From that day forward she had only one thought: to have a child another
child; she confided her wish to everybody, and, in consequence of this,
a neighbor told her of an infallible method. This was, to make her
husband drink a glass of water with a pinch of ashes in it every
evening. The farmer consented to try it, but without success; so they
said to each other: “Perhaps there are some secret ways?” And they tried
to find out. They were told of a shepherd who lived ten leagues off, and
so Vallin one day drove off to consult him. The shepherd gave him a loaf
on which he had made some marks; it was kneaded up with herbs, and each
of them was to eat a piece of it, but they ate the whole loaf without
obtaining any results from it.
Next, a schoolmaster unveiled mysteries and processes of love which were
unknown in the country, but infallible, so he declared; but none of
them had the desired effect. Then the priest advised them to make
a pilgrimage to the shrine at Fecamp. Rose went with the crowd and
prostrated herself in the abbey, and, mingling her prayers with the
coarse desires of the peasants around her, she prayed that she might be
fruitful a second time; but it was in vain, and then she thought that
she was being punished for her first fault, and she was seized by
terrible grief. She was wasting away with sorrow; her husband was also
aging prematurely, and was wearing himself out in useless hopes.
Then war broke out between them; he called her names and beat her. They
quarrelled all day long, and when they were in their room together at
night he flung insults and obscenities at her, choking with rage, until
one night, not being able to think of any means of making her suffer
more he ordered her to get up and go and stand out of doors in the rain
until daylight. As she did not obey him, he seized her by the neck and
began to strike her in the face with his fists, but she said nothing
and did not move. In his exasperation he knelt on her stomach, and with
clenched teeth, and mad with rage, he began to beat her. Then in her
despair she rebelled, and flinging him against the wall with a furious
gesture, she sat up, and in an altered voice she hissed: “I have had
a child, I have had one! I had it by Jacques; you know Jacques. He
promised to marry me, but he left this neighborhood without keeping his
word.”
The man was thunderstruck and could hardly speak, but at last he
stammered out: “What are you saying? What are you saying?” Then she
began to sob, and amid her tears she continued: “That was the reason why
I did not want to marry you. I could not tell you, for you would have
left me without any bread for my child. You have never had any children,
so you cannot understand, you cannot understand!”
He said again, mechanically, with increasing surprise: “You have a
child? You have a child?”
“You took me by force, as I suppose you know? I did not want to marry
you,” she said, still sobbing.
Then he got up, lit the candle, and began to walk up and down, with his
arms behind him. She was cowering on the bed and crying, and suddenly he
stopped in front of her, and said: “Then it is my fault that you have
no children?” She gave him no answer, and he began to walk up and down
again, and then, stopping again, he continued: “How old is your child?”
“Just six,” she whispered. “Why did you not tell me about it?” he asked.
“How could I?” she replied, with a sigh.
He remained standing, motionless. “Come, get up,” he said. She got up
with some difficulty, and then, when she was standing on the floor, he
suddenly began to laugh with the hearty laugh of his good days, and,
seeing how surprised she was, he added: “Very well, we will go and fetch
the child, as you and I can have none together.”
She was so scared that if she had had the strength she would assuredly
have run away, but the farmer rubbed his hands and said: “I wanted to
adopt one, and now we have found one. I asked the cure about an orphan
some time ago.”
Then, still laughing, he kissed his weeping and agitated wife on both
cheeks, and shouted out, as though she could not hear him: “Come along,
mother, we will go and see whether there is any soup left; I should not
mind a plateful.”
She put on her petticoat and they went downstairs; and While she was
kneeling in front of the fireplace and lighting the fire under the
saucepan, he continued to walk up and down the kitchen with long
strides, repeating:
“Well, I am really glad of this; I am not saying it for form's sake, but
I am glad, I am really very glad.”
THE WRECK
It was yesterday, the 31st of December.
I had just finished breakfast with my old friend Georges Garin when the
servant handed him a letter covered with seals and foreign stamps.
Georges said:
“Will you excuse me?”
“Certainly.”
And so he began to read the letter, which was written in a large English
handwriting, crossed and recrossed in every direction. He read them
slowly, with serious attention and the interest which we only pay to
things which touch our hearts.
Then he put the letter on the mantelpiece and said:
“That was a curious story! I've never told you about it, I think. Yet
it was a sentimental adventure, and it really happened to me. That was a
strange New Year's Day, indeed! It must have been twenty years ago, for
I was then thirty and am now fifty years old.
“I was then an inspector in the Maritime Insurance Company, of which I
am now director. I had arranged to pass New Year's Day in Paris--since
it is customary to make that day a fete--when I received a letter from
the manager, asking me to proceed at once to the island of Re, where
a three-masted vessel from Saint-Nazaire, insured by us, had just been
driven ashore. It was then eight o'clock in the morning. I arrived
at the office at ten to get my advices, and that evening I took the
express, which put me down in La Rochelle the next day, the 31st of
December.
“I had two hours to wait before going aboard the boat for Re. So I made
a tour of the town. It is certainly a queer city, La Rochelle, with
strong characteristics of its own streets tangled like a labyrinth,
sidewalks running under endless arcaded galleries like those of the Rue
de Rivoli, but low, mysterious, built as if to form a suitable setting
for conspirators and making a striking background for those old-time
wars, the savage heroic wars of religion. It is indeed the typical old
Huguenot city, conservative, discreet, with no fine art to show, with
no wonderful monuments, such as make Rouen; but it is remarkable for its
severe, somewhat sullen look; it is a city of obstinate fighters, a city
where fanaticism might well blossom, where the faith of the Calvinists
became enthusiastic and which gave birth to the plot of the 'Four
Sergeants.'
“After I had wandered for some time about these curious streets, I went
aboard the black, rotund little steamboat which was to take me to the
island of Re. It was called the Jean Guiton. It started with angry
puffings, passed between the two old towers which guard the harbor,
crossed the roadstead and issued from the mole built by Richelieu, the
great stones of which can be seen at the water's edge, enclosing the
town like a great necklace. Then the steamboat turned to the right.
“It was one of those sad days which give one the blues, tighten the
heart and take away all strength and energy and force-a gray, cold day,
with a heavy mist which was as wet as rain, as cold as frost, as bad to
breathe as the steam of a wash-tub.
“Under this low sky of dismal fog the shallow, yellow, sandy sea of all
practically level beaches lay without a wrinkle, without a movement,
without life, a sea of turbid water, of greasy water, of stagnant water.
The Jean Guiton passed over it, rolling a little from habit, dividing
the smooth, dark blue water and leaving behind a few waves, a little
splashing, a slight swell, which soon calmed down.
“I began to talk to the captain, a little man with small feet, as round
as his boat and rolling in the same manner. I wanted some details of
the disaster on which I was to draw up a report. A great square-rigged
three-master, the Marie Joseph, of Saint-Nazaire, had gone ashore one
night in a hurricane on the sands of the island of Re.
“The owner wrote us that the storm had thrown the ship so far ashore
that it was impossible to float her and that they had to remove
everything which could be detached with the utmost possible haste.
Nevertheless I must examine the situation of the wreck, estimate what
must have been her condition before the disaster and decide whether
all efforts had been used to get her afloat. I came as an agent of the
company in order to give contradictory testimony, if necessary, at the
trial.
