Original Short Stories of Maupassant, Volume 11

G >> Guy de Maupassant >> Original Short Stories of Maupassant, Volume 11


He answered:

"Yes, it's quite a distance, but we will take the omnibus."

She was surprised:

"Why don't we take a cab?"

He began to scold her smilingly:

"Is that the way you save money? A cab for a five minutes' ride at six
cents a minute! You would deprive yourself of nothing."

"That's so," she said, a little embarrassed.

A big omnibus was passing by, drawn by three big horses, which were
trotting along. Lebrument called out:

"Conductor! Conductor!"

The heavy carriage stopped. And the young lawyer, pushing his wife, said
to her quickly:

"Go inside; I'm going up on top, so that I may smoke at least one
cigarette before lunch."

She had no time to answer. The conductor, who had seized her by the arm
to help her up the step, pushed her inside, and she fell into a seat,
bewildered, looking through the back window at the feet of her husband as
he climbed up to the top of the vehicle.

And she sat there motionless, between a fat man who smelled of cheap
tobacco and an old woman who smelled of garlic.

All the other passengers were lined up in silence--a grocer's boy, a
young girl, a soldier, a gentleman with gold-rimmed spectacles and a big
silk hat, two ladies with a self-satisfied and crabbed look, which seemed
to say: "We are riding in this thing, but we don't have to," two sisters
of charity and an undertaker. They looked like a collection of
caricatures.

The jolting of the wagon made them wag their heads and the shaking of the
wheels seemed to stupefy them--they all looked as though they were
asleep.

The young woman remained motionless.

"Why didn't he come inside with me?" she was saying to herself. An
unaccountable sadness seemed to be hanging over her. He really need not
have acted so.

The sisters motioned to the conductor to stop, and they got off one after
the other, leaving in their wake the pungent smell of camphor. The bus
started tip and soon stopped again. And in got a cook, red-faced and out
of breath. She sat down and placed her basket of provisions on her knees.
A strong odor of dish-water filled the vehicle.

"It's further than I imagined," thought Jeanne.

The undertaker went out, and was replaced by a coachman who seemed to
bring the atmosphere of the stable with him. The young girl had as a
successor a messenger, the odor of whose feet showed that he was
continually walking.

The lawyer's wife began to feel ill at ease, nauseated, ready to cry
without knowing why.

Other persons left and others entered. The stage went on through
interminable streets, stopping at stations and starting again.

"How far it is!" thought Jeanne. "I hope he hasn't gone to sleep! He has
been so tired the last few days."

Little by little all the passengers left. She was left alone, all alone.
The conductor cried:

"Vaugirard!"

Seeing that she did not move, he repeated:

"Vaugirard!"

She looked at him, understanding that he was speaking to her, as there
was no one else there. For the third time the man said:

"Vaugirard!"

Then she asked:

"Where are we?"

He answered gruffly:

"We're at Vaugirard, of course! I have been yelling it for the last half
hour!"

"Is it far from the Boulevard?" she said.

"Which boulevard?"

"The Boulevard des Italiens."

"We passed that a long time ago!"

"Would you mind telling my husband?"

"Your husband! Where is he?"

"On the top of the bus."

"On the top! There hasn't been anybody there for a long time."

She started, terrified.

"What? That's impossible! He got on with me. Look well! He must be
there."

The conductor was becoming uncivil:

"Come on, little one, you've talked enough! You can find ten men for
every one that you lose. Now run along. You'll find another one
somewhere."

Tears were coming to her eyes. She insisted:

"But, monsieur, you are mistaken; I assure you that you must be mistaken.
He had a big portfolio under his arm."

The man began to laugh:

"A big portfolio! Oh, yes! He got off at the Madeleine. He got rid of
you, all right! Ha! ha! ha!"

The stage had stopped. She got out and, in spite of herself, she looked
up instinctively to the roof of the bus. It was absolutely deserted.

Then she began to cry, and, without thinking that anybody was listening
or watching her, she said out loud:

"What is going to become of me?"

An inspector approached:

"What's the matter?"

The conductor answered, in a bantering tone of voice:

"It's a lady who got left by her husband during the trip."

The other continued:

"Oh! that's nothing. You go about your business."

Then he turned on his heels and walked away.

She began to walk straight ahead, too bewildered, too crazed even to
understand what had happened to her. Where was she to go? What could she
do? What could have happened to him? How could he have made such a
mistake? How could he have been so forgetful?

