Original Short Stories of Maupassant, Volume 4

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GUY DE MAUPASSANT

ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES

Translated by
ALBERT M. C. McMASTER, B.A.
A. E. HENDERSON, B.A.
MME. QUESADA and Others



VOLUME IV.


THE MORIBUND
THE GAMEKEEPER
THE STORY OF A FARM GIRL
THE WRECK
THEODULE SABOT'S CONFESSION
THE WRONG HOUSE
THE DIAMOND NECKLACE
THE MARQUIS DE FUMEROL
THE TRIP OF THE HORLA
FAREWELL
THE WOLF
THE INN




THE MORIBUND

The warm autumn sun was beating down on the farmyard. Under the grass,
which had been cropped close by the cows, the earth soaked by recent
rains, was soft and sank in under the feet with a soggy noise, and the
apple trees, loaded with apples, were dropping their pale green fruit in
the dark green grass.

Four young heifers, tied in a line, were grazing and at times looking
toward the house and lowing. The fowls made a colored patch on the
dung-heap before the stable, scratching, moving about and cackling, while
two roosters crowed continually, digging worms for their hens, whom they
were calling with a loud clucking.

The wooden gate opened and a man entered. He might have been forty years
old, but he looked at least sixty, wrinkled, bent, walking slowly,
impeded by the weight of heavy wooden shoes full of straw. His long arms
hung down on both sides of his body. When he got near the farm a yellow
cur, tied at the foot of an enormous pear tree, beside a barrel which
served as his kennel, began at first to wag his tail and then to bark for
joy. The man cried:

"Down, Finot!"

The dog was quiet.

A peasant woman came out of the house. Her large, flat, bony body was
outlined under a long woollen jacket drawn in at the waist. A gray skirt,
too short, fell to the middle of her legs, which were encased in blue
stockings. She, too, wore wooden shoes, filled with straw. The white cap,
turned yellow, covered a few hairs which were plastered to the scalp, and
her brown, thin, ugly, toothless face had that wild, animal expression
which is often to be found on the faces of the peasants.

The man asked:

"How is he gettin' along?"

The woman answered:

"The priest said it's the end--that he will never live through the
night."

Both of them went into the house.

After passing through the kitchen, they entered a low, dark room, barely
lighted by one window, in front of which a piece of calico was hanging.
The big beams, turned brown with age and smoke, crossed the room from one
side to the other, supporting the thin floor of the garret, where an army
of rats ran about day and night.

The moist, lumpy earthen floor looked greasy, and, at the back of the
room, the bed made an indistinct white spot. A harsh, regular noise, a
difficult, hoarse, wheezing breathing, like the gurgling of water from a
broken pump, came from the darkened couch where an old man, the father of
the peasant woman, was dying.

The man and the woman approached the dying man and looked at him with
calm, resigned eyes.

The son-in-law said:

"I guess it's all up with him this time; he will not last the night."

The woman answered:

"He's been gurglin' like that ever since midday." They were silent. The
father's eyes were closed, his face was the color of the earth and so dry
that it looked like wood. Through his open mouth came his harsh, rattling
breath, and the gray linen sheet rose and fell with each respiration.

The son-in-law, after a long silence, said:

"There's nothing more to do; I can't help him. It's a nuisance, just the
same, because the weather is good and we've got a lot of work to do."

His wife seemed annoyed at this idea. She reflected a few moments and
then said:

"He won't be buried till Saturday, and that will give you all day
tomorrow."

The peasant thought the matter over and answered:

"Yes, but to-morrow I'll have to invite the people to the funeral. That
means five or six hours to go round to Tourville and Manetot, and to see
everybody."

The woman, after meditating two or three minutes, declared:

"It isn't three o'clock yet. You could begin this evening and go all
round the country to Tourville. You can just as well say that he's dead,
seem' as he's as good as that now."

The man stood perplexed for a while, weighing the pros and cons of the
idea. At last he declared:

"Well, I'll go!"

He was leaving the room, but came back after a minute's hesitation:

"As you haven't got anythin' to do you might shake down some apples to
bake and make four dozen dumplings for those who come to the funeral, for
one must have something to cheer them. You can light the fire with the
wood that's under the shed. It's dry."

He left the room, went back into the kitchen, opened the cupboard, took
out a six-pound loaf of bread, cut off a slice, and carefully gathered
the crumbs in the palm of his hand and threw them into his mouth, so as
not to lose anything. Then, with the end of his knife, he scraped out a
little salt butter from the bottom of an earthen jar, spread it on his
bread and began to eat slowly, as he did everything.