“On receipt of my report, the manager would take what measures he might
think necessary to protect our interests.
“The captain of the Jean Guiton knew all about the affair, having been
summoned with his boat to assist in the attempts at salvage.
“He told me the story of the disaster. The Marie Joseph, driven by a
furious gale lost her bearings completely in the night, and steering
by chance over a heavy foaming sea--'a milk-soup sea,' said the
captain--had gone ashore on those immense sand banks which make the
coasts of this country look like limitless Saharas when the tide is low.
“While talking I looked around and ahead. Between the ocean and
the lowering sky lay an open space where the eye could see into the
distance. We were following a coast. I asked:
“'Is that the island of Re?'
“'Yes, sir.'
“And suddenly the captain stretched his right hand out before us,
pointed to something almost imperceptible in the open sea, and said:
“'There's your ship!'
“'The Marie Joseph!'
“'Yes.'
“I was amazed. This black, almost imperceptible speck, which looked to
me like a rock, seemed at least three miles from land.
“I continued:
“'But, captain, there must be a hundred fathoms of water in that place.'
“He began to laugh.
“'A hundred fathoms, my child! Well, I should say about two!'
“He was from Bordeaux. He continued:
“'It's now nine-forty, just high tide. Go down along the beach with your
hands in your pockets after you've had lunch at the Hotel du Dauphin,
and I'll wager that at ten minutes to three, or three o'clock, you'll
reach the wreck without wetting your feet, and have from an hour and
three-quarters to two hours aboard of her; but not more, or you'll be
caught. The faster the sea goes out the faster it comes back. This coast
is as flat as a turtle! But start away at ten minutes to five, as I tell
you, and at half-past seven you will be again aboard of the Jean Guiton,
which will put you down this same evening on the quay at La Rochelle.'
“I thanked the captain and I went and sat down in the bow of the steamer
to get a good look at the little city of Saint-Martin, which we were now
rapidly approaching.
“It was just like all small seaports which serve as capitals of the
barren islands scattered along the coast--a large fishing village,
one foot on sea and one on shore, subsisting on fish and wild fowl,
vegetables and shell-fish, radishes and mussels. The island is very low
and little cultivated, yet it seems to be thickly populated. However, I
did not penetrate into the interior.
“After breakfast I climbed across a little promontory, and then, as the
tide was rapidly falling, I started out across the sands toward a kind
of black rock which I could just perceive above the surface of the
water, out a considerable distance.
“I walked quickly over the yellow plain. It was elastic, like flesh and
seemed to sweat beneath my tread. The sea had been there very lately.
Now I perceived it at a distance, escaping out of sight, and I no longer
could distinguish the line which separated the sands from ocean. I felt
as though I were looking at a gigantic supernatural work of enchantment.
The Atlantic had just now been before me, then it had disappeared into
the sands, just as scenery disappears through a trap; and I was now
walking in the midst of a desert. Only the feeling, the breath of the
salt-water, remained in me. I perceived the smell of the wrack, the
smell of the sea, the good strong smell of sea coasts. I walked fast; I
was no longer cold. I looked at the stranded wreck, which grew in size
as I approached, and came now to resemble an enormous shipwrecked whale.
“It seemed fairly to rise out of the ground, and on that great, flat,
yellow stretch of sand assumed wonderful proportions. After an hour's
walk I at last reached it. It lay upon its side, ruined and shattered,
its broken bones showing as though it were an animal, its bones of
tarred wood pierced with great bolts. The sand had already invaded it,
entering it by all the crannies, and held it and refused to let it go.
It seemed to have taken root in it. The bow had entered deep into this
soft, treacherous beach, while the stern, high in air, seemed to cast
at heaven, like a cry of despairing appeal, the two white words on the
black planking, Marie Joseph.
“I climbed upon this carcass of a ship by the lowest side; then, having
reached the deck, I went below. The daylight, which entered by the
stove-in hatches and the cracks in the sides, showed me dimly long dark
cavities full of demolished woodwork. They contained nothing but sand,
which served as foot-soil in this cavern of planks.
“I began to take some notes about the condition of the ship. I was
seated on a broken empty cask, writing by the light of a great crack,
through which I could perceive the boundless stretch of the strand. A
strange shivering of cold and loneliness ran over my skin from time
to time, and I would often stop writing for a moment to listen to the
mysterious noises in the derelict: the noise of crabs scratching the
planking with their crooked claws; the noise of a thousand little
creatures of the sea already crawling over this dead body or else boring
into the wood.
“Suddenly, very near me, I heard human voices. I started as though I had
seen a ghost. For a second I really thought I was about to see drowned
men rise from the sinister depths of the hold, who would tell me about
their death. At any rate, it did not take me long to swing myself on
deck. There, standing by the bows, was a tall Englishman with three
young misses. Certainly they were a good deal more frightened at seeing
this sudden apparition on the abandoned three-master than I was at
seeing them. The youngest girl turned and ran, the two others threw
their arms round their father. As for him, he opened his mouth--that was
the only sign of emotion which he showed.
“Then, after several seconds, he spoke:
“'Mosieu, are you the owner of this ship?'
“'I am.'
“'May I go over it?'
“'You may.'
“Then he uttered a long sentence in English, in which I only
distinguished the word 'gracious,' repeated several times.
“As he was looking for a place to climb up I showed him the easiest way,
and gave him a hand. He climbed up. Then we helped up the three girls,
who had now quite recovered their composure. They were charming,
especially the oldest, a blonde of eighteen, fresh as a flower, and very
dainty and pretty! Ah, yes! the pretty Englishwomen have indeed the look
of tender sea fruit. One would have said of this one that she had just
risen out of the sands and that her hair had kept their tint. They all,
with their exquisite freshness, make you think of the delicate colors
of pink sea-shells and of shining pearls hidden in the unknown depths of
the ocean.
“She spoke French a little better than her father and acted as
interpreter. I had to tell all about the shipwreck, and I romanced as
though I had been present at the catastrophe. Then the whole family
descended into the interior of the wreck. As soon as they had penetrated
into this sombre, dimly lit cavity they uttered cries of astonishment
and admiration. Suddenly the father and his three daughters were holding
sketch-books in their hands, which they had doubtless carried hidden
somewhere in their heavy weather-proof clothes, and were all beginning
at once to make pencil sketches of this melancholy and weird place.
“They had seated themselves side by side on a projecting beam, and the
four sketch-books on the eight knees were being rapidly covered with
little black lines which were intended to represent the half-opened hulk
of the Marie Joseph.
“I continued to inspect the skeleton of the ship, and the oldest girl
talked to me while she worked.
“They had none of the usual English arrogance; they were simple honest
hearts of that class of continuous travellers with which England covers
the globe. The father was long and thin, with a red face framed in white
whiskers, and looking like a living sandwich, a piece of ham carved like
a face between two wads of hair. The daughters, who had long legs like
young storks, were also thin-except the oldest. All three were pretty,
especially the tallest.
“She had such a droll way of speaking, of laughing, of understanding and
of not understanding, of raising her eyes to ask a question (eyes blue
as the deep ocean), of stopping her drawing a moment to make a guess
at what you meant, of returning once more to work, of saying 'yes' or
'no'--that I could have listened and looked indefinitely.
