The Guy De Maupassant Megapack: 144 Novels and Short Stories

by Guy de Maupassant

  His emotion was so great that he cried out, and let go his hold of the chicken, which ran over his chest. The bar was full of people at the time. The customers rushed to Toine’s room, and made a circle round him as they would round a travelling showman; while Madame Toine picked up the chicken, which had taken refuge under her husband’s beard.

  No one spoke, so great was the tension. It was a warm April day. Outside the window the yellow hen could be heard calling to her newly-fledged brood.

  Toine, who was perspiring with emotion and anxiety, murmured:

  “I have another now—under the left arm.”

  His’ wife plunged her great bony hand into the bed, and pulled out a second chicken with all the care of a midwife.

  The neighbors wanted to see it. It was passed from one to another, and examined as if it were a phenomenon.

  For twenty minutes no more hatched out, then four emerged at the same moment from their shells.

  There was a great commotion among the lookers-on. And Toine smiled with satisfaction, beginning to take pride in this unusual sort of paternity. There were not many like him! Truly, he was a remarkable specimen of humanity!

  “That makes six!” he declared. “Great heavens, what a christening we’ll have!”

  And a loud laugh rose from all present. Newcomers filled the bar. They asked one another:

  “How many are there?”

  “Six.”

  Toine’s wife took this new family to the hen, who clucked loudly, bristled her feathers, and spread her wings wide to shelter her growing brood of little ones.

  “There’s one more!” cried Toine.

  He was mistaken. There were three! It was an unalloyed triumph! The last chicken broke through its shell at seven o’clock in the evening. All the eggs were good! And Toine, beside himself with joy, his brood hatched out, exultant, kissed the tiny creature on the back, almost suffocating it. He wanted to keep it in his bed until morning, moved by a mother’s tenderness toward the tiny being which he had brought to life, but the old woman carried it away like the others, turning a deaf ear to her husband’s entreaties.

  The delighted spectators went off to spread the news of the event, and Horslaville, who was the last to go, asked:

  “You’ll invite me when the first is cooked, won’t you, Toine?”

  At this idea a smile overspread the fat man’s face, and he answered:

  “Certainly I’ll invite you, my son-in-law.”

  MADAME HUSSON’S “ROSIER”

  We had just left Gisors, where I was awakened to hearing the name of the town called out by the guards, and I was dozing off again when a terrific shock threw me forward on top of a large lady who sat opposite me.

  One of the wheels of the engine had broken, and the engine itself lay across the track. The tender and the baggage car were also derailed, and lay beside this mutilated engine, which rattled, groaned, hissed, puffed, sputtered, and resembled those horses that fall in the street with their flanks heaving, their breast palpitating, their nostrils steaming and their whole body trembling, but incapable of the slightest effort to rise and start off again.

  There were no dead or wounded; only a few with bruises, for the train was not going at full speed. And we looked with sorrow at the great crippled iron creature that could not draw us along any more, and that blocked the track, perhaps for some time, for no doubt they would have to send to Paris for a special train to come to our aid.

  It was then ten o’clock in the morning, and I at once decided to go back to Gisors for breakfast.

  As I was walking along I said to myself:

  “Gisors, Gisors—why, I know someone there!

  “Who is it? Gisors? Let me see, I have a friend in this town.” A name suddenly came to my mind, “Albert Marambot.” He was an old school friend whom I had not seen for at least twelve years, and who was practicing medicine in Gisors. He had often written, inviting me to come and see him, and I had always promised to do so, without keeping my word. But at last I would take advantage of this opportunity.

  I asked the first passer-by:

  “Do you know where Dr. Marambot lives?”

  He replied, without hesitation, and with the drawling accent of the Normans:

  “Rue Dauphine.”

  I presently saw, on the door of the house he pointed out, a large brass plate on which was engraved the name of my old chum. I rang the bell, but the servant, a yellow-haired girl who moved slowly, said with a Stupid air:

  “He isn’t here, he isn’t here.”