He recrossed the farmyard, quieted the dog, which had started barking
again, went out on the road bordering on his ditch, and disappeared in
the direction of Tourville.

As soon as she was alone, the woman began to work. She uncovered the
meal-bin and made the dough for the dumplings. She kneaded it a long
time, turning it over and over again, punching, pressing, crushing it.
Finally she made a big, round, yellow-white ball, which she placed on the
corner of the table.

Then she went to get her apples, and, in order not to injure the tree
with a pole, she climbed up into it by a ladder. She chose the fruit with
care, only taking the ripe ones, and gathering them in her apron.

A voice called from the road:

"Hey, Madame Chicot!"

She turned round. It was a neighbor, Osime Favet, the mayor, on his way
to fertilize his fields, seated on the manure-wagon, with his feet
hanging over the side. She turned round and answered:

"What can I do for you, Maitre Osime?"

"And how is the father?"

She cried:

"He is as good as dead. The funeral is Saturday at seven, because there's
lots of work to be done."

The neighbor answered:

"So! Good luck to you! Take care of yourself."

To his kind remarks she answered:

"Thanks; the same to you."

And she continued picking apples.

When she went back to the house, she went over to look at her father,
expecting to find him dead. But as soon as she reached the door she heard
his monotonous, noisy rattle, and, thinking it a waste of time to go over
to him, she began to prepare her dumplings. She wrapped up the fruit, one
by one, in a thin layer of paste, then she lined them up on the edge of
the table. When she had made forty-eight dumplings, arranged in dozens,
one in front of the other, she began to think of preparing supper, and
she hung her kettle over the fire to cook potatoes, for she judged it
useless to heat the oven that day, as she had all the next day in which
to finish the preparations.

Her husband returned at about five. As soon as he had crossed the
threshold he asked:

"Is it over?"

She answered:

"Not yet; he's still gurglin'."

They went to look at him. The old man was in exactly the same condition.
His hoarse rattle, as regular as the ticking of a clock, was neither
quicker nor slower. It returned every second, the tone varying a little,
according as the air entered or left his chest.

His son-in-law looked at him and then said:

"He'll pass away without our noticin' it, just like a candle."

They returned to the kitchen and started to eat without saying a word.
When they had swallowed their soup, they ate another piece of bread and
butter. Then, as soon as the dishes were washed, they returned to the
dying man.

The woman, carrying a little lamp with a smoky wick, held it in front of
her father's face. If he had not been breathing, one would certainly have
thought him dead.

The couple's bed was hidden in a little recess at the other end of the
room. Silently they retired, put out the light, closed their eyes, and
soon two unequal snores, one deep and the other shriller, accompanied the
uninterrupted rattle of the dying man.

The rats ran about in the garret.

The husband awoke at the first streaks of dawn. His father-in-law was
still alive. He shook his wife, worried by the tenacity of the old man.

"Say, Phemie, he don't want to quit. What would you do?"

He knew that she gave good advice.

She answered:

"You needn't be afraid; he can't live through the day. And the mayor
won't stop our burying him to-morrow, because he allowed it for Maitre
Renard's father, who died just during the planting season."

He was convinced by this argument, and left for the fields.

His wife baked the dumplings and then attended to her housework.

At noon the old man was not dead. The people hired for the day's work
came by groups to look at him. Each one had his say. Then they left again
for the fields.

At six o'clock, when the work was over, the father was still breathing.
At last his son-in-law was frightened.

"What would you do now, Phemie?"

She no longer knew how to solve the problem. They went to the mayor. He
promised that he would close his eyes and authorize the funeral for the
following day. They also went to the health officer, who likewise
promised, in order to oblige Maitre Chicot, to antedate the death
certificate. The man and the woman returned, feeling more at ease.

They went to bed and to sleep, just as they did the preceding day, their
sonorous breathing blending with the feeble breathing of the old man.

When they awoke, he was not yet dead.

Then they began to be frightened. They stood by their father, watching
him with distrust, as though he had wished to play them a mean trick, to
deceive them, to annoy them on purpose, and they were vexed at him for
the time which he was making them lose.

The son-in-law asked:

"What am I goin' to do?"

She did not know. She answered:

"It certainly is annoying!"

The guests who were expected could not be notified. They decided to wait
and explain the case to them.

