Maupassant Original Short Stories (180), Complete

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


He was tall, thin, bald, and very elegant. His soft, insinuating voice
had a peculiar, tempting charm which seemed to give the objects a special
value. When he held anything in his hands, he turned it round and round,
looking at it with such skill, refinement, and sympathy that the object
seemed immediately to be beautiful and transformed by his look and touch.
And its value increased in one's estimation, after the object had passed
from the showcase into his hands.

"And your Crucifix," said Boisrene, "that beautiful Renaissance Crucifix
which you showed me last year?"

The man smiled and answered:

"It has been sold, and in a very peculiar manner. There is a real
Parisian story for you! Would you like to hear it?"

"With pleasure."

"Do you know the Baroness Samoris?"

"Yes and no. I have seen her once, but I know what she is!"

"You know--everything?"

"Yes."

"Would you mind telling me, so that I can see whether you are not
mistaken?"

"Certainly. Mme. Samoris is a woman of the world who has a daughter,
without anyone having known her husband. At any rate, she is received in
a certain tolerant, or blind society. She goes to church and devoutly
partakes of Communion, so that everyone may know it, and she never
compromises herself. She expects her daughter to marry well. Is that
correct?"

"Yes, but I will complete your information. She is a woman who makes
herself respected by her admirers in spite of everything. That is a rare
quality, for in this manner she can get what she wishes from a man. The
man whom she has chosen without his suspecting it courts her for a long
time, longs for her timidly, wins her with astonishment and possesses her
with consideration. He does not notice that he is paying, she is so
tactful; and she maintains her relations on such a footing of reserve and
dignity that he would slap the first man who dared doubt her in the
least. And all this in the best of faith.

"Several times I have been able to render little services to this woman.
She has no secrets from me.

"Toward the beginning of January she came to me in order to borrow thirty
thousand francs. Naturally, I did not lend them to her; but, as I wished
to oblige her, I told her to explain her situation to me completely, so
that I might see whether there was not something I could do for her.

"She told me her troubles in such cautious language that she could not
have spoken more delicately of her child's first communion. I finally
managed to understand that times were hard, and that she was penniless.

"The commercial crisis, political unrest, rumors of war, had made money
scarce even in the hands of her clients. And then, of course, she was
very particular.

"She would associate only with a man in the best of society, who could
strengthen her reputation as well as help her financially. A reveller, no
matter how rich, would have compromised her forever, and would have made
the marriage of her daughter quite doubtful.

"She had to maintain her household expenses and continue to entertain, in
order not to lose the opportunity of finding, among her numerous
visitors, the discreet and distinguished friend for whom she was waiting,
and whom she would choose.

"I showed her that my thirty thousand francs would have but little
likelihood of returning to me; for, after spending them all, she would
have to find at least sixty thousand more, in a lump, to pay me back.

"She seemed very disheartened when she heard this. I did not know just
what to do, when an idea, a really fine idea, struck me.

"I had just bought this Renaissance Crucifix which I showed you, an
admirable piece of workmanship, one of the finest of its land that I have
ever seen.

"'My dear friend,' I said to her, 'I am going to send you that piece of
ivory. You will invent some ingenious, touching, poetic story, anything
that you wish, to explain your desire for parting with it. It is, of
course, a family heirloom left you by your father.

"'I myself will send you amateurs, or will bring them to you. The rest
concerns you. Before they come I will drop you a line about their
position, both social and financial. This Crucifix is worth fifty
thousand francs; but I will let it go for thirty thousand. The difference
will belong to you.'

"She considered the matter seriously for several minutes, and then
answered: 'Yes, it is, perhaps, a good idea. I thank you very-much.'

"The next day I sent her my Crucifix, and the same evening the Baron de
Saint-Hospital.

"For three months I sent her my best clients, from a business point of
view. But I heard nothing more from her.

"One day I received a visit from a foreigner who spoke very little
French. I decided to introduce him personally to the baroness, in order
to see how she was getting along.

"A footman in black livery received us and ushered us into a quiet little
parlor, furnished with taste, where we waited for several minutes. She
appeared, charming as usual, extended her hand to me and invited us to be
seated; and when I had explained the reason of my visit, she rang.

"The footman appeared.

