a protecting benevo- 
 lence and a feminine keenness which knew well 
 enough that they were bashful. And she asked: 
 
 "What are you doing there.? Are you trying to 
 see the grass grow.?" 
 
 Luc was cheered up by this, and smiled likewise: 
 "Maybe we are." 
 
 "That's pretty slow work," said she. 
 
 He answered, still laughing: "Well, yes, it is." 
 
 She went on. But coming back with a milk-pail 
 full of milk, she stopped again before them, and said: 
 
 "Would you like a little? It will taste like home." 
 
 With the instinctive feeling that they were of the 
 same peasant race as she, being herself perhaps also 
 far away from home, she had divined and touched 
 the spot. 
 
 They were both touched. Then with some diffi- 
 culty, she managed to make a little milk run into the 
 neck of the glass bottle in which they carried their 
 wine. And Luc drank first, with little swallows, 
 stopping every minute to see whether he had drunk 
 more than his half. Then he handed the bottle to 
 Jean. 
 
 She stood upright before them, her hands on her 
 hips, het pail on the ground at her feet, glad at the 
 pleasure which she had given. 
 Maup. 1—18
 
 274 TWO LITTLE SOLDIERS 
 
 Then she departed, shouting: ''^llons, adieu! 
 Till next Sunday!" 
 
 And as long as they could see her at all, they followed 
 with their eyes her tall silhouette, which faded, grow- 
 ing smaller and smaller, seeming to sink into the 
 verdure of the fields. 
 
 When they were leaving the barracks the week 
 after, Jean said to Luc: 
 
 "Oughtn't we to buy her something good?" 
 
 They were in great embarrassment before the 
 problem of the choice of a delicacy for the girl with 
 the cow. Luc was of the opinion that a little tripe 
 would be the best, but Jean preferred some berlingots 
 because he was fond of sweets. His choice fairly 
 made him enthusiastic, and they bought at a grocer's 
 two sous' worth of white and red candies. 
 
 They ate their breakfast more rapidly than usual, 
 being nervous with expectation. 
 
 Jean saw her first. "There she is!" he cried. 
 Luc added: "Yes, there she is." 
 
 While yet some distance off she laughed at seeing 
 them. Then she cried: 
 
 "Is everything going as you like it?" 
 
 And in unison they asked: 
 
 "Are you getting on all right?" 
 
 Then she conversed, talked to them of simple 
 things in which they felt an interest — of the weather, 
 of the crops, and of her master. ' 
 
 They were afraid to offer her the candies, which 
 were slowly melting away in Jean's pocket. 
 
 At last Luc grew bold, and murmured: 
 
 "We have brought you something." 
 
 She demanded, "What is it? Tell me!"
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 275 
 
 Then Jean, blushing up to his ears, managed to 
 get at the little paper cornucopia, and held it out. 
 
 She began to eat the little bonbons, rolling them 
 from one cheek to the other where they made little 
 round lumps. The two soldiers, seated before her, 
 gazed at her with emotion and delight. 
 
 Then she went to milk her cow, and once more 
 gave them some milk on coming back. 
 
 They thought of her all the week; several times 
 they even spoke of her. The next Sunday she sat 
 down with them for a little longer talk; and all three, 
 seated side by side, their eyes lost in the distance, 
 clasping their knees with their hands, told the small 
 doings, the minute details of life in the villages where 
 they had been born, while over there the cow, see- 
 ing that the milkmaid had stopped on her way, 
 stretched out toward her its heavy head with its 
 dripping nostrils, and gave a long low to call her. 
 
 Soon the girl consented to eat a bit of bread with 
 them and drink a mouthful of wine. She often 
 brought them plums in her pocket, for the season of 
 plums had come. Her presence sharpened the wits 
 of the two little Breton soldiers, and they chattered 
 like two birds. 
 
 But, one Tuesday, Luc le Ganidec asked for leave 
 — a thing which had never happened before — and he 
 did not return until ten o'clock at night. Jean racked 
 his brains uneasily for a reason for his comrade's go- 
 ing out in this way. 
 
 The next Thursday Luc, having borrowed ten sous 
 trom his bedfellow, again asked and obtained per- 
 mission to leave the barracks for several hours. When 
 he set off with Jean on their Sunday walk his man-
 
 276 TWO LITTLE SOLDIERS 
 
 ner was very queer, quite restless, and quite changed. 
 Kerderen did not understand, but he vaguely suspected 
 something without divining what it could be. 
 
 They did not say a word to one another until 
 they reached their usual halting-place, where, from 
 their constant sitting in the same spot the grass was 
 quite worn away. They ate their breakfast slowly. 
 Neither of them felt hungry. 
 
 Before long the girl appeared. As on every Sun- 
 day, they watched her coming. When she was quite 
 near, Luc rose and made two steps forward. She put 
 her milk-pail on the ground and kissed him. She 
 kissed him passionately, throwing her arms about his 
 neck, without noticing Jean, without remembering 
 that he was there, without even seeing him. 
 
 And he sat there desperate, poor Jean, so desperate 
 that he did not understand, his soul quite overwhelmed, 
 his heart bursting, but not yet understanding himself. 
 Then the girl seated herself beside Luc, and they be- 
 gan to chatter. 
 
 Jean did not look at them. He now divined why 
 his comrade had gene out twice during the week, 
 and he felt within him a burning grief, a kind of 
 wound, that sense of rending which is caused by 
 treason. 
 
 Luc and the girl went off together to change the 
 position of the cow. Jean follov/ed them with his 
 eyes. He saw them departing side by side. The red 
 breeches of his comrade made a bright spot on the 
 road. It was Luc who picked up the mallet and ham- 
 mered down the stake to which they tied the beast. 
 
 The girl stooped to milk her, while he stroked the 
 cow's sharp spine with a careless hand. Then they
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 277 
 
 left the milk-pail on the grass, and went deep into 
 the wood. 
 
 Jean saw nothing but the wall of leaves where 
 they had entered; and he felt himself so troubled that 
 if he had tried to rise he would certainly have fallen. 
 He sat motionless, stupefied by astonishment and suf- 
 fering, with an agony which was simple but deep. 
 He wanted to cry, to run away, to hide himself, never 
 to see anybody any more. 
 
 Soon he saw them issuing from the thicket. They 
 returned slowly, holding each other's hands as in the 
 villages do those who are promised. It was Luc who 
 carried the pail. 
 
 They kissed one another again before they sepa- 
 rated, and the girl went off after having thrown Jean 
 a friendly "Good evening" and a smile which was 
 full of meaning. To-day she no longer thought of 
 offering him any milk. 
 
 The two little soldiers sat side by side, motionless 
 as usual, silent and calm, their placid faces betraying 
 nothing of all which troubled their hearts. The sun 
 fell on them. Sometimes the cow lowed, looking at 
 them from afar. 
 
 At their usual hour they rose to go back. Luc 
 cut a switch. Jean carried the empty bottle to return 
 it to the wine-seller at Bdzons. Then they sallied out 
 upon the bridge, and, as they did every Sunday, 
 stopped several minutes in the middle to watch the 
 water flowing. 
 
 Jean leaned, leaned more and more, over the iron 
 railing, as though he saw in the current something 
 which attracted hir.i. Luc said: "Are you trying to 
 drink?" just as he uttered the last word Jean's head
 
 27?^ TWO LITTLE SOLDIERS 
 
 overbalanced his body, his legs described a circle in 
 the air, and the little blue and red soldier fell in a 
 heap, struck the water, and disappeared. 
 
 Luc, his tongue paralyzed with anguish, tried in 
 vain to shout. Farther down he saw something stir; 
 then the head of his comrade rose to the surf^ice of 
 the river and sank immediately. Farther still he again 
 perceived a hand, a single hand, which issued from 
 the stream and then disappear. That was all. 
 
