Original Short Stories of Maupassant, Volume 6

G >> Guy de Maupassant >> Original Short Stories of Maupassant, Volume 6


Their breath makes the air heavy and relaxing, and the still more
penetrating odor of the orange blossoms sweetens the atmosphere till it
might almost be called the refinement of odor.

The shore, with its brown rocks, was bathed by the motionless
Mediterranean. The hot summer sun stretched like a fiery cloth over the
mountains, over the long expanses of sand, and over the motionless,
apparently solid blue sea. The train went on through the tunnels, along
the slopes, above the water, on straight, wall-like viaducts, and a soft,
vague, saltish smell, a smell of drying seaweed, mingled at times with
the strong, heavy perfume of the flowers.

But Paul neither saw, looked at, nor smelled anything, for our fellow
traveller engrossed all his attention.

When we reached Cannes, as he wished to speak to me he signed to me to
get out, and as soon as I did so, he took me by the arm.

"Do you know, she is really charming. Just look at her eyes; and I never
saw anything like her hair."

"Don't excite yourself," I replied, "or else address her, if you have any
intentions that way. She does not look unapproachable; I fancy, although
she appear to be a little bit grumpy."

"Why don't you speak to her?" he said.

"I don't know what to say, for I am always terribly stupid at first; I
can never make advances to a woman in the street. I follow them, go round
and round them, and quite close to them, but never know what to say at
first. I only once tried to enter into conversation with a woman in that
way. As I clearly saw that she was waiting for me to make overtures, and
as I felt bound to say something, I stammered out, 'I hope you are quite
well, madame?' She laughed in my face, and I made my escape."

I promised Paul to do all I could to bring about a conversation, and when
we had taken our places again, I politely asked our neighbor:

"Have you any objection to the smell of tobacco, madame?"

She merely replied, "Non capisco."

So she was an Italian! I felt an absurd inclination to laugh. As Paul did
not understand a word of that language, I was obliged to act as his
interpreter, so I said in Italian:

"I asked you, madame, whether you had any objection to tobacco smoke?"

With an angry look she replied, "Che mi fa!"

She had neither turned her head nor looked at me, and I really did not
know whether to take this "What do I care" for an authorization, a
refusal, a real sign of indifference, or for a mere "Let me alone."

"Madame," I replied, "if you mind the smell of tobacco in the
least--"

She again said, "Mica," in a tone which seemed to mean, "I wish to
goodness you would leave me alone!" It was, however, a kind of
permission, so I said to Paul:

"You may smoke."

He looked at me in that curious sort of way that people have when they
try to understand others who are talking in a strange language before
them, and asked me:

"What did you say to her?"

"I asked whether we might smoke, and she said we might do whatever we
liked."

Whereupon I lighted my cigar.

"Did she say anything more?"

"If you had counted her words you would have noticed that she used
exactly six, two of which gave me to understand that she knew no French,
so four remained, and much can be said in four words."

Paul seemed quite unhappy, disappointed, and at sea, so to speak.

But suddenly the Italian asked me, in that tone of discontent which
seemed habitual to her, "Do you know at what time we shall get to Genoa?"

"At eleven o'clock," I replied. Then after a moment I went on:

"My friend and I are also going to Genoa, and if we can be of any service
to you, we shall be very happy, as you are quite alone." But she
interrupted with such a "Mica!" that I did not venture on another word.

"What did she say?" Paul asked.

"She said she thought you were charming."

But he was in no humor for joking, and begged me dryly not to make fun of
him; so I translated her question and my polite offer, which had been so
rudely rejected.

Then he really became as restless as a caged squirrel.

"If we only knew," he said, "what hotel she was going to, we would go to
the same. Try to find out so as to have another opportunity to make her
talk."

It was not particularly easy, and I did not know what pretext to invent,
desirous as I was to make the acquaintance of this unapproachable person.

We passed Nice, Monaco, Mentone, and the train stopped at the frontier
for the examination of luggage.

Although I hate those ill-bred people who breakfast and dine in
railway-carriages, I went and bought a quantity of good things to make
one last attack on her by their means. I felt sure that this girl must,
ordinarily, be by no means inaccessible. Something had put her out and
made her irritable, but very little would suffice, a mere word or some
agreeable offer, to decide her and vanquish her.

