Maupassant Original Short Stories (180), Complete

G >> Guy de Maupassant >> Maupassant Original Short Stories (180), Complete


"But one morning one of the travellers suddenly turned round and
approached the man behind him. And they all stopped to look.

"The man toward whom the famished soldier drew near did not flee, but lay
flat on the ground, and took aim at the one who was coming toward him.
When he believed he was within gunshot, he fired. The other was not hit,
and he continued then to advance, and levelling his gun, in turn, he
killed his comrade.

"Then from all directions the others rushed to seek their share. And he
who had killed the fallen man, cutting the corpse into pieces,
distributed it.

"And they once more placed themselves at fixed distances, these
irreconcilable allies, preparing for the next murder which would bring
them together.

"For two days they lived on this human flesh which they divided between
them. Then, becoming famished again, he who had killed the first man
began killing afresh. And again, like a butcher, he cut up the corpse and
offered it to his comrades, keeping only his own portion of it.

"And so this retreat of cannibals continued.

"The last Frenchman, Pobeguin, was massacred at the side of a well, the
very night before the supplies arrived.

"Do you understand now what I mean by the horrible?"

This was the story told us a few nights ago by General de
G----.




MADAME PARISSE

I was sitting on the pier of the small port of Obernon, near the village
of Salis, looking at Antibes, bathed in the setting sun. I had never
before seen anything so wonderful and so beautiful.

The small town, enclosed by its massive ramparts, built by Monsieur de
Vauban, extended into the open sea, in the middle of the immense Gulf of
Nice. The great waves, coming in from the ocean, broke at its feet,
surrounding it with a wreath of foam; and beyond the ramparts the houses
climbed up the hill, one after the other, as far as the two towers, which
rose up into the sky, like the peaks of an ancient helmet. And these two
towers were outlined against the milky whiteness of the Alps, that
enormous distant wall of snow which enclosed the entire horizon.

Between the white foam at the foot of the walls and the white snow on the
sky-line the little city, dazzling against the bluish background of the
nearest mountain ranges, presented to the rays of the setting sun a
pyramid of red-roofed houses, whose facades were also white, but so
different one from another that they seemed to be of all tints.

And the sky above the Alps was itself of a blue that was almost white, as
if the snow had tinted it; some silvery clouds were floating just over
the pale summits, and on the other side of the gulf Nice, lying close to
the water, stretched like a white thread between the sea and the
mountain. Two great sails, driven by a strong breeze, seemed to skim over
the waves. I looked upon all this, astounded.

This view was one of those sweet, rare, delightful things that seem to
permeate you and are unforgettable, like the memory of a great happiness.
One sees, thinks, suffers, is moved and loves with the eyes. He who can
feel with the eye experiences the same keen, exquisite and deep pleasure
in looking at men and things as the man with the delicate and sensitive
ear, whose soul music overwhelms.

I turned to my companion, M. Martini, a pureblooded Southerner.

"This is certainly one of the rarest sights which it has been vouchsafed
to me to admire.

"I have seen Mont Saint-Michel, that monstrous granite jewel, rise out of
the sand at sunrise.

"I have seen, in the Sahara, Lake Raianechergui, fifty kilometers long,
shining under a moon as brilliant as our sun and breathing up toward it a
white cloud, like a mist of milk.

"I have seen, in the Lipari Islands, the weird sulphur crater of the
Volcanello, a giant flower which smokes and burns, an enormous yellow
flower, opening out in the midst of the sea, whose stem is a volcano.

"But I have seen nothing more wonderful than Antibes, standing against
the Alps in the setting sun.

"And I know not how it is that memories of antiquity haunt me; verses of
Homer come into my mind; this is a city of the ancient East, a city of
the odyssey; this is Troy, although Troy was very far from the sea."

M. Martini drew the Sarty guide-book out of his pocket and read: "This
city was originally a colony founded by the Phocians of Marseilles, about
340 B.C. They gave it the Greek name of Antipolis, meaning counter-city,
city opposite another, because it is in fact opposite to Nice, another
colony from Marseilles.

"After the Gauls were conquered, the Romans turned Antibes into a
municipal city, its inhabitants receiving the rights of Roman
citizenship.

"We know by an epigram of Martial that at this time----"

I interrupted him:

"I don't care what she was. I tell you that I see down there a city of
the Odyssey. The coast of Asia and the coast of Europe resemble each
other in their shores, and there is no city on the other coast of the
Mediterranean which awakens in me the memories of the heroic age as this
one does."

A footstep caused me to turn my head; a woman, a large, dark woman, was
walking along the road which skirts the sea in going to the cape.

"That is Madame Parisse, you know," muttered Monsieur Martini, dwelling
on the final syllable.

No, I did not know, but that name, mentioned carelessly, that name of the
Trojan shepherd, confirmed me in my dream.

However, I asked: "Who is this Madame Parisse?"

He seemed astonished that I did not know the story.

I assured him that I did not know it, and I looked after the woman, who
passed by without seeing us, dreaming, walking with steady and slow step,
as doubtless the ladies of old walked.

She was perhaps thirty-five years old and still very beautiful, though a
trifle stout.

And Monsieur Martini told me the following story:

Mademoiselle Combelombe was married, one year before the war of 1870, to
Monsieur Parisse, a government official. She was then a handsome young
girl, as slender and lively as she has now become stout and sad.

Unwillingly she had accepted Monsieur Parisse, one of those little fat
men with short legs, who trip along, with trousers that are always too
large.

After the war Antibes was garrisoned by a single battalion commanded by
Monsieur Jean de Carmelin, a young officer decorated during the war, and
who had just received his four stripes.

As he found life exceedingly tedious in this fortress this stuffy
mole-hole enclosed by its enormous double walls, he often strolled out to
the cape, a kind of park or pine wood shaken by all the winds from the
sea.

There he met Madame Parisse, who also came out in the summer evenings to
get the fresh air under the trees. How did they come to love each other?
Who knows? They met, they looked at each other, and when out of sight
they doubtless thought of each other. The image of the young woman with
the brown eyes, the black hair, the pale skin, this fresh, handsome
Southerner, who displayed her teeth in smiling, floated before the eyes
of the officer as he continued his promenade, chewing his cigar instead
of smoking it; and the image of the commanding officer, in his
close-fitting coat, covered with gold lace, and his red trousers, and a
little blond mustache, would pass before the eyes of Madame Parisse, when
her husband, half shaven and ill-clad, short-legged and big-bellied, came
home to supper in the evening.

As they met so often, they perhaps smiled at the next meeting; then,
seeing each other again and again, they felt as if they knew each other.
He certainly bowed to her. And she, surprised, bowed in return, but very,
very slightly, just enough not to appear impolite. But after two weeks
she returned his salutation from a distance, even before they were side
by side.

He spoke to her. Of what? Doubtless of the setting sun. They admired it
together, looking for it in each other's eyes more often than on the
horizon. And every evening for two weeks this was the commonplace and
persistent pretext for a few minutes' chat.

Then they ventured to take a few steps together, talking of anything that
came into their minds, but their eyes were already saying to each other a
thousand more intimate things, those secret, charming things that are
reflected in the gentle emotion of the glance, and that cause the heart
to beat, for they are a better revelation of the soul than the spoken
ward.

And then he would take her hand, murmuring those words which the woman
divines, without seeming to hear them.

And it was agreed between them that they would love each other without
evidencing it by anything sensual or brutal.

She would have remained indefinitely at this stage of intimacy, but he
wanted more. And every day he urged her more hotly to give in to his
ardent desire.

She resisted, would not hear of it, seemed determined not to give way.

But one evening she said to him casually: "My husband has just gone to
Marseilles. He will be away four days."

Jean de Carmelin threw himself at her feet, imploring her to open her
door to him that very night at eleven o'clock. But she would not listen
to him, and went home, appearing to be annoyed.

The commandant was in a bad humor all the evening, and the next morning
at dawn he went out on the ramparts in a rage, going from one exercise
field to the other, dealing out punishment to the officers and men as one
might fling stones into a crowd,

On going in to breakfast he found an envelope under his napkin with these
four words: "To-night at ten." And he gave one hundred sous without any
reason to the waiter.

The day seemed endless to him. He passed part of it in curling his hair
and perfuming himself.

As he was sitting down to the dinner-table another envelope was handed to
him, and in it he found the following telegram:

"My Love: Business completed. I return this evening on the nine
o'clock train.
PARISSE."

The commandant let loose such a vehement oath that the waiter dropped the
soup-tureen on the floor.

What should he do? He certainly wanted her, that very, evening at
whatever cost; and he would have her. He would resort to any means, even
to arresting and imprisoning the husband. Then a mad thought struck him.
Calling for paper, he wrote the following note:

MADAME: He will not come back this evening, I swear it to
you,--and I shall be, you know where, at ten o'clock. Fear nothing.
I will answer for everything, on my honor as an officer.
JEAN DE CARMELIN.

And having sent off this letter, he quietly ate his dinner.

Toward eight o'clock he sent for Captain Gribois, the second in command,
and said, rolling between his fingers the crumpled telegram of Monsieur
Parisse:

"Captain, I have just received a telegram of a very singular nature,
which it is impossible for me to communicate to you. You will immediately
have all the gates of the city closed and guarded, so that no one, mind
me, no one, will either enter or leave before six in the morning. You
will also have men patrol the streets, who will compel the inhabitants to
retire to their houses at nine o'clock. Any one found outside beyond that
time will be conducted to his home 'manu militari'. If your men meet me
this night they will at once go out of my way, appearing not to know me.
You understand me?"

"Yes, commandant."

"I hold you responsible for the execution of my orders, my dear captain."

"Yes, commandant."

"Would you like to have a glass of chartreuse?"

"With great pleasure, commandant."

They clinked glasses drank down the brown liquor and Captain Gribois left
the room.

The train from Marseilles arrived at the station at nine o'clock sharp,
left two passengers on the platform and went on toward Nice.

One of them, tall and thin, was Monsieur Saribe, the oil merchant, and
the other, short and fat, was Monsieur Parisse.

Together they set out, with their valises, to reach the city, one
kilometer distant.

But on arriving at the gate of the port the guards crossed their
bayonets, commanding them to retire.

Frightened, surprised, cowed with astonishment, they retired to
deliberate; then, after having taken counsel one with the other, they
came back cautiously to parley, giving their names.

But the soldiers evidently had strict orders, for they threatened to
shoot; and the two scared travellers ran off, throwing away their
valises, which impeded their flight.

Making the tour of the ramparts, they presented themselves at the gate on
the route to Cannes. This likewise was closed and guarded by a menacing
sentinel. Messrs. Saribe and Parisse, like the prudent men they were,
desisted from their efforts and went back to the station for shelter,
since it was not safe to be near the fortifications after sundown.

The station agent, surprised and sleepy, permitted them to stay till
morning in the waiting-room.

And they sat there side by side, in the dark, on the green velvet sofa,
too scared to think of sleeping.

It was a long and weary night for them.

At half-past six in the morning they were informed that the gates were
open and that people could now enter Antibes.

They set out for the city, but failed to find their abandoned valises on
the road.

When they passed through the gates of the city, still somewhat anxious,
the Commandant de Carmelin, with sly glance and mustache curled up, came
himself to look at them and question them.

Then he bowed to them politely, excusing himself for having caused them a
bad night. But he had to carry out orders.

The people of Antibes were scared to death. Some spoke of a surprise
planned by the Italians, others of the landing of the prince imperial and
others again believed that there was an Orleanist conspiracy. The truth
was suspected only later, when it became known that the battalion of the
commandant had been sent away, to a distance and that Monsieur de
Carmelin had been severely punished.

Monsieur Martini had finished his story. Madame Parisse returned, her
promenade being ended. She passed gravely near me, with her eyes fixed on
the Alps, whose summits now gleamed rosy in the last rays of the setting
sun.

I longed to speak to her, this poor, sad woman, who would ever be
thinking of that night of love, now long past, and of the bold man who
for the sake of a kiss from her had dared to put a city into a state of
siege and to compromise his whole future.

And to-day he had probably forgotten her, if he did not relate this
audacious, comical and tender farce to his comrades over their cups.

Had she seen him again? Did she still love him? And I thought: Here is an
instance of modern love, grotesque and yet heroic. The Homer who should
sing of this new Helen and the adventure of her Menelaus must be gifted
with the soul of a Paul de Kock. And yet the hero of this deserted woman
was brave, daring, handsome, strong as Achilles and more cunning than
Ulysses.




MADEMOISELLE FIFI

Major Graf Von Farlsberg, the Prussian commandant, was reading his
newspaper as he lay back in a great easy-chair, with his booted feet on
the beautiful marble mantelpiece where his spurs had made two holes,
which had grown deeper every day during the three months that he had been
in the chateau of Uville.

A cup of coffee was smoking on a small inlaid table, which was stained
with liqueur, burned by cigars, notched by the penknife of the victorious
officer, who occasionally would stop while sharpening a pencil, to jot
down figures, or to make a drawing on it, just as it took his fancy.

When he had read his letters and the German newspapers, which his orderly
had brought him, he got up, and after throwing three or four enormous
pieces of green wood on the fire, for these gentlemen were gradually
cutting down the park in order to keep themselves warm, he went to the
window. The rain was descending in torrents, a regular Normandy rain,
which looked as if it were being poured out by some furious person, a
slanting rain, opaque as a curtain, which formed a kind of wall with
diagonal stripes, and which deluged everything, a rain such as one
frequently experiences in the neighborhood of Rouen, which is the
watering-pot of France.

For a long time the officer looked at the sodden turf and at the swollen
Andelle beyond it, which was overflowing its banks; he was drumming a
waltz with his fingers on the window-panes, when a noise made him turn
round. It was his second in command, Captain Baron van Kelweinstein.

The major was a giant, with broad shoulders and a long, fan-like beard,
which hung down like a curtain to his chest. His whole solemn person
suggested the idea of a military peacock, a peacock who was carrying his
tail spread out on his breast. He had cold, gentle blue eyes, and a scar
from a swordcut, which he had received in the war with Austria; he was
said to be an honorable man, as well as a brave officer.

The captain, a short, red-faced man, was tightly belted in at the waist,
his red hair was cropped quite close to his head, and in certain lights
he almost looked as if he had been rubbed over with phosphorus. He had
lost two front teeth one night, though he could not quite remember how,
and this sometimes made him speak unintelligibly, and he had a bald patch
on top of his head surrounded by a fringe of curly, bright golden hair,
which made him look like a monk.

The commandant shook hands with him and drank his cup of coffee (the
sixth that morning), while he listened to his subordinate's report of
what had occurred; and then they both went to the window and declared
that it was a very unpleasant outlook. The major, who was a quiet man,
with a wife at home, could accommodate himself to everything; but the
captain, who led a fast life, who was in the habit of frequenting low
resorts, and enjoying women's society, was angry at having to be shut up
for three months in that wretched hole.

There was a knock at the door, and when the commandant said, "Come in,"
one of the orderlies appeared, and by his mere presence announced that
breakfast was ready. In the dining-room they met three other officers of
lower rank--a lieutenant, Otto von Grossling, and two sub-lieutenants,
Fritz Scheuneberg and Baron von Eyrick, a very short, fair-haired man,
who was proud and brutal toward men, harsh toward prisoners and as
explosive as gunpowder.

Since he had been in France his comrades had called him nothing but
Mademoiselle Fifi. They had given him that nickname on account of his
dandified style and small waist, which looked as if he wore corsets; of
his pale face, on which his budding mustache scarcely showed, and on
account of the habit he had acquired of employing the French expression,
'Fi, fi donc', which he pronounced with a slight whistle when he wished
to express his sovereign contempt for persons or things.

The dining-room of the chateau was a magnificent long room, whose fine
old mirrors, that were cracked by pistol bullets, and whose Flemish
tapestry, which was cut to ribbons, and hanging in rags in places from
sword-cuts, told too well what Mademoiselle Fifi's occupation was during
his spare time.

There were three family portraits on the walls a steel-clad knight, a
cardinal and a judge, who were all smoking long porcelain pipes, which
had been inserted into holes in the canvas, while a lady in a long,
pointed waist proudly exhibited a pair of enormous mustaches, drawn with
charcoal. The officers ate their breakfast almost in silence in that
mutilated room, which looked dull in the rain and melancholy in its
dilapidated condition, although its old oak floor had become as solid as
the stone floor of an inn.

When they had finished eating and were smoking and drinking, they began,
as usual, to berate the dull life they were leading. The bottles of
brandy and of liqueur passed from hand to hand, and all sat back in their
chairs and took repeated sips from their glasses, scarcely removing from
their mouths the long, curved stems, which terminated in china bowls,
painted in a manner to delight a Hottentot.

As soon as their glasses were empty they filled them again, with a
gesture of resigned weariness, but Mademoiselle Fifi emptied his every
minute, and a soldier immediately gave him another. They were enveloped
in a cloud of strong tobacco smoke, and seemed to be sunk in a state of
drowsy, stupid intoxication, that condition of stupid intoxication of men
who have nothing to do, when suddenly the baron sat up and said:
"Heavens! This cannot go on; we must think of something to do." And on
hearing this, Lieutenant Otto and Sub-lieutenant Fritz, who preeminently
possessed the serious, heavy German countenance, said: "What, captain?"

He thought for a few moments and then replied: "What? Why, we must get up
some entertainment, if the commandant will allow us." "What sort of an
entertainment, captain?" the major asked, taking his pipe out of his
mouth. "I will arrange all that, commandant," the baron said. "I will
send Le Devoir to Rouen, and he will bring back some ladies. I know where
they can be found, We will have supper here, as all the materials are at
hand and; at least, we shall have a jolly evening."

Graf von Farlsberg shrugged his shoulders with a smile: "You must surely
be mad, my friend."

But all the other officers had risen and surrounded their chief, saying:
"Let the captain have his way, commandant; it is terribly dull here." And
the major ended by yielding. "Very well," he replied, and the baron
immediately sent for Le Devoir. He was an old non-commissioned officer,
who had never been seen to smile, but who carried out all the orders of
his superiors to the letter, no matter what they might be. He stood
there, with an impassive face, while he received the baron's
instructions, and then went out, and five minutes later a large military
wagon, covered with tarpaulin, galloped off as fast as four horses could
draw it in the pouring rain. The officers all seemed to awaken from their
lethargy, their looks brightened, and they began to talk.

Although it was raining as hard as ever, the major declared that it was
not so dark, and Lieutenant von Grossling said with conviction that the
sky was clearing up, while Mademoiselle Fifi did not seem to be able to
keep still. He got up and sat down again, and his bright eyes seemed to
be looking for something to destroy. Suddenly, looking at the lady with
the mustaches, the young fellow pulled out his revolver and said: "You
shall not see it." And without leaving his seat he aimed, and with two
successive bullets cut out both the eyes of the portrait.

"Let us make a mine!" he then exclaimed, and the conversation was
suddenly interrupted, as if they had found some fresh and powerful
subject of interest. The mine was his invention, his method of
destruction, and his favorite amusement.

When he left the chateau, the lawful owner, Comte Fernand d'Amoys
d'Uville, had not had time to carry away or to hide anything except the
plate, which had been stowed away in a hole made in one of the walls. As
he was very rich and had good taste, the large drawing-room, which opened
into the dining-room, looked like a gallery in a museum, before his
precipitate flight.

Expensive oil paintings, water colors and drawings hung against the
walls, while on the tables, on the hanging shelves and in elegant glass
cupboards there were a thousand ornaments: small vases, statuettes,
groups of Dresden china and grotesque Chinese figures, old ivory and
Venetian glass, which filled the large room with their costly and
fantastic array.

Scarcely anything was left now; not that the things had been stolen, for
the major would not have allowed that, but Mademoiselle Fifi would every
now and then have a mine, and on those occasions all the officers
thoroughly enjoyed themselves for five minutes. The little marquis went
into the drawing-room to get what he wanted, and he brought back a small,
delicate china teapot, which he filled with gunpowder, and carefully
introduced a piece of punk through the spout. This he lighted and took
his infernal machine into the next room, but he came back immediately and
shut the door. The Germans all stood expectant, their faces full of
childish, smiling curiosity, and as soon as the explosion had shaken the
chateau, they all rushed in at once.

Mademoiselle Fifi, who got in first, clapped his hands in delight at the
sight of a terra-cotta Venus, whose head had been blown off, and each
picked up pieces of porcelain and wondered at the strange shape of the
fragments, while the major was looking with a paternal eye at the large
drawing-room, which had been wrecked after the fashion of a Nero, and was
strewn with the fragments of works of art. He went out first and said
with a smile: "That was a great success this time."

But there was such a cloud of smoke in the dining-room, mingled with the
tobacco smoke, that they could not breathe, so the commandant opened the
window, and all the officers, who had returned for a last glass of
cognac, went up to it.

The moist air blew into the room, bringing with it a sort of powdery
spray, which sprinkled their beards. They looked at the tall trees which
were dripping with rain, at the broad valley which was covered with mist,
and at the church spire in the distance, which rose up like a gray point
in the beating rain.