 The bargemen who dragged the river did not 
 find the body that day. 
 
 Luc set out alone for the barracks, going at a run, 
 his soul filled with despair. He told of the accident, 
 with tears in his eyes, and a husky voice, blowing 
 his nose again and again: "He leaned over — he — 
 he leaned over — so far — so far that his head turned 
 a somersault; and — and — so he fell — he fell — " 
 
 Choked with emotion, he could say no more. If 
 he had only known 1
 
 GHOSTS 
 
 UST at the time when the Concordat 
 was in its most tlourishing condi- 
 tion, a young man belonging to a 
 wealthy and highly respectable 
 middle-class family went to the 
 office of the head of the police at 
 
 P , and begged for his help and 
 
 advice, which was immediately prom- 
 ised him. 
 
 "My father threatens to disinherit 
 ," the young man began, "although 
 • I have never offended against the laws 
 of the State, of morality, or against his pa- 
 ternal authority, merely because I do not share 
 his blind reverence for the Catholic Church and her 
 clergy. On that account he looks upon me, not 
 merely as Latitudinarian but as a perfect Atheist, and 
 a faithful old manservant of ours, who is much at- 
 tached to me, and who accidentally saw my father's 
 will, told me in confidence that he had left all his 
 property to the Jesuits. I think this is highly suspi- 
 cious, and I fear that the priests have been maligning 
 me to my father. Until less than a year ago, we used 
 
 (279)
 
 280 GHOSTS 
 
 to live very quietly and happily together, but ever 
 since he has had so much to do with the clergy, 
 our domestic peace and happiness are at an end." 
 
 "What you have told me," replied the official, 
 "is as likely as it is regrettable, but I fail to see how 
 I can interfere in the matter. Your father is in full 
 possession of all his mental faculties, and can dispose 
 of all his property exactly as he pleases. I think that 
 your protest is premature; you must wait until his 
 will can legally take effect, and then you can invoke 
 the aid of justice. I am sorry to say that just now I 
 can do nothing for you." 
 
 "I think you will be able to," the young man re- 
 pHed; "for 1 believe that a very clever piece of deceit 
 is being carried on." 
 
 "How? Please explain yourself more clearly." 
 
 "When I remonstrated with him, yesterday even- 
 ing, he referred to my dead mother, and at last as- 
 sured me, in a voice of the deepest conviction, that 
 she had frequently appeared to him, had threatened 
 him with all the torments of the damned, if he did 
 not disinherit his son, who had fallen away from God, 
 and leave all his property to the Church. Now I do 
 not believe in ghosts." 
 
 "Neither do I," the police director replied, "but 
 I cannot well do anything on such grounds, having 
 nothing but superstitions to go upon. You know 
 how the Church rules all our affairs since the Con- 
 cordat with Rome, and if I investigate this matter 
 and obtain no results, I am risking my post. It 
 would be very different if you could adduce any 
 proofs for your suspicions. I do not deny that I 
 should like to see the clerical party, which will, J
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 2SI 
 
 fear, be the ruin of Austria, receive a staggering 
 blow; try, therefore, to get to the bottom of this 
 business, and then we will talk it over again." 
 
 About a month passed, without the young Lati- 
 tudinarian being heard of. Suddenly, he came one 
 evening, in a great state of excitement, and told the 
 Inspector that he was in a position to expose the 
 priestly deceit which he had mentioned, if the au- 
 thorities would assist him. The police director asked 
 for further information. 
 
 "I have obtained a number of important clues," 
 said the young man. "In the first place, my father 
 confessed to me that my mother did not appear to 
 him in our house, but in the churchyard where she is 
 buried. My mother was consumptive for many years, 
 and a few weeks before her death she y/ent to the 
 
 village of S , where she died and was buried. In 
 
 addition to this, I found out from our footman that 
 my father has already left the house twice, late at 
 
 night, in company of X , the Jesuit priest, and 
 
 that on both occasions he did not return till morning. 
 Each time he was remarkably uneasy and low-spirited 
 after his return, and had three masses said for my 
 dead mother. He also told me just now that he has 
 to leave home this evening on business, but, immedi- 
 ately after he told me that, our footman saw the Jesuit 
 go out of the house. We may, therefore, assume that 
 he intends this evening to consuit the spirit of my 
 dead mother again, and this would be an excellent 
 opportunity to solve the matter, if you do not object to 
 opposing the most powerful force in the Empire for 
 the sake of such an insignificant individual as myself" 
 
 "Every citizen has an equal right to the protec-
 
 282 GHOSTS 
 
 tion of the State," the poHce director rephed; "and I 
 think that 1 have shown often enough that I am not 
 wanting in courage to perform my duty, no matter 
 how serious the consequences may be. But only 
 very young men act without any prospects of success, 
 because they are carried away by their feehngs. 
 When you came to me the first time, 1 was obhged 
 to refuse your request for assistance, but to-day your 
 request is just and reasonable. It is now eight 
 o'clock; I shall expect you in two hours' time, here 
 in my office. At present, all you have to do is to 
 hold your tongue; everything else is my affair." 
 
 As soon as it was dark, four men got into a 
 closed carriage in the yard of the police-office, and 
 
 were driven in the direction of the village of S . 
 
 Their carriage, however, did not enter the village, but 
 stopped at the edge of a small wood in the immedi- 
 ate neighborhood. Here all four alighted: the police 
 director, accompanied by the young Latitudinarian, a 
 police sergeant, and an ordinary policeman, the latter 
 however, dressed in plain clothes. 
 
 "The first thing for us to do is to examine the 
 locality carefully," said the police director. "It is 
 eleven o'clock and the exercisers of ghosts will not 
 arrive before midnight, so we have time to look 
 round us, and to lay our plans." 
 
 The four men went to the churchyard, which lay 
 at the end of the village, near the little wood. Every- 
 thing was as still as death, and not a soul was to be 
 seen. The sexton was evidently sitting in the public 
 house, for they found the door of his cottage locked, 
 as well as the door 'of the little chapel that stood in 
 the middle of the churchyard.
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 283 
 
 "Where is your mother's grave?" the police di- 
 rector asked. As there were only a few stars visible, 
 it was not easy to find it, but at last they managed 
 it, and the police director surveyed the neighborhood 
 of it. 
 
 "The position is not a very favorable one for us," 
 he said at last; "there is nothing here, not even a 
 shrub, behind which we could hide." , 
 
 But just then, the policeman reported that he had 
 tried to get into the sexton's hut through the door 
 or a window, and that at last he had succeeded in 
 doing so by breaking open a square in a window 
 which had been mended with paper, that he had 
 opened it and obtained possession of the key, which 
 he brought to the police director. 
 
 The plans were very quickly settled. The police 
 director had the chapel opened and went in with the 
 young Latitudinarian; then he told the police sergeant 
 to lock the door behind him and to put the key back 
 where he had found it, and to shut the window of the 
 sexton's cottage carefully. Lastly, he made arrange- 
 ments as to what they were to do, in case anything 
 unforeseen should occur, whereupon the sergeant and 
 the constable left the churchyard, and lay down in a 
 ditch at some distance from the gate, but opposite to it. 
 
 Almost as soon as the clock struck half past eleven, 
 they heard steps near the chapel, whereupon the 
 police director and the young Latitudinarian went to 
 the window in order to watch the beginning of the 
 exorcism, and as the chapel was in total darkness, 
 they thought that they should be able to see without 
 being seen; but matters turned out differently from 
 what they expected.
 