"'See if Mlle. Isabelle can let us go into her oratory.' The young girl
herself brought the answer. She was about fifteen years of age, modest
and good to look upon in the sweet freshness of her youth. She wished to
conduct us herself to her chapel.

"It was a kind of religious boudoir where a silver lamp was burning
before the Crucifix, my Crucifix, on a background of black velvet. The
setting was charming and very clever. The child crossed herself and then
said:

"'Look, gentlemen. Isn't it beautiful?'

"I took the object, examined it and declared it to be remarkable. The
foreigner also examined it, but he seemed much more interested in the two
women than in the crucifix.

"A delicate odor of incense, flowers and perfume pervaded the whole
house. One felt at home there. This really was a comfortable home, where
one would have liked to linger.

"When we had returned to the parlor I delicately broached the subject of
the price. Mme. Samoris, lowering her eyes, asked fifty thousand francs.

"Then she added: 'If you wish to see it again, monsieur, I very seldom go
out before three o'clock; and I can be found at home every day.'

"In the street the stranger asked me for some details about the baroness,
whom he had found charming. But I did not hear anything more from either
of them.

"Three months passed by.

"One morning, hardly two weeks ago, she came here at about lunch time,
and, placing a roll of bills in my hand, said: 'My dear, you are an
angel! Here are fifty thousand francs; I am buying your crucifix, and I
am paying twenty thousand francs more for it than the price agreed upon,
on condition that you always--always send your clients to
me--for it is sill for sale.'"




MOTHER AND SON

A party of men were chatting in the smoking room after dinner. We were
talking of unexpected legacies, strange inheritances. Then M. le Brument,
who was sometimes called "the illustrious judge" and at other times "the
illustrious lawyer," went and stood with his back to the fire.

"I have," said he, "to search for an heir who disappeared under
peculiarly distressing circumstances. It is one of those simple and
terrible dramas of ordinary life, a thing which possibly happens every
day, and which is nevertheless one of the most dreadful things I know.
Here are the facts:

"Nearly six months ago I was called to the bedside of a dying woman. She
said to me:

"'Monsieur, I want to intrust to you the most delicate, the most
difficult, and the most wearisome mission that can be conceived. Be good
enough to notice my will, which is there on the table. A sum of five
thousand francs is left to you as a fee if you do not succeed, and of a
hundred thousand francs if you do succeed. I want you to find my son
after my death.'

"She asked me to assist her to sit up in bed, in order that she might
talk with greater ease, for her voice, broken and gasping, was whistling
in her throat.

"It was a very wealthy establishment. The luxurious apartment, of an
elegant simplicity, was upholstered with materials as thick as walls,
with a soft inviting surface.

"The dying woman continued:

"'You are the first to hear my horrible story. I will try to have
strength enough to finish it. You must know all, in order that you, whom
I know to be a kind-hearted man as well as a man of the world, may have a
sincere desire to aid me with all your power.

"'Listen to me:

"'Before my marriage, I loved a young man, whose suit was rejected by my
family because he was not rich enough. Not long afterward, I married a
man of great wealth. I married him through ignorance, through obedience,
through indifference, as young girls do marry.

"'I had a child, a boy. My husband died in the course of a few years.

"'He whom I had loved had married, in his turn. When he saw that I was a
widow, he was crushed by grief at knowing he was not free. He came to see
me; he wept and sobbed so bitterly, that it was enough to break my heart.
He came to see me at first as a friend. Perhaps I ought not to have
received him. What could I do? I was alone, so sad, so solitary, so
hopeless! And I loved him still. What sufferings we women have sometimes
to endure!

"'I had only him in the world, my parents being dead. He came frequently;
he spent whole evenings with me. I should not have let him come so often,
seeing that he was married. But I had not enough will-power to prevent
him from coming.

"'How can I tell it?--he became my lover. How did this come about?
Can I explain it? Can any one explain such things? Do you think it could
be otherwise when two human beings are drawn to each other by the
irresistible force of mutual affection? Do you believe, monsieur, that it
is always in our power to resist, that we can keep up the struggle
forever, and refuse to yield to the prayers, the supplications, the
tears, the frenzied words, the appeals on bended knees, the transports of
passion, with which we are pursued by the man we adore, whom we want to
gratify even in his slightest wishes, whom we desire to crown with every
possible happiness, and whom, if we are to be guided by a worldly code of
honor, we must drive to despair? What strength would it not require? What
a renunciation of happiness? what self-denial? and even what virtuous
selfishness?

"'In short, monsieur, I was his mistress; and I was happy. I
became--and this was my greatest weakness and my greatest piece of
cowardice-I became his wife's friend.

"'We brought up my son together; we made a man of him, a thorough man,
intelligent, full of sense and resolution, of large and generous ideas.
The boy reached the age of seventeen.

"'He, the young man, was fond of my--my lover, almost as fond of him
as I was myself, for he had been equally cherished and cared for by both
of us. He used to call him his 'dear friend,' and respected him
immensely, having never received from him anything but wise counsels and
an example of integrity, honor, and probity. He looked upon him as an old
loyal and devoted comrade of his mother, as a sort of moral father,
guardian, protector--how am I to describe it?

"'Perhaps the reason why he never asked any questions was that he had
been accustomed from his earliest years to see this man in my house, at
my side, and at his side, always concerned about us both.

"'One evening the three of us were to dine together--this was my
chief amusement--and I waited for the two men, asking myself which
of them would be the first to arrive. The door opened; it was my old
friend. I went toward him, with outstretched arms; and he pressed my lips
in a long, delicious kiss.

"'All of a sudden, a slight sound, a faint rustling, that mysterious
sensation which indicates the presence of another person, made us start
and turn round abruptly. Jean, my son, stood there, livid, staring at us.

"'There was a moment of atrocious confusion. I drew back, holding out my
hand toward my son as if in supplication; but I could not see him. He had
gone.

"'We remained facing each other--my lover and I--crushed,
unable to utter a word. I sank into an armchair, and I felt a desire, a
vague, powerful desire, to flee, to go out into the night, and to
disappear forever. Then convulsive sobs rose in my throat, and I wept,
shaken with spasms, my heart breaking, all my nerves writhing with the
horrible sensation of an irreparable, misfortune, and with that dreadful
sense of shame which, in such moments as this, fills a mother's heart.

"'He looked at me in a terrified manner, not venturing to approach, to
speak to me, or to touch me, for fear of the boy's return. At last he
said:

"'I am going to follow him-to talk to him--to explain matters to
him. In short, I must see him and let him know----"

"'And he hurried away.

"'I waited--waited in a distracted frame of mind, trembling at the
least sound, starting with fear and with some unutterably strange and
intolerable emotion at every slight crackling of the fire in the grate.

"'I waited an hour, two hours, feeling my heart swell with a dread I had
never before experienced, such anguish that I would not wish the greatest
criminal to endure ten minutes of such misery. Where was my son? What was
he doing?

"'About midnight, a messenger brought me a note from my lover. I still
know its contents by heart:

"'Has your son returned? I did not find him. I am down here. I do not
want to go up at this hour."

"'I wrote in pencil on the same slip of paper:

"'Jean has not returned. You must find him."

"'And I 'remained all night in the armchair, waiting for him.

"'I felt as if I were going mad. I longed to run wildly about, to roll on
the ground. And yet I did not even stir, but kept waiting hour after
hour. What was going to happen? I tried to imagine, to guess. But I could
form no conception, in spite of my efforts, in spite of the tortures of
my soul!

"'And now I feared that they might meet. What would they do in that case?
What would my son do? My mind was torn with fearful doubts, with terrible
suppositions.

"'You can understand my feelings, can you not, monsieur? "'My
chambermaid, who knew nothing, who understood nothing, came into the room
every moment, believing, naturally, that I had lost my reason. I sent her
away with a word or a movement of the hand. She went for the doctor, who
found me in the throes of a nervous attack.

"'I was put to bed. I had brain fever.

"'When I regained consciousness, after a long illness, I saw beside my
bed my--lover--alone.

"'I exclaimed:

"'My son? Where is my son?

"'He made no reply. I stammered:

"'Dead-dead. Has he committed suicide?

"'No, no, I swear it. But we have not found him in spite of all my
efforts.

"'Then, becoming suddenly exasperated and even indignant--for women
are subject to such outbursts of unaccountable and unreasoning
anger--I said:

"'I forbid you to come near me or to see me again unless you find him. Go
away!

"He did go away.

"'I have never seen one or the other of them since, monsieur, and thus I
have lived for the last twenty years.