We started again, and we three were still alone. I spread my eatables on
the seat. I cut up the fowl, put the slices of ham neatly on a piece of
paper, and then carefully laid out our dessert, strawberries, plums,
cherries and cakes, close to the girl.

When she saw that we were about to eat she took a piece of chocolate and
two little crisp cakes out of her pocket and began to munch them.

"Ask her to have some of ours," Paul said in a whisper.

"That is exactly what I wish to do, but it is rather a difficult matter."

As she, however, glanced from time to time at our provisions, I felt sure
that she would still be hungry when she had finished what she had with
her; so, as soon as her frugal meal was over, I said to her:

"It would be very kind of you if you would take some of this fruit."

Again she said "Mica!" but less crossly than before.

"Well, then," I said, "may I offer you a little wine? I see you have not
drunk anything. It is Italian wine, and as we are now in your own
country, we should be very pleased to see such a pretty Italian mouth
accept the offer of its French neighbors."

She shook her head slightly, evidently wishing to refuse, but very
desirous of accepting, and her mica this time was almost polite. I took
the flask, which was covered with straw in the Italian fashion, and
filling the glass, I offered it to her.

"Please drink it," I said, "to bid us welcome to your country."

She took the glass with her usual look, and emptied it at a draught, like
a woman consumed with thirst, and then gave it back to me without even
saying "Thank you."

I then offered her the cherries. "Please take some," I said; "we shall be
so glad if you will."

Out of her corner she looked at all the fruit spread out beside her, and
said so rapidly that I could scarcely follow her: "A me non piacciono ne
le ciriegie ne le susine; amo soltano le fragole."

"What does she say?" Paul asked.

"That she does not care for cherries or plums, but only for
strawberries."

I put a newspaper full of wild strawberries on her lap, and she ate them
quickly, tossing them into her mouth from some distance in a coquettish
and charming manner.

When she had finished the little red heap, which soon disappeared under
the rapid action of her hands, I asked her:

"What may I offer you now?"

"I will take a little chicken," she replied.

She certainly devoured half of it, tearing it to pieces with the rapid
movements of her jaws like some carnivorous animal. Then she made up her
mind to have some cherries, which she "did not like," and then some
plums, then some little cakes. Then she said, "I have had enough," and
sat back in her corner.

I was much amused, and tried to make her eat more, insisting, in fact,
till she suddenly flew into a rage, and flung such a furious mica at me,
that I would no longer run the risk of spoiling her digestion.

I turned to my friend. "My poor Paul," I said, "I am afraid we have had
our trouble for nothing."

The night came on, one of those hot summer nights which extend their warm
shade over the burning and exhausted earth. Here and there, in the
distance, by the sea, on capes and promontories, bright stars, which I
was, at times, almost inclined to confound with lighthouses, began to
shine on the dark horizon:

The scent of the orange trees became more penetrating, and we breathed
with delight, distending our lungs to inhale it more deeply. The balmy
air was soft, delicious, almost divine.

Suddenly I noticed something like a shower of stars under the dense shade
of the trees along the line, where it was quite dark. It might have been
taken for drops of light, leaping, flying, playing and running among the
leaves, or for small stars fallen from the skies in order to have an
excursion on the earth; but they were only fireflies dancing a strange
fiery ballet in the perfumed air.

One of them happened to come into our carriage, and shed its intermittent
light, which seemed to be extinguished one moment and to be burning the
next. I covered the carriage-lamp with its blue shade and watched the
strange fly careering about in its fiery flight. Suddenly it settled on
the dark hair of our neighbor, who was half dozing after dinner. Paul
seemed delighted, with his eyes fixed on the bright, sparkling spot,
which looked like a living jewel on the forehead of the sleeping woman.

The Italian woke up about eleven o'clock, with the bright insect still in
her hair. When I saw her move, I said: "We are just getting to Genoa,
madame," and she murmured, without answering me, as if possessed by some
obstinate and embarrassing thought:

"What am I going to do, I wonder?"

And then she suddenly asked:

"Would you like me to come with you?"

I was so taken aback that I really did not understand her.

"With us? How do you mean?"

She repeated, looking more and more furious:

"Would you like me to be your guide now, as soon as we get out of the
train?"

"I am quite willing; but where do you want to go."

She shrugged her shoulders with an air of supreme indifference.

"Wherever you like; what does it matter to me?" She repeated her "Che mi
fa" twice.