 2S4 GHOSTS 
 
 Suddenly, the key turned in the lock. They barely 
 had time to conceal themselves behind the altar, be- 
 fore two men came in, one of whom was carrying a 
 dark lantern. One was the young man's father, an 
 elderly man of the middle class, who seemed very 
 unhappy and depressed, the other the Jesuit father 
 X , a tall, lean, big-boned man, with a thin, bil- 
 ious face, in which two large gray eyes shone rest- 
 lessly under bushy, black eyebrows. He lit the 
 tapers, v/hich were standing on the altar, and began 
 to say a "Requiem Mass"; while the old man kneeled 
 on the altar steps and served him. 
 
 When it was over, the Jesuit took the book of 
 the Gospels and the holy-water sprinkler, and went 
 slowly out of the chapel, the old man following him 
 with the holy-water basin in one hand, and a taper in 
 the other. Then the police director left his hiding 
 place, and stooping down, so as not to be seen, 
 crept to the chapel window, where he cowered down 
 carefully; the young man follov/ed his example. 
 They were now looking straight at his mother's 
 grave. 
 
 The Jesuit, followed by the superstitious old man, 
 walked three times round the grave; then he re- 
 mained standing before it, and by the light of the 
 taper read a few passages from the Gospel. Then he 
 dipped the holy-water sprinkler three times into the 
 holy-water basin, and sprinkled the grave three times. 
 Then both returned to the chapel, kneeled down out- 
 side it with their faces toward the grave, and began 
 to pray aloud, until at last the Jesuit sprang up, in a 
 species of wild ecstasy, and cried out three times in 
 a shrill voice;
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 2S5 
 
 ' 'Exsurge ! Exsurge ! Exsiirge / " * 
 
 Scarcely had the last words of the exorcism died 
 away, when thick, blue smoke rose out of the 
 grave, rapidly grew into a cloud, and began to as- 
 sume the outlines of a human body, until at last a 
 tall, white figure stood behind the grave, and beck- 
 oned with its hand. 
 
 "Who art thou?" the Jesuit asked solemnly, 
 while the old man began to cry. 
 
 "When I was alive, 1 was called Anna Maria 
 B ," replied the ghost in a hollow voice. 
 
 "Will you answer all my questions?" the priest 
 continued. 
 
 "As far as I can." 
 
 "Have you not yet been delivered from purgatory 
 by our prayers, and by all the Masses for your soul, 
 which we have said for you?" 
 
 "Not yet, but soon, sool 1 shall be." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "As soon as that blasphemer, my son, has been 
 punished." 
 
 "Has that not already happened? Has not your 
 husband disinherited his lost son, and in his place 
 made the Church his heir?" 
 
 "That is not enough." 
 
 "What must he do besides?" 
 
 "He must deposit his will with the Judicial Au- 
 thorities, as his last will and testament, and drive the 
 reprobate out of his house." 
 
 "Consider well what you are saying; must this 
 really be?" 
 
 * Arise!
 
 486 GHOSTS 
 
 "It must, or otherwise I shall have to languish in 
 purgatory much longer," the sepulchral voice replied 
 with a deep sigh; but the next moment the ghost 
 yelled out in terror: "Oh! Good Lord!" and began 
 to run away as fast as it could. A shrill whistle 
 was heard, and then another, and the poUce director 
 laid his hand on the shoulder of the exorciser with 
 the remark: 
 
 "You are in custody." 
 
 Meanwhile, the police sergeant and the policeman, 
 v/ho had come into the churchyard, had caught the 
 ghost, and dragged it forward. It was the sexton, 
 who had put on a flowing, white dress, and wore a 
 wax mask, which bore a striking resemblance to his 
 mother, so the son declared. 
 
 When the case was heard, it was proved that the 
 mask had been very skillfully made from a portrait of 
 the deceased woman. The government gave orders 
 that the matter should be investigated as secretly as 
 
 possible, and left the punishment of Father X to 
 
 the spiritual authorities, which was a matter of neces- 
 sity, at a time when priests were outside of the juris- 
 diction of the civil authorities. It is needless to say 
 
 that Father X was very comfortable during his 
 
 imprisonment in a monastery, in a part of the country 
 which abounded with game and trout. 
 
 The only valuable result of the amusing ghost 
 story was that it brought about a reconciliation be- 
 tween father and son; the former, as a matter of fact, 
 felt such deep respect for priests and their ghosts in 
 consequence of the apparition, that a short time after 
 his wife had left purgatory for the last time in ordei 
 to talk with him, he turned Protestaat.
 
 WAS IT A DREAM? 
 
 I 
 
 HAD loved her madiv! 
 
 " Why does one love ? Why does 
 one love ? How queer it is to see 
 only one being in the world, to 
 have only one thouo;ht in one's mind, 
 only one desire in the heart, and only 
 one name on the lips — a name which 
 comes up continually, rising, like the 
 water in a spring, from the depths of the 
 soul to the lips, a name v/hich one repeats 
 over and over again, which one whispers 
 ceaselessly, everywhere, like a prayer. 
 ^51 "I am going to tell you our story, for love 
 
 tP only has one, which is alv/ays the same. 1 met 
 her and loved her; that is all. And for a whole year 
 I have lived on her tenderness, on her caresses, in her 
 arms, in her dresses, on her words, so completely 
 wrapped up, bound, and absorbed in everything which 
 came from her, that I no longer cared whether it 
 was day or night, or whether I was dead or alive, on 
 this old earth of ours. 
 
 "And then she died. How? I do not know; I 
 no longer know anythmg. But one evening she came 
 
 (287)
 
 288 WAS IT A DREAM? 
 
 home wet, for it was raining heavily, and the next 
 day she coughed, and she coughed for about a week, 
 and took to her bed. What happened I do r.ot re- 
 member now, but doctors came, wrote, and went 
 away. Medicines were brouglit, and some women 
 made her drink them. Her hands were hot, her fore- 
 head was burning, and her eyes bright and sad. 
 When I spoke to her, she answered me, but I do not 
 lemember what we said. I have forgotten everything, 
 everything, everything! She died, and I very well re- 
 member her slight, feeble sigh. The nurse said: 'Ahl' 
 and I understood, I understood! 
 
 "I knew nothing more, nothing. I saw a priest, 
 v/ho said: 'Your mistress?' and it seemed to me as 
 if he were insulting her. As she was dead, nobody 
 had the right to say that any longer, and I turned 
 him out. Another came who was very kind and 
 tender, and I shed tears when he spoke to me about 
 her. 
 
 ''They consulted me about the funeral, but I do 
 not remember anything that they said, though I re- 
 collected the coffm, and the sound of the hammer when 
 they nailed her down in it. Oh! God, God! 
 
 "She was buried! Buried! She! In that hole! 
 Some people came — female friends. I made my 
 escape and ran away. 1 ran, and then walked through 
 the streets, went home, and the next day started on a 
 journey. 
 
 ♦ % % ♦ % V V 
 
 "Yesterday I returned to Paris, and when I saw 
 my room again — our room, our bed, our furniture, 
 e^verything that remains of the life of a human being 
 after death — I was seized by such a violent attack of
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 28Q 
 
 fresh grief, that I felt like opening the window and 
 throwing myself out into the street. I could not re- 
 main any longer among these things, between these 
 walls which had inclosed and sheltered her, which 
 retained a thousand atoms of her, of her skin and of 
 her breath, in their imperceptible crevices. I took up 
 my hat to make my escape, and just as I reached the 
 door, I passed the large glass in the hall, which she 
 had put there so that she might look at herself every 
 day from head to foot as she went out, to see if her 
 toilette looked well, and was correct and pretty, from 
 her little boots to her bonnet. 
 
