Complete Original Short Stories of Guy De Maupassant
Now, it came to pass that the pupils of the Institution Robineau carried off, at the end of the year, all the prizes for composition, translation, and Latin conversation.
Next year, the principal, a little man, as cunning as an ape, whom he resembled in his grinning and grotesque appearance, had had printed on his programmes, on his advertisements, and painted on the door of his institution:
“Latin Studies a Specialty. Five first prizes carried off in the five classes of the lycee.
“Two honor prizes at the general examinations in competition with all the lycees and colleges of France.”
For ten years the Institution Robineau triumphed in the same fashion. Now my father, allured by these successes, sent me as a day pupil to Robineau’s – or, as we called it, Robinetto or Robinettino’s – and made me take special private lessons from Pere Piquedent at the rate of five francs per hour, out of which the usher got two francs and the principal three francs. I was then eighteen, and was in the philosophy class.
These private lessons were given in a little room looking out on the street. It so happened that Pere Piquedent, instead of talking Latin to me, as he did when teaching publicly in the institution, kept telling me his troubles in French. Without relations, without friends, the poor man conceived an attachment to me, and poured out his misery to me.
He had never for the last ten or fifteen years chatted confidentially with any one.
“I am like an oak in a desert,” he said – “‘sicut quercus in solitudine’.”
The other ushers disgusted him. He knew nobody in the town, since he had no time to devote to making acquaintances.
“Not even the nights, my friend, and that is the hardest thing on me. The dream of my life is to have a room with my own furniture, my own books, little things that belong to myself and which others may not touch. And I have nothing of my own, nothing except my trousers and my frock-coat, nothing, not even my mattress and my pillow! I have not four walls to shut myself up in, except when I come to give a lesson in this room. Do you see what this means – a man forced to spend his life without ever having the right, without ever finding the time, to shut himself up all alone, no matter where, to think, to reflect, to work, to dream? Ah! my dear boy, a key, the key of a door which one can lock – this is happiness, mark you, the only happiness!
“Here, all day long, teaching all those restless rogues, and during the night the dormitory with the same restless rogues snoring. And I have to sleep in the bed at the end of two rows of beds occupied by these youngsters whom I must look after. I can never be alone, never! If I go out I find the streets full of people, and, when I am tired of walking, I go into some cafe crowded with smokers and billiard players. I tell you what, it is the life of a galley slave.”
I said:
“Why did you not take up some other line, Monsieur Piquedent?”
He exclaimed:
“What, my little friend? I am not a shoemaker, or a joiner, or a hatter, or a baker, or a hairdresser. I only know Latin, and I have no diploma which would enable me to sell my knowledge at a high price. If I were a doctor I would sell for a hundred francs what I now sell for a hundred sous; and I would supply it probably of an inferior quality, for my title would be enough to sustain my reputation.”
Sometimes he would say to me:
“I have no rest in life except in the hours spent with you. Don’t be afraid! you’ll lose nothing by that. I’ll make it up to you in the class-room by making you speak twice as much Latin as the others.”
One day, I grew bolder, and offered him a cigarette. He stared at me in astonishment at first, then he gave a glance toward the door.
“If any one were to come in, my dear boy?”
“Well, let us smoke at the window,” said I.
And we went and leaned our elbows on the windowsill looking on the street, holding concealed in our hands the little rolls of tobacco. Just opposite to us was a laundry. Four women in loose white waists were passing hot, heavy irons over the linen spread out before them, from which a warm steam arose.
Suddenly, another, a fifth, carrying on her arm a large basket which made her stoop, came out to take the customers their shirts, their handkerchiefs, and their sheets. She stopped on the threshold as if she were already fatigued; then, she raised her eyes, smiled as she saw us smoking, flung at us, with her left hand, which was free, the sly kiss characteristic of a free-and-easy working-woman, and went away at a slow place, dragging her feet as she went.
She was a woman of about twenty, small, rather thin, pale, rather pretty, with a roguish air and laughing eyes beneath her ill-combed fair hair.
Pere Piquedent, affected, began murmuring:
“What an occupation for a woman! Really a trade only fit for a horse.”