  I heard a sound of forks and of glasses and I cried:

  “Hallo, Marambot!”

  A door opened and a large man, with whiskers and a cross look on his face, appeared, carrying a dinner napkin in his hand.

  I certainly should not have recognized him. One would have said he was forty-five at least, and, in a second, all the provincial life which makes one grow heavy, dull and old came before me. In a single flash of thought, quicker than the act of extending my hand to him, I could see his life, his manner of existence, his line of thought and his theories of things in general. I guessed at the prolonged meals that had rounded out his stomach, his after-dinner naps from the torpor of a slow indigestion aided by cognac, and his vague glances cast on the patient while he thought of the chicken that was roasting before the fire. His conversations about cooking, about cider, brandy and wine, the way of preparing certain dishes and of blending certain sauces were revealed to me at sight of his puffy red cheeks, his heavy lips and his lustreless eyes.

  “You do not recognize me. I am Raoul Aubertin,” I said.

  He opened his arms and gave me such a hug that I thought he would choke me.

  “You have not breakfasted, have you?”

  “No.”

  “How fortunate! I was just sitting down to table and I have an excellent trout.”

  Five minutes later I was sitting opposite him at breakfast. I said:

  “Are you a bachelor?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “And do you like it here?”

  “Time does not hang heavy; I am busy. I have patients and friends. I eat well, have good health, enjoy laughing and shooting. I get along.”

  “Is not life very monotonous in this little town?”

  “No, my dear boy, not when one knows how to fill in the time. A little town, in fact, is like a large one. The incidents and amusements are less varied, but one makes more of them; one has fewer acquaintances, but one meets them more frequently. When you know all the windows in a street, each one of them interests you and puzzles you more than a whole street in Paris.

  “A little town is very amusing, you know, very amusing, very amusing. Why, take Gisors. I know it at the tips of my fingers, from its beginning up to the present time. You have no idea what queer history it has.”

  “Do you belong to Gisors?”

  “I? No. I come from Gournay, its neighbor and rival. Gournay is to Gisors what Lucullus was to Cicero. Here, everything is for glory; they say ‘the proud people of Gisors.’ At Gournay, everything is for the stomach; they say ‘the chewers of Gournay.’ Gisors despises Gournay, but Gournay laughs at Gisors. It is a very comical country, this.”

  I perceived that I was eating something very delicious, hard-boiled eggs wrapped in a covering of meat jelly flavored with herbs and put on ice for a few moments. I said as I smacked my lips to compliment Marambot:

  “That is good.”

  He smiled.

  “Two things are necessary, good jelly, which is hard to get, and good eggs. Oh, how rare good eggs are, with the yolks slightly reddish, and with a good flavor! I have two poultry yards, one for eggs and the other for chickens. I feed my laying hens in a special manner. I have my own ideas on the subject. In an egg, as in the meat of a chicken, in beef, or in mutton, in milk, in everything, one perceives, and ought to taste, the juice, the quintessence of all the food on which the animal has fed. How much better food we could have if more attention were paid t
o this!”

  I laughed as I said:

  “You are a gourmand?”

  “Parbleu. It is only imbeciles who are not. One is a gourmand as one is an artist, as one is learned, as one is a poet. The sense of taste, my friend, is very delicate, capable of perfection, and quite as worthy of respect as the eye and the ear. A person who lacks this sense is deprived of an exquisite faculty, the faculty of discerning the quality of food, just as one may lack the faculty of discerning the beauties of a book or of a work of art; it means to be deprived of an essential organ, of something that belongs to higher humanity; it means to belong to one of those innumerable classes of the infirm, the unfortunate, and the fools of which our race is composed; it means to have the mouth of an animal, in a word, just like the mind of an animal. A man who cannot distinguish one kind of lobster from another; a herring—that admirable fish that has all the flavors, all the odors of the sea—from a mackerel or a whiting; and a Cresane from a Duchess pear, may be compared to a man who should mistake Balzac for Eugene Sue; a symphony of Beethoven for a military march composed by the bandmaster of a regiment; and the Apollo Belvidere for the statue of General de Blaumont.