 "I stopped short in front of that looking-glass in 
 which she had so often been reflected — so often, so 
 often, that it must have retained her reflection. I v/as 
 standing there, trembling, with my eyes fixed on the 
 glass — on that flat, profound, empty glass — which 
 had contained her entirely, and had possessed her as 
 much as I, as my passionate looks had. I felt as if I 
 loved that glass. I touched it; it was cold. Oh! the 
 recollection! sorrowful mirror, burning mirror, horrible 
 mirror, to make men suffer such torments! Happy is 
 the man whose heart forgets everything that it has 
 contained, everything that has passed before it, every- 
 thing that has looked at itself in it, or has been re- 
 flected in its affection, in its love! How I suffer! 
 
 "I went out without knowing it, without wishing 
 it, and toward the cemetery. 1 found her simple 
 grave, a white marble cross, with these few words: 
 
 "'She loved, was loved, and died.* 
 
 "She is there, below, decayed! How horrible! I 
 sobbed with my forehead on the ground, and ! stopped 
 
 Muup. I— 19
 
 290 WAS IT A DREAM? 
 
 there for a long time, a long time. Then I saw 
 that it was getting dark, and a strange, mad wish, 
 the wish of a despairing lover, seized me. I wished 
 to pass the night, the last night, in weepmg on her 
 grave. But I should be seen and driven out. How 
 was I to manage.? I was cunning, and got up and 
 began to roam about in that city of the dead. I 
 walked and walked. How small this city is, in com- 
 parison with the other, the city in which we live. 
 And yet, how much more num&rous the dead are 
 than the living. We want high houses, wide streets, 
 and much room for the four generations who see the 
 daylight at the same time, drink water from the 
 spring, and wine from the vines, and eat bread from 
 the plains. 
 
 "And for all the generations of the dead, for all 
 that ladder of humanity that has descended down to 
 us, there is scarcely anything, scarcely anything! The 
 earth takes them back, and oblivion effaces them. 
 Adieu! 
 
 "At the end of the cemetery, I suddenly perceived 
 that I was in its oldest part, where those who had 
 been dead a long time are mingling with the soil, 
 where the crosses themselves are decayed, where pos- 
 sibly newcomers will be put to-morrow. It is full of 
 untended roses, of strong and dark cypress-trees, a 
 sad and beautiful garden, nourished on human flesh. 
 
 "1 was alone, perfectly alone. So I crouched in 
 a green tree and hid myself there completely amid 
 the thick and somber branches. I waited, clinging to 
 the stem, like a shipwrecked man does to a plank. 
 
 "When it was quite dark, I left my refuge and 
 began to walk softly, slowly, inaudibly, through that
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 29 1 
 
 ground full of dead people. I wandered about for a 
 long time, but could not find her tomb again. I 
 went on with extended arms, knocking against the 
 tombs with my hands, my feet, my knees, my chest, 
 even with my head, without being able to find her. 
 I groped about like a blind man finding his way, I 
 felt the stones, the crosses, the iron railings, the 
 metal wreaths, and the wreaths of faded flowers! I 
 read the names with my fingers, by passing them 
 over the letters. What a night! What a night! I 
 could not find her again! 
 
 "There was no moon. What a night! I was 
 frightened, horribly frightened in these narrow paths, 
 between two rows of graves. Graves! graves! graves! 
 nothing but graves! On my right, on my left, in 
 front of me, around me, everywhere there were 
 graves! I sat down on one of them, for 1 could not 
 walk any longer, my knees were so weak. I could 
 hear my heart beat! And 1 heard something else as 
 well. What? A confused, nameless noise. Was the 
 noise in my head, in the impenetrable night, or be- 
 neath the mysterious earth, the earth sown with 
 human corpses? I looked all around me, but I can- 
 not say how long I remained there; I was paralyzed 
 with terror, cold with fright, ready to shout out, 
 ready to die. 
 
 "Suddenly, it seemed to me that the slab of 
 marble on which I was sitting, was moving. Cer- 
 tainly it was moving, as if it were being raised. 
 With a bound, I sprang on to the neighboring tomb, 
 and I saw, yes, I distinctly saw the stone which 1 
 had just quitted rise upright. Then the dead person 
 appeared, a naked skeleton, pushing the stone back
 
 292 WAS IT A DREAM? 
 
 with its bent back. I saw it quite clearly, although 
 the night was so dark. On the cross I could read: 
 
 '"Here lies Jacques Olivant, who died at the age of fifty-one. 
 He loved his family, was kind and honorable, and died in the grace 
 of the Lord.' 
 
 "The dead man also read what was inscribed on 
 his tombstone; then he picked up a stone off the 
 path, a little, pointed stone and began to scrape the 
 letters carefully. He slowly effaced them, and with 
 the hollows of his eyes he looked at the places where 
 they had been engraved. Then with the tip of the bone 
 that had been his forefinger, he wrote in luminous 
 letters, like those lines which boys trace on walls 
 with the tip of a lucifer match: 
 
 "'Here reposes Jacques Oiivant, who died at the age of fifty -one. 
 He hastened his father's death by his unkindness, as he wir.hed to in- 
 herit his fortune, he tortured his wife, tormented his children, de- 
 ceived his neighbors, robbed everyone he could, and died wretched.' 
 
 "When he had finished writing, the dead man 
 stood motionless, looking at his work. On turn- 
 ing round I saw that all the graves were open, that 
 all the dead bodies had emerged from them, and that 
 all had effaced the hes inscribed on the gravestones 
 by their relations, substituting the truth instead. And 
 I saw that all had been the tormentors of their neigh- 
 bors — malicious, dishonest, hypocrites, liars, rogues, 
 calumniators, envious; that they had stolen, deceived, 
 performed every disgraceful, every abominable action, 
 these good fathers, these faithful wives, these devoted 
 sons, these chaste daughters, these honest tradesmen, 
 these men and women who were called irreproach- 
 able. They were all writing at the same time, on
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 29' 
 
 the threshold of their eternal abode, the truth, the 
 terrible and the holy truth of which everybody was 
 ignorant, oi pretended to be ignorant, while they 
 were alive, 
 
 "1 thought thiit she also must have written some- 
 thing on her tombstone, and now running without 
 any fear among the half-open coffins, among the 
 corpses and skeletons, I went toward her, sure that 
 I should find her immediately. I recognized her at 
 once, without seeing her face, which was covered 
 by the winding-sheet, and on the marble cross, v/here 
 shortly before I had read: 
 
 "'She loved, was loved, and died,' 
 
 ! now saw: 
 
 " ' Having gone out in the rain one day, in order to deceive her 
 lover, she caught cold and died.' 
 
 ******* 
 
 "It appears that they found me at daybreak, lying 
 on the giave unconscious."
 
 THE DIARY OF A MADMAN 
 
 E WAS dead — the head of a high 
 
 tribunal, the upright magistrate, 
 
 whose irreproachable life was a 
 
 proverb in all the courts of France. 
 
 Advocates, young counselors, judges 
 
 had saluted, bov/ing low in token oi 
 
 profound " respect, remembering that 
 
 grand face, pale and thin, illumined by 
 
 two bright, deep-set eyes. 
 
 • ' He had passed his life in pursuing 
 
 crime and in protecting the weak. Swin- 
 
 y**/ dlers and murderers had no more redoubt- 
 
 fef^ able enemy, for he seemed to read in th? 
 
 r recesses of their souls their most secret 
 
 thoughts. 
 
 He was dead, now, at the age of eighty-two, hon- 
 ored by the homage and followed by the regrets of a 
 whole people. Soldiers in red breeches had escorted 
 him to the tomb, and men in white cravats had shed 
 on his grave tears that seemed to be real. 
 
 But listen to the strange paper found by the dis- 
 mayed notary in the desk where the judge had 
 '^. (294)
 
 WORKS OF GUY DF MAUPASSANT 29=, 
 
 kept filed the records of great criminals 1 It was 
 entitled: 
 
 WHY? 
 