And he spoke with emotion about the misery of the people. He had a heart which swelled with lofty democratic sentiment, and he referred to the fatiguing pursuits of the working class with phrases borrowed from Jean-Jacques Rousseau, and with sobs in his throat.
Next day, as we were leaning our elbows on the same window sill, the same woman perceived us and cried out to us:
“Good-day, scholars!” in a comical sort of tone, while she made a contemptuous gesture with her hands.
I flung her a cigarette, which she immediately began to smoke. And the four other ironers rushed out to the door with outstretched hands to get cigarettes also.
And each day a friendly intercourse was established between the working-women of the pavement and the idlers of the boarding school.
Pere Piquedent was really a comical sight. He trembled at being noticed, for he might lose his position; and he made timid and ridiculous gestures, quite a theatrical display of love signals, to which the women responded with a regular fusillade of kisses.
A perfidious idea came into my mind. One day, on entering our room, I said to the old usher in a low tone:
“You would not believe it, Monsieur Piquedent, I met the little washerwoman! You know the one I mean, the woman who had the basket, and I spoke to her!”
He asked, rather worried at my manner:
“What did she say to you?”
“She said to me – why, she said she thought you were very nice. The fact of the matter is, I believe, I believe, that she is a little in love with you.” I saw that he was growing pale.
“She is laughing at me, of course. These things don’t happen at my age,” he replied.
I said gravely:
“How is that? You are all right.”
As I felt that my trick had produced its effect on him, I did not press the matter.
But every day I pretended that I had met the little laundress and that I had spoken to her about him, so that in the end he believed me, and sent her ardent and earnest kisses.
Now it happened that one morning, on my way to the boarding school, I really came across her. I accosted her without hesitation, as if I had known her for the last ten years.
“Good-day, mademoiselle. Are you quite well?”
“Very well, monsieur, thank you.”
“Will you have a cigarette?”
“Oh! not in the street.”
“You can smoke it at home.”
“In that case, I will.”
“Let me tell you, mademoiselle, there’s something you don’t know.”
“What is that, monsieur?”
“The old gentleman – my old professor, I mean – ”
“Pere Piquedent?”
“Yes, Pere Piquedent. So you know his name?”
“Faith, I do! What of that?”
“Well, he is in love with you!”
She burst out laughing wildly, and exclaimed:
“You are only fooling.”
“Oh! no, I am not fooling! He keeps talking of you all through the lesson. I bet that he’ll marry you!”
She ceased laughing. The idea of marriage makes every girl serious. Then she repeated, with an incredulous air:
“This is humbug!”
“I swear to you, it’s true.”
She picked up her basket which she had laid down at her feet.
“Well, we’ll see,” she said. And she went away.
Presently when I had reached the boarding school, I took Pere Piquedent aside, and said:
“You must write to her; she is infatuated with you.”
And he wrote a long letter, tenderly affectionate, full of phrases and circumlocutions, metaphors and similes, philosophy and academic gallantry; and I took on myself the responsibility of delivering it to the young woman.
She read it with gravity, with emotion; then she murmured:
“How well he writes! It is easy to see he has got education! Does he really mean to marry me?”
I replied intrepidly: “Faith, he has lost his head about you!”
“Then he must invite me to dinner on Sunday at the Ile des Fleurs.”
I promised that she should be invited.
Pere Piquedent was much touched by everything I told him about her.
I added:
“She loves you, Monsieur Piquedent, and I believe her to be a decent girl. It is not right to lead her on and then abandon her.”
He replied in a firm tone:
“I hope I, too, am a decent man, my friend.”
I confess I had at the time no plan. I was playing a practical joke a schoolboy joke, nothing more. I had been aware of the simplicity of the old usher, his innocence and his weakness. I amused myself without asking myself how it would turn out. I was eighteen, and I had been for a long time looked upon at the lycee as a sly practical joker.