“Suddenly she murmured:
“'I hear a little sound on this boat.'
“I listened and I immediately distinguished a low, steady, curious
sound. I rose and looked out of the crack and gave a scream. The sea had
come up to us; it would soon surround us!
“We were on deck in an instant. It was too late. The water circled us
about and was running toward the coast at tremendous speed. No, it did
not run, it glided, crept, spread like an immense, limitless blot. The
water was barely a few centimeters deep, but the rising flood had gone
so far that we no longer saw the vanishing line of the imperceptible
tide.
“The Englishman wanted to jump. I held him back. Flight was impossible
because of the deep places which we had been obliged to go round on our
way out and into which we should fall on our return.
“There was a minute of horrible anguish in our hearts. Then the little
English girl began to smile and murmured:
“'It is we who are shipwrecked.'
“I tried to laugh, but fear held me, a fear which was cowardly and
horrid and base and treacherous like the tide. All the danger which we
ran appeared to me at once. I wanted to shriek: 'Help!' But to whom?
“The two younger girls were clinging to their father, who looked in
consternation at the measureless sea which hedged us round about.
“The night fell as swiftly as the ocean rose--a lowering, wet, icy
night.
“I said:
“'There's nothing to do but to stay on the ship:
“The Englishman answered:
“'Oh, yes!'
“And we waited there a quarter of an hour, half an hour, indeed I don't
know how long, watching that creeping water growing deeper as it
swirled around us, as though it were playing on the beach, which it had
regained.
“One of the young girls was cold, and we went below to shelter ourselves
from the light but freezing wind that made our skins tingle.
“I leaned over the hatchway. The ship was full of water. So we had to
cower against the stern planking, which shielded us a little.
“Darkness was now coming on, and we remained huddled together. I felt
the shoulder of the little English girl trembling against mine, her
teeth chattering from time to time. But I also felt the gentle warmth of
her body through her ulster, and that warmth was as delicious to me as
a kiss. We no longer spoke; we sat motionless, mute, cowering down
like animals in a ditch when a hurricane is raging. And, nevertheless,
despite the night, despite the terrible and increasing danger, I began
to feel happy that I was there, glad of the cold and the peril, glad of
the long hours of darkness and anguish that I must pass on this plank so
near this dainty, pretty little girl.
“I asked myself, 'Why this strange sensation of well-being and of joy?'
“Why! Does one know? Because she was there? Who? She, a little unknown
English girl? I did not love her, I did not even know her. And for all
that, I was touched and conquered. I wanted to save her, to sacrifice
myself for her, to commit a thousand follies! Strange thing! How does it
happen that the presence of a woman overwhelms us so? Is it the power of
her grace which enfolds us? Is it the seduction of her beauty and youth,
which intoxicates one like wine?
“Is it not rather the touch of Love, of Love the Mysterious, who seeks
constantly to unite two beings, who tries his strength the instant he
has put a man and a woman face to face?
“The silence of the darkness became terrible, the stillness of the sky
dreadful, because we could hear vaguely about us a slight, continuous
sound, the sound of the rising tide and the monotonous plashing of the
water against the ship.
“Suddenly I heard the sound of sobs. The youngest of the girls was
crying. Her father tried to console her, and they began to talk in their
own tongue, which I did not understand. I guessed that he was reassuring
her and that she was still afraid.
“I asked my neighbor:
“'You are not too cold, are you, mademoiselle?'
“'Oh, yes. I am very cold.'
“I offered to give her my cloak; she refused it.
“But I had taken it off and I covered her with it against her will. In
the short struggle her hand touched mine. It made a delicious thrill run
through my body.
“For some minutes the air had been growing brisker, the dashing of the
water stronger against the flanks of the ship. I raised myself; a great
gust of wind blew in my face. The wind was rising!
“The Englishman perceived this at the same time that I did and said
simply:
“'This is bad for us, this----'
“Of course it was bad, it was certain death if any breakers, however
feeble, should attack and shake the wreck, which was already so
shattered and disconnected that the first big sea would carry it off.
“So our anguish increased momentarily as the squalls grew stronger and
stronger. Now the sea broke a little, and I saw in the darkness white
lines appearing and disappearing, lines of foam, while each wave struck
the Marie Joseph and shook her with a short quiver which went to our
hearts.
“The English girl was trembling. I felt her shiver against me. And I had
a wild desire to take her in my arms.
“Down there, before and behind us, to the left and right, lighthouses
were shining along the shore--lighthouses white, yellow and red,
revolving like the enormous eyes of giants who were watching us, waiting
eagerly for us to disappear. One of them in especial irritated me. It
went out every thirty seconds and it lit up again immediately. It was
indeed an eye, that one, with its lid incessantly lowered over its fiery
glance.
“From time to time the Englishman struck a match to see the hour; then
he put his watch back in his pocket. Suddenly he said to me, over the
heads of his daughters, with tremendous gravity:
“'I wish you a happy New Year, Mosieu.'
“It was midnight. I held out my hand, which he pressed. Then he said
something in English, and suddenly he and his daughters began to sing
'God Save the Queen,' which rose through the black and silent air and
vanished into space.
“At first I felt a desire to laugh; then I was seized by a powerful,
strange emotion.
“It was something sinister and superb, this chant of the shipwrecked,
the condemned, something like a prayer and also like something grander,
something comparable to the ancient 'Ave Caesar morituri te salutant.'
“When they had finished I asked my neighbor to sing a ballad alone,
anything she liked, to make us forget our terrors. She consented, and
immediately her clear young voice rang out into the night. She sang
something which was doubtless sad, because the notes were long drawn out
and hovered, like wounded birds, above the waves.
“The sea was rising now and beating upon our wreck. As for me, I thought
only of that voice. And I thought also of the sirens. If a ship had
passed near by us what would the sailors have said? My troubled spirit
lost itself in the dream! A siren! Was she not really a siren, this
daughter of the sea, who had kept me on this worm-eaten ship and who was
soon about to go down with me deep into the waters?
“But suddenly we were all five rolling on the deck, because the Marie
Joseph had sunk on her right side. The English girl had fallen upon me,
and before I knew what I was doing, thinking that my last moment was
come, I had caught her in my arms and kissed her cheek, her temple and
her hair.
“The ship did not move again, and we, we also, remained motionless.
“The father said, 'Kate!' The one whom I was holding answered 'Yes' and
made a movement to free herself. And at that moment I should have wished
the ship to split in two and let me fall with her into the sea.
“The Englishman continued:
“'A little rocking; it's nothing. I have my three daughters safe.'
“Not having seen the oldest, he had thought she was lost overboard!
“I rose slowly, and suddenly I made out a light on the sea quite close
to us. I shouted; they answered. It was a boat sent out in search of us
by the hotelkeeper, who had guessed at our imprudence.
“We were saved. I was in despair. They picked us up off our raft and
they brought us back to Saint-Martin.
“The Englishman began to rub his hand and murmur:
“'A good supper! A good supper!'
“We did sup. I was not gay. I regretted the Marie Joseph.
“We had to separate the next day after much handshaking and many
promises to write. They departed for Biarritz. I wanted to follow them.
