Like Death

by Guy de Maupassant

  And she continued to question him, her voice pulsating with curiosity, her eyes fixed upon him, her ears eagerly receiving those words that were rather disturbing to comprehend but so charming to hear.

  Sometimes, when he came close to her to correct a pose, he would seize her hand and try to kiss it. With an impetuous gesture she would snatch her fingers away from his lips and with an adorable frown would say, “All right now, back to work.”

  He would do as he was told, but five minutes never passed without her asking him a question that adroitly led him back to the one subject that engaged them both.

  And now her heart began to have misgivings: of course she longed to be loved, but not too much. Certain herself of not being carried away, she was nevertheless afraid to let him venture too far and thereby lose him, forced ultimately to drive him to despair after having seemed to encourage him so sweetly. Yet if it became necessary to give up this tender friendship, to reject a lively discourse whose every ripple carried golden nuggets to her ears, she would surely suffer a terrible disappointment, a fiasco that had all the features of a terrible laceration.

  Each time she left home for the painter’s studio, a sort of delight came over her, a warm, quickening sensation that made her feel light and gay. Ringing the bell at Olivier’s door, her heart pounded with impatience, and the carpet on the stairs to his apartment seemed softer than any she had ever walked on.

  Meanwhile Bertin grew rather gloomy, fidgety, and often irritable. He had fits of impatience, almost immediately checked yet nonetheless quite recurrent.

  One day, when she had just come in, he sat down beside her instead of starting to paint and announced, “Madame, by now you must realize that this is no longer a joke: I am deeply in love with you.”

  Troubled by this opening, and foreseeing the approach of a dreaded crisis, she tried to interrupt him, but he was no longer listening. His heart was overflowing with emotion, and she was obliged—pale, trembling, and fearful—to hear him out. Tenderly, sadly, he spoke a long time with sorrowful resignation, asking nothing, and she allowed him to take her hands, which he then held in his. Without her realizing it, he had knelt before her and with a dreamy expression begged her to do him no harm. What harm? She did not understand or even try to understand, benumbed by the cruel misery of seeing him suffer, though such misery seemed almost happiness. Suddenly she saw tears in his eyes, which so moved her that she cried out, on the verge of hugging him the way you hug children who are in tears. He began murmuring, “There, there, I’m suffering too much,” and all of a sudden, won by that grief, by the contagion of tears, she too began sobbing, her nerves unstrung, her arms trembling, ready to open.

  When she felt herself suddenly folded in his embrace, her lips passionately kissed by his, her impulse was to cry out, to struggle, to push him away, but that was the moment she realized she was lost, for in resisting she consented, in struggling she yielded, embracing him while crying, “No, no, I don’t want . . . that!”

  Then she was overwhelmed. She lay with her face in her hands until she suddenly sprang up, snatched her hat which had fallen on the carpet, jammed it on her head, and darted away, oblivious to the entreaties of Olivier who was still trying to cling to her dress.

  Once out in the street, she longed to sit on the curb and recover the strength that seemed to have drained from every bone in her body. With a desperate gesture she hailed a passing fiacre and told the coachman to drive slowly and go anywhere. She flung herself into the vehicle, closed the carriage door, and huddled in the darkest corner, realizing she was alone behind closed panes—alone to think.

  For several minutes she was conscious of nothing but the noise of the wheels and the jolting of the vehicle. She stared at the houses, the omnibuses, people walking, others in fiacres like herself, but her vacant eyes saw nothing; indeed she thought of nothing, as though she were giving herself time, granting herself a respite before daring to realize what had happened.

  Then, since her mind was active and never cowardly, she said to herself, “That’s what I am now, a lost woman.” And for several minutes she remained under the certainty of irreparable misfortune, terrorized like a man who’s fallen off a roof and at first refuses to stir, convinced that his legs are broken and reluctant to confirm the fact.

