Maupassant Original Short Stories (180), Complete

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


He felt like crying, but could not even yet find a word to say.

All these things came back to him now, as vividly as on the day when they
took place. Why had she said this to him, "Great goose, what ails you?
You might at least say something!"

And he recalled how tenderly she had leaned on his arm. And in passing
under a shady tree he had felt her ear brushing his cheek, and he had
moved his head abruptly, lest she should suppose he was too familiar.

When he had said to her: "Is it not time to return?" she darted a
singular look at him. "Certainly," she said, "certainly," regarding him
at the same time in a curious manner. He had not thought of it at the
time, but now the whole thing appeared to him quite plain.

"Just as you like, my friend. If you are tired let us go back."

And he had answered: "I am not fatigued; but Sandres may be awake now."

And she had said: "If you are afraid of my husband's being awake, that is
another thing. Let us return."

On their way back she remained silent, and leaned no longer on his arm.
Why?

At that time it had never occurred to him, to ask himself "why." Now he
seemed to apprehend something that he had not then understood.

Could it?

M. Saval felt himself blush, and he got up at a bound, as if he were
thirty years younger and had heard Madame Sandres say, "I love you."

Was it possible? That idea which had just entered his mind tortured him.
Was it possible that he had not seen, had not guessed?

Oh! if that were true, if he had let this opportunity of happiness pass
without taking advantage of it!

He said to himself: "I must know. I cannot remain in this state of doubt.
I must know!" He thought: "I am sixty-two years of age, she is
fifty-eight; I may ask her that now without giving offense."

He started out.

The Sandres' house was situated on the other side of the street, almost
directly opposite his own. He went across and knocked at the door, and a
little servant opened it.

"You here at this hour, Saval! Has some accident happened to you?"

"No, my girl," he replied; "but go and tell your mistress that I want to
speak to her at once."

"The fact is madame is preserving pears for the winter, and she is in the
preserving room. She is not dressed, you understand."

"Yes, but go and tell her that I wish to see her on a very important
matter."

The little servant went away, and Saval began to walk, with long, nervous
strides, up and down the drawing-room. He did not feel in the least
embarrassed, however. Oh! he was merely going to ask her something, as he
would have asked her about some cooking recipe. He was sixty-two years of
age!

The door opened and madame appeared. She was now a large woman, fat and
round, with full cheeks and a sonorous laugh. She walked with her arms
away from her sides and her sleeves tucked up, her bare arms all covered
with fruit juice. She asked anxiously:

"What is the matter with you, my friend? You are not ill, are you?"

"No, my dear friend; but I wish to ask you one thing, which to me is of
the first importance, something which is torturing my heart, and I want
you to promise that you will answer me frankly."

She laughed, "I am always frank. Say on."

"Well, then. I have loved you from the first day I ever saw you. Can you
have any doubt of this?"

She responded, laughing, with something of her former tone of voice.

"Great goose! what ails you? I knew it from the very first day!"

Saval began to tremble. He stammered out: "You knew it? Then . . ."

He stopped.

She asked:

"Then?"

He answered:

"Then--what did you think? What--what--what would you have
answered?"

She broke into a peal of laughter. Some of the juice ran off the tips of
her fingers on to the carpet.

"What?"

"I? Why, you did not ask me anything. It was not for me to declare
myself!"

He then advanced a step toward her.

"Tell me--tell me . . . . You remember the day when Sandres went to
sleep on the grass after lunch . . . when we had walked together as far
as the bend of the river, below . . ."

He waited, expectantly. She had ceased to laugh, and looked at him,
straight in the eyes.

"Yes, certainly, I remember it."

He answered, trembling all over:

"Well--that day--if I had been--if I had
been--venturesome--what would you have done?"

She began to laugh as only a happy woman can laugh, who has nothing to
regret, and responded frankly, in a clear voice tinged with irony:

"I would have yielded, my friend."

She then turned on her heels and went back to her jam-making.

Saval rushed into the street, cast down, as though he had met with some
disaster. He walked with giant strides through the rain, straight on,
until he reached the river bank, without thinking where he was going. He
then turned to the right and followed the river. He walked a long time,
as if urged on by some instinct. His clothes were running with water, his
hat was out of shape, as soft as a rag, and dripping like a roof. He
walked on, straight in front of him. At last, he came to the place where
they had lunched on that day so long ago, the recollection of which
tortured his heart. He sat down under the leafless trees, and wept.