So it was agreed that Pere Piquedent and I should set out in a hack for the ferry of Queue de Vache, that we should there pick up Angele, and that I should take them into my boat, for in those days I was fond of boating. I would then bring them to the Ile des Fleurs, where the three of us would dine. I had inflicted myself on them, the better to enjoy my triumph, and the usher, consenting to my arrangement, proved clearly that he was losing his head by thus risking the loss of his position.
When we arrived at the ferry, where my boat had been moored since morning, I saw in the grass, or rather above the tall weeds of the bank, an enormous red parasol, resembling a monstrous wild poppy. Beneath the parasol was the little laundress in her Sunday clothes. I was surprised. She was really pretty, though pale; and graceful, though with a rather suburban grace.
Pere Piquedent raised his hat and bowed. She put out her hand toward him, and they stared at one another without uttering a word. Then they stepped into my boat, and I took the oars. They were seated side by side near the stern.
The usher was the first to speak.
“This is nice weather for a row in a boat.”
She murmured:
“Oh! yes.”
She dipped her hand into the water, skimming the surface, making a thin, transparent film like a sheet of glass, which made a soft plashing along the side of the boat.
When they were in the restaurant, she took it on herself to speak, and ordered dinner, fried fish, a chicken, and salad; then she led us on toward the isle, which she knew perfectly.
After this, she was gay, romping, and even rather tantalizing.
Until dessert, no question of love arose. I had treated them to champagne, and Pere Piquedent was tipsy. Herself slightly the worse, she called out to him:
“Monsieur Piquenez.”
He said abruptly:
“Mademoiselle, Monsieur Raoul has communicated my sentiments to you.”
She became as serious as a judge.
“Yes, monsieur.”
“What is your reply?”
“We never reply to these questions!”
He puffed with emotion, and went on:
“Well, will the day ever come that you will like me?”
She smiled.
“You big stupid! You are very nice.”
“In short, mademoiselle, do you think that, later on, we might – ”
She hesitated a second; then in a trembling voice she said:
“Do you mean to marry me when you say that? For on no other condition, you know.”
“Yes, mademoiselle!”
“Well, that’s all right, Monsieur Piquedent!”
It was thus that these two silly creatures promised marriage to each other through the trick of a young scamp. But I did not believe that it was serious, nor, indeed, did they, perhaps.
“You know, I have nothing, not four sous,” she said.
He stammered, for he was as drunk as Silenus:
“I have saved five thousand francs.”
She exclaimed triumphantly:
“Then we can set up in business?”
He became restless.
“In what business?”
“What do I know? We shall see. With five thousand francs we could do many things. You don’t want me to go and live in your boarding school, do you?”
He had not looked forward so far as this, and he stammered in great perplexity:
“What business could we set up in? That would not do, for all I know is Latin!”
She reflected in her turn, passing in review all her business ambitions.
“You could not be a doctor?”
“No, I have no diploma.”
“Or a chemist?”
“No more than the other.”
She uttered a cry of joy. She had discovered it.
“Then we’ll buy a grocer’s shop! Oh! what luck! we’ll buy a grocer’s shop. Not on a big scale, of course; with five thousand francs one does not go far.”
He was shocked at the suggestion.
“No, I can’t be a grocer. I am – I am – too well known: I only know Latin, that is all I know.”
But she poured a glass of champagne down his throat. He drank it and was silent.
We got back into the boat. The night was dark, very dark. I saw clearly, however, that he had caught her by the waist, and that they were hugging each other again and again.
It was a frightful catastrophe. Our escapade was discovered, with the result that Pere Piquedent was dismissed. And my father, in a fit of anger, sent me to finish my course of philosophy at Ribaudet’s school.
Six months later I took my degree of Bachelor of Arts. Then I went to study law in Paris, and did not return to my native town till two years later.
At the corner of the Rue de Serpent a shop caught my eye. Over the door were the words: “Colonial Products – Piquedent”; then underneath, so as to enlighten the most ignorant: “Grocery.”
I exclaimed:
“‘Quantum mutatus ab illo!’”
Piquedent raised his head, left his female customer, and rushed toward me with outstretched hands.
“Ah! my young friend, my young friend, here you are! What luck! what luck!”
A beautiful woman, very plump, abruptly left the cashier’s desk and flung herself on my breast. I had some difficulty in recognizing her, she had grown so stout.