"But we are going to the hotel."

"Very well, let us all go to the hotel," she said, in a contemptuous
voice.

I turned to Paul, and said:

"She wishes to know whether we should like her to come with us."

My friend's utter surprise restored my self-possession. He stammered:

"With us? Where to? What for? How?"

"I don't know, but she made this strange proposal to me in a most
irritated voice. I told her that we were going to the hotel, and she
said: 'Very well, let us all go there!' I suppose she is without a penny.
She certainly has a very strange way of making acquaintances."

Paul, who 'was very much excited, exclaimed:

"I am quite agreeable. Tell her that we will go wherever she likes."
Then, after a moment's hesitation, he said uneasily:

"We must know, however, with whom she wishes to go--with you or with
me?"

I turned to the Italian, who did not even seem to be listening to us, and
said:

"We shall be very happy to have you with us, but my friend wishes to know
whether you will take my arm or his?"

She opened her black eyes wide with vague surprise, and said, "Che ni
fa?"

I was obliged to explain myself. "In Italy, I believe, when a man looks
after a woman, fulfils all her wishes, and satisfies all her caprices, he
is called a patito. Which of us two will you take for your patito?"

Without the slightest hesitation she replied:

"You!"

I turned to Paul. "You see, my friend, she chooses me; you have no
chance."

"All the better for you," he replied in a rage. Then, after thinking for
a few moments, he went on:

"Do you really care about taking this creature with you? She will spoil
our journey. What are we to do with this woman, who looks like I don't
know what? They will not take us in at any decent hotel."

I, however, just began to find the Italian much nicer than I had thought
her at first, and I was now very desirous to take her with us. The idea
delighted me.

I replied, "My dear fellow, we have accepted, and it is too late to
recede. You were the first to advise me to say 'Yes.'"

"It is very stupid," he growled, "but do as you please."

The train whistled, slackened speed, and we ran into the station.

I got out of the carriage, and offered my new companion my hand. She
jumped out lightly, and I gave her my arm, which she took with an air of
seeming repugnance. As soon as we had claimed our luggage we set off into
the town, Paul walking in utter silence.

"To what hotel shall we go?" I asked him. "It may be difficult to get
into the City of Paris with a woman, especially with this Italian."

Paul interrupted me. "Yes, with an Italian who looks more like a dancer
than a duchess. However, that is no business of mine. Do just as you
please."

I was in a state of perplexity. I had written to the City of Paris to
retain our rooms, and now I did not know what to do.

Two commissionaires followed us with our luggage. I continued: "You might
as well go on first, and say that we are coming; and give the landlord to
understand that I have a--a friend with me and that we should like
rooms quite by themselves for us three, so as not to be brought in
contact with other travellers. He will understand, and we will decide
according to his answer."

But Paul growled, "Thank you, such commissions and such parts do not suit
me, by any means. I did not come here to select your apartments or to
minister to your pleasures."

But I was urgent: "Look here, don't be angry. It is surely far better to
go to a good hotel than to a bad one, and it is not difficult to ask the
landlord for three separate bedrooms and a dining-room."

I put a stress on three, and that decided him.

He went on first, and I saw him go into a large hotel while I remained on
the other side of the street, with my fair Italian, who did not say a
word, and followed the porters with the luggage.

Paul came back at last, looking as dissatisfied as my companion.

"That is settled," he said, "and they will take us in; but here are only
two bedrooms. You must settle it as you can."

I followed him, rather ashamed of going in with such a strange companion.

There were two bedrooms separated by a small sitting-room. I ordered a
cold supper, and then I turned to the Italian with a perplexed look.

"We have only been able to get two rooms, so you must choose which you
like."

She replied with her eternal "Che mi fa!" I thereupon took up her little
black wooden trunk, such as servants use, and took it into the room on
the right, which I had chosen for her. A bit of paper was fastened to the
box, on which was written, Mademoiselle Francesca Rondoli, Genoa.

"Your name is Francesca?" I asked, and she nodded her head, without
replying.

"We shall have supper directly," I continued. "Meanwhile, I dare say you
would like to arrange your toilette a little?"

She answered with a 'mica', a word which she employed just as frequently
as 'Che me fa', but I went on: "It is always pleasant after a journey."

