Like Death

by Guy de Maupassant

  So the countess came the following day with her husband, and the following days with her daughter, whom the artist seated at a long table covered with picture books.

  Olivier Bertin, as was his habit, behaved with great reserve. Fashionable women made him rather uncomfortable, for he knew nothing about them. He imagined them to be at once profligate and inane, hypocritical and dangerous, frivolous and embarrassing. He had had many fleeting adventures with ladies of the demimonde because of his reputation, his humor, his athletic elegance, and his dark, spirited face. And he preferred these creatures to their betters, enjoying the models’ talk and their giddy gestures, quite at home with their easy rejections, their easier approvals, the loose manners of the studios and the greenrooms he frequented. If he frequented high society as well, it was for gloire and not the promptings of his heart; high society was where he satisfied his vanity, received compliments and, of course, commissions—the sort of place where he allowed fine ladies to flatter him but never bothered to pay them the court they expected. Careful not to allow himself to shock such company with what would surely pass for risqué language, he treated them all as prudes and enjoyed a reputation for good taste by doing so. Whenever one of these creatures came to his studio to sit for a painting, he invariably detected, for all the advances she made in an attempt to please him, that disparity of breeding which always separates artists from worldly people, however they mingle. Behind the smiles and the adulation, which in women is always a little artificial, he divined the obscure mental reservation of a being who judges herself to be of a superior essence. Recognizing this, he invariably suffered an involuntary twinge of vainglory, the almost haughty yet well-concealed manners of a parvenu treated as an equal by princes and princesses, the pride of a man who owes to his intelligence a situation analogous to what is given to others by birth. People said of him with something like surprise, “He’s extremely well-bred!” This surprise, which flattered him, at the same time rather offended him, for it indicated certain boundaries.

  The painter’s deliberate and ceremonious gravity somewhat disconcerted Madame de Guilleroy, who found nothing to say to this rather chilly gentleman with a reputation for cleverness.

  Once her little girl had been properly installed at the table of picture books, the mother would come and sit in an armchair near the sketch lately begun, and endeavor, in accordance with the artist’s recommendation, to give some expression to her physiognomy.

  Halfway through the fourth sitting, he suddenly stopped painting and asked, “What would you say amuses you most in life?”

  She was embarrassed. “Oh, I don’t really know. Why do you ask?”

  “I need some happy thoughts in those eyes of yours, and I confess I’ve seen no such thing.”

  “Well, you must make me talk. I really love to talk.”

  “Talking makes you gay?”

  “Very gay.”

  “Let’s talk then, madame.”

  He had spoken these words quite seriously, and then, resuming his work at the easel, he chatted with her on various subjects, seeking one on which their minds might meet. At first they exchanged observations about people they knew in common, but soon they began talking about themselves, which is always the most agreeable and the most engaging topic for a chat.

  Meeting for the next day’s sitting, they felt more at ease, and Bertin, observing himself to be both pleasing and amusing, began to describe details of his life as an artist, giving free rein to his reminiscences with that fanciful spirit so characteristic of him.

  Accustomed to the impassive style of salon litterateurs, she was astonished by the slightly mad verve which expressed things frankly by a clarifying irony, and immediately found herself responding in the same manner with a fine audacious grace of her own.

  In eight days she had conquered and seduced him by her good humor, by her frankness, and by her simplicity. He entirely abandoned his prejudice against society ladies, and would have willingly asserted that they and they alone possessed charm and high spirits. Standing in front of his canvas, advancing and retreating as if in a magical duel, he acknowledged his innermost thoughts as if he were an old friend of this lovely black-clad blond creature, made of sunshine and mourning, and apparently quite as comfortable with badinage as with mourning, listening and laughing at whatever he said and responding with such gaiety that she not only forgot the responsibilities of her pose but also disregarded the obligations of a woman in deep family mourning.

  Sometimes he took several steps away from her, closed one eye, and crouched for a searching glance at his model’s entire figure; sometimes he came close enough to discern the subtlest changes in her complexion, the most fleeting expressions, and to seize and render what there is in a woman’s face beyond the visible appearance: that emanation of ideal beauty, the reflection of something unknown, the intimate and dangerous grace possessed by each woman which causes her to be desperately loved by one man and not by another.

  One afternoon, the little girl came in and stood in front of the canvas with a child’s tremendous seriousness and asked, “That’s Maman, isn’t it?”

  He took her in his arms, flattered by this naive homage to his work’s resemblance.

  Another day, when she seemed very quiet, they suddenly heard her say in a sad voice that was almost a whisper, “Maman, I’m bored.” And the painter was so moved by this first complaint that he ordered a whole shopful of toys to be delivered to the studio the next day.

  Little Annette, surprised, satisfied, and as always thoughtful, put her new playthings away with great care in order to take them out again one by one, according to the needs of the moment. Dating from this overwhelming benefaction, she loved the painter as children love, with that caressing animal attention that makes them so appealing.

  Madame de Guilleroy had begun to enjoy the sittings. She was almost completely unoccupied that winter, finding herself in mourning; and since society and its diversions failed her, she shut herself up in the studio with all the energy and attention of her life.

  The daughter of a wealthy and hospitable Parisian merchant who had died some years ago and of a mother confined to her bed six months out of twelve by chronic ill health, Any had acquired quite young the arts of a perfect hostess, knowing how to receive, to smile, to discern what could be said to one guest and not to another, as pliant as she was perspicacious. When the Count de Guilleroy was presented as her husband-to-be, she immediately recognized the advantages of such a union and, politic creature that she was, quite understood that one cannot have everything but must strike a balance between good and bad in every situation.

  Launched in such a world, much sought after because she was as clever as she was lovely, she found herself courted by many men without once disturbing the serenity of a heart no less reasonable than her mind.

  Of course she was flirtatious, but hers was a coquetry as prudent as it was aggressive, one that never went too far. Compliments pleased her, the desires they awakened flattered her, provided she could appear to ignore them; and after an evening lapped in such subservient incense, she had a good night’s sleep, the repose of a woman who has discharged her mission upon earth. This existence, which had lasted for some seven years without wearying her, without striking her as monotonous—for she adored such incessant worldly agitation—this existence now occasionally left her longing for . . . something else. The men surrounding her, political lawyers, financiers, or idle club members, entertained her about as much as so many actors, and she never took them too seriously, though she valued their functions, their ranks, and their titles.

  Initially the painter pleased her because everything about him, inside and out, was new to her. She greatly enjoyed the studio, laughed with all her heart, and felt a sense of exhilaration and a certain gratitude to him for each of the sittings. Of course he also pleased her because he was handsome, strong, and famous; no woman, whatever she may say, is indifferent to physical beauty and to fame. Flattered to have been pic
ked out by this expert and disposed in her turn to be impressed by his appearance, she had subsequently discovered an alert and cultivated mind, a delicacy, and a gift for giving a special color to his words, which seemed to illuminate whatever it was she had to say.

  A rapid intimacy was born between them, and the handshake they exchanged when she came in seemed to mingle a little something more of their hearts each day.

  Then, without premeditation, without any specific purpose, she felt a growing desire to seduce him and yielded to it. She had foreseen nothing, prepared nothing, she was merely coquettish with a certain superior grace, as one is instinctively with a man who pleases you more than any other; and she put into all her gestures, all her looks and smiles, that glue of seduction which glistens all over a woman in whom the need to be loved awakens.

  She said flattering things to him which were intended to mean “I find you very attractive, monsieur,” and then she made him speak at great length to show him by the serious way she listened how much interest she took in him. He stopped painting, sat down beside her, and in that overexcitement provoked by the intoxication of pleasing there were spasms of poetry, of silliness, or of philosophy, depending on the day.

  She was amused when he was gay; when he was profound she attempted to follow without always managing to keep up; and when she was thinking of something else she looked as if she were listening to him with an expression of perfect understanding and of such delight in this initiation, that he exulted in watching her listen to him, overwhelmed as he was at having discovered a sensitive soul, open and docile, for whom his thoughts fell into her mind like so many seeds.

  The portrait was progressing and seemed very promising, the painter having reached the emotional state necessary to discover all his model’s qualities and to express them with the convinced ardor that is the inspiration of true artists.

  Leaning toward her and studying every movement of her features, all the colors of her flesh, all the shadows of her skin, all the expressions and transparencies of her eyes, every secret of her physiognomy, he had impregnated himself with the girl the way a sponge swells with water; and transporting to his canvas that emanation of disturbing charm, which his gaze collected and which flowed like a wave of thought to his brush, he remained benumbed, intoxicated as if he had been drinking woman’s grace.

  She felt his heart was hers now, attached by this game they had played and by this increasingly certain victory that animated her as well.

  Something new had given her existence an unknown savor, wakening a mysterious joy. When she heard someone speak of him, her heart beat a little faster and she longed to say something—a longing that never reached her lips: “He’s in love with me.” She was pleased to hear his talent praised, perhaps happier still to hear people call him handsome. When she thought about him without outsiders to distract her, she actually imagined she had acquired a good friend, someone who would always be satisfied with a sincere handshake.

  Whereas he, quite often in the middle of a sitting, would suddenly put his palette down on its stool and take little Annette in his arms, tenderly kissing her on both eyes or in the clusters of her hair, while glancing at the mother as though to say: “It’s you and not this child I am embracing.”

  And from time to time now, Madame de Guilleroy left her daughter at home and came to the studio alone. On those days very little work was done, but they talked a great deal more.

  One afternoon—it was a cold day toward the end of February—she was late. Olivier had come early, as he did now each time she made her appointment, for he always hoped she might arrive ahead of time. Waiting for her, he walked back and forth, smoking and wondering, surprised to be asking himself this question for the hundredth time this week: “Am I in love?” He had no idea, never yet having come even close to such a thing. He had experienced several lively and even extended caprices without ever having taken or mistaken them for love. Today he was astonished by what he was feeling.

  Did he love her? Of course he vaguely wanted her, though never really considering the possibility of possession. Up to now when a woman pleased him, desire had immediately invaded him, and he would hold out his hands to her as if picking fruit, his innermost thoughts never deeply troubled either by her absence or by her presence.

  Desire for this woman had scarcely touched him, for it seemed hidden behind some other more powerful feeling, still obscure and scarcely awakened. Olivier had imagined love began with reveries, with poetic exaltations. What he felt now seemed to derive from an indefinable emotion, much more physical than spiritual. He was nervous, palpitating, disturbed, as when a disease germinates in our body. Yet nothing painful mixed with this fever of the blood, which also agitated his thoughts by a sort of contagion. He was not unaware that this disturbance came from Madame de Guilleroy, from the memories she left behind and from the expectations of her return. He wasn’t drawn to her by an impulse of his entire being, yet he felt her constantly present in himself, as if she had never left him; she surrendered a part of herself each time she left him, something subtle and inexpressible. What was it? Was it love? He probed the depths of his own heart to discern and to understand: he found her charming, yet she didn’t correspond to the type of ideal woman his blind hopes had created. A man who invokes love has foreseen the spiritual qualities and the physical gifts of a creature who will seduce him, and Madame de Guilleroy, infinitely pleasing though she might be, didn’t seem to be such a woman.

  Then why did she engross him so much more than the others, in so different, so incessant a fashion?

  Had he simply fallen into the trap set by her coquetry, which he had suspected and understood long since; beguiled by her maneuvers, had he submitted to that particular fascination which the desire to please grants to women?

  He walked a little, sat down, walked some more, lit any number of cigarettes and tossed them away almost immediately, all the while watching the hands of the clock proceeding toward their usual hour at a slow and immutable pace.

  Several times already he had been tempted to thrust a fingernail under the convex glass shielding those two gradually rotating golden arrows and shove the hour hand to the number it was so lazily approaching.

  Wouldn’t such activities suffice for the door to open and the expected figure to appear, deceived and summoned by this ruse? But then he burst out laughing at this childish and unreasonable desire. Finally he asked himself this question: “Could I become her lover?” The notion seemed to him singular, unrealizable, and utterly impractical because of the complications by which it was likely to encumber his life.

  All the same, this woman pleased him tremendously, and he concluded: “Decidedly, I’m in a peculiar condition.”

  The clock struck its hour and the sound gave him a shock, disturbing his nerves more than his soul. What now? He waited for her with that impatience which delay increases second by second. She was always on time: after ten minutes he’d surely see her walk in. When the ten minutes were up he was deranged by something like sadness, after which he was annoyed to discover she was wasting his time, and then suddenly he realized she wasn’t coming and he would be the one to suffer for it. What should he do? Wait for her, of course! No, he’d go now, and if she happened to come after all, she’d find the studio empty.

  He’d have to leave, but when? How much indulgence should he allow her? Wouldn’t it be better to stay and by a few icy words make her understand that he wasn’t the kind of man who could be kept waiting? And if she didn’t come? Then he’d receive a telegram, a card, a servant, some kind of messenger. And if she didn’t come, what should he do? A whole day wasted: he’d no longer be able to work. And then? Then he’d go see what had happened to her—he really had to see her.

  It was true, he needed to see her—a deep, oppressive, tormenting need. Was that, could that be love? But there was no exaltation in his thoughts, no passion in his senses, no delirium in his soul to signify that if she failed to come today it was he who would really
suffer.

  The street bell rang in the staircase of the little mansion, and Olivier Bertin suddenly felt himself gasping for breath; with a giddy gesture he flung away his cigarette.

  She came in; she was alone.

  He was immediately overcome by a daring impulse. “Do you have any idea what I was thinking while I was waiting for you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I was wondering if I wasn’t in love with you.”

  “In love with me? You must be crazy!” But she smiled, and her smile seemed to say, “That’s nice. I’m glad to hear it.” But she continued, “You can’t be serious. Why make jokes about a thing like that?”

  “On the contrary, I’m quite serious. I’m not announcing that I’m in love with you, but I am wondering whether I’m about to become so.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “My feelings when you’re not here. My happiness when you appear.”

  She sat down. “Oh, don’t get upset about a thing like that. You shouldn’t get upset so easily. As long as you’re sleeping nights and have a good appetite, there’s no danger.”

  He laughed. “And if I lose sleep and my appetite too?”

  “Let me know.”

  “And then?”

  “I’ll leave you to recover in peace.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  And on the theme of that love they giggled through the afternoon. They repeated this behavior in the following days. Assuming it was a joke of no importance, she asked him gaily as soon as she came in, “How’s that love of yours doing today?”

  And gloomily as well as gleefully, he recited the progress of this malady, all its profound and intimate developments as they appeared and pullulated; in her presence he minutely analyzed himself hour by hour, from their separation of the night before to this very moment, all in the facetious manner of a professor attempting to enliven students taking his required course; and she listened with every sign of interest as well as a certain sympathy, actually somewhat distressed by a story from a book of stories of which she happened to be the heroine. When he had enumerated, with polite and even galant airs, all the tribulations to which he had fallen prey, his voice would at times grow tremulous, expressing by a word or merely an intonation the pangs of an aching heart.