I asked:
“So then you’re doing well?”
Piquedent had gone back to weigh the groceries.
“Oh! very well, very well, very well. I have made three thousand francs clear this year!”
“And what about Latin, Monsieur Piquedent?”
“Oh, good heavens! Latin, Latin, Latin – you see it does not keep the pot boiling!”
A MEETING
It was nothing but an accident, an accident pure and simple. On that particular evening the princess’ rooms were open, and as they appeared dark after the brilliantly lighted parlors, Baron d’Etraille, who was tired of standing, inadvertently wandered into an empty bedroom.
He looked round for a chair in which to have a doze, as he was sure his wife would not leave before daylight. As soon as he became accustomed to the light of the room he distinguished the big bed with its azure-and-gold hangings, in the middle of the great room, looking like a catafalque in which love was buried, for the princess was no longer young. Behind it, a large bright surface looked like a lake seen at a distance. It was a large mirror, discreetly covered with dark drapery, that was very rarely let down, and seemed to look at the bed, which was its accomplice. One might almost fancy that it had reminiscences, and that one might see in it charming female forms and the gentle movement of loving arms.
The baron stood still for a moment, smiling, almost experiencing an emotion on the threshold of this chamber dedicated to love. But suddenly something appeared in the looking-glass, as if the phantoms which he had evoked had risen up before him. A man and a woman who had been sitting on a low couch concealed in the shadow had arisen, and the polished surface, reflecting their figures, showed that they were kissing each other before separating.
Baron d’Etraille recognized his wife and the Marquis de Cervigne. He turned and went away like a man who is fully master of himself, and waited till it was day before taking away the baroness; but he had no longer any thoughts of sleeping.
As soon as they were alone he said:
“Madame, I saw you just now in Princesse de Raynes’ room; I need say no more, and I am not fond either of reproaches, acts of violence, or of ridicule. As I wish to avoid all such things, we shall separate without any scandal. Our lawyers will settle your position according to my orders. You will be free to live as you please when you are no longer under my roof; but, as you will continue to bear my name, I must warn you that should any scandal arise I shall show myself inflexible.”
She tried to speak, but he stopped her, bowed, and left the room.
He was more astonished and sad than unhappy. He had loved her dearly during the first period of their married life; but his ardor had cooled, and now he often amused himself elsewhere, either in a theatre or in society, though he always preserved a certain liking for the baroness.
She was very young, hardly four-and-twenty, small, slight – too slight – and very fair. She was a true Parisian doll: clever, spoiled, elegant, coquettish, witty, with more charm than real beauty. He used to say familiarly to his brother, when speaking of her:
“My wife is charming, attractive, but – there is nothing to lay hold of. She is like a glass of champagne that is all froth; when you get to the wine it is very good, but there is too little of it, unfortunately.”
He walked up and down the room in great agitation, thinking of a thousand things. At one moment he was furious, and felt inclined to give the marquis a good thrashing, or to slap his face publicly, in the club. But he decided that would not do, it would not be good form; he would be laughed at, and not his rival, and this thought wounded his vanity. So he went to bed, but could not sleep. Paris knew in a few days that the Baron and Baroness d’Etraille had agreed to an amicable separation on account of incompatibility of temper. No one suspected anything, no one laughed, and no one was astonished.
The baron, however, to avoid meeting his wife, travelled for a year, then spent the summer at the seaside, and the autumn in shooting, returning to Paris for the winter. He did not meet the baroness once.
He did not even know what people said about her. In any case, she took care to respect appearances, and that was all he asked for.
He became dreadfully bored, travelled again, restored his old castle of Villebosc, which took him two years; then for over a year he entertained friends there, till at last, tired of all these so-called pleasures, he returned to his mansion in the Rue de Lille, just six years after the separation.
He was now forty-five, with a good crop of gray hair, rather stout, and with that melancholy look characteristic of those who have been handsome, sought after, and liked, but who are deteriorating, daily.
A month after his return to Paris, he took cold on coming out of his club, and had such a bad cough that his medical man ordered him to Nice for the rest of the winter.