A SISTER'S CONFESSION

Marguerite de Therelles was dying. Although she was-only fifty-six years
old she looked at least seventy-five. She gasped for breath, her face
whiter than the sheets, and had spasms of violent shivering, with her
face convulsed and her eyes haggard as though she saw a frightful vision.

Her elder sister, Suzanne, six years older than herself, was sobbing on
her knees beside the bed. A small table close to the dying woman's couch
bore, on a white cloth, two lighted candles, for the priest was expected
at any moment to administer extreme unction and the last communion.

The apartment wore that melancholy aspect common to death chambers; a
look of despairing farewell. Medicine bottles littered the furniture;
linen lay in the corners into which it had been kicked or swept. The very
chairs looked, in their disarray, as if they were terrified and had run
in all directions. Death--terrible Death--was in the room,
hidden, awaiting his prey.

This history of the two sisters was an affecting one. It was spoken of
far and wide; it had drawn tears from many eyes.

Suzanne, the elder, had once been passionately loved by a young man,
whose affection she returned. They were engaged to be married, and the
wedding day was at hand, when Henry de Sampierre suddenly died.

The young girl's despair was terrible, and she took an oath never to
marry. She faithfully kept her vow and adopted widow's weeds for the
remainder of her life.

But one morning her sister, her little sister Marguerite, then only
twelve years old, threw herself into Suzanne's arms, sobbing: "Sister, I
don't want you to be unhappy. I don't want you to mourn all your life.
I'll never leave you--never, never, never! I shall never marry,
either. I'll stay with you always--always!"

Suzanne kissed her, touched by the child's devotion, though not putting
any faith in her promise.

But the little one kept her word, and, despite her parents'
remonstrances, despite her elder sister's prayers, never married. She was
remarkably pretty and refused many offers. She never left her sister.

They spent their whole life together, without a single day's separation.
They went everywhere together and were inseparable. But Marguerite was
pensive, melancholy, sadder than her sister, as if her sublime sacrifice
had undermined her spirits. She grew older more quickly; her hair was
white at thirty; and she was often ill, apparently stricken with some
unknown, wasting malady.

And now she would be the first to die.

She had not spoken for twenty-four hours, except to whisper at daybreak:

"Send at once for the priest."

And she had since remained lying on her back, convulsed with agony, her
lips moving as if unable to utter the dreadful words that rose in her
heart, her face expressive of a terror distressing to witness.

Suzanne, distracted with grief, her brow pressed against the bed, wept
bitterly, repeating over and over again the words:

"Margot, my poor Margot, my little one!"

She had always called her "my little one," while Marguerite's name for
the elder was invariably "sister."

A footstep sounded on the stairs. The door opened. An acolyte appeared,
followed by the aged priest in his surplice. As soon as she saw him the
dying woman sat up suddenly in bed, opened her lips, stammered a few
words and began to scratch the bed-clothes, as if she would have made
hole in them.

Father Simon approached, took her hand, kissed her on the forehead and
said in a gentle voice:

"May God pardon your sins, my daughter. Be of good courage. Now is the
moment to confess them--speak!"

Then Marguerite, shuddering from head to foot, so that the very bed shook
with her nervous movements, gasped:

"Sit down, sister, and listen."

The priest stooped toward the prostrate Suzanne, raised her to her feet,
placed her in a chair, and, taking a hand of each of the sisters,
pronounced:

"Lord God! Send them strength! Shed Thy mercy upon them."

And Marguerite began to speak. The words issued from her lips one by
one--hoarse, jerky, tremulous.

"Pardon, pardon, sister! pardon me! Oh, if only you knew how I have
dreaded this moment all my life!"

Suzanne faltered through her tears:

"But what have I to pardon, little one? You have given me everything,
sacrificed all to me. You are an angel."

But Marguerite interrupted her:

"Be silent, be silent! Let me speak! Don't stop me! It is terrible. Let
me tell all, to the very end, without interruption. Listen. You
remember--you remember--Henry--"

Suzanne trembled and looked at her sister. The younger one went on:

"In order to understand you must hear everything. I was twelve years
old--only twelve--you remember, don't you? And I was spoilt; I
did just as I pleased. You remember how everybody spoilt me? Listen. The
first time he came he had on his riding boots; he dismounted, saying that
he had a message for father. You remember, don't you? Don't speak.
Listen. When I saw him I was struck with admiration. I thought him so
handsome, and I stayed in a corner of the drawing-room all the time he
was talking. Children are strange--and terrible. Yes, indeed, I
dreamt of him.

"He came again--many times. I looked at him with all my eyes, all my
heart. I was large for my age and much more precocious than--any one
suspected. He came often. I thought only of him. I often whispered to
myself:

"'Henry-Henry de Sampierre!'

"Then I was told that he was going to marry you. That was a blow! Oh,
sister, a terrible blow--terrible! I wept all through three
sleepless nights.

"He came every afternoon after lunch. You remember, don't you? Don't
answer. Listen. You used to make cakes that he was very fond
of--with flour, butter and milk. Oh, I know how to make them. I
could make them still, if necessary. He would swallow them at one
mouthful and wash them down with a glass of wine, saying: 'Delicious!' Do
you remember the way he said it?

"I was jealous--jealous! Your wedding day was drawing near. It was
only a fortnight distant. I was distracted. I said to myself: 'He shall
not marry Suzanne--no, he shall not! He shall marry me when I am old
enough! I shall never love any one half so much.' But one evening, ten
days before the wedding, you went for a stroll with him in the moonlight
before the house--and yonder--under the pine tree, the big pine
tree--he kissed you--kissed you--and held you in his arms
so long--so long! You remember, don't you? It was probably the first
time. You were so pale when you came back to the drawing-room!

"I saw you. I was there in the shrubbery. I was mad with rage! I would
have killed you both if I could!

"I said to myself: 'He shall never marry Suzanne--never! He shall
marry no one! I could not bear it.' And all at once I began to hate him
intensely.

"Then do you know what I did? Listen. I had seen the gardener prepare
pellets for killing stray dogs. He would crush a bottle into small pieces
with a stone and put the ground glass into a ball of meat.

"I stole a small medicine bottle from mother's room. I ground it fine
with a hammer and hid the glass in my pocket. It was a glistening powder.
The next day, when you had made your little cakes; I opened them with a
knife and inserted the glass. He ate three. I ate one myself. I threw the
six others into the pond. The two swans died three days later. You
remember? Oh, don't speak! Listen, listen. I, I alone did not die. But I
have always been ill. Listen--he died--you know--listen--that was not the
worst. It was afterward, later--always--the most terrible--listen.

"My life, all my life--such torture! I said to myself: 'I will never
leave my sister. And on my deathbed I will tell her all.' And now I have
told. And I have always thought of this moment--the moment when all
would be told. Now it has come. It is terrible--oh!--sister--

"I have always thought, morning and evening, day and night: 'I shall have
to tell her some day!' I waited. The horror of it! It is done. Say
nothing. Now I am afraid--I am afraid! Oh! Supposing I should see
him again, by and by, when I am dead! See him again! Only to think of it!
I dare not--yet I must. I am going to die. I want you to forgive me.
I insist on it. I cannot meet him without your forgiveness. Oh, tell her
to forgive me, Father! Tell her. I implore you! I cannot die without it."

She was silent and lay back, gasping for breath, still plucking at the
sheets with her fingers.

Suzanne had hidden her face in her hands and did not move. She was
thinking of him whom she had loved so long. What a life of happiness they
might have had together! She saw him again in the dim and distant
past-that past forever lost. Beloved dead! how the thought of them rends
the heart! Oh! that kiss, his only kiss! She had retained the memory of
it in her soul. And, after that, nothing, nothing more throughout her
whole existence!

The priest rose suddenly and in a firm, compelling voice said:

"Mademoiselle Suzanne, your sister is dying!"

Then Suzanne, raising her tear-stained face, put her arms round her
sister, and kissing her fervently, exclaimed:

"I forgive you, I forgive you, little one!"




COCO

Throughout the whole countryside the Lucas farn, was known as "the
Manor." No one knew why. The peasants doubtless attached to this word,
"Manor," a meaning of wealth and of splendor, for this farm was
undoubtedly the largest, richest and the best managed in the whole
neighborhood.

The immense court, surrounded by five rows of magnificent trees, which
sheltered the delicate apple trees from the harsh wind of the plain,
inclosed in its confines long brick buildings used for storing fodder and
grain, beautiful stables built of hard stone and made to accommodate
thirty horses, and a red brick residence which looked like a little
chateau.

Thanks for the good care taken, the manure heaps were as little offensive
as such things can be; the watch-dogs lived in kennels, and countless
poultry paraded through the tall grass.

Every day, at noon, fifteen persons, masters, farmhands and the women
folks, seated themselves around the long kitchen table where the soup was
brought in steaming in a large, blue-flowered bowl.

The beasts-horses, cows, pigs and sheep-were fat, well fed and clean.
Maitre Lucas, a tall man who was getting stout, would go round three
times a day, overseeing everything and thinking of everything.

A very old white horse, which the mistress wished to keep until its
natural death, because she had brought it up and had always used it, and
also because it recalled many happy memories, was housed, through sheer
kindness of heart, at the end of the stable.

A young scamp about fifteen years old, Isidore Duval by name, and called,
for convenience, Zidore, took care of this pensioner, gave him his
measure of oats and fodder in winter, and in summer was supposed to
change his pasturing place four times a day, so that he might have plenty
of fresh grass.

The animal, almost crippled, lifted with difficulty his legs, large at
the knees and swollen above the hoofs. His coat, which was no longer
curried, looked like white hair, and his long eyelashes gave to his eyes
a sad expression.

When Zidore took the animal to pasture, he had to pull on the rope with
all his might, because it walked so slowly; and the youth, bent over and
out of breath, would swear at it, exasperated at having to care for this
old nag.

The farmhands, noticing the young rascal's anger against Coco, were
amused and would continually talk of the horse to Zidore, in order to
exasperate him. His comrades would make sport with him. In the village he
was called Coco-Zidore.

The boy would fume, feeling an unholy desire to revenge himself on the
horse. He was a thin, long-legged, dirty child, with thick, coarse,
bristly red hair. He seemed only half-witted, and stuttered as though
ideas were unable to form in his thick, brute-like mind.

For a long time he had been unable to understand why Coco should be kept,
indignant at seeing things wasted on this useless beast. Since the horse
could no longer work, it seemed to him unjust that he should be fed; he
revolted at the idea of wasting oats, oats which were so expensive, on
this paralyzed old plug. And often, in spite of the orders of Maitre
Lucas, he would economize on the nag's food, only giving him half
measure. Hatred grew in his confused, childlike mind, the hatred of a
stingy, mean, fierce, brutal and cowardly peasant.

When summer came he had to move the animal about in the pasture. It was
some distance away. The rascal, angrier every morning, would start, with
his dragging step, across the wheat fields. The men working in the fields
would shout to him, jokingly:

"Hey, Zidore, remember me to Coco."

He would not answer; but on the way he would break off a switch, and, as
soon as he had moved the old horse, he would let it begin grazing; then,
treacherously sneaking up behind it, he would slash its legs. The animal
would try to escape, to kick, to get away from the blows, and run around
in a circle about its rope, as though it had been inclosed in a circus
ring. And the boy would slash away furiously, running along behind, his
teeth clenched in anger.

Then he would go away slowly, without turning round, while the horse
watched him disappear, his ribs sticking out, panting as a result of his
unusual exertions. Not until the blue blouse of the young peasant was out
of sight would he lower his thin white head to the grass.

As the nights were now warm, Coco was allowed to sleep out of doors, in
the field behind the little wood. Zidore alone went to see him. The boy
threw stones at him to amuse himself. He would sit down on an embankment
about ten feet away and would stay there about half an hour, from time to
time throwing a sharp stone at the old horse, which remained standing
tied before his enemy, watching him continually and not daring to eat
before he was gone.

This one thought persisted in the mind of the young scamp: "Why feed this
horse, which is no longer good for anything?" It seemed to him that this
old nag was stealing the food of the others, the goods of man and God,
that he was even robbing him, Zidore, who was working.

Then, little by little, each day, the boy began to shorten the length of
rope which allowed the horse to graze.

The hungry animal was growing thinner, and starving. Too feeble to break
his bonds, he would stretch his head out toward the tall, green, tempting
grass, so near that he could smell, and yet so far that he could not
touch it.

But one morning Zidore had an idea: it was, not to move Coco any more. He
was tired of walking so far for that old skeleton. He came, however, in
order to enjoy his vengeance. The beast watched him anxiously. He did not
beat him that day. He walked around him with his hands in his pockets. He
even pretended to change his place, but he sank the stake in exactly the
same hole, and went away overjoyed with his invention.

The horse, seeing him leave, neighed to call him back; but the rascal
began to run, leaving him alone, entirely alone in his field, well tied
down and without a blade of grass within reach.

Starving, he tried to reach the grass which he could touch with the end
of his nose. He got on his knees, stretching out his neck and his long,
drooling lips. All in vain. The old animal spent the whole day in
useless, terrible efforts. The sight of all that green food, which
stretched out on all sides of him, served to increase the gnawing pangs
of hunger.

The scamp did not return that day. He wandered through the woods in
search of nests.

The next day he appeared upon the scene again. Coco, exhausted, had lain
down. When he saw the boy, he got up, expecting at last to have his place
changed.

But the little peasant did not even touch the mallet, which was lying on
the ground. He came nearer, looked at the animal, threw at his head a
clump of earth which flattened out against the white hair, and he started
off again, whistling.

The horse remained standing as long as he could see him; then, knowing
that his attempts to reach the near-by grass would be hopeless, he once
more lay down on his side and closed his eyes.

The following day Zidore did not come.

When he did come at last, he found Coco still stretched out; he saw that
he was dead.

Then he remained standing, looking at him, pleased with what he had done,
surprised that it should already be all over. He touched him with his
foot, lifted one of his legs and then let it drop, sat on him and
remained there, his eyes fixed on the grass, thinking of nothing. He
returned to the farm, but did not mention the accident, because he wished
to wander about at the hours when he used to change the horse's pasture.
He went to see him the next day. At his approach some crows flew away.
Countless flies were walking over the body and were buzzing around it.
When he returned home, he announced the event. The animal was so old that
nobody was surprised. The master said to two of the men:

"Take your shovels and dig a hole right where he is."

The men buried the horse at the place where he had died of hunger. And
the grass grew thick, green and vigorous, fed by the poor body.




DEAD WOMAN'S SECRET

The woman had died without pain, quietly, as a woman should whose life
had been blameless. Now she was resting in her bed, lying on her back,
her eyes closed, her features calm, her long white hair carefully
arranged as though she had done it up ten minutes before dying. The whole
pale countenance of the dead woman was so collected, so calm, so resigned
that one could feel what a sweet soul had lived in that body, what a
quiet existence this old soul had led, how easy and pure the death of
this parent had been.

Kneeling beside the bed, her son, a magistrate with inflexible
principles, and her daughter, Marguerite, known as Sister Eulalie, were
weeping as though their hearts would break. She had, from childhood up,
armed them with a strict moral code, teaching them religion, without
weakness, and duty, without compromise. He, the man, had become a judge
and handled the law as a weapon with which he smote the weak ones without
pity. She, the girl, influenced by the virtue which had bathed her in
this austere family, had become the bride of the Church through her
loathing for man.

They had hardly known their father, knowing only that he had made their
mother most unhappy, without being told any other details.

The nun was wildly-kissing the dead woman's hand, an ivory hand as white
as the large crucifix lying across the bed. On the other side of the long
body the other hand seemed still to be holding the sheet in the death
grasp; and the sheet had preserved the little creases as a memory of
those last movements which precede eternal immobility.

A few light taps on the door caused the two sobbing heads to look up, and
the priest, who had just come from dinner, returned. He was red and out
of breath from his interrupted digestion, for he had made himself a
strong mixture of coffee and brandy in order to combat the fatigue of the
last few nights and of the wake which was beginning.

He looked sad, with that assumed sadness of the priest for whom death is
a bread winner. He crossed himself and approaching with his professional
gesture: "Well, my poor children! I have come to help you pass these last
sad hours." But Sister Eulalie suddenly arose. "Thank you, father, but my
brother and I prefer to remain alone with her. This is our last chance to
see her, and we wish to be together, all three of us, as we--we--used to
be when we were small and our poor mo--mother----"

Grief and tears stopped her; she could not continue.

Once more serene, the priest bowed, thinking of his bed. "As you wish, my
children." He kneeled, crossed himself, prayed, arose and went out
quietly, murmuring: "She was a saint!"

They remained alone, the dead woman and her children. The ticking of the
clock, hidden in the shadow, could be heard distinctly, and through the
open window drifted in the sweet smell of hay and of woods, together with
the soft moonlight. No other noise could be heard over the land except
the occasional croaking of the frog or the chirping of some belated
insect. An infinite peace, a divine melancholy, a silent serenity
surrounded this dead woman, seemed to be breathed out from her and to
appease nature itself.