“I was hard hit. I wanted to ask this little girl to marry me. If we
had passed eight days together, I should have done so! How weak and
incomprehensible a man sometimes is!
“Two years passed without my hearing a word from them. Then I received
a letter from New York. She was married and wrote to tell me. And since
then we write to each other every year, on New Year's Day. She tells
me about her life, talks of her children, her sisters, never of her
husband! Why? Ah! why? And as for me, I only talk of the Marie Joseph.
That was perhaps the only woman I have ever loved--no--that I ever
should have loved. Ah, well! who can tell? Circumstances rule one. And
then--and then--all passes. She must be old now; I should not know her.
Ah! she of the bygone time, she of the wreck! What a creature! Divine!
She writes me her hair is white. That caused me terrible pain. Ah! her
yellow hair. No, my English girl exists no longer. How sad it all is!”
THEODULE SABOT'S CONFESSION
When Sabot entered the inn at Martinville it was a signal for laughter.
What a rogue he was, this Sabot! There was a man who did not like
priests, for instance! Oh, no, oh, no! He did not spare them, the scamp.
Sabot (Theodule), a master carpenter, represented liberal thought in
Martinville. He was a tall, thin, than, with gray, cunning eyes, and
thin lips, and wore his hair plastered down on his temples. When he
said: “Our holy father, the pope” in a certain manner, everyone laughed.
He made a point of working on Sunday during the hour of mass. He killed
his pig each year on Monday in Holy Week in order to have enough black
pudding to last till Easter, and when the priest passed by, he always
said by way of a joke: “There goes one who has just swallowed his God
off a salver.”
The priest, a stout man and also very tall, dreaded him on account of
his boastful talk which attracted followers. The Abbe Maritime was a
politic man, and believed in being diplomatic. There had been a rivalry
between them for ten years, a secret, intense, incessant rivalry. Sabot
was municipal councillor, and they thought he would become mayor, which
would inevitably mean the final overthrow of the church.
The elections were about to take place. The church party was shaking in
its shoes in Martinville.
One morning the cure set out for Rouen, telling his servant that he
was going to see the archbishop. He returned in two days with a joyous,
triumphant air. And everyone knew the following day that the chancel of
the church was going to be renovated. A sum of six hundred francs had
been contributed by the archbishop out of his private fund. All the old
pine pews were to be removed, and replaced by new pews made of oak.
It would be a big carpentering job, and they talked about it that very
evening in all the houses in the village.
Theodule Sabot was not laughing.
When he went through the village the following morning, the neighbors,
friends and enemies, all asked him, jokingly:
“Are you going to do the work on the chancel of the church?”
He could find nothing to say, but he was furious, he was good and angry.
Ill-natured people added:
“It is a good piece of work; and will bring in not less than two or
three per cent. profit.”
Two days later, they heard that the work of renovation had been
entrusted to Celestin Chambrelan, the carpenter from Percheville. Then
this was denied, and it was said that all the pews in the church were
going to be changed. That would be well worth the two thousand francs
that had been demanded of the church administration.
Theodule Sabot could not sleep for thinking about it. Never, in all the
memory of man, had a country carpenter undertaken a similar piece of
work. Then a rumor spread abroad that the cure felt very grieved that
he had to give this work to a carpenter who was a stranger in the
community, but that Sabot's opinions were a barrier to his being
entrusted with the job.
Sabot knew it well. He called at the parsonage just as it was growing
dark. The servant told him that the cure was at church. He went to the
church.
Two attendants on the altar of the Virgin, two soar old maids, were
decorating the altar for the month of Mary, under the direction of the
priest, who stood in the middle of the chancel with his portly paunch,
directing the two women who, mounted on chairs, were placing flowers
around the tabernacle.
Sabot felt ill at ease in there, as though he were in the house of his
greatest enemy, but the greed of gain was gnawing at his heart. He drew
nearer, holding his cap in his hand, and not paying any attention to the
“demoiselles de la Vierge,” who remained standing startled, astonished,
motionless on their chairs.
He faltered:
“Good morning, monsieur le cure.”
The priest replied without looking at him, all occupied as he was with
the altar:
“Good morning, Mr. Carpenter.”
Sabot, nonplussed, knew not what to say next. But after a pause he
remarked:
“You are making preparations?”
Abbe Maritime replied:
“Yes, we are near the month of Mary.”
“Why, why,” remarked Sabot and then was silent. He would have liked to
retire now without saying anything, but a glance at the chancel held him
back. He saw sixteen seats that had to be remade, six to the right and
eight to the left, the door of the sacristy occupying the place of two.
Sixteen oak seats, that would be worth at most three hundred francs, and
by figuring carefully one might certainly make two hundred francs on the
work if one were not clumsy.
Then he stammered out:
“I have come about the work.”
The cure appeared surprised. He asked:
“What work?”
“The work to be done,” murmured Sabot, in dismay.
Then the priest turned round and looking him straight in the eyes, said:
“Do you mean the repairs in the chancel of my church?”
At the tone of the abbe, Theodule Sabot felt a chill run down his back
and he once more had a longing to take to his heels. However, he replied
humbly:
“Why, yes, monsieur le cure.”
Then the abbe folded his arms across his large stomach and, as if filled
with amazement, said:
“Is it you--you--you, Sabot--who have come to ask me for this...
You--the only irreligious man in my parish! Why, it would be a scandal,
a public scandal! The archbishop would give me a reprimand, perhaps
transfer me.”
He stopped a few seconds, for breath, and then resumed in a calmer tone:
“I can understand that it pains you to see a work of such importance
entrusted to a carpenter from a neighboring parish. But I cannot do
otherwise, unless--but no--it is impossible--you would not consent, and
unless you did, never.”
Sabot now looked at the row of benches in line as far as the entrance
door. Christopher, if they were going to change all those!
And he asked:
“What would you require of me? Tell me.”
The priest, in a firm tone replied:
“I must have an extraordinary token of your good intentions.”
“I do not say--I do not say; perhaps we might come to an understanding,”
faltered Sabot.
“You will have to take communion publicly at high mass next Sunday,”
declared the cure.
The carpenter felt he was growing pale, and without replying, he asked:
“And the benches, are they going to be renovated?”
The abbe replied with confidence:
“Yes, but later on.”
Sabot resumed:
“I do not say, I do not say. I am not calling it off, I am consenting
to religion, for sure. But what rubs me the wrong way is, putting it in
practice; but in this case I will not be refractory.”
The attendants of the Virgin, having got off their chairs had concealed
themselves behind the altar; and they listened pale with emotion.
The cure, seeing he had gained the victory, became all at once very
friendly, quite familiar.
“That is good, that is good. That was wisely said, and not stupid, you
understand. You will see, you will see.”
Sabot smiled and asked with an awkward air:
“Would it not be possible to put off this communion just a trifle?”
But the priest replied, resuming his severe expression:
“From the moment that the work is put into your hands, I want to be
assured of your conversion.”
Then he continued more gently:
“You will come to confession to-morrow; for I must examine you at least
twice.”
“Twice?” repeated Sabot.
“Yes.”
The priest smiled.
“You understand perfectly that you must have a general cleaning up, a
thorough cleansing. So I will expect you to-morrow.”
The carpenter, much agitated, asked:
“Where do you do that?”
“Why--in the confessional.”