She had two francs in her pocket. To whom could she go? Suddenly she
remembered her cousin Barral, one of the assistants in the offices of the
Ministry of the Navy.

She had just enough to pay for a cab. She drove to his house. He met her
just as he was leaving for his office. He was carrying a large portfolio
under his arm, just like Lebrument.

She jumped out of the carriage.

"Henry!" she cried.

He stopped, astonished:

"Jeanne! Here--all alone! What are you doing? Where have you come
from?"

Her eyes full of tears, she stammered:

"My husband has just got lost!"

"Lost! Where?"

"On an omnibus."

"On an omnibus?"

Weeping, she told him her whole adventure.

He listened, thought, and then asked:

"Was his mind clear this morning?"

"Yes."

"Good. Did he have much money with him?"

"Yes, he was carrying my dowry."

"Your dowry! The whole of it?"

"The whole of it--in order to pay for the practice which he bought."

"Well, my dear cousin, by this time your husband must be well on his way
to Belgium."

She could not understand. She kept repeating:

"My husband--you say--"

"I say that he has disappeared with your--your capital--that's
all!"

She stood there, a prey to conflicting emotions, sobbing.

"Then he is--he is--he is a villain!"

And, faint from excitement, she leaned her head on her cousin's shoulder
and wept.

As people were stopping to look at them, he pushed her gently into the
vestibule of his house, and, supporting her with his arm around her
waist, he led her up the stairs, and as his astonished servant opened the
door, he ordered:

"Sophie, run to the restaurant and get a luncheon for two. I am not going
to the office to-day."




THE DIARY OF A MADMAN

He was dead--the head of a high tribunal, the upright magistrate
whose irreproachable life was a proverb in all the courts of France.
Advocates, young counsellors, judges had greeted him at sight of his
large, thin, pale face lighted up by two sparkling deep-set eyes, bowing
low in token of respect.

He had passed his life in pursuing crime and in protecting the weak.
Swindlers and murderers had no more redoubtable enemy, for he seemed to
read the most secret thoughts of their minds.

He was dead, now, at the age of eighty-two, honored by the homage and
followed by the regrets of a whole people. Soldiers in red trousers had
escorted him to the tomb and men in white cravats had spoken words and
shed tears that seemed to be sincere beside his grave.

But here is the strange paper found by the dismayed notary in the desk
where he had kept the records of great criminals! It was entitled:
WHY?

20th June, 1851. I have just left court. I have condemned Blondel to
death! Now, why did this man kill his five children? Frequently one meets
with people to whom the destruction of life is a pleasure. Yes, yes, it
should be a pleasure, the greatest of all, perhaps, for is not killing
the next thing to creating? To make and to destroy! These two words
contain the history of the universe, all the history of worlds, all that
is, all! Why is it not intoxicating to kill?

25th June. To think that a being is there who lives, who walks, who runs.
A being? What is a being? That animated thing, that bears in it the
principle of motion and a will ruling that motion. It is attached to
nothing, this thing. Its feet do not belong to the ground. It is a grain
of life that moves on the earth, and this grain of life, coming I know
not whence, one can destroy at one's will. Then nothing--nothing
more. It perishes, it is finished.

26th June. Why then is it a crime to kill? Yes, why? On the contrary, it
is the law of nature. The mission of every being is to kill; he kills to
live, and he kills to kill. The beast kills without ceasing, all day,
every instant of his existence. Man kills without ceasing, to nourish
himself; but since he needs, besides, to kill for pleasure, he has
invented hunting! The child kills the insects he finds, the little birds,
all the little animals that come in his way. But this does not suffice
for the irresistible need to massacre that is in us. It is not enough to
kill beasts; we must kill man too. Long ago this need was satisfied by
human sacrifices. Now the requirements of social life have made murder a
crime. We condemn and punish the assassin! But as we cannot live without
yielding to this natural and imperious instinct of death, we relieve
ourselves, from time to time, by wars. Then a whole nation slaughters
another nation. It is a feast of blood, a feast that maddens armies and
that intoxicates civilians, women and children, who read, by lamplight at
night, the feverish story of massacre.

One might suppose that those destined to accomplish these butcheries of
men would be despised! No, they are loaded with honors. They are clad in
gold and in resplendent garments; they wear plumes on their heads and
ornaments on their breasts, and they are given crosses, rewards, titles
of every kind. They are proud, respected, loved by women, cheered by the
crowd, solely because their mission is to shed human blood; They drag
through the streets their instruments of death, that the passer-by, clad
in black, looks on with envy. For to kill is the great law set by nature
in the heart of existence! There is nothing more beautiful and honorable
than killing!

30th June. To kill is the law, because nature loves eternal youth. She
seems to cry in all her unconscious acts: "Quick! quick! quick!" The more
she destroys, the more she renews herself.

2d July. A human being--what is a human being? Through thought it is
a reflection of all that is; through memory and science it is an abridged
edition of the universe whose history it represents, a mirror of things
and of nations, each human being becomes a microcosm in the macrocosm.

3d July. It must be a pleasure, unique and full of zest, to kill; to have
there before one the living, thinking being; to make therein a little
hole, nothing but a little hole, to see that red thing flow which is the
blood, which makes life; and to have before one only a heap of limp
flesh, cold, inert, void of thought!

5th August. I, who have passed my life in judging, condemning, killing by
the spoken word, killing by the guillotine those who had killed by the
knife, I, I, if I should do as all the assassins have done whom I have
smitten, I--I--who would know it?

10th August. Who would ever know? Who would ever suspect me, me, me,
especially if I should choose a being I had no interest in doing away
with?

15th August. The temptation has come to me. It pervades my whole being;
my hands tremble with the desire to kill.

22d August. I could resist no longer. I killed a little creature as an
experiment, for a beginning. Jean, my servant, had a goldfinch in a cage
hung in the office window. I sent him on an errand, and I took the little
bird in my hand, in my hand where I felt its heart beat. It was warm. I
went up to my room. From time to time I squeezed it tighter; its heart
beat faster; this was atrocious and delicious. I was near choking it. But
I could not see the blood.

Then I took scissors, short-nail scissors, and I cut its throat with
three slits, quite gently. It opened its bill, it struggled to escape me,
but I held it, oh! I held it--I could have held a mad dog--and
I saw the blood trickle.

And then I did as assassins do--real ones. I washed the scissors, I
washed my hands. I sprinkled water and took the body, the corpse, to the
garden to hide it. I buried it under a strawberry-plant. It will never be
found. Every day I shall eat a strawberry from that plant. How one can
enjoy life when one knows how!

My servant cried; he thought his bird flown. How could he suspect me? Ah!
ah!

25th August. I must kill a man! I must--

30th August. It is done. But what a little thing! I had gone for a walk
in the forest of Vernes. I was thinking of nothing, literally nothing. A
child was in the road, a little child eating a slice of bread and butter.

He stops to see me pass and says, "Good-day, Mr. President."

And the thought enters my head, "Shall I kill him?"

I answer: "You are alone, my boy?"

"Yes, sir."

"All alone in the wood?"

"Yes, sir."

The wish to kill him intoxicated me like wine. I approached him quite
softly, persuaded that he was going to run away. And, suddenly, I seized
him by the throat. He looked at me with terror in his eyes--such
eyes! He held my wrists in his little hands and his body writhed like a
feather over the fire. Then he moved no more. I threw the body in the
ditch, and some weeds on top of it. I returned home, and dined well. What
a little thing it was! In the evening I was very gay, light, rejuvenated;
I passed the evening at the Prefect's. They found me witty. But I have
not seen blood! I am tranquil.

31st August. The body has been discovered. They are hunting for the
assassin. Ah! ah!

1st September. Two tramps have been arrested. Proofs are lacking.

2d September. The parents have been to see me. They wept! Ah! ah!

6th October. Nothing has been discovered. Some strolling vagabond must
have done the deed. Ah! ah! If I had seen the blood flow, it seems to me
I should be tranquil now! The desire to kill is in my blood; it is like
the passion of youth at twenty.

20th October. Yet another. I was walking by the river, after breakfast.
And I saw, under a willow, a fisherman asleep. It was noon. A spade was
standing in a potato-field near by, as if expressly, for me.

I took it. I returned; I raised it like a club, and with one blow of the
edge I cleft the fisherman's head. Oh! he bled, this one! Rose-colored
blood. It flowed into the water, quite gently. And I went away with a
grave step. If I had been seen! Ah! ah! I should have made an excellent
assassin.

25th October. The affair of the fisherman makes a great stir. His nephew,
who fished with him, is charged with the murder.

26th October. The examining magistrate affirms that the nephew is guilty.
Everybody in town believes it. Ah! ah!

27th October. The nephew makes a very poor witness. He had gone to the
village to buy bread and cheese, he declared. He swore that his uncle had
been killed in his absence! Who would believe him?

28th October. The nephew has all but confessed, they have badgered him
so. Ah! ah! justice!

15th November. There are overwhelming proofs against the nephew, who was
his uncle's heir. I shall preside at the sessions.

25th January. To death! to death! to death! I have had him condemned to
death! Ah! ah! The advocate-general spoke like an angel! Ah! ah! Yet
another! I shall go to see him executed!

10th March. It is done. They guillotined him this morning. He died very
well! very well! That gave me pleasure! How fine it is to see a man's
head cut off!

Now, I shall wait, I can wait. It would take such a little thing to let
myself be caught.

The manuscript contained yet other pages, but without relating any new
crime.

Alienist physicians to whom the awful story has been submitted declare
that there are in the world many undiscovered madmen as adroit and as
much to be feared as this monstrous lunatic.




THE MASK

There was a masquerade ball at the Elysee-Montmartre that evening. It was
the 'Mi-Careme', and the crowds were pouring into the brightly lighted
passage which leads to the dance ball, like water flowing through the
open lock of a canal. The loud call of the orchestra, bursting like a
storm of sound, shook the rafters, swelled through the whole neighborhood
and awoke, in the streets and in the depths of the houses, an
irresistible desire to jump, to get warm, to have fun, which slumbers
within each human animal.

The patrons came from every quarter of Paris; there were people of all
classes who love noisy pleasures, a little low and tinged with debauch.
There were clerks and girls--girls of every description, some
wearing common cotton, some the finest batiste; rich girls, old and
covered with diamonds, and poor girls of sixteen, full of the desire to
revel, to belong to men, to spend money. Elegant black evening suits, in
search of fresh or faded but appetizing novelty, wandering through the
excited crowds, looking, searching, while the masqueraders seemed moved
above all by the desire for amusement. Already the far-famed quadrilles
had attracted around them a curious crowd. The moving hedge which
encircled the four dancers swayed in and out like a snake, sometimes
nearer and sometimes farther away, according to the motions of the
performers. The two women, whose lower limbs seemed to be attached to
their bodies by rubber springs, were making wonderful and surprising
motions with their legs. Their partners hopped and skipped about, waving
their arms about. One could imagine their panting breath beneath their
masks.

One of them, who had taken his place in the most famous quadrille, as
substitute for an absent celebrity, the handsome "Songe-au-Gosse," was
trying to keep up with the tireless "Arete-de-Veau" and was making
strange fancy steps which aroused the joy and sarcasm of the audience.

He was thin, dressed like a dandy, with a pretty varnished mask on his
face. It had a curly blond mustache and a wavy wig. He looked like a wax
figure from the Musee Grevin, like a strange and fantastic caricature of
the charming young man of fashion plates, and he danced with visible
effort, clumsily, with a comical impetuosity. He appeared rusty beside
the others when he tried to imitate their gambols: he seemed overcome by
rheumatism, as heavy as a great Dane playing with greyhounds. Mocking
bravos encouraged him. And he, carried away with enthusiasm, jigged about
with such frenzy that suddenly, carried away by a wild spurt, he pitched
head foremost into the living wall formed by the audience, which opened
up before him to allow him to pass, then closed around the inanimate body
of the dancer, stretched out on his face.

Some men picked him up and carried him away, calling for a doctor. A
gentleman stepped forward, young and elegant, in well-fitting evening
clothes, with large pearl studs. "I am a professor of the Faculty of
Medicine," he said in a modest voice. He was allowed to pass, and he
entered a small room full of little cardboard boxes, where the still
lifeless dancer had been stretched cut on some chairs. The doctor at
first wished to take off the mask, and he noticed that it was attached in
a complicated manner, with a perfect network of small metal wires which
cleverly bound it to his wig and covered the whole head. Even the neck
was imprisoned in a false skin which continued the chin and was painted
the color of flesh, being attached to the collar of the shirt.

All this had to be cut with strong scissors. When the physician had slit
open this surprising arrangement, from the shoulder to the temple, he
opened this armor and found the face of an old man, worn out, thin and
wrinkled. The surprise among those who had brought in this seemingly
young dancer was so great that no one laughed, no one said a word.

All were watching this sad face as he lay on the straw chairs, his eyes
closed, his face covered with white hair, some long, falling from the
forehead over the face, others short, growing around the face and the
chin, and beside this poor head, that pretty little, neat varnished,
smiling mask.

The man regained consciousness after being inanimate for a long time, but
he still seemed to be so weak and sick that the physician feared some
dangerous complication. He asked: "Where do you live?"

The old dancer seemed to be making an effort to remember, and then he
mentioned the name of the street, which no one knew. He was asked for
more definite information about the neighborhood. He answered with a
great slowness, indecision and difficulty, which revealed his upset state
of mind. The physician continued:

"I will take you home myself."

Curiosity had overcome him to find out who this strange dancer, this
phenomenal jumper might be. Soon the two rolled away in a cab to the
other side of Montmartre.

They stopped before a high building of poor appearance. They went up a
winding staircase. The doctor held to the banister, which was so grimy
that the hand stuck to it, and he supported the dizzy old man, whose
forces were beginning to return. They stopped at the fourth floor.

The door at which they had knocked was opened by an old woman, neat
looking, with a white nightcap enclosing a thin face with sharp features,
one of those good, rough faces of a hard-working and faithful woman. She
cried out:

"For goodness sake! What's the matter?"

He told her the whole affair in a few words. She became reassured and
even calmed the physician himself by telling him that the same thing had
happened many times. She said: "He must be put to bed, monsieur, that is
all. Let him sleep and tomorrow he will be all right."

The doctor continued: "But he can hardly speak."

"Oh! that's just a little drink, nothing more; he has eaten no dinner, in
order to be nimble, and then he took a few absinthes in order to work
himself up to the proper pitch. You see, drink gives strength to his
legs, but it stops his thoughts and words. He is too old to dance as he
does. Really, his lack of common sense is enough to drive one mad!"

The doctor, surprised, insisted:

"But why does he dance like that at his age?"

She shrugged her shoulders and turned red from the anger which was slowly
rising within her and she cried out:

"Ah! yes, why? So that the people will think him young under his mask; so
that the women will still take him for a young dandy and whisper nasty
things into his ears; so that he can rub up against all their dirty
skins, with their perfumes and powders and cosmetics. Ah! it's a fine
business! What a life I have had for the last forty years! But we must
first get him to bed, so that he may have no ill effects. Would you mind
helping me? When he is like that I can't do anything with him alone."

The old man was sitting on his bed, with a tipsy look, his long white
hair falling over his face. His companion looked at him with tender yet
indignant eyes. She continued:

"Just see the fine head he has for his age, and yet he has to go and
disguise himself in order to make people think that he is young. It's a
perfect shame! Really, he has a fine head, monsieur! Wait, I'll show it
to you before putting him to bed."

She went to a table on which stood the washbasin a pitcher of water, soap
and a comb and brush. She took the brush, returned to the bed and pushed
back the drunkard's tangled hair. In a few seconds she made him look like
a model fit for a great painter, with his long white locks flowing on his
neck. Then she stepped back in order to observe him, saying: "There!
Isn't he fine for his age?"

"Very," agreed the doctor, who was beginning to be highly amused.

She added: "And if you had known him when he was twenty-five! But we must
get him to bed, otherwise the drink will make him sick. Do you mind
drawing off that sleeve? Higher-like that-that's right. Now the trousers.
Wait, I will take his shoes off--that's right. Now, hold him upright
while I open the bed. There--let us put him in. If you think that he
is going to disturb himself when it is time for me to get in you are
mistaken. I have to find a little corner any place I can. That doesn't
bother him! Bah! You old pleasure seeker!"

As soon as he felt himself stretched out in his sheets the old man closed
his eyes, opened them closed them again, and over his whole face appeared
an energetic resolve to sleep. The doctor examined him with an
ever-increasing interest and asked: "Does he go to all the fancy balls
and try to be a young man?" "To all of them, monsieur, and he comes back
to me in the morning in a deplorable condition. You see, it's regret that
leads him on and that makes him put a pasteboard face over his own. Yes,
the regret of no longer being what he was and of no longer making any
conquests!"

He was sleeping now and beginning to snore. She looked at him with a
pitying expression and continued: "Oh! how many conquests that man has
made! More than one could believe, monsieur, more than the finest
gentlemen of the world, than all the tenors and all the generals."

"Really? What did he do?"