The Guy De Maupassant Megapack: 144 Novels and Short Stories

by Guy de Maupassant

  He raised himself anxiously, with his heart beating, and running to the window, he opened the shutters. The full moon flooded the yard with yellow light, and the reflection of the apple trees made black shadows at their feet, while in the distance the fields gleamed, covered with the ripe corn. But as he was leaning out, listening to every sound in the still night, two bare arms were put round his neck, and his wife whispered, trying to pull him back: “Do leave them alone; it has nothing to do with you. Come to bed.”

  He turned round, put his arms round her, and drew her toward him, but just as he was laying her on the bed, which yielded beneath her weight, they heard another report, considerably nearer this time, and Jean, giving way to his tumultuous rage, swore aloud: “Damn it! They will think I do not go out and see what it is because of you! Wait, wait a few minutes!” He put on his shoes again, took down his gun, which was always hanging within reach against the wall, and, as his wife threw herself on her knees in her terror, imploring him not to go, he hastily freed himself, ran to the window and jumped into the yard.

  She waited one hour, two hours, until daybreak, but her husband did not return. Then she lost her head, aroused the house, related how angry Jean was, and said that he had gone after the poachers, and immediately all the male farm-servants, even the boys, went in search of their master. They found him two leagues from the farm, tied hand and foot, half dead with rage, his gun broken, his trousers turned inside out, and with three dead hares hanging round his neck, and a placard on his chest with these words: “Who goes on the chase loses his place.”

  In later years, when he used to tell this story of his wedding night, he usually added: “Ah! as far as a joke went it was a good joke. They caught me in a snare, as if I had been a rabbit, the dirty brutes, and they shoved my head into a bag. But if I can only catch them some day they had better look out for themselves!”

  That is how they amuse themselves in Normandy on a wedding day.

  FATHER MATTHEW

  We had just left Rouen and were galloping along the road to Jumieges. The light carriage flew along across the level country. Presently the horse slackened his pace to walk up the hill of Cantelen.

  One sees there one of the most magnificent views in the world. Behind us lay Rouen, the city of churches, with its Gothic belfries, sculptured like ivory trinkets; before us Saint Sever, the manufacturing suburb, whose thousands of smoking chimneys rise amid the expanse of sky, opposite the thousand sacred steeples of the old city.

  On the one hand the spire of the cathedral, the highest of human monuments, on the other the engine of the power-house, its rival, and almost as high, and a metre higher than the tallest pyramid in Egypt.

  Before us wound the Seine, with its scattered islands and bordered by white banks, covered with a forest on the right and on the left immense meadows, bounded by another forest yonder in the distance.

  Here and there large ships lay at anchor along the banks of the wide river. Three enormous steam boats were starting out, one behind the other, for Havre, and a chain of boats, a bark, two schooners and a brig, were going upstream to Rouen, drawn by a little tug that emitted a cloud of black smoke.

  My companion, a native of the country, did not glance at this wonderful landscape, but he smiled continually; he seemed to be amused at his thoughts. Suddenly he cried:

  “Ah, you will soon see something comical—Father Matthew’s chapel. That is a sweet morsel, my boy.”

  I looked at him in surprise. He continued:

  “I will give you a whiff of Normandy that will stay by you. Father Matthew is the handsomest Norman in the province and his chapel is one of the wonders of the world, nothing more nor less. But I will first give you a few words of explanation.

  “Father Matthew, who is also called Father ‘La Boisson,’ is an old sergeant-major who has come back to his native land. He combines in admirable proportions, making a perfect whole, the humbug of the old soldier and the sly roguery of the Norman. On his return to Normandy, thanks to influence and incredible cleverness, he was made doorkeeper of a votive chapel, a chapel dedicated to the Virgin and frequented chiefly by young women who have gone astray.… He composed and had painted a special prayer to his ‘Good Virgin.’ This prayer is a masterpiece of unintentional irony, of Norman wit, in which jest is blended with fear of the saint and with the superstitious fear of the secret influence of something. He has not much faith in his protectress, but he believes in her a little through prudence, and he is considerate of her through policy.

  “This is how this wonderful prayer begins:

  “‘Our good Madame Virgin Mary, natural protectress of girl mothers in this land and all over the world, protect your servant who erred in a moment of forgetfulness…’

  “It ends thus:

  “‘Do not forget me, especially when you are with your holy spouse, and intercede with God the Father that he may grant me a good husband, like your own.’

  “This prayer, which was suppressed by the clergy of the district, is sold by him privately, and is said to be very efficacious for those who recite it with unction.

  “In fact he talks of the good Virgin as the valet de chambre of a redoubted prince might talk of his master who confided in him all his little private secrets. He knows a number of amusing anecdotes at his expense which he tells confidentially among friends as they sit over their glasses.

  “But you will see for yourself.

  “As the fees coming from the Virgin did not appear sufficient to him, he added to the main figure a little business in saints. He has them all, or nearly all. There was not room enough in the chapel, so he stored them in the wood-shed and brings them forth as soon as the faithful ask for them. He carved these little wooden statues himself—they are comical in the extreme—and painted them all bright green one year when they were painting his house. You know that saints cure diseases, but each saint has his specialty, and you must not confound them or make any blunders. They are as jealous of each other as mountebanks.

  “In order that they may make no mistake, the old women come and consult Matthew.

  “‘For diseases of the ear which saint is the best?’

  “‘Why, Saint Osyme is good and Saint Pamphilius is not bad.’ But that is not all.

  “As Matthew has some time to spare, he drinks; but he drinks like a professional, with conviction, so much so that he is intoxicated regularly every evening. He is drunk, but he is aware of it. He is so well aware of it that he notices each day his exact degree of intoxication. That is his chief occupation; the chapel is a secondary matter.

  “And he has invented—listen and catch on—he has invented the ‘Saoulometre.’

  “There is no such instrument, but Matthew’s observations are as precise as those of a mathematician. You may hear him repeating incessantly: ‘Since Monday I have had more than forty-five,’ or else ‘I was between fifty-two and fifty-eight,’ or else ‘I had at least sixty-six to seventy,’ or ‘Hullo, cheat, I thought I was in the fifties and here I find I had had seventy-five!’

  “He never makes a mistake.

  “He declares that he never reached his limit, but as he acknowledges that his observations cease to be exact when he has passed ninety, one cannot depend absolutely on the truth of that statement.

  “When Matthew acknowledges that he has passed ninety, you may rest assured that he is blind drunk.

  “On these occasions his wife, Melie, another marvel, flies into a fury. She waits for him at the door of the house, and as he enters she roars at him:

  “‘So there you are, slut, hog, giggling sot!’

  “Then Matthew, who is not laughing any longer, plants himself opposite her and says in a severe tone:

  “‘Be still, Melie; this is no time to talk; wait till tomorrow.’

  “If she keeps on shouting at him, he goes up to her and says in a shaky voice:

  “‘Don’t bawl any more. I have had about ninety; I am not counting any more. Look out, I am going to hit you!�
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  “Then Melie beats a retreat.

  “If, on the following day, she reverts to the subject, he laughs in her face and says:

  “‘Come, come! We have said enough. It is past. As long as I have not reached my limit there is no harm done. But if I go, past that I will allow you to correct me, my word on it!’”

  We had reached the top of the hill. The road entered the delightful forest of Roumare.

  Autumn, marvellous autumn, blended its gold and purple with the remaining traces of verdure. We passed through Duclair. Then, instead of going on to Jumieges, my friend turned to the left and, taking a crosscut, drove in among the trees.

  And presently from the top of a high hill we saw again the magnificent valley of the Seine and the winding river beneath us.