He reached the station only a few minutes before the departure of the train on Monday evening, and had barely time to get into a carriage, with only one other occupant, who was sitting in a corner so wrapped in furs and cloaks that he could not even make out whether it was a man or a woman, as nothing of the figure could be seen. When he perceived that he could not find out, he put on his travelling cap, rolled himself up in his rugs, and stretched out comfortably to sleep.
He did not wake until the day was breaking, and looked at once at his fellow-traveller, who had not stirred all night, and seemed still to be sound asleep.
M. d’Etraille made use of the opportunity to brush his hair and his beard, and to try to freshen himself up a little generally, for a night’s travel does not improve one’s appearance when one has attained a certain age.
A great poet has said:
“When we are young, our mornings are triumphant!”
Then we wake up with a cool skin, a bright eye, and glossy hair.
As one grows older one wakes up in a very different condition. Dull eyes, red, swollen cheeks, dry lips, hair and beard disarranged, impart an old, fatigued, worn-out look to the face.
The baron opened his travelling case, and improved his looks as much as possible.
The engine whistled, the train stopped, and his neighbor moved. No doubt he was awake. They started off again, and then a slanting ray of sunlight shone into the carriage and on the sleeper, who moved again, shook himself, and then his face could be seen.
It was a young, fair, pretty, plump woman, and the baron looked at her in amazement. He did not know what to think. He could really have sworn that it was his wife, but wonderfully changed for the better: stouter – why she had grown as stout as he was, only it suited her much better than it did him.
She looked at him calmly, did not seem to recognize him, and then slowly laid aside her wraps. She had that quiet assurance of a woman who is sure of herself, who feels that on awaking she is in her full beauty and freshness.
The baron was really bewildered. Was it his wife, or else as like her as any sister could be? Not having seen her for six years, he might be mistaken.
She yawned, and this gesture betrayed her. She turned and looked at him again, calmly, indifferently, as if she scarcely saw him, and then looked out of the window again.
He was upset and dreadfully perplexed, and kept looking at her sideways.
Yes; it was surely his wife. How could he possibly have doubted it? There could certainly not be two noses like that, and a thousand recollections flashed through his mind. He felt the old feeling of the intoxication of love stealing over him, and he called to mind the sweet odor of her skin, her smile when she put her arms on to his shoulders, the soft intonations of her voice, all her graceful, coaxing ways.
But how she had changed and improved! It was she and yet not she. She seemed riper, more developed, more of a woman, more seductive, more desirable, adorably desirable.
And this strange, unknown woman, whom he had accidentally met in a railway carriage, belonged to him; he had only to say to her:
“I insist upon it.”
He had formerly slept in her arms, existed only in her love, and now he had found her again certainly, but so changed that he scarcely knew her. It was another, and yet it was she herself. It was some one who had been born and had formed and grown since he had left her. It was she, indeed; she whom he had loved, but who was now altered, with a more assured smile and greater self-possession. There were two women in one, mingling a great part of what was new and unknown with many sweet recollections of the past. There was something singular, disturbing, exciting about it – a kind of mystery of love in which there floated a delicious confusion. It was his wife in a new body and in new flesh which lips had never pressed.
And he thought that in a few years nearly every thing changes in us; only the outline can be recognized, and sometimes even that disappears.
The blood, the hair, the skin, all changes and is renewed, and when people have not seen each other for a long time, when they meet they find each other totally different beings, although they are the same and bear the same name.
And the heart also can change. Ideas may be modified and renewed, so that in forty years of life we may, by gradual and constant transformations, become four or five totally new and different beings.
He dwelt on this thought till it troubled him; it had first taken possession of him when he surprised her in the princess’ room. He was not the least angry; it was not the same woman that he was looking at – that thin, excitable little doll of those days.
What was he to do? How should he address her? and what could he say to her? Had she recognized him?
The train stopped again. He got up, bowed, and said: “Bertha, do you want anything I could bring you?”
She looked at him from head to foot, and answered, without showing the slightest surprise, or confusion, or anger, but with the most perfect indifference: