The Guy De Maupassant Megapack: 144 Novels and Short Stories

by Guy de Maupassant

  He answered quickly: “No melodramatics, I beg of you, or I shall bolt at once.”

  She had seized him round the neck, and with her lips close to his, said: “But what have I done to you? You are behaving towards me like a wretch. What have I done to you?”

  He tried to repulse her. “You wound your hair round every one of my buttons the last time I saw you, and it almost brought about a rupture between my wife and myself.”

  She was surprised for a moment, and then, shaking her head, said: “Oh! your wife would not mind. It was one of your mistresses who had made a scene over it.”

  “I have no mistresses.”

  “Nonsense. But why do you no longer ever come to see me? Why do you refuse to come to dinner, even once a week, with me? What I suffer is fearful. I love you to that degree that I no longer have a thought that is not for you; that I see you continually before my eyes; that I can no longer say a word without being afraid of uttering your name. You cannot understand that, I know. It seems to me that I am seized in some one’s clutches, tied up in a sack, I don’t know what. Your remembrance, always with me, clutches my throat, tears my chest, breaks my legs so as to no longer leave me strength to walk. And I remain like an animal sitting all day on a chair thinking of you.”

  He looked at her with astonishment. She was no longer the big frolicsome tomboy he had known, but a bewildered despairing woman, capable of anything. A vague project, however, arose in his mind. He replied: “My dear, love is not eternal. We take and we leave one another. But when it drags on, as between us two, it becomes a terrible drag. I will have no more of it. That is the truth. However, if you can be reasonable, and receive and treat me as a friend, I will come as I used to. Do you feel capable of that?”

  She placed her two bare arms on George’s coat, and murmured: “I am capable of anything in order to see you.”

  “Then it is agreed on,” said he; “we are friends, and nothing more.”

  She stammered: “It is agreed on;” and then, holding out her lips to him: “One more kiss; the last.”

  He refused gently, saying: “No, we must keep to our agreement.”

  She turned aside, wiping away a couple of tears, and then, drawing from her bosom a bundle of papers tied with pink silk ribbon, offered it to Du Roy, saying: “Here; it is your share of the profit in the Morocco affair. I was so pleased to have gained it for you. Here, take it.”

  He wanted to refuse, observing: “No, I will not take that money.”

  Then she grew indignant. “Ah! so you won’t take it now. It is yours, yours, only. If you do not take it, I will throw it into the gutter. You won’t act like that, George?”

  He received the little bundle, and slipped it into his pocket.

  “We must go in,” said he, “you will catch cold.”

  She murmured: “So much the better, if I could die.”

  She took one of his hands, kissed it passionately, with rage and despair, and fled towards the mansion. He returned, quietly reflecting. Then he re-entered the conservatory with haughty forehead and smiling lip. His wife and Laroche-Mathieu were no longer there. The crowd was thinning. It was becoming evident that they would not stay for the dance. He perceived Susan arm-in-arm with her sister. They both came towards him to ask him to dance the first quadrille with the Count de Latour Yvelin.

  He was astonished, and asked: “Who is he, too?”

  Susan answered maliciously: “A new friend of my sister’s.” Rose blushed, and murmured: “You are very spiteful, Susan; he is no more my friend than yours.”

  Susan smiled, saying: “Oh! I know all about it.”

  Rose annoyed, turned her back on them and went away. Du Roy familiarly took the elbow of the young girl left standing beside him, and said in his caressing voice: “Listen, my dear, you believe me to be your friend?”

  “Yes, Pretty-boy.”

  “You have confidence in me?” “Quite.”

  “You remember what I said to you just now?”

  “What about?”

  “About your marriage, or rather about the man you are going to marry.” “Yes.”

  “Well, then, you will promise me one thing?”

  “Yes; but what is it?”

  “To consult me every time that your hand is asked for, and not to accept anyone without taking my advice.”

  “Very well.”

  “And to keep this a secret between us two. Not a word of it to your father or your mother.”

