Maupassant Original Short Stories (180), Complete

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


So every day at twilight he set out for the farm of Haules, half a league
distant, always accompanied by his "pig." And each time it was a
festival, feeding the animal. All the neighbors ran over there as they
would go to high mass on Sunday.

But the soldier began to suspect something, be mistrustful, and when they
laughed too loud he would roll his eyes uneasily, and sometimes they
lighted up with anger.

One evening when he had eaten his fill he refused to swallow another
morsel, and attempted to rise to leave the table. But Saint Anthony
stopped him by a turn of the wrist and, placing his two powerful hands on
his shoulders, he sat him down again so roughly that the chair smashed
under him.

A wild burst of laughter broke forth, and Anthony, beaming, picked up his
pig, acted as though he were dressing his wounds, and exclaimed: "Since
you will not eat, you shall drink, nom de Dieu!" And they went to the
wine shop to get some brandy.

The soldier rolled his eyes, which had a wicked expression, but he drank,
nevertheless; he drank as long as they wanted him, and Saint Anthony held
his head to the great delight of his companions.

The Norman, red as a tomato, his eyes ablaze, filled up the glasses and
clinked, saying: "Here's to you!". And the Prussian, without speaking a
word, poured down one after another glassfuls of cognac.

It was a contest, a battle, a revenge! Who would drink the most, nom d'un
nom! They could neither of them stand any more when the liter was
emptied. But neither was conquered. They were tied, that was all. They
would have to begin again the next day.

They went out staggering and started for home, walking beside the dung
cart which was drawn along slowly by two horses.

Snow began to fall and the moonless night was sadly lighted by this dead
whiteness on the plain. The men began to feel the cold, and this
aggravated their intoxication. Saint Anthony, annoyed at not being the
victor, amused himself by shoving his companion so as to make him fall
over into the ditch. The other would dodge backwards, and each time he
did he uttered some German expression in an angry tone, which made the
peasant roar with laughter. Finally the Prussian lost his temper, and
just as Anthony was rolling towards him he responded with such a terrific
blow with his fist that the Colossus staggered.

Then, excited by the brandy, the old man seized the pugilist round the
waist, shook him for a few moments as he would have done with a little
child, and pitched him at random to the other side of the road. Then,
satisfied with this piece of work, he crossed his arms and began to laugh
afresh.

But the soldier picked himself up in a hurry, his head bare, his helmet
having rolled off, and drawing his sword he rushed over to Father
Anthony.

When he saw him coming the peasant seized his whip by the top of the
handle, his big holly wood whip, straight, strong and supple as the sinew
of an ox.

The Prussian approached, his head down, making a lunge with his sword,
sure of killing his adversary. But the old fellow, squarely hitting the
blade, the point of which would have pierced his stomach, turned it
aside, and with the butt end of the whip struck the soldier a sharp blow
on the temple and he fell to the ground.

Then he, gazed aghast, stupefied with amazement, at the body, twitching
convulsively at first and then lying prone and motionless. He bent over
it, turned it on its back, and gazed at it for some time. The man's eyes
were closed, and blood trickled from a wound at the side of his forehead.
Although it was dark, Father Anthony could distinguish the bloodstain on
the white snow.

He remained there, at his wit's end, while his cart continued slowly on
its way.

What was he to do? He would be shot! They would burn his farm, ruin his
district! What should he do? What should he do? How could he hide the
body, conceal the fact of his death, deceive the Prussians? He heard
voices in the distance, amid the utter stillness of the snow. All at once
he roused himself, and picking up the helmet he placed it on his victim's
head. Then, seizing him round the body, he lifted him up in his arms, and
thus running with him, he overtook his team, and threw the body on top of
the manure. Once in his own house he would think up some plan.

He walked slowly, racking his brain, but without result. He saw, he felt,
that he was lost. He entered his courtyard. A light was shining in one of
the attic windows; his maid was not asleep. He hastily backed his wagon
to the edge of the manure hollow. He thought that by overturning the
manure the body lying on top of it would fall into the ditch and be
buried beneath it, and he dumped the cart.

As he had foreseen, the man was buried beneath the manure. Anthony evened
it down with his fork, which he stuck in the ground beside it. He called
his stableman, told him to put up the horses, and went to his room.

He went to bed, still thinking of what he had best do, but no ideas came
to him. His apprehension increased in the quiet of his room. They would
shoot him! He was bathed in perspiration from fear, his teeth chattered,
he rose shivering, not being able to stay in bed.

He went downstairs to the kitchen, took the bottle of brandy from the
sideboard and carried it upstairs. He drank two large glasses, one after
another, adding a fresh intoxication to the late one, without quieting
his mental anguish. He had done a pretty stroke of work, nom de Dieu,
idiot!

He paced up and down, trying to think of some stratagem, some
explanations, some cunning trick, and from time to time he rinsed his
mouth with a swallow of "fil en dix" to give him courage.

But no ideas came to him, not one.

Towards midnight his watch dog, a kind of cross wolf called "Devorant,"
began to howl frantically. Father Anthony shuddered to the marrow of his
bones, and each time the beast began his long and lugubrious wail the old
man's skin turned to goose flesh.

He had sunk into a chair, his legs weak, stupefied, done up, waiting
anxiously for "Devorant" to set up another howl, and starting
convulsively from nervousness caused by terror.

The clock downstairs struck five. The dog was still howling. The peasant
was almost insane. He rose to go and let the dog loose, so that he should
not hear him. He went downstairs, opened the hall door, and stepped out
into the darkness. The snow was still falling. The earth was all white,
the farm buildings standing out like black patches. He approached the
kennel. The dog was dragging at his chain. He unfastened it. "Devorant"
gave a bound, then stopped short, his hair bristling, his legs rigid, his
muzzle in the air, his nose pointed towards the manure heap.

Saint Anthony, trembling from head to foot, faltered:

"What's the matter with you, you dirty hound?" and he walked a few steps
forward, gazing at the indistinct outlines, the sombre shadow of the
courtyard.

Then he saw a form, the form of a man sitting on the manure heap!

He gazed at it, paralyzed by fear, and breathing hard. But all at once he
saw, close by, the handle of the manure fork which was sticking in the
ground. He snatched it up and in one of those transports of fear that
will make the greatest coward brave he rushed forward to see what it was.

It was he, his Prussian, come to life, covered with filth from his bed of
manure which had kept him warm. He had sat down mechanically, and
remained there in the snow which sprinkled down, all covered with dirt
and blood as he was, and still stupid from drinking, dazed by the blow
and exhausted from his wound.

He perceived Anthony, and too sodden to understand anything, he made an
attempt to rise. But the moment the old man recognized him, he foamed
with rage like a wild animal.

"Ah, pig! pig!" he sputtered. "You are not dead! You are going to
denounce me now--wait--wait!"

And rushing on the German with all the strength of leis arms he flung the
raised fork like a lance and buried the four prongs full length in his
breast.

The soldier fell over on his back, uttering a long death moan, while the
old peasant, drawing the fork out of his breast, plunged it over and over
again into his abdomen, his stomach, his throat, like a madman, piercing
the body from head to foot, as it still quivered, and the blood gushed
out in streams.

Finally he stopped, exhausted by his arduous work, swallowing great
mouthfuls of air, calmed down at the completion of the murder.

As the cocks were beginning to crow in the poultry yard and it was near
daybreak, he set to work to bury the man.

He dug a hole in the manure till he reached the earth, dug down further,
working wildly, in a frenzy of strength with frantic motions of his arms
and body.

When the pit was deep enough he rolled the corpse into it with the fork,
covered it with earth, which he stamped down for some time, and then put
back the manure, and he smiled as he saw the thick snow finishing his
work and covering up its traces with a white sheet.

He then stuck the fork in the manure and went into the house. His bottle,
still half full of brandy stood on the table. He emptied it at a draught,
threw himself on his bed and slept heavily.

He woke up sober, his mind calm and clear, capable of judgment and
thought.

At the end of an hour he was going about the country making inquiries
everywhere for his soldier. He went to see the Prussian officer to find
out why they had taken away his man.

As everyone knew what good friends they were, no one suspected him. He
even directed the research, declaring that the Prussian went to see the
girls every evening.

An old retired gendarme who had an inn in the next village, and a pretty
daughter, was arrested and shot.




LASTING LOVE

It was the end of the dinner that opened the shooting season. The Marquis
de Bertrans with his guests sat around a brightly lighted table, covered
with fruit and flowers. The conversation drifted to love. Immediately
there arose an animated discussion, the same eternal discussion as to
whether it were possible to love more than once. Examples were given of
persons who had loved once; these were offset by those who had loved
violently many times. The men agreed that passion, like sickness, may
attack the same person several times, unless it strikes to kill. This
conclusion seemed quite incontestable. The women, however, who based
their opinion on poetry rather than on practical observation, maintained
that love, the great passion, may come only once to mortals. It resembles
lightning, they said, this love. A heart once touched by it becomes
forever such a waste, so ruined, so consumed, that no other strong
sentiment can take root there, not even a dream. The marquis, who had
indulged in many love affairs, disputed this belief.

"I tell you it is possible to love several times with all one's heart and
soul. You quote examples of persons who have killed themselves for love,
to prove the impossibility of a second passion. I wager that if they had
not foolishly committed suicide, and so destroyed the possibility of a
second experience, they would have found a new love, and still another,
and so on till death. It is with love as with drink. He who has once
indulged is forever a slave. It is a thing of temperament."

They chose the old doctor as umpire. He thought it was as the marquis had
said, a thing of temperament.

"As for me," he said, "I once knew of a love which lasted fifty-five
years without one day's respite, and which ended only with death." The
wife of the marquis clasped her hands.

"That is beautiful! Ah, what a dream to be loved in such a way! What
bliss to live for fifty-five years enveloped in an intense, unwavering
affection! How this happy being must have blessed his life to be so
adored!"

The doctor smiled.

"You are not mistaken, madame, on this point the loved one was a man. You
even know him; it is Monsieur Chouquet, the chemist. As to the woman, you
also know her, the old chair-mender, who came every year to the chateau."
The enthusiasm of the women fell. Some expressed their contempt with
"Pouah!" for the loves of common people did not interest them. The doctor
continued: "Three months ago I was called to the deathbed of the old
chair-mender. The priest had preceded me. She wished to make us the
executors of her will. In order that we might understand her conduct, she
told us the story of her life. It is most singular and touching: Her
father and mother were both chair-menders. She had never lived in a
house. As a little child she wandered about with them, dirty, unkempt,
hungry. They visited many towns, leaving their horse, wagon and dog just
outside the limits, where the child played in the grass alone until her
parents had repaired all the broken chairs in the place. They seldom
spoke, except to cry, 'Chairs! Chairs! Chair-mender!'

"When the little one strayed too far away, she would be called back by
the harsh, angry voice of her father. She never heard a word of
affection. When she grew older, she fetched and carried the broken
chairs. Then it was she made friends with the children in the street, but
their parents always called them away and scolded them for speaking to
the barefooted child. Often the boys threw stones at her. Once a kind
woman gave her a few pennies. She saved them most carefully.

"One day--she was then eleven years old--as she was walking through
a country town she met, behind the cemetery, little Chouquet, weeping
bitterly, because one of his playmates had stolen two precious liards
(mills). The tears of the small bourgeois, one of those much-envied
mortals, who, she imagined, never knew trouble, completely upset her. She
approached him and, as soon as she learned the cause of his grief, she
put into his hands all her savings. He took them without hesitation and
dried his eyes. Wild with joy, she kissed him. He was busy counting his
money, and did not object. Seeing that she was not repulsed, she threw
her arms round him and gave him a hug--then she ran away.

"What was going on in her poor little head? Was it because she had
sacrificed all her fortune that she became madly fond of this youngster,
or was it because she had given him the first tender kiss? The mystery is
alike for children and for those of riper years. For months she dreamed
of that corner near the cemetery and of the little chap. She stole a sou
here and, there from her parents on the chair money or groceries she was
sent to buy. When she returned to the spot near the cemetery she had two
francs in her pocket, but he was not there. Passing his father's drug
store, she caught sight of him behind the counter. He was sitting between
a large red globe and a blue one. She only loved him the more, quite
carried away at the sight of the brilliant-colored globes. She cherished
the recollection of it forever in her heart. The following year she met
him near the school playing marbles. She rushed up to him, threw her
arms round him, and kissed him so passionately that he screamed, in fear.
To quiet him, she gave him all her money. Three francs and twenty
centimes! A real gold mine, at which he gazed with staring eyes.

"After this he allowed her to kiss him as much as she wished. During the
next four years she put into his hands all her savings, which he pocketed
conscientiously in exchange for kisses. At one time it was thirty sons,
at another two francs. Again, she only had twelve sous. She wept with
grief and shame, explaining brokenly that it had been a poor year. The
next time she brought five francs, in one whole piece, which made her
laugh with joy. She no longer thought of any one but the boy, and he
watched for her with impatience; sometimes he would run to meet her. This
made her heart thump with joy. Suddenly he disappeared. He had gone to
boarding school. She found this out by careful investigation. Then she
used great diplomacy to persuade her parents to change their route and
pass by this way again during vacation. After a year of scheming she
succeeded. She had not seen him for two years, and scarcely recognized
him, he was so changed, had grown taller, better looking and was imposing
in his uniform, with its brass buttons. He pretended not to see her, and
passed by without a glance. She wept for two days and from that time
loved and suffered unceasingly.

"Every year he came home and she passed him, not daring to lift her eyes.
He never condescended to turn his head toward her. She loved him madly,
hopelessly. She said to me:

"'He is the only man whom I have ever seen. I don't even know if another
exists.' Her parents died. She continued their work.

"One day, on entering the village, where her heart always remained, she
saw Chouquet coming out of his pharmacy with a young lady leaning on his
arm. She was his wife. That night the chair-mender threw herself into the
river. A drunkard passing the spot pulled her out and took her to the
drug store. Young Chouquet came down in his dressing gown to revive her.
Without seeming to know who she was he undressed her and rubbed her; then
he said to her, in a harsh voice:

"'You are mad! People must not do stupid things like that.' His voice
brought her to life again. He had spoken to her! She was happy for a long
time. He refused remuneration for his trouble, although she insisted.

"All her life passed in this way. She worked, thinking always of him. She
began to buy medicines at his pharmacy; this gave her a chance to talk to
him and to see him closely. In this way, she was still able to give him
money.

"As I said before, she died this spring. When she had closed her pathetic
story she entreated me to take her earnings to the man she loved. She had
worked only that she might leave him something to remind him of her after
her death. I gave the priest fifty francs for her funeral expenses. The
next morning I went to see the Chouquets. They were finishing breakfast,
sitting opposite each other, fat and red, important and self-satisfied.
They welcomed me and offered me some coffee, which I accepted. Then I
began my story in a trembling voice, sure that they would be softened,
even to tears. As soon as Chouquet understood that he had been loved by
'that vagabond! that chair-mender! that wanderer!' he swore with
indignation as though his reputation had been sullied, the respect of
decent people lost, his personal honor, something precious and dearer to
him than life, gone. His exasperated wife kept repeating: 'That beggar!
That beggar!'

"Seeming unable to find words suitable to the enormity, he stood up and
began striding about. He muttered: 'Can you understand anything so
horrible, doctor? Oh, if I had only known it while she was alive, I
should have had her thrown into prison. I promise you she would not have
escaped.'

"I was dumfounded; I hardly knew what to think or say, but I had to
finish my mission. 'She commissioned me,' I said, 'to give you her
savings, which amount to three thousand five hundred francs. As what I
have just told you seems to be very disagreeable, perhaps you would
prefer to give this money to the poor.'

"They looked at me, that man and woman,' speechless with amazement. I
took the few thousand francs from out of my pocket. Wretched-looking
money from every country. Pennies and gold pieces all mixed together.
Then I asked:

"'What is your decision?'

"Madame Chouquet spoke first. 'Well, since it is the dying woman's wish,
it seems to me impossible to refuse it.'

"Her husband said, in a shamefaced manner: 'We could buy something for
our children with it.'

"I answered dryly: 'As you wish.'

"He replied: 'Well, give it to us anyhow, since she commissioned you to
do so; we will find a way to put it to some good purpose.'

"I gave them the money, bowed and left.

"The next day Chouquet came to me and said brusquely:

"'That woman left her wagon here--what have you done with it?'

"'Nothing; take it if you wish.'

"'It's just what I wanted,' he added, and walked off. I called him back
and said:

"'She also left her old horse and two dogs. Don't you need them?'

"He stared at me surprised: 'Well, no! Really, what would I do with
them?'