  “Who is General de Blaumont?”

  “Oh, that’s true, you do not know. It is easy to tell that you do not belong to Gisors. I told you just now, my dear boy, that they called the inhabitants of this town ‘the proud people of Gisors,’ and never was an epithet better deserved. But let us finish breakfast first, and then I will tell you about our town and take you to see it.”

  He stopped talking every now and then while he slowly drank a glass of wine which he gazed at affectionately as he replaced the glass on the table.

  It was amusing to see him, with a napkin tied around his neck, his cheeks flushed, his eyes eager, and his whiskers spreading round his mouth as it kept working.

  He made me eat until I was almost choking. Then, as I was about to return to the railway station, he seized me by the arm and took me through the streets. The town, of a pretty, provincial type, commanded by its citadel, the most curious monument of military architecture of the seventh century to be found in France, overlooks, in its turn, a long, green valley, where the large Norman cows graze and ruminate in the pastures.

  The doctor quoted:

  “‘Gisors, a town of 4,000 inhabitants in the department of Eure, mentioned in Caesar’s Commentaries: Caesaris ostium, then Caesartium, Caesortium, Gisortium, Gisors.’ I shall not take you to visit the old Roman encampment, the remains of which are still in existence.”

  I laughed and replied:

  “My dear friend, it seems to me that you are affected with a special malady that, as a doctor, you ought to study; it is called the spirit of provincialism.”

  He stopped abruptly.

  “The spirit of provincialism, my friend, is nothing but natural patriotism,” he said. “I love my house, my town and my province because I discover in them the customs of my own village; but if I love my country, if I become angry when a neighbor sets foot in it, it is because I feel that my home is in danger, because the frontier that I do not know is the high road to my province. For instance, I am a Norman, a true Norman; well, in spite of my hatred of the German and my desire for revenge, I do not detest them, I do not hate them by instinct as I hate the English, the real, hereditary natural enemy of the Normans; for the English traversed this soil inhabited by my ancestors, plundered and ravaged it twenty times, and my aversion to this perfidious people was transmitted to me at birth by my father. See, here is the statue of the general.”

  “What general?”

  “General Blaumont! We had to have a statue. We are not ‘the proud people of Gisors’ for nothing! So we discovered General de Blaumont. Look in this bookseller’s window.”

  He drew me towards the bookstore, where about fifteen red, yellow and blue volumes attracted the eye. As I read the titles, I began to laugh idiotically. They read:

  Gisors, its origin, its future, by M. X.…, member of several learned societies; History of Gisors, by the Abbe A…; Gasors from the time of Caesar to the present day, by M. B.…, Landowner; Gisors and its environs, by Doctor C. D.…; The Glories of Gisors, by a Discoverer.

  “My friend,” resumed Marambot, “not a year, not a single year, you understand, passes without a fresh history of Gisors being published here; we now have twenty-three.”

  “And the glories of Gisors?” I asked.

  “Oh, I will not mention them all, only the principal ones. We had first General de Blaumont, then Baron Davillier, the celebrated ceramist who explored Spain and the Balearic Isles, and brought to the notice of collectors the wonderful Hispano-Arabic china. In literature we have a very clever journalist, now dead, Charles Brainne, and among those who are living, the very eminent editor of the Nouvelliste de Rouen, Charles Lapierre…and many others, many others.”

  We were traversing along street with a gentle incline, with a June sun beating down on it and driving the residents into their houses.

  Suddenly there appeared at the farther end of the street a drunken man who was staggering along, with his head forward his arms and legs limp. He would walk forward rapidly three, six, or ten steps and then stop. When these energetic movements landed him in the middle of the road he stopped short and swayed on his feet, hesitating between falling and a fresh start. Then he would dart off in any direction, sometimes falling against the wall of a house, against which he seemed to be fastened, as though he were trying to get in through the wall. Then he would suddenly turn round and look ahead of him, his mouth open and his eyes blinking in the sunlight, and getting away from the wall by a movement of the hips, he started off once more.

  A little yellow dog, a half-starved cur, followed him, barking; stopping when he stopped, and starting off when he started.

  “Hallo,” said Marambot, “there is Madame Husson’s ‘Rosier’.

  “Madame Husson’s ‘Rosier’,” I exclaimed in astonishment. “What do you mean?”

  The doctor began to laugh.

  “Oh, that is what we call drunkards round here. The name comes from an old story which has now become a legend, although it is true in all respects.”

  “Is it an amusing story?”

  “Very amusing.”

  “Well, then, tell it to me.”

  “I will.”

  There lived formerly in this town a very upright old lady who was a great guardian of morals and was called Mme. Husson. You know, I am telling you the real names and not imaginary ones. Mme. Husson took a special interest in good works, in helping the poor and encouraging the deserving. She was a little woman with a quick walk and wore a black wig. She was ceremonious, polite, on very good terms with the Almighty in the person of Abby Malon, and had a profound horror, an inborn horror of vice, and, in particular, of the vice the Church calls lasciviousness. Any irregularity before marriage made her furious, exasperated her till she was beside herself.

  Now, this was the period when they presented a prize as a reward of virtue to any girl in the environs of Paris who was found to be chaste. She was called a Rosiere, and Mme. Husson got the idea that she would institute a similar ceremony at Gisors. She spoke about it to Abbe Malon, who at once made out a list of candidates.

  However, Mme. Husson had a servant, an old woman called Francoise, as upright as her mistress. As soon as the priest had left, madame called the servant and said:

  “Here, Francoise, here are the girls whose names M. le cure has submitted to me for the prize of virtue; try and find out what reputation they bear in the district.”

  And Francoise set out. She collected all the scandal, all the stories, all the tattle, all the suspicions. That she might omit nothing, she wrote it all down together with her memoranda in her housekeeping book, and handed it each morning to Mme. Husson, who, after adjusting her spectacles on her thin nose, read as follows:

  Bread: four sous

  Milk: two sous

  Butter: eight sous

  Mal
vina Levesque got into trouble last year with Mathurin Poilu.

  Leg of mutton: twenty-five sous

  Salt: one sou

  Rosalie Vatinel was seen in the Riboudet woods with Cesaire Pienoir, by Mme. Onesime, the ironer, on July the 20th about dusk.

  Radishes: one sou

  Vinegar: two sous

  Oxalic acid: two sous

  Josephine Durdent, who is not believed to have committed a fault, although she corresponds with young Oportun, who is in service in Rouen, and who sent her a present of a cap by diligence.

  Not one came out unscathed in this rigorous inquisition. Francoise inquired of everyone, neighbors, drapers, the principal, the teaching sisters at school, and gathered the slightest details.

  As there is not a girl in the world about whom gossips have not found something to say, there was not found in all the countryside one young girl whose name was free from some scandal.

  But Mme. Husson desired that the “Rosiere” of Gisors, like Caesar’s wife, should be above suspicion, and she was horrified, saddened and in despair at the record in her servant’s housekeeping account-book.

  They then extended their circle of inquiries to the neighboring villages; but with no satisfaction.

  They consulted the mayor. His candidates failed. Those of Dr. Barbesol were equally unlucky, in spite of the exactness of his scientific vouchers.

  But one morning Francoise, on returning from one of her expeditions, said to her mistress:

  “You see, madame, that if you wish to give a prize to anyone, there is only Isidore in all the country round.”

  Mme. Husson remained thoughtful. She knew him well, this Isidore, the son of Virginie the greengrocer. His proverbial virtue had been the delight of Gisors for several years, and served as an entertaining theme of conversation in the town, and of amusement to the young girls who loved to tease him. He was past twenty-one, was tall, awkward, slow and timid; helped his mother in the business, and spent his days picking over fruit and vegetables, seated on a chair outside the door.

  He had an abnormal dread of a petticoat and cast down his eyes whenever a female customer looked at him smilingly, and this well-known timidity made him the butt of all the wags in the country.