  “Not a word.”

  “It is a promise, then?” “It is a promise.”

  Rival came up with a bustling air. “Mademoiselle, your papa wants you for the dance.”

  She said: “Come along, Pretty-boy.”

  But he refused, having made up his mind to leave at once, wishing to be alone in order to think. Too many new ideas had entered his mind, and he began to look for his wife. In a short time he saw her drinking chocolate at the buffet with two gentlemen unknown to him. She introduced her husband without mentioning their names to him. After a few moments, he said, “Shall we go?”

  “When you like.”

  She took his arm, and they walked back through the reception-rooms, in which the public were growing few. She said: “Where is Madame Walter, I should like to wish her good-bye?”

  “It is better not to. She would try to keep us for the ball, and I have had enough of this.”

  “That is so, you are quite right.”

  All the way home they were silent. But as soon as they were in their room Madeleine said smilingly, before even taking off her veil. “I have a surprise for you.”

  He growled ill-temperedly: “What is it?”

  “Guess.” “I will make no such effort.”

  “Well, the day after tomorrow is the first of January.”

  “Yes.”

  “The time for New Year’s gifts.”

  “Yes.”

  “Here’s one for you that Laroche-Mathieu gave me just now.”

  She gave him a little black box resembling a jewel-case. He opened it indifferently, and saw the cross of the Legion of Honor. He grew somewhat pale, then smiled, and said: “I should have preferred ten millions. That did not cost him much.”

  She had expected an outburst of joy, and was irritated at this coolness. “You are really incredible. Nothing satisfies you now,” said she.

  He replied, tranquilly: “That man is only paying his debt, and he still owes me a great deal.”

  She was astonished at his tone, and resumed: “It is though, a big thing at your age.”

  He remarked: “All things are relative. I could have something bigger now.”

  He had taken the case, and placing it on the mantel-shelf, looked for some moments at the glittering star it contained. Then he closed it and went to bed, shrugging his shoulders.

  The Journal Officiel of the first of January announced the nomination of Monsieur Prosper George Du Roy, journalist, to the dignity of chevalier of the Legion of Honor, for special services. The name was written in two words, which gave George more pleasure than the derivation itself.

  An hour after having read this piece of news he received a note from Madame Walter begging him to come and dine with her that evening with his wife, to celebrate his new honors. He hesitated for a few moments, and then throwing this note, written in ambiguous terms, into the fire, said to Madeleine:

  “We are going to dinner at the Walter’s this evening.”

  She was astonished. “Why, I thought you never wanted to set foot in the house again.”

  He only remarked: “I have changed my mind.”

  When they arrived Madame Walter was alone in the little Louis XVI. boudoir she had adopted for the reception of personal friends. Dressed in black, she had powdered her hair, which rendered her charming. She had the air at a distance of an old woman, and close at hand, of a young one, and when one looked at her well, of a pretty snare for the eyes.

  “You are in mourning?” inquired Madeleine.

 
She replied, sadly: “Yes, and no. I have not lost any relative. But I have reached the age when one wears the mourning of one’s life. I wear it today to inaugurate it. In future I shall wear it in my heart.”

  Du Roy thought: “Will this resolution hold good?”

  The dinner was somewhat dull. Susan alone chattered incessantly. Rose seemed preoccupied. The journalist was warmly congratulated. During the evening they strolled chatting through the saloons and the conservatory. As Du Roy was walking in the rear with Madame Walter, she checked him by the arm.

  “Listen,” said she, in a low voice, “I will never speak to you of anything again, never. But come and see me, George. It is impossible for me to live without you, impossible. It is indescribable torture. I feel you, I cherish you before my eyes, in my heart, all day and all night. It is as though you had caused me to drink a poison which was eating me away within. I cannot bear it, no, I cannot bear it. I am willing to be nothing but an old woman for you. I have made my hair white to show you so, but come here, only come here from time to time as a friend.”

  She had taken his hand and was squeezing it, crushing it, burying her nails in his flesh.

  He answered, quietly: “It is understood, then. It is useless to speak of all that again. You see I came today at once on receiving your letter.”

  Walter, who had walked on in advance with his two daughters and Madeleine, was waiting for Du Roy beside the picture of “Jesus Walking on the Waters.”

  “Fancy,” said he, laughing, “I found my wife yesterday on her knees before this picture, as if in a chapel. She was paying her devotions. How I did laugh.”

  Madame Walter replied in a firm voice—a voice thrilling with secret exultation: “It is that Christ who will save my soul. He gives me strength and courage every time I look at Him.” And pausing in front of the Divinity standing amidst the waters, she murmured: “How handsome he is. How afraid of Him those men are, and yet how they love Him. Look at His head, His eyes—how simple yet how supernatural at the same time.”

  Susan exclaimed, “But He resembles you, Pretty-boy. I am sure He resembles you. If you had a beard, or if He was clean shaven, you would be both alike. Oh, but it is striking!”

  She insisted on his standing beside the picture, and they all, indeed, recognized that the two faces resembled one another. Everyone was astonished. Walter thought it very singular. Madeleine, smiling, declared that Jesus had a more manly air. Madame Walter stood motionless, gazing fixedly at the face of her lover beside the face of Christ, and had become as white as her hair.

  XVI

  During the remainder of the winter the Du Roys often visited the Walters. George even dined there by himself continually, Madeleine saying she was tired, and preferring to remain at home. He had adopted Friday as a fixed day, and Madame Walter never invited anyone that evening; it belonged to Pretty-boy, to him alone. After dinner they played cards, and fed the goldfish, amusing themselves like a family circle. Several times behind a door or a clump of shrubs in the conservatory, Madame Walter had suddenly clasped George in her arms, and pressing him with all her strength to her breast, had whispered in his ear, “I love you, I love you till it is killing me.” But he had always coldly repulsed her, replying, in a dry tone: “If you begin that business once again, I shall not come here any more.”

  Towards the end of March the marriage of the two sisters was all at once spoken about. Rose, it was said, was to marry the Count de Latour-Yvelin, and Susan the Marquis de Cazolles. These two gentlemen had become familiars of the household, those familiars to whom special favors and marked privileges are granted. George and Susan continued to live in a species of free and fraternal intimacy, romping for hours, making fun of everyone, and seeming greatly to enjoy one another’s company. They had never spoken again of the possible marriage of the young girl, nor of the suitors who offered themselves.

  The governor had brought George home to lunch one morning. Madame Walter was called away immediately after the repast to see one of the tradesmen, and the young fellow said to Susan: “Let us go and feed the goldfish.”

  They each took a piece of crumb of bread from the table and went into the conservatory. All along the marble brim cushions were left lying on the ground, so that one could kneel down round the basin, so as to be nearer the fish. They each took one of these, side by side, and bending over the water, began to throw in pellets of bread rolled between the fingers. The fish, as soon as they caught sight of them, flocked round, wagging their tails, waving their fins, rolling their great projecting eyes, turning round, diving to catch the bait as it sank, and coming up at once to ask for more. They had a funny action of the mouth, sudden and rapid movements, a strangely monstrous appearance, and against the sand of the bottom stood out a bright red, passing like flames through the transparent water, or showing, as soon as they halted, the blue edging to their scales. George and Susan saw their own faces looking up in the water, and smiled at them. All at once he said in a low voice: “It is not kind to hide things from me, Susan.”

  “What do you mean, Pretty-boy?” asked she.

  “Don’t you remember, what you promised me here on the evening of the fête?”

  “No.”

  “To consult me every time your hand was asked for.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, it has been asked for.”

  “By whom?”

  “You know very well.”

  “No. I swear to you.”

  “Yes, you do. That great fop, the Marquis de Cazolles.”

  “He is not a fop, in the first place.”

  “It may be so, but he is stupid, ruined by play, and worn out by dissipation. It is really a nice match for you, so pretty, so fresh, and so intelligent.”

  She inquired, smiling: “What have you against him?”

  “I, nothing.”

  “Yes, you have. He is not all that you say.”

  “Nonsense. He is a fool and an intriguer.”

  She turned round somewhat, leaving off looking into the water, and said: “Come, what is the matter with you?”

  He said, as though a secret was being wrenched from the bottom of his heart: “I—I—am jealous of him.”

  She was slightly astonished, saying: “You?”

  “Yes, I.”

  “Why so?”

  “Because I am in love with you, and you know it very well, you naughty girl.”

  She said, in a severe tone: “You are mad, Pretty-boy.”

  He replied; “I know very well that I am mad. Ought I to have admitted that—I, a married man, to you, a young girl? I am more than mad, I am guilty. I have no possible hope, and the thought of that drives me out of my senses. And when I hear it said that you are going to be married, I have fits of rage enough to kill someone. You must forgive me this, Susan.”

  He was silent. The whole of the fish, to whom bread was no longer being thrown, were motionless, drawn up in line like English soldiers, and looking at the bent heads of those two who were no longer troubling themselves about them. The young girl murmured, half sadly, half gayly: “It is a pity that you are married. What would you? Nothing can be done. It is settled.”

  He turned suddenly towards her, and said right in her face: “If I were free, would you marry me?”

  She replied, in a tone of sincerity: “Yes, Pretty-boy, I would marry you, for you please me far better than any of the others.”

  He rose, and stammered: “Thanks, thanks; do not say ‘yes’ to anyone yet, I beg of you; wait a little longer, I entreat you. Will you promise me this much?”

  She murmured, somewhat uneasily, and without understanding what he wanted: “Yes, I promise you.”

  Du Roy threw the lump of bread he still held in his hand into the water, and fled as though he had lost his head, without wishing her good-bye. All the fish rushed eagerly at this lump of crumb, which floated, not having been kneaded in the fingers, and nibbled it with greedy mouths. They dragged it away to the other end of the basin, and for
ming a moving cluster, a kind of animated and twisting flower, a live flower fallen into the water head downwards.

  Susan, surprised and uneasy, got up and returned slowly to the dining-room. The journalist had left.

  He came home very calm, and as Madeleine was writing letters, said to her: “Are you going to dine at the Walters’ on Friday? I am going.”

  She hesitated, and replied: “No. I do not feel very well. I would rather stay at home.”

  He remarked: “Just as you like.”

  Then he took his hat and went out again at once. For some time past he had been keeping watch over her, following her about, knowing all her movements. The hour he had been awaiting was at length at hand. He had not been deceived by the tone in which she had said: “I would rather stay at home.”

  He was very amiable towards her during the next few days. He even appeared lively, which was not usual, and she said: “You are growing quite nice again.”

  He dressed early on the Friday, in order to make some calls before going to the governor’s, he said. He started just before six, after kissing his wife, and went and took a cab at the Place Notre Dame de Lorette. He said to the driver: “Pull up in front of No. 17, Rue Fontaine, and stay there till I tell you to go on again. Then drive to the Cock Pheasant restaurant in the Rue Lafayette.”

  The cab started at a slow trot, and Du Roy drew down the blinds. As soon as he was opposite the door he did not take his eyes off it. After waiting ten minutes he saw Madeleine come out and go in the direction of the outer boulevards. As soon as she had got far enough off he put his head through the window, and said to the driver: “Go on.” The cab started again, and landed him in front of the Cock Pheasant, a well-known middle-class restaurant. George went into the main dining-room and ate slowly, looking at his watch from time to time. At half-past seven, when he had finished his coffee, drank two liqueurs of brandy, and slowly smoked a good cigar, he went out, hailed another cab that was going by empty, and was driven to the Rue La Rochefoucauld. He ascended without making any inquiry of the doorkeeper, to the third story of the house he had told the man to drive to, and when a servant opened the door to him, said: “Monsieur Guibert de Lorme is at home, is he not?”