 June 20, 1851. I have just left court. I have con- 
 demned Blondel to death! Now, why did this man 
 kill his five children ? Frequently one meets with 
 people to whom killing is a pleasure. Yes, yes, it 
 should be a pleasure — the greatest of all, perhaps, for 
 is not killing most like creating? To make and to 
 destroy! These two words contain the history of the 
 universe, the history of all worlds, all that is, all! Why 
 is it not intoxicating to kill? 
 
 June 25. To think that there is a being who 
 lives, who walks, who runs. A being ? What is a 
 being ? An animated thing which bears in it the 
 principle ©f motion, and a will ruling that principle. 
 It clings to nothing, this thing. Its feet are independ- 
 ent of the ground. It is a grain of life that moves 
 on the earth, and this grain of life, coming I know not 
 whence, one can destroy at one's will. Then nothing 
 — nothing more. It perishes; it is finished. 
 
 June 26. Why, then, is it a crime to kill ? Yes, 
 why? On the contrary, it is the law of nature. 
 Every being has the mission to kill; he kills to live, 
 and he lives to kill. The beast kills without ceasing, 
 all day, every instant of its existence. Man kills 
 without ceasing, to nourish himself; but since in 
 addition he needs to kill for pleasure, he has invented 
 the chase! The child kills the insects he finds, the 
 little birds, all the little animals that come in his 
 way. But this docs not suffice for the irresistible 
 need of massacre that is in us. It is not enough to
 
 295 THE DIARY OF A MADMAN 
 
 kill beasts; we must kill man too. Long ago this 
 need was satisfied by human sacrifice. Now, the 
 necessity of living in society has made murder a 
 crime. We condemn and punish the assassin! But 
 as we cannot live without yielding to this natural and 
 imperious instinct of death, we relieve ourselves, from 
 time to time, by wars. Then a whole nation slaugh- 
 ters another nation. It is a feast of blood, a feast 
 that maddens armies and intoxicates the civilians, 
 women and children, who read, by lamplight at 
 night, the feverish story of massacre. 
 
 And do we despise those picked out to accomplish 
 these butcheries of men? No, they are loaded with 
 honors. They are clad in gold and in resplendent 
 stuffs; they wear plumes on their heads and orna- 
 ments on their breasts; and they are given crosses, 
 rewards, titles of every kind. They are proud, re- 
 spected, loved by women, cheered by the crowd, 
 solely because their mission is to shed human blood! 
 They drag through the streets their instruments of 
 death, and the passer-by, clad in black, looks on 
 with envy. For to kill is the great law put by nature 
 in the heart of existence! There is nothing more 
 beautiful and honorable than killing! 
 
 June 30. To kill is the law, because Nature loves 
 eternal youth. She seems to cry in all her uncon- 
 scious acts: "Quick! quick! quick!" The more she 
 destroys; the more she renews herself. 
 
 July 3. It must be a pleasure, unique and full of 
 zest, to kill: to place before you a hving, thinking 
 being; to make therein a little hole, nothing but a 
 little hole,, and to see that red liquid flow which is 
 the blood, which is the life; and then to have before
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 297 
 
 you only a heap of limp flesh, cold, inert, void of 
 thought! 
 
 August 5. 1, who have passed my life in judg- 
 ing, condemning, killmg by words pronounced, kill 
 ing by the guillotine those who had killed by the 
 knife, if 1 should do as all the assassins v^'hom I have 
 smitten have done, 1, 1— who would know itr' 
 
 August 10. Who would ever know? Who would 
 ever suspect me, especially if 1 should choose a being 
 I had no interest in doing av/ay with? 
 
 August 22. I could resist no longer, i have killed 
 a little creature as an experiment, as a beginning. 
 Jean, my servant, had a goldfinch in a cage hung in 
 the office window. 1 sent him on an errand, and I 
 took the little bird in my hand, in my hand where 
 I felt its heart beat. It was warm. I went up to my 
 room. From time to time I squeezed it tighter; its 
 heart beat faster; it was atrocious and delicious. 1 
 was nearly choking it. But 1 could not see the blood. 
 
 Then I took scissors, short nail scissors, and 1 cut 
 its throat in three strokes, quite gently. It opened 
 its bill, it struggled to escape me, but I held it, ohl 
 I held it — 1 could have held a mad dog — and 1 saw 
 the blood trickle. 
 
 And then I did as assassins do — real ones. I 
 washed the scissors and washed my hands. 1 sprinkled 
 water, and took the body, the corpse, to the garden 
 to hide it. 1 buried it under a strawberry-plant. It 
 will never be found. Every day I can eat a straw- 
 berry from that plant. How one can enjoy life, when 
 one knows howl 
 
 My servant cried; he thought his bird flown. How 
 could he suspect me? Ah I
 
 298 THE DIARY OF A MADMAN 
 
 August 25. I must kill a man! 1 must I 
 
 August 30. It is done. But what a little thing! 
 J had gone for a walk in the forest of Vernes. I was 
 thinking of nothing, literally nothing. See! a child 
 on the road, a little child eating a slice of bread and 
 butter. He stops to see me pass and says, "Good 
 day, Mr. President." 
 
 And the thought enters my head: "Shall 1 kill 
 him?" 
 
 I answer: "You are alone, my boy?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "All alone in the wood?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 The wish to kill him intoxicated me like wine. I 
 approached him quite softly, persuaded that he was 
 going to run away. And suddenly 1 seized him by 
 the throat. He held my wrists in his little hands, 
 and his body writhed like a feather on the fire. 
 Then he moved no more. I threw the body in the 
 ditch, then some weeds on top of it. I returned 
 home and dined well. What a little thing it was! 
 In the evening I was very gay, light, rejuvenated, 
 and passed the evening at the Prefect's. They found 
 me witty. But I have not seen blood! I am not 
 tranquil. 
 
 August 31. The body has been discovered. They 
 are hunting for the assassin. Ah! 
 
 September i. Two tramps have been arrested^ 
 Proofs are lacking. 
 
 September 2. The parents have been to see me. 
 They wept! Ah! 
 
 October 6. Nothing has been discovered. Some 
 strolling vagabond must have done the deed. Ah I
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 299 
 
 If I had seen the blood flow it seems to me I should 
 be tranquil now! 
 
 October 10. Yet another. I was wall<ing by the 
 river, after breakfast. And I saw, under a willow, a 
 fisherman asleep, it was noon. A spade, as if ex- 
 pressly put there for me, was standing in a potato- 
 field near by. 
 
 I took it. I returned; I raised it like a club, and 
 with one blow of the edge i cleft the fisherman's 
 head. Oh! he bled, this one! — rose-colored blood. 
 It flowed into the water quite gently. And I went 
 away with a grave step, if I had been seen! Ah! 
 I should have made an excellent assassin. 
 
 October 25. The affair of the fisherman makes a 
 great noise. His nephew, who fished with him, is 
 charQ:ed with the murder. 
 
 October 26. The examining magistrate affirms 
 that the nephew is guilty. Everybody in town be- 
 lieves it. Ah! ah! 
 
 October 27. The nephew defends himself badly. 
 He had gone to the village to buy bread and cheese, 
 he declares. He swears that his uncle had been 
 killed in his absence! Who would believe him r 
 
 October 2^. The nephew has all but confessed, 
 so much have they made him lose his head! Ah! 
 Justice! 
 
 November 15. There are overwhelmmg proofs 
 against the nephew, who was his uncle's heir. \ 
 shall preside at the sessions. 
 
 fa'duary 25, 1832. To death! to death! to death! I 
 have had him condemned to death! The advocate- 
 general spoke like an angel! Ah I Yet another! I 
 shall go to see him executed I
 
 jOO THE DIARY OF A MADMAN 
 
 March lo. It is done. They guillotined him this 
 morning. He died very well! very well! That gave 
 me pleasure! How fine it is to see a man's head 
 cut oflf! 
 