  At our right a very small slate-covered building, with a bell tower as large as a sunshade, adjoined a pretty house with green Venetian blinds, and all covered with honeysuckle and roses.

  “Here are some friends!” cried a big voice, and Matthew appeared on the threshold. He was a man about sixty, thin and with a goatee and long, white mustache.

  My friend shook him by the hand and introduced me, and Matthew took us into a clean kitchen, which served also as a dining-room. He said:

  “I have no elegant apartment, monsieur. I do not like to get too far away from the food. The saucepans, you see, keep me company.” Then, turning to my friend:

  “Why did you come on Thursday? You know quite well that this is the day I consult my Guardian Saint. I cannot go out this afternoon.”

  And running to the door, he uttered a terrific roar: “Melie!” which must have startled the sailors in the ships along the stream in the valley below.

  Melie did not reply.

  Then Matthew winked his eye knowingly.

  “She is not pleased with me, you see, because yesterday I was in the nineties.”

  My friend began to laugh. “In the nineties, Matthew! How did you manage it?”

  “I will tell you,” said Matthew. “Last year I found only twenty rasieres (an old dry measure) of apricots. There are no more, but those are the only things to make cider of. So I made some, and yesterday I tapped the barrel. Talk of nectar! That was nectar. You shall tell me what you think of it. Polyte was here, and we sat down and drank a glass and another without being satisfied (one could go on drinking it until tomorrow), and at last, with glass after glass, I felt a chill at my stomach. I said to Polyte: ‘Supposing we drink a glass of cognac to warm ourselves?’ He agreed. But this cognac, it sets you on fire, so that we had to go back to the cider. But by going from chills to heat and heat to chills, I saw that I was in the nineties. Polyte was not far from his limit.”

  The door opened and Melie appeared. At once, before bidding us good-day, she cried:

  “Great hog, you have both of you reached your limit!”

  “Don’t say that, Melie; don’t say that,” said Matthew, getting angry. “I have never reached my limit.”

  They gave us a delicious luncheon outside beneath two lime trees, beside the little chapel and overlooking the vast landscape. And Matthew told us, with a mixture of humor and unexpected credulity, incredible stories of miracles.

  We had drunk a good deal of delicious cider, sparkling and sweet, fresh and intoxicating, which he preferred to all other drinks, and were smoking our pipes astride our chairs when two women appeared.

  They were old, dried up and bent. After greeting us they asked for Saint Blanc. Matthew winked at us as he replied:

  “I will get him for you.” And he disappeared in his wood shed. He remained there fully five minutes. Then he came back with an expression of consternation. He raised his hands.

  “I don’t know where he is. I cannot find him. I am quite sure that I had him.” Then making a speaking trumpet of his hands, he roared once more:

  “Meli-e-a!”

  “What’s the matter?” replied his wife from the end of the garden.

  “Where’s Saint Blanc? I cannot find him in the wood shed.”

  Then Melie explained it this way:

  “Was not that the one you took last week to stop up a hole in the rabbit hutch?”

  Matthew gave a start.

  “By thunder, that may be!” Then turning to the women, he said:

  “Follow me.”

  They followed him. We did the same, almost choking with suppressed laughter.

  Saint Blanc was indeed stuck into the earth like an ordinary stake, covered with mud and dirt, and forming a corner for the rabbit hutch.

  As soon as they perceived him, the two women fell on their knees, crossed themselves and began to murmur an “Oremus.” But Matthew darted toward them.

  “Wait,” he said, “you are in the mud; I will get you a bundle of straw.”

  He went to fetch the straw and made them a priedieu. Then, looking at his muddy saint and doubtless afraid of bringing discredit on his business, he added:

  “I will clean him off a little for you.”

  He took a pail of water and a brush and began to scrub the wooden image vigorously, while the two old women kept on praying.

  When he had finished he said:

  “Now he is all right.” And he took us back to the house to drink another glass.

  As he was carrying the glass to his lips he stopped and said in a rather confused manner:

  “All the same, when I put Saint Blanc out with the rabbits I thought he would not make any more money. For two years no one had asked for him. But the saints, you see, they are never out of date.”

  THE UMBRELLA

  Mme. Oreille was a very economical woman; she knew the value of a centime, and possessed a whole storehouse of strict principles with regard to the multiplication of money, so that her cook found the greatest difficulty in making what the servants call their market-penny, and her husband was hardly allowed any pocket money at all. They were, however, very comfortably off, and had no children; but it really pained Mme. Oreille to see any money spent; it was like tearing at her heartstrings when she had to take any of those nice crown-pieces out of her pocket; and whenever she had to spend anything, no matter how necessary it might be, she slept badly the next night.

  Oreille was continually saying to his wife:

  “You really might be more liberal, as we have no children, and never spend our income.”

  “You don’t know what may happen,” she used to reply. “It is better to have too much than too little.”

  She was a little woman of about forty, very active, rather hasty, wrinkled, very neat and tidy, and with a very short temper.

  Her husband frequently complained of all the privations she made him endure; some of them were particularly painful to him, as they touched his vanity.

  He was one of the head clerks in the War Office, and only stayed on there in obedience to his wife’s wish, to increase their income which they did not nearly spend.

  For two years he had always come to the office with the same old patched umbrella, to the great amusement of his fellow clerks. At last he got tired of their jokes, and insisted upon his wife buying him a new one. She bought one for eight francs and a half, one of those cheap articles which large houses sell as an advertisement. When the men in the office saw the article, which was being sold in Paris by the thousand, they began their jokes again, and Oreille had a dreadful time of it. They even made a song about it, which he heard from morning till night all over the immense building.

  Oreille was very angry, and peremptorily told his wife to get him a new one, a good silk one, for twenty francs, and to bring him the bill, so that he might see that it was all right.

  She bought him one for eighteen francs, and said, getting red with anger as she gave it to her husband:

  “This will last you for five years at least.”

  Oreille felt quite triumphant, and received a small ovation at the office with his new acquisition.

  When he went home in the evening his wife said to him, looking a
t the umbrella uneasily:

  “You should not leave it fastened up with the elastic; it will very likely cut the silk. You must take care of it, for I shall not buy you a new one in a hurry.”

  She took it, unfastened it, and remained dumfounded with astonishment and rage; in the middle of the silk there was a hole as big as a six-penny-piece; it had been made with the end of a cigar.

  “What is that?” she screamed.

  Her husband replied quietly, without looking at it:

  “What is it? What do you mean?”

  She was choking with rage, and could hardly get out a word.

  “You—you—have—burned—your umbrella! Why—you must be—mad! Do you wish to ruin us outright?”

  He turned round, and felt that he was growing pale.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I say that you have burned your umbrella. Just look here.”

  And rushing at him, as if she were going to beat him, she violently thrust the little circular burned hole under his nose.

  He was so utterly struck dumb at the sight of it that he could only stammer out:

  “What-what is it? How should I know? I have done nothing, I will swear. I don’t know what is the matter with the umbrella.”

  “You have been playing tricks with it at the office; you have been playing the fool and opening it, to show it off!” she screamed.

  “I only opened it once, to let them see what a nice one it was, that is all, I swear.”

  But she shook with rage, and got up one of those conjugal scenes which make a peaceable man dread the domestic hearth more than a battlefield where bullets are raining.

  She mended it with a piece of silk cut out of the old umbrella, which was of a different color, and the next day Oreille went off very humbly with the mended article in his hand. He put it into a cupboard, and thought no more of it than of some unpleasant recollection.

  But he had scarcely got home that evening when his wife took the umbrella from him, opened it, and nearly had a fit when she saw what had befallen it, for the disaster was irreparable. It was covered with small holes, which evidently proceeded from burns, just as if some one had emptied the ashes from a lighted pipe on to it. It was done for utterly, irreparably.