Toward a quarter to seven the first ones arrived. The women in black,
their heads covered with large veils, looking very sad. Then men, ill at
ease in their homespun coats, were coming forward more slowly, in
couples, talking business.

Maitre Chicot and his wife, bewildered, received them sorrowfully, and
suddenly both of them together began to cry as they approached the first
group. They explained the matter, related their difficulty, offered
chairs, bustled about, tried to make excuses, attempting to prove that
everybody would have done as they did, talking continually and giving
nobody a chance to answer.

They were going from one person to another:

"I never would have thought it; it's incredible how he can last this
long!"

The guests, taken aback, a little disappointed, as though they had missed
an expected entertainment, did not know what to do, some remaining
seated others standing. Several wished to leave. Maitre Chicot held them
back:

"You must take something, anyhow! We made some dumplings; might as well
make use of 'em."

The faces brightened at this idea. The yard was filling little by little;
the early arrivals were telling the news to those who had arrived later.
Everybody was whispering. The idea of the dumplings seemed to cheer
everyone up.

The women went in to take a look at the dying man. They crossed
themselves beside the bed, muttered a prayer and went out again. The men,
less anxious for this spectacle, cast a look through the window, which
had been opened.

Madame Chicot explained her distress:

"That's how he's been for two days, neither better nor worse. Doesn't he
sound like a pump that has gone dry?"

When everybody had had a look at the dying man, they thought of the
refreshments; but as there were too many people for the kitchen to hold,
the table was moved out in front of the door. The four dozen golden
dumplings, tempting and appetizing, arranged in two big dishes, attracted
the eyes of all. Each one reached out to take his, fearing that there
would not be enough. But four remained over.

Maitre Chicot, his mouth full, said:

"Father would feel sad if he were to see this. He loved them so much when
he was alive."

A big, jovial peasant declared:

"He won't eat any more now. Each one in his turn."

This remark, instead of making the guests sad, seemed to cheer them up.
It was their turn now to eat dumplings.

Madame Chicot, distressed at the expense, kept running down to the cellar
continually for cider. The pitchers were emptied in quick succession. The
company was laughing and talking loud now. They were beginning to shout
as they do at feasts.

Suddenly an old peasant woman who had stayed beside the dying man, held
there by a morbid fear of what would soon happen to herself, appeared at
the window and cried in a shrill voice:

"He's dead! he's dead!"

Everybody was silent. The women arose quickly to go and see. He was
indeed dead. The rattle had ceased. The men looked at each other, looking
down, ill at ease. They hadn't finished eating the dumplings. Certainly
the rascal had not chosen a propitious moment. The Chicots were no longer
weeping. It was over; they were relieved.

They kept repeating:

"I knew it couldn't 'last. If he could only have done it last night, it
would have saved us all this trouble."

Well, anyhow, it was over. They would bury him on Monday, that was all,
and they would eat some more dumplings for the occasion.

The guests went away, talking the matter over, pleased at having had the
chance to see him and of getting something to eat.

And when the husband and wife were alone, face to face, she said, her
face distorted with grief:

"We'll have to bake four dozen more dumplings! Why couldn't he have made
up his mind last night?"

The husband, more resigned, answered:

"Well, we'll not have to do this every day."




THE GAMEKEEPER

It was after dinner, and we were talking about adventures and accidents
which happened while out shooting.

An old friend, known to all of us, M. Boniface, a great sportsman and a
connoisseur of wine, a man of wonderful physique, witty and gay, and
endowed with an ironical and resigned philosophy, which manifested itself
in caustic humor, and never in melancholy, suddenly exclaimed:

"I know a story, or rather a tragedy, which is somewhat peculiar. It is
not at all like those which one hears of usually, and I have never told
it, thinking that it would interest no one.

"It is not at all sympathetic. I mean by that, that it does not arouse
the kind of interest which pleases or which moves one agreeably.

"Here is the story:

"I was then about thirty-five years of age, and a most enthusiastic
sportsman.

"In those days I owned a lonely bit of property in the neighborhood of
Jumieges, surrounded by forests and abounding in hares and rabbits. I was
accustomed to spending four or five days alone there each year, there not
being room enough to allow of my bringing a friend with me.

"I had placed there as gamekeeper, an old retired gendarme, a good man,
hot-tempered, a severe disciplinarian, a terror to poachers and fearing
nothing. He lived all alone, far from the village, in a little house, or
rather hut, consisting of two rooms downstairs, with kitchen and
store-room, and two upstairs. One of them, a kind of box just large
enough to accommodate a bed, a cupboard and a chair, was reserved for my
use.

"Old man Cavalier lived in the other one. When I said that he was alone
in this place, I was wrong. He had taken his nephew with him, a young
scamp about fourteen years old, who used to go to the village and run
errands for the old man.

"This young scapegrace was long and lanky, with yellow hair, so light
that it resembled the fluff of a plucked chicken, so thin that he seemed
bald. Besides this, he had enormous feet and the hands of a giant.

"He was cross-eyed, and never looked at anyone. He struck me as being in
the same relation to the human race as ill-smelling beasts are to the
animal race. He reminded me of a polecat.

"He slept in a kind of hole at the top of the stairs which led to the two
rooms.

"But during my short sojourns at the Pavilion--so I called the hut
--Marius would give up his nook to an old woman from Ecorcheville,
called Celeste, who used to come and cook for me, as old man Cavalier's
stews were not sufficient for my healthy appetite.

"You now know the characters and the locality. Here is the story:

"It was on the fifteenth of October, 1854--I shall remember that
date as long as I live.

"I left Rouen on horseback, followed by my dog Bock, a big Dalmatian
hound from Poitou, full-chested and with a heavy jaw, which could
retrieve among the bushes like a Pont-Andemer spaniel.

"I was carrying my satchel slung across my back and my gun diagonally
across my chest. It was a cold, windy, gloomy day, with clouds scurrying
across the sky.

"As I went up the hill at Canteleu, I looked over the broad valley of the
Seine, the river winding in and out along its course as far as the eye
could see. To the right the towers of Rouen stood out against the sky,
and to the left the landscape was bounded by the distant slopes covered
with trees. Then I crossed the forest of Roumare and, toward five
o'clock, reached the Pavilion, where Cavalier and Celeste were expecting
me.

"For ten years I had appeared there at the same time, in the same manner;
and for ten years the same faces had greeted me with the same words:

"'Welcome, master! We hope your health is good.'

"Cavalier had hardly changed. He withstood time like an old tree; but
Celeste, especially in the past four years, had become unrecognizable.

"She was bent almost double, and, although still active, when she walked
her body was almost at right angles to her legs.

"The old woman, who was very devoted to me, always seemed affected at
seeing me again, and each time, as I left, she would say:

"'This may be the last time, master.'

"The sad, timid farewell of this old servant, this hopeless resignation
to the inevitable fate which was not far off for her, moved me strangely
each year.

"I dismounted, and while Cavalier, whom I had greeted, was leading my
horse to the little shed which served as a stable, I entered the kitchen,
which also served as dining-room, followed by Celeste.

"Here the gamekeeper joined us. I saw at first glance that something was
the matter. He seemed preoccupied, ill at ease, worried.

"I said to him:

"'Well, Cavalier, is everything all right?'

"He muttered:

"'Yes and no. There are things I don't like.'

"I asked:

"'What? Tell me about it.'

"But he shook his head.

"'No, not yet, monsieur. I do not wish to bother you with my little
troubles so soon after your arrival.'

"I insisted, but he absolutely refused to give me any information before
dinner. From his expression, I could tell that it was something very
serious.

"Not knowing what to say to him, I asked:

"'How about game? Much of it this year?'

"'Oh, yes! You'll find all you want. Thank heaven, I looked out for
that.'

"He said this with so much seriousness, with such sad solemnity, that it
was really almost funny. His big gray mustache seemed almost ready to
drop from his lips.

"Suddenly I remembered that I had not yet seen his nephew.

"'Where is Marius? Why does he not show himself?'

"The gamekeeper started, looking me suddenly in the face:

"Well, monsieur, I had rather tell you the whole business right away;
it's on account of him that I am worrying.'

"'Ah! Well, where is he?'

"'Over in the stable, monsieur. I was waiting for the right time to bring
him out.'

"'What has he done?'

"'Well, monsieur----'

"The gamekeeper, however, hesitated, his voice altered and shaky, his
face suddenly furrowed by the deep lines of an old man.

"He continued slowly:

"'Well, I found out, last winter, that someone was poaching in the woods
of Roseraies, but I couldn't seem to catch the man. I spent night after
night on the lookout for him. In vain. During that time they began
poaching over by Ecorcheville. I was growing thin from vexation. But as
for catching the trespasser, impossible! One might have thought that the
rascal was forewarned of my plans.

"'But one day, while I was brushing Marius' Sunday trousers, I found
forty cents in his pocket. Where did he get it?

"'I thought the matter over for about a week, and I noticed that he used
to go out; he would leave the house just as I was coming home to go to
bed--yes, monsieur.

"'Then I started to watch him, without the slightest suspicion of the
real facts. One morning, just after I had gone to bed before him, I got
right up again, and followed him. For shadowing a man, there is nobody
like me, monsieur.

"'And I caught him, Marius, poaching on your land, monsieur; he my
nephew, I your keeper!

"'The blood rushed to my head, and I almost killed him on the spot, I hit
him so hard. Oh! yes, I thrashed him all right. And I promised him that
he would get another beating from my hand, in your presence, as an
example.

"'There! I have grown thin from sorrow. You know how it is when one is
worried like that. But tell me, what would you have done? The boy has no
father or mother, and I am the last one of his blood; I kept him, I
couldn't drive him out, could I?

"'I told him that if it happened again I would have no more pity for him,
all would be over. There! Did I do right, monsieur?'

"I answered, holding out my hand:

"'You did well, Cavalier; you are an honest man.'

"He rose.

"'Thank you, monsieur. Now I am going to fetch him. I must give him his
thrashing, as an example.'

"I knew that it was hopeless to try and turn the old man from his idea. I
therefore let him have his own way.

"He got the rascal and brought him back by the ear.

"I was seated on a cane chair, with the solemn expression of a judge.

"Marius seemed to have grown; he was homelier even than the year before,
with his evil, sneaking expression.

"His big hands seemed gigantic.

"His uncle pushed him up to me, and, in his soldierly voice, said:

"'Beg the gentleman's pardon.'

"The boy didn't say a word.

"Then putting one arm round him, the former gendarme lifted him right off
the ground, and began to whack him with such force that I rose to stop
the blows.

"The boy was now howling: 'Mercy! mercy! mercy! I promise----'

"Cavalier put him back on the ground and forced him to his knees:

"'Beg for pardon,' he said.

"With eyes lowered, the scamp murmured:

"'I ask for pardon!'

"Then his uncle lifted him to his feet, and dismissed him with a cuff
which almost knocked him down again.

"He made his escape, and I did not see him again that evening.

"Cavalier appeared overwhelmed.'

"'He is a bad egg,' he said.

"And throughout the whole dinner, he kept repeating:

"'Oh! that worries me, monsieur, that worries me.'

"I tried to comfort him, but in vain.

"I went to bed early, so that I might start out at daybreak.

"My dog was already asleep on the floor, at the foot of my bed, when I
put out the light.

"I was awakened toward midnight by the furious barking of my dog Bock. I
immediately noticed that my room was full of smoke. I jumped out of bed,
struck a light, ran to the door and opened it. A cloud of flames burst
in. The house was on fire.

"I quickly closed the heavy oak door and, drawing on my trousers, I first
lowered the dog through the window, by means of a rope made of my sheets;
then, having thrown out the rest of my clothes, my game-bag and my gun, I
in turn escaped the same way.

"I began to shout with all my might: 'Cavalier! Cavalier! Cavalier!'

"But the gamekeeper did not wake up. He slept soundly like an old
gendarme.

"However, I could see through the lower windows that the whole
ground-floor was nothing but a roaring furnace; I also noticed that it
had been filled with straw to make it burn readily.

"Somebody must purposely have set fire to the place!

"I continued shrieking wildly: 'Cavalier!'

"Then the thought struck me that the smoke might be suffocating him. An
idea came to me. I slipped two cartridges into my gun, and shot straight
at his window.

"The six panes of glass shattered into the room in a cloud of glass. This
time the old man had heard me, and he appeared, dazed, in his nightshirt,
bewildered by the glare which illumined the whole front of his 'house.

"I cried to him:

"'Your house is on fire! Escape through the window! Quick! Quick!'

"The flames were coming out through all the cracks downstairs, were
licking along the wall, were creeping toward him and going to surround
him. He jumped and landed on his feet, like a cat.

"It was none too soon. The thatched roof cracked in the middle, right
over the staircase, which formed a kind of flue for the fire downstairs;
and an immense red jet jumped up into the air, spreading like a stream of
water and sprinkling a shower of sparks around the hut. In a few seconds
it was nothing but a pool of flames.

"Cavalier, thunderstruck, asked:

"'How did the fire start?'

"I answered:

"'Somebody lit it in the kitchen.'