 Now, I shall wait, I can wait. It would take such 
 a little thing to let myself be caught. 
 
 1* I* "i* sj* m^ ic ^ 
 
 The manuscript contained more pages, but told of 
 no new crime. 
 
 Alienist physicians to whom the awful story has 
 been submitted declare that there are in the world 
 many unknown madmen; as adroit and as terrible as 
 this monstrous lunatic.
 
 AN 
 UNFORTUNATE LIKENESS 
 
 T WAS during one of those sudden 
 changes of the electric light, which 
 at one time throw^s rays of ex- 
 quisite pale pink, of a liquid gold 
 . ,^ filtered through the light hair of a 
 ]r^^ w^oman, and at another, rays of bluish 
 11 ' hue with strange tints, such as the sky 
 assumes at twilight, in v/hich the women 
 with their bare shoulders looked like liv- 
 ing flowers — it was, 1 say, on the night of 
 the first of January at Montonirail's, the 
 dainty painter of tail, undulating figures, of 
 bright dresses, of Parisian prettiness — that tall 
 Pcscarelle, whom some called "Pussy," though 
 I do not know why, suddenly said in a low voice: 
 
 "Well, people were not altogether mistaken, in 
 fact, were only half wrong when they coupled my 
 name with that of pretty Lucy Plonelle. She had 
 caught me, just as a birdcatcher on a frosty morning 
 catches an imprudent wren on a limed twig — in fact, 
 she might have done whatever she liked with me. 
 
 (301)
 
 302 
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 "1 was under the charm of her enigmatical and 
 mocking smile, that smile in which her teeth gleamed 
 cruelly between her red lips, and glistened as if they 
 were ready to bite and to heighten the pleasure of 
 the most delightful, the most voluptuous, kiss by pain. 
 
 "I loved everything in her — her feline suppleness, 
 her languid looks which emerged from her half- 
 closed lids, full of promises and temptation, her some- 
 what extreme elegance, and her hands, those long, 
 delicate white hands, with blue veins, like the blood- 
 less hands of a female saint in a stained glass window, 
 and her slender fingers, on which only the large blood- 
 drop of a ruby glittered. 
 
 "I would have given her all my remaining youth 
 and vigor to have laid my burning hands upon the 
 back of her cool, round neck, and to feel that bright, 
 silk, golden mane enveloping me and caressing my 
 skin. 1 was never tired of hearing her disdainful, 
 petulant voice, those vibrations which sounded as if 
 they proceeded from clear glass, whose music, at 
 times, became hoarse, harsh, and fierce, like the loud, 
 sonorous calls of the Valkyries. 
 
 "Good heavens! to be her lover, to be her chat- 
 tel, to belong to her, to devote one's whole existence 
 to her, to spend one's last half-penny and to sink in 
 misery, only to have the glory and the happiness of 
 possessing her splendid beauty, the sweetness of her 
 kisses, the pink and the white of her demonlike soul 
 all to myself, if only for a few months! 
 
 "It makes you laugh, 1 know, to think that I 
 should have been caught like that — I who give such 
 good, prudent advice to my friends — 1 who fear love 
 as I do those quicksands and shoals which appear at
 
 AN UNFORTUNATE LIKENESS 303 
 
 low tide and in which one may be swallowed up and 
 disappear! 
 
 "But who can answer for himself, who can de- 
 fend himself agamst such a danger, as the magnetic 
 attraction that inheres in such a woman ? Neverthe- 
 less, 1 got cured and perfectly cured, and that quite 
 accidentally. This is how the enchantment, which 
 was apparently so infrangible, was broken. 
 
 "On the first night of a play, I was sitting in the 
 stalls close to Lucy, whose mother had accompanied 
 her, as usual. They occupied the front of a box, side 
 by side. From some unsurmountable attraction, I 
 never ceased looking at the woman whom 1 loved 
 with all the force of my being. I feasted my eyes 
 on her beauty, I saw nobody except her in the 
 theater, and did not listen to the piece that was being 
 performed on the stage. 
 
 "Suddenly, however, I felt as if 1 had received a 
 blow from a dagger in my heart, and I had an in- 
 sane hallucination. Lucy had moved, and her pretty 
 head was in profile, in the same attitude and with 
 the same lines as her mother. I do not know what 
 shadow or what play of light had hardened and 
 altered the color of her delicate features, effacing their 
 ideal prettiness, but the more I looked at them both, 
 at the one who was young and the one who was 
 old, the greater the distressing resemblance became. 
 
 "I saw Lucy growing older and older, striving 
 against those accumulating years which bring wrinkles 
 in the face, produce a double chin and crow's-feet, 
 and spoil the mouth. They almost looked like twins. 
 
 "I suffered so, that I thought I should go mad. 
 Yet in spite of myself, instead of shaking off this
 
 504 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 feeling and making my escape out of the theater, far 
 away into the noise and life of the boulevards, I per- 
 sisted in looking at the other, at the old one, in ex- 
 amining her, in judging her, in dissecting her with 
 my eyes. I got excited over her flabby cheeks, over 
 those ridiculous dimples, that were half filled up, over 
 that treble chin, that dyed hair, those lusterless eyes, 
 and that nose, which was a caricature of Lucy's 
 beautiful, attractive little nose. 
 
 "1 had a prescience of the future. I loved her, 
 and 1 should love her more and more every day, that 
 little sorceress who had so despotically and so quickly 
 conquered me. I should not allow any participation 
 or any intrigue from the day she gave herself to me, 
 and once intimately connected, who could tell 
 whether, just as I was defending myself against it 
 most, the legitimate termination — marriage — might 
 not come? 
 
 "Why not give one's name to a woman whom 
 one loves, and whom one trusts.? The reason was 
 that 1 should be tied to a disfigured, ugly creature, 
 with whom I should not venture to be seen in public. 
 My friends would leer at her with laughter in their 
 eyes, and with pity in their hearts for the man who 
 was accompanying those remains. 
 
 "And so, as soon as the curtain had fallen, with- 
 out saying good day or good evening, I had myself 
 driven to the Moulin Rouge. 
 
 "Well," Florise d'Anglet exclaimed, "I shall never 
 take mamma to the theater with me again, for the 
 men are really going crazy 1"
 
 A COUNTRY EXCURSION 
 
 "^OR five months they had been talk- 
 i*H ing of going to lunch at some 
 country restaurant in the neigh- 
 borhood of Paris, on Madame Du- 
 four's birthday, and as they were 
 looking forward very impatiently to 
 the outing, they had risen very early 
 that morning. Monsieur Dufour had 
 borrowed the milkman's tilted cart, and 
 drove himself. It was a very neat, two- 
 wheeled conveyance, with a hood, and in 
 it Madame Dufour, resplendent in a won- 
 derful, sherry-colored silk dress, sat by the 
 side of her husband. 
 The old grandmother and the daughter were ac- 
 commodated with two chairs, and a yellow-haired 
 youth, of whom, however, nothing was to be seen 
 except his head, lay at the bottom of the trap. 
 
 When they got to the bridge of Neuilly, Monsieur 
 Dufour said: "Here we are in the country at last!" 
 At that warning, his wife grew sentimental about the 
 beauties of nature. When they got to the crossroads 
 
 Maup. 1—20 (305)
 
 306 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 at Courbevoie, they were seized with admiration for 
 the tremendous view down there: on the right was 
 the spire of Argenteuil church, above it rose the hills 
 of Sannois and the mill of Orgemont, v/hile on the 
 left, the aqueduct of Marly stood out against the clear 
 morning sky. In the distance the}/ could see the ter- 
 race of Saint-Germain, and opposite to them, at the 
 end of a low chain of hills, the nev/ fort of Cor- 
 meilles. Af^ir — a very long way off, beyond the plains 
 and villages — one could see the somber green of the 
 forests. 
 