“In--that box, over there in the corner? The fact is--is--that it does
not suit me, your box.”
“How is that?”
“Seeing that--seeing that I am not accustomed to that, and also I am
rather hard of hearing.”
The cure was very affable and said:
“Well, then! you shall come to my house and into my parlor. We will have
it just the two of us, tete-a-tete. Does that suit you?”
“Yes, that is all right, that will suit me, but your box, no.”
“Well, then, to-morrow after the days work, at six o'clock.”
“That is understood, that is all right, that is agreed on. To-morrow,
monsieur le cure. Whoever draws back is a skunk!”
And he held out his great rough hand which the priest grasped heartily
with a clap that resounded through the church.
Theodule Sabot was not easy in his mind all the following day. He had a
feeling analogous to the apprehension one experiences when a tooth has
to be drawn. The thought recurred to him at every moment: “I must go to
confession this evening.” And his troubled mind, the mind of an atheist
only half convinced, was bewildered with a confused and overwhelming
dread of the divine mystery.
As soon as he had finished his work, he betook himself to the parsonage.
The cure was waiting for him in the garden, reading his breviary as he
walked along a little path. He appeared radiant and greeted him with a
good-natured laugh.
“Well, here we are! Come in, come in, Monsieur Sabot, no one will eat
you.”
And Sabot preceded him into the house. He faltered:
“If you do not mind I should like to get through with this little matter
at once.”
The cure replied:
“I am at your service. I have my surplice here. One minute and I will
listen to you.”
The carpenter, so disturbed that he had not two ideas in his head,
watched him as he put on the white vestment with its pleated folds. The
priest beckoned to him and said:
“Kneel down on this cushion.”
Sabot remained standing, ashamed of having to kneel. He stuttered:
“Is it necessary?”
But the abbe had become dignified.
“You cannot approach the penitent bench except on your knees.”
And Sabot knelt down.
“Repeat the confiteor,” said the priest.
“What is that?” asked Sabot.
“The confiteor. If you do not remember it, repeat after me, one by one,
the words I am going to say.” And the cure repeated the sacred prayer,
in a slow tone, emphasizing the words which the carpenter repeated after
him. Then he said:
“Now make your confession.”
But Sabot was silent, not knowing where to begin. The abbe then came to
his aid.
“My child, I will ask you questions, since you don't seem familiar with
these things. We will take, one by one, the commandments of God. Listen
to me and do not be disturbed. Speak very frankly and never fear that
you may say too much.
“'One God alone, thou shalt adore,
And love him perfectly.'
“Have you ever loved anything, or anybody, as well as you loved God?
Have you loved him with all your soul, all your heart, all the strength
of your love?”
Sabot was perspiring with the effort of thinking. He replied:
“No. Oh, no, m'sieu le cure. I love God as much as I can. That is
--yes--I love him very much. To say that I do not love my children,
no--I cannot say that. To say that if I had to choose between them and
God, I could not be sure. To say that if I had to lose a hundred francs
for the love of God, I could not say about that. But I love him well,
for sure, I love him all the same.” The priest said gravely “You must
love Him more than all besides.” And Sabot, meaning well, declared “I
will do what I possibly can, m'sieu le cure.” The abbe resumed:
“'God's name in vain thou shalt not take
Nor swear by any other thing.'
“Did you ever swear?”
“No-oh, that, no! I never swear, never. Sometimes, in a moment of anger,
I may say sacre nom de Dieu! But then, I never swear.”
“That is swearing,” cried the priest, and added seriously:
“Do not do it again.
“'Thy Sundays thou shalt keep
In serving God devoutly.'
“What do you do on Sunday?”
This time Sabot scratched his ear.
“Why, I serve God as best I can, m'sieu le cure. I serve him--at home. I
work on Sunday.”
The cure interrupted him, saying magnanimously:
“I know, you will do better in future. I will pass over the following
commandments, certain that you have not transgressed the two first. We
will take from the sixth to the ninth. I will resume:
“'Others' goods thou shalt not take
Nor keep what is not thine.'
“Have you ever taken in any way what belonged to another?”
But Theodule Sabot became indignant.
“Of course not, of course not! I am an honest man, m'sieu le cure, I
swear it, for sure. To say that I have not sometimes charged for a few
more hours of work to customers who had means, I could not say that. To
say that I never add a few centimes to bills, only a few, I would not
say that. But to steal, no! Oh, not that, no!”
The priest resumed severely:
“To take one single centime constitutes a theft. Do not do it again.
'False witness thou shalt not bear,
Nor lie in any way.'
“Have you ever told a lie?”
“No, as to that, no. I am not a liar. That is my quality. To say that I
have never told a big story, I would not like to say that. To say that I
have never made people believe things that were not true when it was to
my own interest, I would not like to say that. But as for lying, I am
not a liar.”
The priest simply said:
“Watch yourself more closely.” Then he continued:
“'The works of the flesh thou shalt not desire
Except in marriage only.'
“Did you ever desire, or live with, any other woman than your wife?”
Sabot exclaimed with sincerity:
“As to that, no; oh, as to that, no, m'sieu le Cure. My poor wife,
deceive her! No, no! Not so much as the tip of a finger, either in
thought or in act. That is the truth.”
They were silent a few seconds, then, in a lower tone, as though a doubt
had arisen in his mind, he resumed:
“When I go to town, to say that I never go into a house, you know,
one of the licensed houses, just to laugh and talk and see something
different, I could not say that. But I always pay, monsieur le cure, I
always pay. From the moment you pay, without anyone seeing or knowing
you, no one can get you into trouble.”
The cure did not insist, and gave him absolution.
Theodule Sabot did the work on the chancel, and goes to communion every
month.
THE WRONG HOUSE
Quartermaster Varajou had obtained a week's leave to go and visit his
sister, Madame Padoie. Varajou, who was in garrison at Rennes and was
leading a pretty gay life, finding himself high and dry, wrote to his
sister saying that he would devote a week to her. It was not that he
cared particularly for Mme. Padoie, a little moralist, a devotee,
and always cross; but he needed money, needed it very badly, and he
remembered that, of all his relations, the Padoies were the only ones
whom he had never approached on the subject.
Pere Varajou, formerly a horticulturist at Angers, but now retired from
business, had closed his purse strings to his scapegrace son and had
hardly seen him for two years. His daughter had married Padoie, a former
treasury clerk, who had just been appointed tax collector at Vannes.
Varajou, on leaving the train, had some one direct him to the house of
his brother-in-law, whom he found in his office arguing with the Breton
peasants of the neighborhood. Padoie rose from his seat, held out his
hand across the table littered with papers, murmured, “Take a chair.
I will be at liberty in a moment,” sat down again and resumed his
discussion.
The peasants did not understand his explanations, the collector did not
understand their line of argument. He spoke French, they spoke Breton,
and the clerk who acted as interpreter appeared not to understand
either.
It lasted a long time, a very long time. Varajou looked at his
brother-in-law and thought: “What a fool!” Padoie must have been almost
fifty. He was tall, thin, bony, slow, hairy, with heavy arched eyebrows.
He wore a velvet skull cap with a gold cord vandyke design round it.
His look was gentle, like his actions. His speech, his gestures, his
thoughts, all were soft. Varajou said to himself, “What a fool!”