"'Can you imagine what all this meant to me? Can you understand this
monstrous punishment, this slow, perpetual laceration of a mother's
heart, this abominable, endless waiting? Endless, did I say? No; it is
about to end, for I am dying. I am dying without ever again seeing either
of them--either one or the other!

"'He--the man I loved--has written to me every day for the last
twenty years; and I--I have never consented to see him, even for one
second; for I had a strange feeling that, if he were to come back here,
my son would make his appearance at the same moment. Oh! my son! my son!
Is he dead? Is he living? Where is he hiding? Over there, perhaps, beyond
the great ocean, in some country so far away that even its very name is
unknown to me! Does he ever think of me? Ah! if he only knew! How cruel
one's children are! Did he understand to what frightful suffering he
condemned me, into what depths of despair, into what tortures, he cast me
while I was still in the prime of life, leaving me to suffer until this
moment, when I am about to die--me, his mother, who loved him with
all the intensity of a mother's love? Oh! isn't it cruel, cruel?

"'You will tell him all this, monsieur--will you not? You will
repeat to him my last words:

"'My child, my dear, dear child, be less harsh toward poor women! Life is
already brutal and savage enough in its dealings with them. My dear son,
think of what the existence of your poor mother has been ever since the
day you left her. My dear child, forgive her, and love her, now that she
is dead, for she has had to endure the most frightful penance ever
inflicted on a woman."

"She gasped for breath, trembling, as if she had addressed the last words
to her son and as if he stood by her bedside.

"Then she added:

"'You will tell him also, monsieur, that I never again saw-the other.'

"Once more she ceased speaking, then, in a broken voice, she said:

"'Leave me now, I beg of you. I want to die all alone, since they are not
with me.'"

Maitre Le Brument added:

"And I left the house, monsieurs, crying like a fool, so bitterly,
indeed, that my coachman turned round to stare at me.

"And to think that, every day, dramas like this are being enacted all
around us!

"I have not found the son--that son--well, say what you like
about him, but I call him that criminal son!"




THE HAND

All were crowding around M. Bermutier, the judge, who was giving his
opinion about the Saint-Cloud mystery. For a month this in explicable
crime had been the talk of Paris. Nobody could make head or tail of it.

M. Bermutier, standing with his back to the fireplace, was talking,
citing the evidence, discussing the various theories, but arriving at no
conclusion.

Some women had risen, in order to get nearer to him, and were standing
with their eyes fastened on the clean-shaven face of the judge, who was
saying such weighty things. They, were shaking and trembling, moved by
fear and curiosity, and by the eager and insatiable desire for the
horrible, which haunts the soul of every woman. One of them, paler than
the others, said during a pause:

"It's terrible. It verges on the supernatural. The truth will never be
known."

The judge turned to her:

"True, madame, it is likely that the actual facts will never be
discovered. As for the word 'supernatural' which you have just used, it
has nothing to do with the matter. We are in the presence of a very
cleverly conceived and executed crime, so well enshrouded in mystery that
we cannot disentangle it from the involved circumstances which surround
it. But once I had to take charge of an affair in which the uncanny
seemed to play a part. In fact, the case became so confused that it had
to be given up."

Several women exclaimed at once:

"Oh! Tell us about it!"

M. Bermutier smiled in a dignified manner, as a judge should, and went
on:

"Do not think, however, that I, for one minute, ascribed anything in the
case to supernatural influences. I believe only in normal causes. But if,
instead of using the word 'supernatural' to express what we do not
understand, we were simply to make use of the word 'inexplicable,' it
would be much better. At any rate, in the affair of which I am about to
tell you, it is especially the surrounding, preliminary circumstances
which impressed me. Here are the facts:

"I was, at that time, a judge at Ajaccio, a little white city on the edge
of a bay which is surrounded by high mountains.

"The majority of the cases which came up before me concerned vendettas.
There are some that are superb, dramatic, ferocious, heroic. We find
there the most beautiful causes for revenge of which one could dream,
enmities hundreds of years old, quieted for a time but never
extinguished; abominable stratagems, murders becoming massacres and
almost deeds of glory. For two years I heard of nothing but the price of
blood, of this terrible Corsican prejudice which compels revenge for
insults meted out to the offending person and all his descendants and
relatives. I had seen old men, children, cousins murdered; my head was
full of these stories.

"One day I learned that an Englishman had just hired a little villa at
the end of the bay for several years. He had brought with him a French
servant, whom he had engaged on the way at Marseilles.

"Soon this peculiar person, living alone, only going out to hunt and
fish, aroused a widespread interest. He never spoke to any one, never
went to the town, and every morning he would practice for an hour or so
with his revolver and rifle.

"Legends were built up around him. It was said that he was some high
personage, fleeing from his fatherland for political reasons; then it was
affirmed that he was in hiding after having committed some abominable
crime. Some particularly horrible circumstances were even mentioned.

"In my judicial position I thought it necessary to get some information
about this man, but it was impossible to learn anything. He called
himself Sir John Rowell.

"I therefore had to be satisfied with watching him as closely as I could,
but I could see nothing suspicious about his actions.

"However, as rumors about him were growing and becoming more widespread,
I decided to try to see this stranger myself, and I began to hunt
regularly in the neighborhood of his grounds.

"For a long time I watched without finding an opportunity. At last it
came to me in the shape of a partridge which I shot and killed right in
front of the Englishman. My dog fetched it for me, but, taking the bird,
I went at once to Sir John Rowell and, begging his pardon, asked him to
accept it.

"He was a big man, with red hair and beard, very tall, very broad, a kind
of calm and polite Hercules. He had nothing of the so-called British
stiffness, and in a broad English accent he thanked me warmly for my
attention. At the end of a month we had had five or six conversations.

"One night, at last, as I was passing before his door, I saw him in the
garden, seated astride a chair, smoking his pipe. I bowed and he invited
me to come in and have a glass of beer. I needed no urging.

"He received me with the most punctilious English courtesy, sang the
praises of France and of Corsica, and declared that he was quite in love
with this country.

"Then, with great caution and under the guise of a vivid interest, I
asked him a few questions about his life and his plans. He answered
without embarrassment, telling me that he had travelled a great deal in
Africa, in the Indies, in America. He added, laughing:

"'I have had many adventures.'

"Then I turned the conversation on hunting, and he gave me the most
curious details on hunting the hippopotamus, the tiger, the elephant and
even the gorilla.

"I said:

"'Are all these animals dangerous?'

"He smiled:

"'Oh, no! Man is the worst.'

"And he laughed a good broad laugh, the wholesome laugh of a contented
Englishman.

"'I have also frequently been man-hunting.'

"Then he began to talk about weapons, and he invited me to come in and
see different makes of guns.

"His parlor was draped in black, black silk embroidered in gold. Big
yellow flowers, as brilliant as fire, were worked on the dark material.

"He said:

"'It is a Japanese material.'

"But in the middle of the widest panel a strange thing attracted my
attention. A black object stood out against a square of red velvet. I
went up to it; it was a hand, a human hand. Not the clean white hand of a
skeleton, but a dried black hand, with yellow nails, the muscles exposed
and traces of old blood on the bones, which were cut off as clean as
though it had been chopped off with an axe, near the middle of the
forearm.

"Around the wrist, an enormous iron chain, riveted and soldered to this
unclean member, fastened it to the wall by a ring, strong enough to hold
an elephant in leash.

"I asked:

"'What is that?'

"The Englishman answered quietly:

"'That is my best enemy. It comes from America, too. The bones were
severed by a sword and the skin cut off with a sharp stone and dried in
the sun for a week.'

"I touched these human remains, which must have belonged to a giant. The
uncommonly long fingers were attached by enormous tendons which still had
pieces of skin hanging to them in places. This hand was terrible to see;
it made one think of some savage vengeance.

"I said:

"'This man must have been very strong.'

"The Englishman answered quietly:

"'Yes, but I was stronger than he. I put on this chain to hold him.'

"I thought that he was joking. I said:

"'This chain is useless now, the hand won't run away.'

"Sir John Rowell answered seriously:

"'It always wants to go away. This chain is needed.'

"I glanced at him quickly, questioning his face, and I asked myself:

"'Is he an insane man or a practical joker?'

"But his face remained inscrutable, calm and friendly. I turned to other
subjects, and admired his rifles.

"However, I noticed that he kept three loaded revolvers in the room, as
though constantly in fear of some attack.