 The sun was beginning to shine in their faces, the 
 dust got into their eyes, and on either side of the 
 road there stretched an interminable tract of bare, 
 ugly country, which smelled unpleasantly. You would 
 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 
 left in an unfinished state, as if 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 soot, mingled with another smell that 
 was even still less agreeable. At last, however, they 
 crossed the Seine a second time. It was delightful 
 on the bridge; the river sparkled in the sun, and they 
 had a feeling of quiet satisfaction and enjoyment in 
 drinking in purer air, not impregnated by the black 
 smoke of factories, nor by the miasma from the de- 
 posits of night-soil. A man whom they met told 
 them that the name of the place was Bezons; so Mon-
 
 A COUNTRY EXCURSION 3C7 
 
 sieur Dufour pulled up, and read the attractive an- 
 nouncement outside an eating-house: 
 
 "Restaurant Poulin, stews 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 a time. 
 
 It was a white country inn, built by the road- 
 side, and through the open door she could see the 
 bright zinc cf the counter, at which two workmen out 
 for the day were sitting. At last she made up her 
 mind, and said: 
 
 "Yes, this will do; and, besides, there is a view." 
 
 So they drove into a large yard studded with 
 trees, behind the inn, which was only separated from 
 the river by the towing-path, and got out. The hus- 
 band sprang out first, and held out his arms for his 
 wife. 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 disap- 
 peared in fat. Monsieur Dufour, who was already 
 getting excited by the country air, pinched her calf, 
 and then, taking her in his arms, set her on to the 
 ground, as if she had been some enormous bundle. She 
 shook the dust out cf 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 lc;uk at. She could hardly 
 breathe, as she was laced too tightly, which forced the 
 heaving mass of her superabundant bosom up to her 
 double chin. Next, the girl put her hand on to her 
 father's shoulder, and jumped lightly down. The youth
 
 308 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 with the yellow hair had got down by stepping on 
 the wheel, and he helped Monsieur Dufour to get the 
 grandmother out. Then they unharnessed the horse, 
 which they tied up to a tree, and the carriage fell 
 back, with both shafts in the air. The man and boy 
 took off their coats, washed their hands in a pail of 
 water, and then 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 ex- 
 cited 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 out- 
 lines of her firm, full figure, which was accentuated 
 by the motion of her hips as she tried to swing her- 
 self higher. Her arms were stretched over her head 
 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 
 wind from the perfumed petticoats, more heady than 
 the fumes of wine, blew into the faces of her father 
 and friend, who were looking at her in admiration. 
 
 Sitting in the other swing, Madame Dufour kept 
 saying in a monotonous voice: 
 
 "Cypriiln, come and swing me; do come and swing 
 me, Cyprian!" 
 
 At last he complied, and turning up his shirt-sleeves,
 
 A COUNTRY EXCURSION 309 
 
 as if be intended to work very hard, with much diffi- 
 culty he set his wife in motion. She clutched the 
 two ropes, and held her legs out straight, so as not 
 to touch f!ie ground. She enjoyed feeling giddy from 
 the motion of the swing, and her whole figure shook 
 like a jelly on a dish, but as she went higher and 
 higher, she grew too giddy and got frightened. Every 
 time she was coming back, she uttered a shriek, 
 which made all the little urchins 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 lunch. 
 
 "Some fried fish, a stewed rabbit, salad, and des- 
 sert," 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, 
 bad been petting one that belonged to the house, 
 and had been bestowing the most affectionate words 
 on it, for the last tfen minutes. The animal, no doubt 
 secretly pleased by her attentions, kept close to the 
 ^ood 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. 
 
 "Hallo!" exclaimed the youth with the yellow 
 hair, who was ferreting about, "here are two swell 
 boats!" They all went to look at them, and saw two 
 beautiful skiffs in a wooden boathouse, which were 
 as beautifully finished as if they had been objects of 
 luxury. They were moored side by side, like two 
 tall, slender girls, in their narrow shining length, and
 
 5IO WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 aroused in one a wish to float in them on warm 
 summer mornings and evenings, along flower-covered 
 banks of the river, where the trees dip their branches 
 into the water, where the rushes are continually rus- 
 tling in the breeze, and where the swift kingfishers 
 dart about like flashes of blue lightning. 
 
 The whole family looked at them with great re- 
 spect. 
 
 "They are indeed two swell boats," Monsieur Du- 
 four repeated gravely, and he examined them closely, 
 commenting on them like a connoisseur. He had 
 been in the habit of rov.'ing in his younger days, he 
 said, and when he had that 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 miles an 
 hour, without exerting himself 
 
 "Lunch is ready," said the waitress, appearing at 
 the entrance to the boathouse. They all hurried off, 
 but two young men were already lunching at the best 
 place, which Madame Dufour had chosen in her mind 
 as her seat. No doubt they were the owners of the 
 skiffs, for they were dressed in boating costume. 
 They were stretched out, almost lying on chairs, and 
 were sunburned, and had on flannel trousers and thin 
 cotton jerseys, with short sleeves, which showed their 
 bare arms, which were as strong as blacksmiths'. 
 They were two strong young fellows, who thought a 
 great deal of their vigor, and who showed in all their 
 movements that elasticity and grace of limb which 
 can only be acquired by exercise, and which is so
 
 A COUNTRY EXCURSION 
 
 311 
 
 different to the awkwardness with which the same 
 continual work stamps the mechanic. 
 
 Tliey exchanged a rapid smile when they saw the 
 mother, and then a look on seeing the daughter. 
 
 " l.ct us give up our place," one of them said; "it 
 v/ill 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 so 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. Their bare arms, which they showed con- 
 tinually, rather embarrassed the young girl, who even 
 pretended to turn her head aside, and not to see 
 them. But 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 her- 
 self on the ground with her legs tucked under her, 
 after the manner of tailors, and kept wriggling about 
 continually, under the pretext that ants were crawling 
 about her somewhere. Monsieur Dufour, whom the 
 politeness of the strangers had put into rather a bad 
 temper, was trying to find a comfortable position, 
 which he did not, however, succeed in doing, while 
 the youth 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-uK-n. She wished to be 
 friendly, because they had given up their place.
 
 2(2 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 "It is, indeed, Madame," he replied; "do you 
 often go into tlie 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 in the 
 hearts of these shopkeepers, who were deprived of 
 the meadows, and who longed for country walks, 
 it roused that innate love of nature, which they all 
 felt so strongly the whole year round, behind the 
 counter in their shop. 
 
 The girl raised her eyes and looked at the oarS' 
 man with emotion, and Monsieur Dufour spoke foi 
 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 tlie 
 young men again, and pointing to their arms, asked' 
 "Do you never feel cold like that?" 
 
 They both laughed, and amazed the 'family by 
 telling of the enormous fatigue they could endure, ot 
 bathing while in a state of tremendous perspiration, 
 of rowing in the fog at night, and they struck theit 
 chests violently, to show how they sounded. 
 
 "Ah! You look very strong," the husband saia, 
 and he did not talk any more of the time when he 
 used to beat the English. The girl was looking at 
 them askance now, and the young fellow with the 
 yellow hair, as he had swallowed some wine the 
 wrong way, and was coughing violently, bespattered 
 Madame Dufour's sherry-colored silk dress. Madame
 
 A COUNTRY EXCURSION 31^ 
 
 got angry, and sent for some water to wash the 
 spots. 
 