Then I suddenly remembered that she had not, perhaps, the necessary
requisites, for she appeared to me in a very singular position, as if she
had just escaped from some disagreeable adventure, and I brought her my
dressing-case.

I put out all the little instruments for cleanliness and comfort which it
contained: a nail-brush, a new toothbrush--I always carry a
selection of them about with me--my nail-scissors, a nail-file, and
sponges. I uncorked a bottle of eau de cologne, one of lavender-water,
and a little bottle of new-mown hay, so that she might have a choice.
Then I opened my powder-box, and put out the powder-puff, placed my fine
towels over the water-jug, and a piece of new soap near the basin.

She watched my movements with a look of annoyance in her wide-open eyes,
without appearing either astonished or pleased at my forethought.

"Here is all that you require," I then said; "I will tell you when supper
is ready."

When I returned to the sitting-room I found that Paul had shut himself in
the other room, so I sat down to wait.

A waiter went to and fro, bringing plates and glasses. He laid the table
slowly, then put a cold chicken on it, and told me that all was ready.

I knocked gently at Mademoiselle Rondoli's door. "Come in," she said, and
when I did so I was struck by a strong, heavy smell of perfumes, as if I
were in a hairdresser's shop.

The Italian was sitting on her trunk in an attitude either of thoughtful
discontent or absent-mindedness. The towel was still folded over the
waterjug that was full of water, and the soap, untouched and dry, was
lying beside the empty basin; but one would have thought that the young
woman had used half the contents of the bottles of perfume. The eau de
cologne, however, had been spared, as only about a third of it had gone;
but to make up for that she had used a surprising amount of
lavender-water and new-mown hay. A cloud of violet powder, a vague white
mist, seemed still to be floating in the air, from the effects of her
over-powdering her face and neck. It seemed to cover her eyelashes,
eyebrows, and the hair on her temples like snow, while her cheeks were
plastered with it, and layers of it covered her nostrils, the corners of
her eyes, and her chin.

When she got up she exhaled such a strong odor of perfume that it almost
made me feel faint.

When we sat down to supper, I found that Paul was in a most execrable
temper, and I could get nothing out of him but blame, irritable words,
and disagreeable remarks.

Mademoiselle Francesca ate like an ogre, and as soon as she had finished
her meal she threw herself upon the sofa in the sitting-room. Sitting
down beside her, I said gallantly, kissing her hand:

"Shall I have the bed prepared, or will you sleep on the couch?"

"It is all the same to me. 'Che mi fa'!"

Her indifference vexed me.

"Should you like to retire at once?"

"Yes; I am very sleepy."

She got up, yawned, gave her hand to Paul, who took it with a furious
look, and I lighted her into the bedroom. A disquieting feeling haunted
me. "Here is all you want," I said again.

The next morning she got up early, like a woman who is accustomed to
work. She woke me by doing so, and I watched her through my half-closed
eyelids.

She came and went without hurrying herself, as if she were astonished at
having nothing to do. At length she went to the dressing-table, and in a
moment emptied all my bottles of perfume. She certainly also used some
water, but very little.

When she was quite dressed, she sat down on her trunk again, and clasping
one knee between her hands, she seemed to be thinking.

At that moment I pretended to first notice her, and said:

"Good-morning, Francesca."

Without seeming in at all a better temper than the previous night, she
murmured, "Good-morning!"

When I asked her whether she had slept well, she nodded her head, and
jumping out of bed, I went and kissed her.

She turned her face toward me like a child who is being kissed against
its will; but I took her tenderly in my arms, and gently pressed my lips
on her eyelids, which she closed with evident distaste under my kisses on
her fresh cheek and full lips, which she turned away.

"You don't seem to like being kissed," I said to her.

"Mica!" was her only answer.

I sat down on the trunk by her side, and passing my arm through hers, I
said: "Mica! mica! mica! in reply to everything. I shall call you
Mademoiselle Mica, I think."

For the first time I fancied that I saw the shadow of a smile on her
lips, but it passed by so quickly that I may have been mistaken.

"But if you never say anything but Mica, I shall not know what to do to
please you. Let me see; what shall we do to-day?"

She hesitated a moment, as if some fancy had flitted through her head,
and then she said carelessly: "It is all the same to me; whatever you
like."

"Very well, Mademoiselle Mica, we will have a carriage and go for a
drive."

"As you please," she said.

Paul was waiting for us in the dining-room, looking as bored as third
parties usually do in love affairs. I assumed a delighted air, and shook
hands with him with triumphant energy.

"What are you thinking of doing?" he asked.

"First of all, we will go and see a little of the town, and then we might
get a carriage and take a drive in the neighborhood."

We breakfasted almost in silence, and then set out. I dragged Francesca
from palace to palace, and she either looked at nothing or merely glanced
carelessly at the various masterpieces. Paul followed us, growling all
sorts of disagreeable things. Then we all three took a drive in silence
into the country and returned to dinner.

The next day it was the same thing and the next day again; and on the
third Paul said to me: "Look here, I am going to leave you; I am not
going to stop here for three weeks watching you make love to this
creature."

I was perplexed and annoyed, for to my great surprise I had become
singularly attached to Francesca. A man is but weak and foolish, carried
away by the merest trifle, and a coward every time that his senses are
excited or mastered. I clung to this unknown girl, silent and
dissatisfied as she always was. I liked her somewhat ill-tempered face,
the dissatisfied droop of her mouth, the weariness of her look; I liked
her fatigued movements, the contemptuous way in which she let me kiss
her, the very indifference of her caresses. A secret bond, that
mysterious bond of physical love, which does not satisfy, bound me to
her. I told Paul so, quite frankly. He treated me as if I were a fool,
and then said:

"Very well, take her with you."

But she obstinately refused to leave Genoa, without giving any reason. I
besought, I reasoned, I promised, but all was of no avail, and so I
stayed on.

Paul declared that he would go by himself, and went so far as to pack up
his portmanteau; but he remained all the same.

Thus a fortnight passed. Francesca was always silent and irritable, lived
beside me rather than with me, responded to all my requirements and all
my propositions with her perpetual Che mi fa, or with her no less
perpetual Mica.

My friend became more and more furious, but my only answer was, "You can
go if you are tired of staying. I am not detaining you."

Then he called me names, overwhelmed me with reproaches, and exclaimed:
"Where do you think I can go now? We had three weeks at our disposal, and
here is a fortnight gone! I cannot continue my journey now; and, in any
case, I am not going to Venice, Florence and Rome all by myself. But you
will pay for it, and more dearly than you think, most likely. You are not
going to bring a man all the way from Paris in order to shut him up at a
hotel in Genoa with an Italian adventuress."

When I told him, very calmly, to return to Paris, he exclaimed that he
intended to do so the very next day; but the next day he was still there,
still in a rage and swearing.

By this time we began to be known in the streets through which we
wandered from morning till night. Sometimes French people would turn
round astonished at meeting their fellow-countrymen in the company of
this girl with her striking costume, who looked singularly out of place,
not to say compromising, beside us.

She used to walk along, leaning on my arm, without looking at anything.
Why did she remain with me, with us, who seemed to do so little to amuse
her? Who was she? Where did she come from? What was she doing? Had she
any plan or idea? Where did she live? As an adventuress, or by chance
meetings? I tried in vain to find out and to explain it. The better I
knew her the more enigmatical she became. She seemed to be a girl of poor
family who had been taken away, and then cast aside and lost. What did
she think would become of her, or whom was she waiting for? She certainly
did not appear to be trying to make a conquest of me, or to make any real
profit out of me.

I tried to question her, to speak to her of her childhood and family; but
she never gave me an answer. I stayed with her, my heart unfettered and
my senses enchained, never wearied of holding her in my arms, that proud
and quarrelsome woman, captivated by my senses, or rather carried away,
overcome by a youthful, healthy, powerful charm, which emanated from her
fragrant person and from the well-molded lines of her body.

Another week passed, and the term of my journey was drawing on, for I had
to be back in Paris by the eleventh of July. By this time Paul had come
to take his part in the adventure, though still grumbling at me, while I
invented pleasures, distractions and excursions to amuse Francesca and my
friend; and in order to do this I gave myself a great amount of trouble.

One day I proposed an excursion to Sta Margarita, that charming little
town in the midst of gardens, hidden at the foot of a slope which
stretches far into the sea up to the village of Portofino. We three
walked along the excellent road which goes along the foot of the
mountain. Suddenly Francesca said to me: "I shall not be able to go with
you to-morrow; I must go and see some of my relatives."

That was all; I did not ask her any questions, as I was quite sure she
would not answer me.