"'Dispose of them as you like.'

"He laughed and held out his hand to me. I shook it. What could I do? The
doctor and the druggist in a country village must not be at enmity. I
have kept the dogs. The priest took the old horse. The wagon is useful to
Chouquet, and with the money he has bought railroad stock. That is the
only deep, sincere love that I have ever known in all my life."

The doctor looked up. The marquise, whose eyes were full of tears, sighed
and said:

"There is no denying the fact, only women know how to love."




PIERROT

Mme. Lefevre was a country dame, a widow, one of these half peasants,
with ribbons and bonnets with trimming on them, one of those persons who
clipped her words and put on great airs in public, concealing the soul of
a pretentious animal beneath a comical and bedizened exterior, just as
the country-folks hide their coarse red hands in ecru silk gloves.

She had a servant, a good simple peasant, called Rose.

The two women lived in a little house with green shutters by the side of
the high road in Normandy, in the centre of the country of Caux. As they
had a narrow strip of garden in front of the house, they grew some
vegetables.

One night someone stole twelve onions. As soon as Rose became aware of
the theft, she ran to tell madame, who came downstairs in her woolen
petticoat. It was a shame and a disgrace! They had robbed her, Mme.
Lefevre! As there were thieves in the country, they might come back.

And the two frightened women examined the foot tracks, talking, and
supposing all sorts of things.

"See, they went that way! They stepped on the wall, they jumped into the
garden!"

And they became apprehensive for the future. How could they sleep in
peace now!

The news of the theft spread. The neighbor came, making examinations and
discussing the matter in their turn, while the two women explained to
each newcomer what they had observed and their opinion.

A farmer who lived near said to them:

"You ought to have a dog."

That is true, they ought to have a dog, if it were only to give the
alarm. Not a big dog. Heavens! what would they do with a big dog? He
would eat their heads off. But a little dog (in Normandy they say
"quin"), a little puppy who would bark.

As soon as everyone had left, Mme. Lefevre discussed this idea of a dog
for some time. On reflection she made a thousand objections, terrified at
the idea of a bowl full of soup, for she belonged to that race of
parsimonious country women who always carry centimes in their pocket to
give alms in public to beggars on the road and to put in the Sunday
collection plate.

Rose, who loved animals, gave her opinion and defended it shrewdly. So it
was decided that they should have a dog, a very small dog.

They began to look for one, but could find nothing but big dogs, who
would devour enough soup to make one shudder. The grocer of Rolleville
had one, a tiny one, but he demanded two francs to cover the cost of
sending it. Mme. Lefevre declared that she would feed a "quin," but would
not buy one.

The baker, who knew all that occurred, brought in his wagon one morning a
strange little yellow animal, almost without paws, with the body of a
crocodile, the head of a fox, and a curly tail--a true cockade, as
big as all the rest of him. Mme. Lefevre thought this common cur that
cost nothing was very handsome. Rose hugged it and asked what its name
was.

"Pierrot," replied the baker.

The dog was installed in an old soap box and they gave it some water
which it drank. They then offered it a piece of bread. He ate it. Mme.
Lefevre, uneasy, had an idea.

"When he is thoroughly accustomed to the house we can let him run. He can
find something to eat, roaming about the country."

They let him run, in fact, which did not prevent him from being famished.
Also he never barked except to beg for food, and then he barked
furiously.

Anyone might come into the garden, and Pierrot would run up and fawn on
each one in turn and not utter a bark.

Mme. Lefevre, however, had become accustomed to the animal. She even went
so far as to like it and to give it from time to time pieces of bread
soaked in the gravy on her plate.

But she had not once thought of the dog tax, and when they came to
collect eight francs--eight francs, madame--for this puppy who
never even barked, she almost fainted from the shock.

It was immediately decided that they must get rid of Pierrot. No one
wanted him. Every one declined to take him for ten leagues around. Then
they resolved, not knowing what else to do, to make him "piquer du mas."

"Piquer du mas" means to eat chalk. When one wants to get rid of a dog
they make him "Piquer du mas."

In the midst of an immense plain one sees a kind of hut, or rather a very
small roof standing above the ground. This is the entrance to the clay
pit. A big perpendicular hole is sunk for twenty metres underground and
ends in a series of long subterranean tunnels.