 Meanwhile it had grown unbearably hot, the 
 sparkling river looked Hke 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 of his trousers, 
 while his wife, who felt choking, was gradually un- 
 fastening her dress. The youth was shaking his yel- 
 low wig in a happy frame of mind, and kept helping 
 himself to wine, and as the old grandmother felt 
 drunk, she endeavored to be very stiff and dignified. 
 As for the girl, she showed nothing except a pecu- 
 liar brightness in her eyes, while the brown skin on 
 the cheeks became more rosy. 
 
 The coffee finished them off; they spoke of sing- 
 ing, and each of them sang, or repeated a couplet, 
 which the others repeated enthusiastically. Then they 
 got up with some difficulty, and while the two w^omen, 
 who were rather dizzy, were getting some fresh air, 
 the two males, who were altogether drunk, were per- 
 forming gymnastic tricks. Heavy, linip, and with scar- 
 let faces, they hung awkwardly on to the iron rings, 
 without being able to raise themselves, while their 
 shirts were continually threatening to part company 
 with their trousers, and to flap in the wind like flags. 
 
 Meanwhile, the two boating-men had got their 
 skiffs into the water. 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 look, without un- 
 derstanding what she said. Then one of the rowers
 
 314 
 
 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 came up, with two fishing-rods in his hand; and 
 the hope of catching a gudgeon, that great aim of 
 the Parisian shopkeeper, made Dufour's dull eyes 
 gleam. 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 close to him. 
 
 One of the boating-men made a martyr of him- 
 self, and took the mother. 
 
 "Let us go to the little wood on the lie aux An- 
 glais!" he called out, as he rowed off. The other 
 skiff went slower, for the rower was looking at his 
 companion so intently, that he thought of nothing 
 else. His emotion paralyzed his strength, while the 
 girl, who was sitting on the steerer's seat, gave her- 
 self up to the enjoyment of being on the water. She 
 felt disinclined to think, felt a lassitude in her limbs^ 
 a complete self-relaxation, as if she were intoxicated. 
 She had become very flushed, and breathed pantingly. 
 The effect of the wine, increased by the extreme 
 heat, made all the trees on the bank seem to bow, 
 as she passed. A vague wish for enjoyment, a fer- 
 mentation of her blood, seemed to pervade her whole 
 body, and she was also a little agitated by this Ute- 
 d-tcte on the water, in a place which seemed depopu= 
 lated by the heat, with this young man, who thought 
 her so pretty, whose looks seemed to caress her 
 skin, and whose eyes were as penetrating and excit- 
 ing as the sun's rays. 
 
 Their inability to speak increased their emotion, 
 and they looked about them At last he made an 
 effort and asked her name.
 
 A COUNTRY EXCURSION ^15 
 
 "Henriette," she said. 
 
 "Why! My name is Henri," he replied. The 
 sound of their voices calmed them, and they looked 
 at the banks. The other skiff had gone ahead of 
 them, and seemed to be waiting for them. The rower 
 called out: 
 
 "We will meet you in the wood; we are going 
 as far as Robinson's,* because Madame Dufour is 
 thirs-ty." 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. 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 females must be sitting." 
 
 A nightingale! She had never heard one before, 
 and the idea of listening to one roused visions cf 
 poetic tenderness in her heart. A nightingale! That 
 is to say, the invisible witness of the lover's inter- 
 view which Juliette invoked on her balcony f; that 
 celestial music which is attuned to human kisses; 
 thcit eternal inspirer of all those languorous romances 
 which open idealized visions to the poor, tender, little 
 hearts of sensitive girls! 
 
 * A well-known restaurant on the banks of the Seine, much fre- 
 quented by the bourgeoisie. 
 
 t" Romeo and Juliet," Act ill., Scene V.
 
 ^i6 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 She wanted to hear a nightingak. 
 
 "We must not make a noise," her companion 
 said, "and then we can go into the wood, and sit 
 down close to it." 
 
 The skiff 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 bent down, and they 
 went into an inextricable thicket of creepers, leaves, 
 and reed-grass, which formed an impenetrable 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 ut- 
 tered shakes and roulades, and then long, vibrating 
 sounds that filled the air and seemed to lose them- 
 selves in the distance, across the- level country, 
 through that burning silence which hung low upon 
 the whole country round. They did not speak for 
 fear of frightening the bird 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, but without anger, and kept removing it 
 whenever he put it round her; not, however, feeling 
 at ail embarrassed by this caress, just as if it had 
 been something quite natural which she was resist- 
 ing 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 a revelation of divine 
 poesy. She felt such a softening at her heart, and
 
 A COUNTRY EXCURSION 317 
 
 such a relaxation of her nerves, that she began to cry, 
 without knowing why. The young man was now 
 straining her close to him, and she did not remove 
 his arm; she did not think of it. Suddenly the night- 
 ingale 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 re- 
 mained 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 v/as 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 quitted their 
 grassy retreat. The blue sky looked dull to them, 
 the ardent sun was clouded over to their eyes, they 
 perceived not the- solitude and the silence. They 
 walked quickly side by side, without speaking or 
 touching each other, appearing to be irreconcilable 
 enemies, as if disgust had sprung up betv/een them, 
 and hatred between their souls. From time to time 
 Henriette called out: "Mamma!" 
 
 By and by they heard a noise in a thicket, and 
 Madame Dufour appeared, looking rather confused, 
 and her companion's face was wrinkled with smiles 
 that he could not check. 
 
 Madame Dufour took his arm, and they returned 
 to the boats. Henri went on first, still without spe;i!:- 
 ing, by the girls side, and at last they got back to
 
 3l8 WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 
 
 Bezons. Monsieur Dufour, who had sobered up, was 
 waiting for them very impatiently, while the youth with 
 the yellow hair was having a moulhiul of something 
 to eat before leaving the inn. The carnage was in 
 the yard, with the horse in, and the grandmother, 
 who had already got in, was frightened at the thought 
 of being overtaken by night, before they got back to 
 Paris, the outskiits not being safe. 
 
 The young men shook hands with them, and the 
 Dufour family drove off. 
 
 "Good-bye, until we meet again!" the oarsmen 
 cried, and the answers they got were a sigh and a 
 tear. 
 
 4: % !)c 9): % :i: 4: ■ 
 
 Two months later, as Henri was going along the 
 Rue des Martyrs, he saw "Dufour, Ironmonger," 
 over a door. So he went in, and saw the stout lady 
 sittmg at the counter. They recognized each other 
 immediately, and after an interchange of polite greet- 
 ings, he inquired after them all. 
 
 "And how is Mademoiselle Henriette.^" he in- 
 quired, specially. 
 
 "Very weU, thank you; she is married." 
 
 "Ah!" Mastering his feelings, he added: "To 
 whom was she married.?" 
 
 "To that young man who went with us, you 
 know; he has joined us in business." 
 
 "i remember him, perfectly." 
 
 He was going out, feeling 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."
 
 A COUNTRY EXCURSION HQ 
 
 "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." 
 
 "1 will be sure to do so. Adieu!" 
 
 "I will not say that; come again, very soon." 
 
 4; 4: % % 4: :(: >)< 
 
 The next year, one very hot Sunday, all the de- 
 tails of that memorable adventure suddenly came back 
 to him so clearly that he revisited the "private room" 
 in the wood, and v/as overwhelmed with astonish- 
 ment when he went in. She was sitting on the 
 grass, looking very sad, while by her side, again in 
 his shirt-sleeves, the young man with the yellow 
 hair was sleeping soundly, like some brute. 
 
 She grew so pale w^hen she saw Henri, that at 
 first he thought she was going to faint; then, hov/- 
 ever, they began to talk quite naturally. But when 
 he told her that he was very fond of that spot, and 
 went there very often on Sundays, she looked into 
 his eyes for a long time. "1, too, often think of it," 
 she replied. 
 
 "Come, my dear," her husband said, with a yawn; 
 "I think it is time for us to be going."
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
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