  But instead of the misery she had expected, the weight of which she dreaded, her heart, emerging from this catastrophe, remained calm and at peace; it was a heart that beat slowly, gently, after a fall by which her soul was overwhelmed and seemed to take no part in the bewilderment of her mind.

  She repeated the words aloud, as if to understand and be convinced by them, “That’s what I am now, a lost woman.” No echo of suffering answered within her flesh to that wail of her conscience.

  Then she allowed herself to be lulled a while by the motion of the fiacre, postponing a little longer the reckonings she would have to make with herself in her cruel situation. No, she was not suffering. She was afraid to think, that was all, afraid to know, to reflect, to comprehend; quite the contrary, she seemed to feel, in that obscure and impenetrable being created in us by the incessant struggle of our inclinations and our wills, an incredible tranquillity.

  After perhaps half an hour of such strange repose, realizing at last that the despair she had summoned would not come to her, she shook off that torpor, murmuring, “How strange! I’m not sorry at all, not even ashamed.”

  Then she began reproaching herself. A sort of rage was forged against her blindness and her weakness. How could she not have foreseen this? How not have realized that the hour for such a struggle must come? That this man pleased her enough to rouse her cowardice? And that desire sometimes sends through even the most righteous hearts a gale that sweeps away the will?

  Yet when she had harshly reviled and despised herself, she asked in terror what would happen now? Her first thought was to break with the painter and never see him again. Yet no sooner had she made such a resolution than she was assailed by a thousand reasons against it. How would she explain such a reversal? What would she say to her husband? Wouldn’t the suspected truth be whispered, then chattered everywhere?

  Wouldn’t it be better, if appearances were to be saved, to collaborate with Olivier Bertin himself in the hypocritical comedy of indifference and neglect, showing him and the world that she had erased such a moment from her memory, from her life?

  But could she manage such a thing? Would she have the audacity to appear to remember nothing, to regard with indignant astonishment the slightest attention from this man whose swift and brutal emotions she had actually shared, and now say to him, “What do you want with me?”

  After long reflection she decided that no other solution was even remotely possible.

  She would go to him tomorrow, courageously, and make him understand what she wanted, what she expected. Not a single word, not an allusion, not even a meaningful glance must ever acknowledge this shame.

  After having suffered, for he too would suffer, he would assuredly side with her, a loyal and well-brought-up young man who would remain, in the future, only what he had been in the past.

  Once this new resolve was settled, she gave the coachman her address and returned home utterly exhausted and nearly prostrate, longing to go to bed, to see no one, to sleep, to forget. Shutting herself up in her room, she remained prostrate on her chaise longue till dinnertime, no longer seeking to occupy her soul with thoughts so full of danger.

  She appeared downstairs exactly on time, astonished to find herself so calm, awaiting her husband with her usual demeanor. When he came in, carrying their daughter in his arms, she took his hand and kissed their child, undisturbed by any evident anguish.

  Monsieur de Guilleroy inquired how she had spent the day. With a certain indifference she replied that she had been posing for her portrait, as she did every day.

  “And the portrait, is it beautiful?”

  “It’s coming along beautifully.”

  In his turn her husband
spoke of his affairs, which he enjoyed revealing at dinner, this evening’s palaver being devoted to the chamber’s discussion of some newly proposed regulations against the adulteration of food.

  Such prattle, which Madame de Guilleroy ordinarily endured with some patience, irritated her tonight, forcing her to regard more attentively this vulgar, verbose man whose interests lay in such things; yet she smiled as she listened and even responded more amiably than usual, showing more deference toward such banalities; and as she watched him she thought, “I’ve deceived him. He’s my husband, and I’ve deceived him. How bizarre! Nothing can change that now, nothing can erase such a thing! I closed my eyes. I submitted for a few seconds—only a few seconds—to a man’s kisses, and I’m no longer an honest woman. . . . A few seconds of my life, a few seconds that cannot be suppressed, have made me the perpetrator of this irreparable little deed, so serious, so brief—a crime! the most shameful crime a woman can commit—and I feel no despair. If someone had told me yesterday, I’d never have believed it. If they’d insisted, I’d immediately have imagined the terrible remorse that would be tearing my heart out today, and I feel nothing—almost nothing!”

  Monsieur de Guilleroy went out after dinner, as he did almost every evening.

  Then she took her little girl on her lap and wept as she kissed her; they were honest tears, tears of conscience, not at all tears of her heart.

  But that night she couldn’t sleep.

  In the darkness of her bedroom she tormented herself about the dangers the painter’s attitude might create for her; and she was wracked with fear at the prospect of the coming day. She began to dread tomorrow’s meeting, the things she would have to say to him, looking into his eyes.

  Waking early, she lay on her chaise longue all morning, striving to foresee what she had to fear, what she had to answer for, to be prepared for all surprises.

  She started early, to be able to prepare her words to him while she walked.

  He scarcely expected her and had wondered since the night before what he was supposed to do.

  After her departure, an escape he had dared not defy, he remained alone, still listening, though of course she was already gone, for the sound of her footsteps, of her dress, and of a door slammed by a desperate hand.

  He remained standing, gorged with an ardent, piercing, scalding joy. He had taken her! Now there was that between them! Was it possible? After the astonishment of such a triumph he savored it, and the better to realize its existence he sat down, almost prostrate, on the very couch where he had possessed her.

  He stayed there a long while, full of the realization that she was his mistress, and that between them, between himself and this coveted creature, there had been secured in a matter of minutes that mysterious link which secretly binds two beings together; indeed all through his still-quivering body there remained the keen memory of that fleeting point in time when their lips had touched, when their bodies had met and mingled, united in the supreme emotion of life.

  He couldn’t leave his rooms that evening, he had to stay in and feed on that thought—the supreme emotion of life. He went to bed early, still vibrating with happiness.

  The instant he woke the next morning he asked himself what he should do. To a cocotte or an actress he would have sent flowers or even jewelry, but he was tortured by the perplexity of this new situation. Of course he must write something, but what? He scribbled a page, crossed it out, tore it up, started over again and even a third time—everything he wrote seemed offensive, hateful, ridiculous.

  He realized he must put his rapture in delicate, even charming terms, something that would express his soul’s gratitude, his transports of frenzied tenderness, his offers of endless devotion, but all he could find to express these passionate and extremely delicate things were stock phrases, banal expressions that were either crude or childish.

  He renounced, therefore, the useless notion of writing, and decided to go see her instead, once the time for the portrait-sitting was over, for he was quite sure she would not be coming to him.

  Shutting himself up in his studio, he stood exalted in front of the portrait, their portrait, his lips aching with longing to touch the canvas where something of herself was fixed; every now and then he glanced out the window. Each dress he caught sight of made his heart pound. Over and over again he thought he recognized her, but when the figure passed he sat down for a moment, despondent as a man who realizes he has deceived himself.

  Suddenly he did see her, doubted what he saw, snatched up his opera glasses, recognized her, and overwhelmed by violent emotion, sat down and waited for her to come through the door.

  When she appeared he flung himself on his knees and tried to take her hands, but she quickly pulled them away, and when he remained at her feet, evidently filled with anguish and staring up at her, she said haughtily, “What are you doing, monsieur? I fail to understand that attitude.”

  He stammered, “Oh, madame, I beg of you—”

  She cut him off sharply. “Get up! You’re behaving ridiculously.”

  Bewildered, he got to his feet, murmuring, “What’s the matter? Don’t treat me like this. Can’t you see that I love you!”

  Then, in a few sharp, dry words she made her will known to him and clarified the situation. “I don’t understand a word you’re saying; never speak to me of what you call your love, or I’ll walk out of this studio and never return. The first time you forget the terms of my presence here, you’ll never see me again.”

  He stared at her, crushed by a severity he had not expected; when he understood the meaning of what she was saying he hastily murmured, “Madame, I shall obey.”

  She answered, “Very well, that’s what I expected of you. Now let’s get to work, you’re taking a long time to finish that portrait.”

  So he took up his palette and began to paint, but his hand shook, and his troubled eyes stared quite blindly, so crushed was his heart.

  He tried to speak to her, but she made no intelligible response. When he ventured to praise the loveliness of her complexion, she dismissed him so peremptorily he suddenly felt that lover’s fury which turns tenderness itself to hatred. His entire body suffered a nervous shock so violent it seemed to pierce his soul, and instantly he realized how much he detested her. Yes, she was a woman just the same as the others. Of course she was. Why not? False, fickle, and feeble like all the rest, luring him on by age-old childish tricks, always trying to kindle a treacherous flame and giving nothing but ice in return, provoking him only to reject him, employing the maneuvers of a cowardly coquette, ever ready to reveal her charms as long as her victims, turned to cringing spaniels, disposed of their desires elsewhere.

  So much the worse for her! After all, she had been his; he had had her. She could try to rinse everything off and answer him insolently, but she would never be free of what had happened to her, and he would forget none of it. It would be madness to entangle himself with such a creature; she would have eaten her way into his artist life with the capricious teeth of any other pretty woman.

  He felt like whistling as he did in the presence of his models, but he realized he was losing his self-control and wanted to avoid doing something silly, so he shortened that day’s sitting on the pretext of an engagement, and when they bowed goodbye to each other it was with the conviction that they were farther apart from each other than the day they first met at the Duchess de Mortemain’s.

  As soon as she had gone, he took his hat and overcoat and went out. A cold sun in a misty blue sky cast a pale, rather artificial and melancholy light on the city. After he had walked for a while, his quick, irritated steps jostling startled passersby, for he refused to allow himself to deviate from a straight line, his rage against her began to crumble into irritation and regret. After repeating all the reproaches he had heaped upon her, he recalled, seeing other women pass, how pretty and winning she was. Like so many others who refuse to admit it, he had always awaited the impossible encounter, the rare, unique, poetic,
and impassioned affection, the dream of which hovers over all men’s hearts. Had he not almost found it? Might she not have been the one who would have given him that almost impossible happiness? Why is it then that nothing of the kind is ever realized? Why can one never possess what one pursues, or why does one attain only fragments, rendering ever more painful this endless pursuit of illusions?

  He could no longer blame everything, or anything, on the young woman—it was life itself which was to blame. Now that he was beginning to see reason, what could he reproach her for, after all—for being kind, friendly, and gracious? Whereas she had every reason to reproach him for playing, for being, the master!

  He returned full of sadness. He longed to ask her forgiveness, to dedicate himself to her, to make her forget, and he wracked his brains to find a way to make her understand that henceforth he would be, to death’s door, docile to her every wish.

  The next day she arrived at the studio, accompanied by her daughter, with a smile so tentative and a general expression so down-hearted that the painter imagined he saw, in those poor blue eyes hitherto so gay, all the pain, all the remorse, all the desolation a woman’s heart could hold. His own was filled with compassion, and to persuade her to forget, he offered with delicate reserve the most scrupulous attentions. To which she responded with gentle kindness, with the weary and crushed air of a woman who is suffering.

  And he, looking at her and seized again with a wild desire to love and be loved, asked himself how it was that she felt no greater anger, that she could come back again, listen to him and answer him, with that memory between them.

  From the moment she could see him again, hear his voice, and sustain, in his presence, the one thought that could no longer leave her, he needed no other proof that this one thought was not intolerable to her. When a woman hates the man who has violated her, she can no longer be in his presence without that hatred bursting forth. But that man can no longer be indifferent to her. She must either detest him or forgive him. And when she forgives, she is not far from loving him.