He, himself, was one of those noisy roysterers for whom the greatest
pleasures in life are the cafe and abandoned women. He understood
nothing outside of these conditions of existence.
A boisterous braggart, filled with contempt for the rest of the world,
he despised the entire universe from the height of his ignorance. When
he said: “Nom d'un chien, what a spree!” he expressed the highest degree
of admiration of which his mind was capable.
Having finally got rid of his peasants, Padoie inquired:
“How are you?”
“Pretty well, as you see. And how are you?”
“Quite well, thank you. It is very kind of you to have thought of coming
to see us.”
“Oh, I have been thinking of it for some time; but, you know, in the
military profession one has not much freedom.”
“Oh, I know, I know. All the same, it is very kind of you.”
“And Josephine, is she well?”
“Yes, yes, thank you; you will see her presently.” “Where is she?”
“She is making some calls. We have a great many friends here; it is a
very nice town.”
“I thought so.”
The door opened and Mme. Padoie appeared. She went over to her brother
without any eagerness, held her cheek for him to kiss, and asked:
“Have you been here long?”
“No, hardly half an hour.”
“Oh, I thought the train would be late. Will you come into the parlor?”
They went into the adjoining room, leaving Padoie to his accounts and
his taxpayers. As soon as they were alone, she said:
“I have heard nice things about you!”
“What have you heard?”
“It seems that you are behaving like a blackguard, getting drunk and
contracting debts.”
He appeared very much astonished.
“I! never in the world!”
“Oh, do not deny it, I know it.”
He attempted to defend himself, but she gave him such a lecture that he
could say nothing more.
She then resumed:
“We dine at six o'clock, and you can amuse yourself until then. I cannot
entertain you, as I have so many things to do.”
When he was alone he hesitated as to whether he should sleep or take a
walk. He looked first at the door leading to his room and then at the
hall door, and decided to go out. He sauntered slowly through the quiet
Breton town, so sleepy, so calm, so dead, on the shores of its inland
bay that is called “le Morbihan.” He looked at the little gray houses,
the occasional pedestrians, the empty stores, and he murmured:
“Vannes is certainly not gay, not lively. It was a sad idea, my coming
here.”
He reached the harbor, the desolate harbor, walked back along a lonely,
deserted boulevard, and got home before five o'clock. Then he threw
himself on his bed to sleep till dinner time. The maid woke him,
knocking at the door.
“Dinner is ready, sir:”
He went downstairs. In the damp dining-room with the paper peeling from
the walls near the floor, he saw a soup tureen on a round table without
any table cloth, on which were also three melancholy soup-plates.
M. and Mme. Padoie entered the room at the same time as Varajou. They
all sat down to table, and the husband and wife crossed themselves over
the pit of their stomachs, after which Padoie helped the soup, a meat
soup. It was the day for pot-roast.
After the soup, they had the beef, which was done to rags, melted,
greasy, like pap. The officer ate slowly, with disgust, weariness and
rage.
Mme. Padoie said to her husband:
“Are you going to the judge's house this evening?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Do not stay late. You always get so tired when you go out. You are not
made for society, with your poor health.”
She then talked about society in Vannes, of the excellent social circle
in which the Padoies moved, thanks to their religious sentiments.
A puree of potatoes and a dish of pork were next served, in honor of the
guest. Then some cheese, and that was all. No coffee.
When Varajou saw that he would have to spend the evening tete-a-tete
with his sister, endure her reproaches, listen to her sermons, without
even a glass of liqueur to help him to swallow these remonstrances,
he felt that he could not stand the torture, and declared that he
was obliged to go to the police station to have something attended to
regarding his leave of absence. And he made his escape at seven o'clock.
He had scarcely reached the street before he gave himself a shake like a
dog coming out of the water. He muttered:
“Heavens, heavens, heavens, what a galley slave's life!”
And he set out to look for a cafe, the best in the town. He found it on
a public square, behind two gas lamps. Inside the cafe, five or six
men, semi-gentlemen, and not noisy, were drinking and chatting quietly,
leaning their elbows on the small tables, while two billiard players
walked round the green baize, where the balls were hitting each other as
they rolled.
One heard them counting:
“Eighteen-nineteen. No luck. Oh, that's a good stroke! Well played!
Eleven. You should have played on the red. Twenty. Froze! Froze! Twelve.
Ha! Wasn't I right?”
Varajou ordered:
“A demi-tasse and a small decanter of brandy, the best.” Then he sat
down and waited for it.
He was accustomed to spending his evenings off duty with his companions,
amid noise and the smoke of pipes. This silence, this quiet, exasperated
him. He began to drink; first the coffee, then the brandy, and asked for
another decanter. He now wanted to laugh, to shout, to sing, to fight
some one. He said to himself:
“Gee, I am half full. I must go and have a good time.”
And he thought he would go and look for some girls to amuse him. He
called the waiter:
“Hey, waiter.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell me, where does one amuse oneself here?”
The man looked stupid, and replied:
“I do not know, sir. Here, I suppose!”
“How do you mean here? What do you call amusing oneself, yourself?”
“I do not know, sir, drinking good beer or good wine.”
“Ah, go away, dummy, how about the girls?”
“The girls, ah! ah!”
“Yes, the girls, where can one find any here?”
“Girls?”
“Why, yes, girls!”
The boy approached and lowering his voice, said: “You want to know where
they live?”
“Why, yes, the devil!”
“You take the second street to the left and then the first to the right.
It is number fifteen.”
“Thank you, old man. There is something for you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
And Varajou went out of the cafe, repeating, “Second to the left, first
to the right, number 15.” But at the end of a few seconds he thought,
“second to the left yes. But on leaving the cafe must I walk to the
right or the left? Bah, it cannot be helped, we shall see.”
And he walked on, turned down the second street to the left, then the
first to the right and looked for number 15. It was a nice looking
house, and one could see behind the closed blinds that the windows were
lighted up on the first floor. The hall door was left partly open, and a
lamp was burning in the vestibule. The non-commissioned officer thought
to himself:
“This looks all right.”
He went in and, as no one appeared, he called out:
“Hallo there, hallo!”
A little maid appeared and looked astonished at seeing a soldier. He
said:
“Good-morning, my child. Are the ladies upstairs?”
“Yes, sir.”
“In the parlor?”
“Yes, sir.”
“May I go up?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The door opposite the stairs?”
“Yes, sir.”
He ascended the stairs, opened a door and saw sitting in a room well
lighted up by two lamps, a chandelier, and two candelabras with candles
in them, four ladies in evening dress, apparently expecting some one.
Three of them, the younger ones, remained seated, with rather a formal
air, on some crimson velvet chairs; while the fourth, who was about
forty-five, was arranging some flowers in a vase. She was very stout,
and wore a green silk dress with low neck and short sleeves, allowing
her red neck, covered with powder, to escape as a huge flower might from
its corolla.
The officer saluted them, saying:
“Good-day, ladies.”
The older woman turned round, appeared surprised, but bowed.
“Good-morning, sir.”
He sat down. But seeing that they did not welcome him eagerly, he
thought that possibly only commissioned officers were admitted to the
house, and this made him uneasy. But he said:
“Bah, if one comes in, we can soon tell.”
He then remarked:
“Are you all well?”
The large lady, no doubt the mistress of the house, replied:
“Very well, thank you!”
He could think of nothing else to say, and they were all silent. But at
last, being ashamed of his bashfulness, and with an awkward laugh, he
said:
“Do not people have any amusement in this country? I will pay for a
bottle of wine.”
He had not finished his sentence when the door opened, and in walked
Padoie dressed in a black suit.
Varajou gave a shout of joy, and rising from his seat, he rushed at his
brother-in-law, put his arms round him and waltzed him round the room,
shouting:
“Here is Padoie! Here is Padoie! Here is Padoie!”
Then letting go of the tax collector he exclaimed as he looked him in
the face:
“Oh, oh, oh, you scamp, you scamp! You are out for a good time, too. Oh,
you scamp! And my sister! Are you tired of her, say?”
As he thought of all that he might gain through this unexpected
situation, the forced loan, the inevitable blackmail, he flung himself
on the lounge and laughed so heartily that the piece of furniture
creaked all over.
The three young ladies, rising simultaneously, made their escape, while
the older woman retreated to the door looking as though she were about
to faint.
And then two gentlemen appeared in evening dress, and wearing the ribbon
of an order. Padoie rushed up to them.
“Oh, judge--he is crazy, he is crazy. He was sent to us as a
convalescent. You can see that he is crazy.”
Varajou was sitting up now, and not being able to understand it all, he
guessed that he had committed some monstrous folly. Then he rose, and
turning to his brother-in-law, said:
“What house is this?”
But Padoie, becoming suddenly furious, stammered out:
“What house--what--what house is this? Wretch--scoundrel--villain--what
house, indeed? The house of the judge--of the judge of the Supreme
Court--of the Supreme Court--of the Supreme Court--Oh, oh--rascal!
--rascal!--rascal!”
THE DIAMOND NECKLACE
The girl was one of those pretty and charming young creatures who
sometimes are born, as if by a slip of fate, into a family of clerks.
She had no dowry, no expectations, no way of being known, understood,
loved, married by any rich and distinguished man; so she let herself be
married to a little clerk of the Ministry of Public Instruction.
She dressed plainly because she could not dress well, but she was
unhappy as if she had really fallen from a higher station; since with
women there is neither caste nor rank, for beauty, grace and charm take
the place of family and birth. Natural ingenuity, instinct for what is
elegant, a supple mind are their sole hierarchy, and often make of women
of the people the equals of the very greatest ladies.
Mathilde suffered ceaselessly, feeling herself born to enjoy all
delicacies and all luxuries. She was distressed at the poverty of
her dwelling, at the bareness of the walls, at the shabby chairs, the
ugliness of the curtains. All those things, of which another woman of
her rank would never even have been conscious, tortured her and made
her angry. The sight of the little Breton peasant who did her humble
housework aroused in her despairing regrets and bewildering dreams. She
thought of silent antechambers hung with Oriental tapestry, illumined
by tall bronze candelabra, and of two great footmen in knee breeches who
sleep in the big armchairs, made drowsy by the oppressive heat of the
stove. She thought of long reception halls hung with ancient silk, of
the dainty cabinets containing priceless curiosities and of the little
coquettish perfumed reception rooms made for chatting at five o'clock
with intimate friends, with men famous and sought after, whom all women
envy and whose attention they all desire.
When she sat down to dinner, before the round table covered with a
tablecloth in use three days, opposite her husband, who uncovered the
soup tureen and declared with a delighted air, “Ah, the good soup! I
don't know anything better than that,” she thought of dainty dinners,
of shining silverware, of tapestry that peopled the walls with ancient
personages and with strange birds flying in the midst of a fairy forest;
and she thought of delicious dishes served on marvellous plates and of
the whispered gallantries to which you listen with a sphinxlike smile
while you are eating the pink meat of a trout or the wings of a quail.
She had no gowns, no jewels, nothing. And she loved nothing but that.
She felt made for that. She would have liked so much to please, to be
envied, to be charming, to be sought after.
She had a friend, a former schoolmate at the convent, who was rich, and
whom she did not like to go to see any more because she felt so sad when
she came home.
But one evening her husband reached home with a triumphant air and
holding a large envelope in his hand.
“There,” said he, “there is something for you.”
She tore the paper quickly and drew out a printed card which bore these
words:
The Minister of Public Instruction and Madame Georges Ramponneau
request the honor of M. and Madame Loisel's company at the palace of
the Ministry on Monday evening, January 18th.
Instead of being delighted, as her husband had hoped, she threw the
invitation on the table crossly, muttering:
“What do you wish me to do with that?”
“Why, my dear, I thought you would be glad. You never go out, and this
is such a fine opportunity. I had great trouble to get it. Every one
wants to go; it is very select, and they are not giving many invitations
to clerks. The whole official world will be there.”
She looked at him with an irritated glance and said impatiently:
“And what do you wish me to put on my back?”
He had not thought of that. He stammered:
“Why, the gown you go to the theatre in. It looks very well to me.”
He stopped, distracted, seeing that his wife was weeping. Two great
tears ran slowly from the corners of her eyes toward the corners of her
mouth.
“What's the matter? What's the matter?” he answered.
By a violent effort she conquered her grief and replied in a calm voice,
while she wiped her wet cheeks:
“Nothing. Only I have no gown, and, therefore, I can't go to this ball.
Give your card to some colleague whose wife is better equipped than I
am.”
He was in despair. He resumed:
“Come, let us see, Mathilde. How much would it cost, a suitable gown,
which you could use on other occasions--something very simple?”
She reflected several seconds, making her calculations and wondering
also what sum she could ask without drawing on herself an immediate
refusal and a frightened exclamation from the economical clerk.
Finally she replied hesitating:
“I don't know exactly, but I think I could manage it with four hundred
francs.”
He grew a little pale, because he was laying aside just that amount
to buy a gun and treat himself to a little shooting next summer on the
plain of Nanterre, with several friends who went to shoot larks there of
a Sunday.
But he said:
“Very well. I will give you four hundred francs. And try to have a
pretty gown.”
The day of the ball drew near and Madame Loisel seemed sad, uneasy,
anxious. Her frock was ready, however. Her husband said to her one
evening:
“What is the matter? Come, you have seemed very queer these last three
days.”
And she answered:
“It annoys me not to have a single piece of jewelry, not a single
ornament, nothing to put on. I shall look poverty-stricken. I would
almost rather not go at all.”
“You might wear natural flowers,” said her husband. “They're very
stylish at this time of year. For ten francs you can get two or three
magnificent roses.”
She was not convinced.
“No; there's nothing more humiliating than to look poor among other
women who are rich.”
“How stupid you are!” her husband cried. “Go look up your friend, Madame
Forestier, and ask her to lend you some jewels. You're intimate enough
with her to do that.”
She uttered a cry of joy:
“True! I never thought of it.”
The next day she went to her friend and told her of her distress.
Madame Forestier went to a wardrobe with a mirror, took out a large
jewel box, brought it back, opened it and said to Madame Loisel:
“Choose, my dear.”
She saw first some bracelets, then a pearl necklace, then a Venetian
gold cross set with precious stones, of admirable workmanship. She tried
on the ornaments before the mirror, hesitated and could not make up her
mind to part with them, to give them back. She kept asking:
“Haven't you any more?”
“Why, yes. Look further; I don't know what you like.”
Suddenly she discovered, in a black satin box, a superb diamond
necklace, and her heart throbbed with an immoderate desire. Her hands
trembled as she took it. She fastened it round her throat, outside her
high-necked waist, and was lost in ecstasy at her reflection in the
mirror.
Then she asked, hesitating, filled with anxious doubt:
“Will you lend me this, only this?”
“Why, yes, certainly.”
She threw her arms round her friend's neck, kissed her passionately,
then fled with her treasure.
The night of the ball arrived. Madame Loisel was a great success. She
was prettier than any other woman present, elegant, graceful, smiling
and wild with joy. All the men looked at her, asked her name, sought to
be introduced. All the attaches of the Cabinet wished to waltz with her.
She was remarked by the minister himself.
She danced with rapture, with passion, intoxicated by pleasure,
forgetting all in the triumph of her beauty, in the glory of her
success, in a sort of cloud of happiness comprised of all this homage,
admiration, these awakened desires and of that sense of triumph which is
so sweet to woman's heart.
She left the ball about four o'clock in the morning. Her husband had
been sleeping since midnight in a little deserted anteroom with three
other gentlemen whose wives were enjoying the ball.
He threw over her shoulders the wraps he had brought, the modest wraps
of common life, the poverty of which contrasted with the elegance of the
ball dress. She felt this and wished to escape so as not to be remarked
by the other women, who were enveloping themselves in costly furs.
Loisel held her back, saying: “Wait a bit. You will catch cold outside.
I will call a cab.”
But she did not listen to him and rapidly descended the stairs. When
they reached the street they could not find a carriage and began to look
for one, shouting after the cabmen passing at a distance.
They went toward the Seine in despair, shivering with cold. At last they
found on the quay one of those ancient night cabs which, as though they
were ashamed to show their shabbiness during the day, are never seen
round Paris until after dark.
It took them to their dwelling in the Rue des Martyrs, and sadly they
mounted the stairs to their flat. All was ended for her. As to him, he
reflected that he must be at the ministry at ten o'clock that morning.
She removed her wraps before the glass so as to see herself once more
in all her glory. But suddenly she uttered a cry. She no longer had the
necklace around her neck!
“What is the matter with you?” demanded her husband, already half
undressed.
She turned distractedly toward him.
“I have--I have--I've lost Madame Forestier's necklace,” she cried.
He stood up, bewildered.
“What!--how? Impossible!”
They looked among the folds of her skirt, of her cloak, in her pockets,
everywhere, but did not find it.
“You're sure you had it on when you left the ball?” he asked.
“Yes, I felt it in the vestibule of the minister's house.”
“But if you had lost it in the street we should have heard it fall. It
must be in the cab.”
“Yes, probably. Did you take his number?”
“No. And you--didn't you notice it?”
“No.”
They looked, thunderstruck, at each other. At last Loisel put on his
clothes.
“I shall go back on foot,” said he, “over the whole route, to see
whether I can find it.”
He went out. She sat waiting on a chair in her ball dress, without
strength to go to bed, overwhelmed, without any fire, without a thought.
Her husband returned about seven o'clock. He had found nothing.
He went to police headquarters, to the newspaper offices to offer a
reward; he went to the cab companies--everywhere, in fact, whither he
was urged by the least spark of hope.
She waited all day, in the same condition of mad fear before this
terrible calamity.
Loisel returned at night with a hollow, pale face. He had discovered
nothing.
“You must write to your friend,” said he, “that you have broken the
clasp of her necklace and that you are having it mended. That will give
us time to turn round.”
She wrote at his dictation.
At the end of a week they had lost all hope. Loisel, who had aged five
years, declared:
“We must consider how to replace that ornament.”
The next day they took the box that had contained it and went to the
jeweler whose name was found within. He consulted his books.
“It was not I, madame, who sold that necklace; I must simply have
furnished the case.”
Then they went from jeweler to jeweler, searching for a necklace like
the other, trying to recall it, both sick with chagrin and grief.
They found, in a shop at the Palais Royal, a string of diamonds that
seemed to them exactly like the one they had lost. It was worth forty
thousand francs. They could have it for thirty-six.
So they begged the jeweler not to sell it for three days yet. And they
made a bargain that he should buy it back for thirty-four thousand
francs, in case they should find the lost necklace before the end of
February.
Loisel possessed eighteen thousand francs which his father had left him.
He would borrow the rest.
He did borrow, asking a thousand francs of one, five hundred of another,
five louis here, three louis there. He gave notes, took up ruinous
obligations, dealt with usurers and all the race of lenders. He
compromised all the rest of his life, risked signing a note without even
knowing whether he could meet it; and, frightened by the trouble yet
to come, by the black misery that was about to fall upon him, by the
prospect of all the physical privations and moral tortures that he was
to suffer, he went to get the new necklace, laying upon the jeweler's
counter thirty-six thousand francs.
When Madame Loisel took back the necklace Madame Forestier said to her
with a chilly manner:
“You should have returned it sooner; I might have needed it.”
She did not open the case, as her friend had so much feared. If she had
detected the substitution, what would she have thought, what would she
have said? Would she not have taken Madame Loisel for a thief?
Thereafter Madame Loisel knew the horrible existence of the needy. She
bore her part, however, with sudden heroism. That dreadful debt must be
paid. She would pay it. They dismissed their servant; they changed their
lodgings; they rented a garret under the roof.
She came to know what heavy housework meant and the odious cares of the
kitchen. She washed the dishes, using her dainty fingers and rosy nails
on greasy pots and pans. She washed the soiled linen, the shirts and the
dishcloths, which she dried upon a line; she carried the slops down to
the street every morning and carried up the water, stopping for breath
at every landing. And dressed like a woman of the people, she went to
the fruiterer, the grocer, the butcher, a basket on her arm, bargaining,
meeting with impertinence, defending her miserable money, sou by sou.
Every month they had to meet some notes, renew others, obtain more time.
Her husband worked evenings, making up a tradesman's accounts, and late
at night he often copied manuscript for five sous a page.
This life lasted ten years.
At the end of ten years they had paid everything, everything, with the
rates of usury and the accumulations of the compound interest.
Madame Loisel looked old now. She had become the woman of impoverished
households--strong and hard and rough. With frowsy hair, skirts askew
and red hands, she talked loud while washing the floor with great
swishes of water. But sometimes, when her husband was at the office,
she sat down near the window and she thought of that gay evening of long
ago, of that ball where she had been so beautiful and so admired.
What would have happened if she had not lost that necklace? Who knows?
who knows? How strange and changeful is life! How small a thing is
needed to make or ruin us!
But one Sunday, having gone to take a walk in the Champs Elysees to
refresh herself after the labors of the week, she suddenly perceived
a woman who was leading a child. It was Madame Forestier, still young,
still beautiful, still charming.
Madame Loisel felt moved. Should she speak to her? Yes, certainly. And
now that she had paid, she would tell her all about it. Why not?
She went up.
“Good-day, Jeanne.”
The other, astonished to be familiarly addressed by this plain
good-wife, did not recognize her at all and stammered: