The Guy De Maupassant Megapack: 144 Novels and Short Stories

by Guy de Maupassant

  She looked at it without a word, in too great a passion to be able to say anything. He, also, when he saw the damage, remained almost dumfounded, in a state of frightened consternation.

  They looked at each other, then he looked at the floor; and the next moment she threw the useless article at his head, screaming out in a transport of the most violent rage, for she had recovered her voice by that time:

  “Oh! you brute! you brute! You did it on purpose, but I will pay you out for it. You shall not have another.”

  And then the scene began again, and after the storm had raged for an hour, he at last was able to explain himself. He declared that he could not understand it at all, and that it could only proceed from malice or from vengeance.

  A ring at the bell saved him; it was a friend whom they were expecting to dinner.

  Mme. Oreille submitted the case to him. As for buying a new umbrella, that was out of the question; her husband should not have another. The friend very sensibly said that in that case his clothes would be spoiled, and they were certainly worth more than the umbrella. But the little woman, who was still in a rage, replied:

  “Very well, then, when it rains he may have the kitchen umbrella, for I will not give him a new silk one.”

  Oreille utterly rebelled at such an idea.

  “All right,” he said; “then I shall resign my post. I am not going to the office with the kitchen umbrella.”

  The friend interposed.

  “Have this one re-covered; it will not cost much.”

  But Mme. Oreille, being in the temper that she was, said:

  “It will cost at least eight francs to re-cover it. Eight and eighteen are twenty-six. Just fancy, twenty-six francs for an umbrella! It is utter madness!”

  The friend, who was only a poor man of the middle classes, had an inspiration:

  “Make your fire assurance pay for it. The companies pay for all articles that are burned, as long as the damage has been done in your own house.”

  On hearing this advice the little woman calmed down immediately, and then, after a moment’s reflection, she said to her husband:

  “Tomorrow, before going to your office, you will go to the Maternelle Assurance Company, show them the state your umbrella is in, and make them pay for the damage.”

  M. Oreille fairly jumped, he was so startled at the proposal.

  “I would not do it for my life! It is eighteen francs lost, that is all. It will not ruin us.”

  The next morning he took a walking-stick when he went out, and, luckily, it was a fine day.

  Left at home alone, Mme. Oreille could not get over the loss of her eighteen francs by any means. She had put the umbrella on the dining-room table, and she looked at it without being able to come to any determination.

  Every moment she thought of the assurance company, but she did not dare to encounter the quizzical looks of the gentlemen who might receive her, for she was very timid before people, and blushed at a mere nothing, and was embarrassed when she had to speak to strangers.

  But the regret at the loss of the eighteen francs pained her as if she had been wounded. She tried not to think of it any more, and yet every moment the recollection of the loss struck her painfully. What was she to do, however? Time went on, and she could not decide; but suddenly, like all cowards, on making a resolve, she became determined.

  “I will go, and we will see what will happen.”

  But first of all she was obliged to prepare the umbrella so that the disaster might be complete, and the reason of it quite evident. She took a match from the mantelpiece, and between the ribs she burned a hole as big as the palm of her hand; then she delicately rolled it up, fastened it with the elastic band, put on her bonnet and shawl, and went quickly toward the Rue de Rivoli, where the assurance office was.

  But the nearer she got, the slower she walked. What was she going to say, and what reply would she get?

  She looked at the numbers of the houses; there were still twenty-eight. That was all right, so she had time to consider, and she walked slower and slower. Suddenly she saw a door on which was a large brass plate with “La Maternelle Fire Assurance Office” engraved on it. Already! She waited a moment, for she felt nervous and almost ashamed; then she walked past, came back, walked past again, and came back again.

  At last she said to herself:

  “I must go in, however, so I may as well do it sooner as later.”

  She could not help noticing, however, how her heart beat as she entered. She went into an enormous room with grated doors all round it, and above them little openings at which a man’s head appeared, and as a gentleman carrying a number of papers passed her, she stopped him and said timidly: “I beg your pardon, monsieur, but can you tell me where I must apply for payment for anything that has been accidentally burned?”

  He replied in a sonorous voice:

  “The first door on the left; that is the department you want.”

  This frightened her still more, and she felt inclined to run away, to put in no claim, to sacrifice her eighteen francs. But the idea of that sum revived her courage, and she went upstairs, out of breath, stopping at almost every other step.

  She knocked at a door which she saw on the first landing, and a clear voice said, in answer:

  “Come in!”

  She obeyed mechanically, and found herself in a large room where three solemn gentlemen, all with a decoration in their buttonholes, were standing talking.

  One of them asked her: “What do you want, madame?”

  She could hardly get out her words, but stammered: “I have come—I have come on account of an accident, something—”.

  He very politely pointed out a seat to her,

  “If you will kindly sit down I will attend to you in a moment.”

  And, returning to the other two, he went on with the conversation.

  “The company, gentlemen, does not consider that it is under any obligation to you for more than four hundred thousand francs, and we can pay no attention to your claim to the further sum of a hundred thousand, which you wish to make us pay. Besides that, the surveyor’s valuation—”

  One of the others interrupted him:

  “That is quite enough, monsieur; the law courts will decide between us, and we have nothing further to do than to take our leave.” And they went out after mutual ceremonious bows.

  Oh! if she could only have gone away with them, how gladly she would have done it; she would have run away and given up everything. But it was too late, for the gentleman came back, and said, bowing:

  “What can I do for you, madame?”

  She could scarcely speak, but at last she managed to say:

  “I have come-for this.”

  The manager looked at the object which she held out to him in mute astonishment.

  With trembling fingers she tried to undo the elastic, and succeeding, after several attempts, she hastily opened the damaged remains of the umbrella.

  “It looks to me to be in a very bad state of health,” he said compassionately.

  “It cost me twenty francs,” she said, with some hesitation.

  He seemed astonished. “Really! As much as that?”

  “Yes, it was a capital article, and I wanted you to see the condition it is in.”

  “Yes, yes, I see; very well. But I really do not understand what it can have to do with me.”

  She began to feel uncomfortable; perhaps this company did not pay for such small articles, and she said:

  “But—it is burned.”

  He could not deny it.

  “I see that very well,” he replied.

  She remained open-mouthed, not knowing what to say next; then, suddenly recollecting that she had left out the main thing, she said hastily:

  “I am Mme. Oreille; we are assured in La Maternelle, and I have come to claim the value of this damage.”

  “I only want you to have it re-covered,” she added quickly, fearing a positive refusal.

  The m
anager was rather embarrassed, and said: “But, really, madame, we do not sell umbrellas; we cannot undertake such kinds of repairs.”

  The little woman felt her courage reviving; she was not going to give up without a struggle; she was not even afraid any more, and said:

  “I only want you to pay me the cost of repairing it; I can quite well get it done myself.”

  The gentleman seemed rather confused.

  “Really, madame, it is such a very small matter! We are never asked to give compensation for such trivial losses. You must allow that we cannot make good pocket-handkerchiefs, gloves, brooms, slippers, all the small articles which are every day exposed to the chances of being burned.”

  She got red in the face, and felt inclined to fly into a rage.

  “But, monsieur, last December one of our chimneys caught fire, and caused at least five hundred francs’ damage; M. Oreille made no claim on the company, and so it is only just that it should pay for my umbrella now.”

  The manager, guessing that she was telling a lie, said, with a smile:

  “You must acknowledge, madame, that it is very surprising that M. Oreille should have asked no compensation for damages amounting to five hundred francs, and should now claim five or six francs for mending an umbrella.”

  She was not the least put out, and replied:

  “I beg your pardon, monsieur, the five hundred francs affected M. Oreille’s pocket, whereas this damage, amounting to eighteen francs, concerns Mme. Oreille’s pocket only, which is a totally different matter.”

  As he saw that he had no chance of getting rid of her, and that he would only be wasting his time, he said resignedly:

  “Will you kindly tell me how the damage was done?”

  She felt that she had won the victory, and said:

  “This is how it happened, monsieur: In our hall there is a bronze stick and umbrella stand, and the other day, when I came in, I put my umbrella into it. I must tell you that just above there is a shelf for the candlesticks and matches. I put out my hand, took three or four matches, and struck one, but it missed fire, so I struck another, which ignited, but went out immediately, and a third did the same.”

  The manager interrupted her to make a joke.

  “I suppose they were government matches, then?”

  She did not understand him, and went on:

  “Very likely. At any rate, the fourth caught fire, and I lit my candle, and went into my room to go to bed; but in a quarter of an hour I fancied that I smelt something burning, and I have always been terribly afraid of fire. If ever we have an accident it will not be my fault, I assure you. I am terribly nervous since our chimney was on fire, as I told you; so I got up, and hunted about everywhere, sniffing like a dog after game, and at last I noticed that my umbrella was burning. Most likely a match had fallen between the folds and burned it. You can see how it has damaged it.”

  The manager had taken his cue, and asked her: “What do you estimate the damage at?”

  She did not know what to say, as she was not certain what value to put on it, but at last she replied:

  “Perhaps you had better get it done yourself. I will leave it to you.”

  He, however, naturally refused.

  “No, madame, I cannot do that. Tell me the amount of your claim, that is all I want to know.”

  “Well, I think that—Look here, monsieur, I do not want to make any money out of you, so I will tell you what we will do. I will take my umbrella to the maker, who will re-cover it in good, durable silk, and I will bring the bill to you. Will that suit you, monsieur?”

  “Perfectly, madame; we will settle it so. Here is a note for the cashier, who will repay you whatever it costs you.”

  He gave Mme. Oreille a slip of paper, who took it, got up and went out, thanking him, for she was in a hurry to escape lest he should change his mind.

  She went briskly through the streets, looking out for a really good umbrella maker, and when she found a shop which appeared to be a first-class one, she went in, and said, confidently:

  “I want this umbrella re-covered in silk, good silk. Use the very best and strongest you have; I don’t mind what it costs.”

  BELHOMME’S BEAST

  The coach for Havre was ready to leave Criquetot, and all the passengers were waiting for their names to be called out, in the courtyard of the Commercial Hotel kept by Monsieur Malandain, Jr.

  It was a yellow wagon, mounted on wheels which had once been yellow, but were now almost gray through the accumulation of mud. The front wheels were very small, the back ones, high and fragile, carried the large body of the vehicle, which was swollen like the belly of an animal. Three white horses, with enormous heads and great round knees, were the first things one noticed. They were harnessed ready to draw this coach, which had something of the appearance of a monster in its massive structure. The horses seemed already asleep in front of the strange vehicle.

  The driver, Cesaire Horlaville, a little man with a big paunch, supple nevertheless, through his constant habit of climbing over the wheels to the top of the wagon, his face all aglow from exposure to the brisk air of the plains, to rain and storms, and also from the use of brandy, his eyes twitching from the effect of constant contact with wind and hail, appeared in the doorway of the hotel, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Large round baskets, full of frightened poultry, were standing in front of the peasant women. Cesaire Horlaville took them one after the other and packed them on the top of his coach; then more gently, he loaded on those containing eggs; finally he tossed up from below several little bags of grain, small packages wrapped in handkerchiefs, pieces of cloth, or paper. Then he opened the back door, and drawing a list from his pocket he called:

  “Monsieur le cure de Gorgeville.”

  The priest advanced. He was a large, powerful, robust man with a red face and a genial expression. He hitched up his cassock to lift his foot, just as the women hold up their skirts, and climbed into the coach.

  “The schoolmaster of Rollebose-les-Grinets.”

  The man hastened forward, tall, timid, wearing a long frock coat which fell to his knees, and he in turn disappeared through the open door.

  “Maitre Poiret, two seats.”

  Poiret approached, a tall, round-shouldered man, bent by the plow, emaciated through abstinence, bony, with a skin dried by a sparing use of water. His wife followed him, small and thin, like a tired animal, carrying a large green umbrella in her hands.

  “Maitre Rabot, two seats.”

  Rabot hesitated, being of an undecided nature. He asked:

  “You mean me?”

  The driver was going to answer with a jest, when Rabot dived head first towards the door, pushed forward by a vigorous shove from his wife, a tall, square woman with a large, round stomach like a barrel, and hands as large as hams.

  Rabot slipped into the wagon like a rat entering a hole.

  “Maitre Caniveau.”

  A large peasant, heavier than an ox, made the springs bend, and was in turn engulfed in the interior of the yellow chest.

  “Maitre Belhomme.”

  Belhomme, tall and thin, came forward, his neck bent, his head hanging, a handkerchief held to his ear as if he were suffering from a terrible toothache.

  All these people wore the blue blouse over quaint and antique coats of a black or greenish cloth, Sunday clothes which they would only uncover in the streets of Havre. Their heads were covered by silk caps at high as towers, the emblem of supreme elegance in the small villages of Normandy.

  Cesaire Horlaville closed the door, climbed up on his box and snapped his whip.

  The three horses awoke and, tossing their heads, shook their bells.

  The driver then yelling “Get up!” as loud as he could, whipped up his horses. They shook themselves, and, with an effort, started off at a slow, halting gait. And behind them came the coach, rattling its shaky windows and iron springs, making a terrible clatter of hardware and glass, while the passengers were tossed hither
and thither like so many rubber balls.

  At first all kept silent out of respect for the priest, that they might not shock him. Being of a loquacious and genial disposition, he started the conversation.

  “Well, Maitre Caniveau,” said he, “how are you getting along?”

  The enormous farmer who, on account of his size, girth and stomach, felt a bond of sympathy for the representative of the Church, answered with a smile:

  “Pretty well, Monsieur le cure, pretty well. And how are you?”

  “Oh! I’m always well and healthy.”

  “And you, Maitre Poiret?” asked the abbe.

  “Oh! I’d be all right only the colzas ain’t a-goin’ to give much this year, and times are so hard that they are the only things worth while raisin’.”

  “Well, what can you expect? Times are hard.”

  “Hub! I should say they were hard,” sounded the rather virile voice of Rabot’s big consort.

  As she was from a neighboring village, the priest only knew her by name.

  “Is that you, Blondel?” he said.

  “Yes, I’m the one that married Rabot.”

  Rabot, slender, timid, and self-satisfied, bowed smilingly, bending his head forward as though to say: “Yes, I’m the Rabot whom Blondel married.”

  Suddenly Maitre Belhomme, still holding his handkerchief to his ear, began groaning in a pitiful fashion. He was going “Oh-oh-oh!” and stamping his foot in order to show his terrible suffering.

  “You must have an awful toothache,” said the priest.

  The peasant stopped moaning for a minute and answered:

  “No, Monsieur le cure, it is not the teeth. It’s my ear-away down at the bottom of my ear.”

  “Well, what have you got in your ear? A lump of wax?”

  “I don’t know whether it’s wax; but I know that it is a bug, a big bug, that crawled in while I was asleep in the haystack.”

  “A bug! Are you sure?”

  “Am I sure? As sure as I am of heaven, Monsieur le cure! I can feel it gnawing at the bottom of my ear! It’s eating my head for sure! It’s eating my head! Oh-oh-oh!” And he began to stamp his foot again.