One man only was still wandering about, Monsieur Tournevau, the fish

curer, who was annoyed at having to wait until the following Saturday,

and he hoped something would turn up, he did not know what; but he was

exasperated at the police for thus allowing an establishment of such

public utility, which they had under their control, to be closed.

He went back to it and examined the walls, trying to find out some

reason, and on the shutter he saw a notice stuck up. He struck a wax

match and read the following, in a large, uneven hand: “Closed on

account of the Confirmation.”

Then he went away, as he saw it was useless to remain, and left the

drunken man lying on the pavement fast asleep, outside that inhospitable

door.

The next day, all the regular customers, one after the other, found some

reason for going through the street, with a bundle of papers under their

arm to keep them in countenance, and with a furtive glance they all read

that mysterious notice:

“Closed on account of the Confirmation.”

PART II

Madame Tellier had a brother, who was a carpenter in their native place,

Virville, in the Department of Eure. When she still kept the inn at

Yvetot, she had stood godmother to that brother's daughter, who had

received the name of Constance—Constance Rivet; she herself being a

Rivet on her father's side. The carpenter, who knew that his sister was

in a good position, did not lose sight of her, although they did not

meet often, for they were both kept at home by their occupations, and

lived a long way from each other. But as the girl was twelve years old,

and going to be confirmed, he seized that opportunity to write to his

sister, asking her to come and be present at the ceremony. Their old

parents were dead, and as she could not well refuse her goddaughter, she

accepted the invitation. Her brother, whose name was Joseph, hoped that

by dint of showing his sister attention, she might be induced to make

her will in the girl's favor, as she had no children of her own.

His sister's occupation did not trouble his scruples in the least, and,

besides, nobody knew anything about it at Virville. When they spoke of

her, they only said: “Madame Tellier is living at Fecamp,” which might

mean that she was living on her own private income. It was quite twenty

leagues from Fecamp to Virville, and for a peasant, twenty leagues on

land is as long a journey as crossing the ocean would be to city people.

The people at Virville had never been further than Rouen, and nothing

attracted the people from Fecamp to a village of five hundred houses in

the middle of a plain, and situated in another department; at any rate,

nothing was known about her business.

But the Confirmation was coming on, and Madame Tellier was in great

embarrassment. She had no substitute, and did not at all care to leave

her house, even for a day; for all the rivalries between the girls

upstairs and those downstairs would infallibly break out. No doubt

Frederic would get drunk, and when he was in that state, he would knock

anybody down for a mere word. At last, however, she made up her mind to

take them all with her, with the exception of the man, to whom she gave

a holiday until the next day but one.

When she asked her brother, he made no objection, but undertook to put

them all up for a night, and so on Saturday morning the eight-o'clock

express carried off Madame Tellier and her companions in a second-class

carriage. As far as Beuzeville they were alone, and chattered like

magpies, but at that station a couple got in. The man, an old peasant,

dressed in a blue blouse with a turned-down collar, wide sleeves tight

at the wrist, ornamented with white embroidery, wearing an old high hat

with long nap, held an enormous green umbrella in one hand, and a large

basket in the other, from which the heads of three frightened ducks

protruded. The woman, who sat up stiffly in her rustic finery, had a

face like a fowl, with a nose that was as pointed as a bill. She sat

down opposite her husband and did not stir, as she was startled at

finding herself in such smart company.

There was certainly an array of striking colors in the carriage. Madame

Tellier was dressed in blue silk from head to foot, and had on a

dazzling red imitation French cashmere shawl. Fernande was puffing in a

Scotch plaid dress, of which her companions had laced the bodice as

tight as they could, forcing up her full bust, that was continually

heaving up and down. Raphaele, with a bonnet covered with feathers, so

that it looked like a bird's nest, had on a lilac dress with gold spots

on it, and there was something Oriental about it that suited her Jewish

face. Rosa had on a pink skirt with largo flounces, and looked like a

very fat child, an obese dwarf; while the two Pumps looked as if they

had cut their dresses out of old flowered curtains dating from the

Restoration.

As soon as they were no longer alone in the compartment, the ladies put

on staid looks, and began to talk of subjects which might give others a

high opinion of them. But at Bolbeck a gentleman with light whiskers, a

gold chain, and wearing two or three rings, got in, and put several

parcels wrapped in oilcloth on the rack over his head. He looked

inclined for a joke, and seemed a good-hearted fellow.

“Are you ladies changing your quarters?” he said, and that question

embarrassed them all considerably. Madame Tellier, however, quickly

regained her composure, and said sharply, to avenge the honor of her

corps:

“I think you might try and be polite!”

He excused himself, and said: “I beg your pardon, I ought to have said

your nunnery.”

She could not think of a retort, so, perhaps thinking she had said

enough, madame gave him a dignified bow and compressed her lips.

Then the gentleman, who was sitting between Rosa and the old peasant,

began to wink knowingly at the ducks whose heads were sticking out of

the basket, and when he felt that he had fixed the attention of his

public, he began to tickle them under the bills and spoke funnily to

them to make the company smile.

“We have left our little pond, quack! quack! to make the acquaintance of

the little spit, qu-ack! qu-ack!”

The unfortunate creatures turned their necks away, to avoid his

caresses, and made desperate efforts to get out of their wicker prison,

and then, suddenly, all at once, uttered the most lamentable quacks of

distress. The women exploded with laughter. They leaned forward and

pushed each other, so as to see better; they were very much interested

in the ducks, and the gentleman redoubled his airs, his wit and his

teasing.

Rosa joined in, and leaning over her neighbor's legs, she kissed the

three animals on the head, and immediately all the girls wanted to kiss

them, in turn, and as they did so the gentleman took them on his knee,

jumped them up and down and pinched their arms. The two peasants, who

were even in greater consternation than their poultry, rolled their eyes

as if they were possessed, without venturing to move, and their old

wrinkled faces had not a smile, not a twitch.

Then the gentleman, who was a commercial traveller, offered the ladies

suspenders by way of a joke, and taking up one of his packages, he

opened it. It was a joke, for the parcel contained garters. There were

blue silk, pink silk, red silk, violet silk, mauve silk garters, and the

buckles were made of two gilt metal cupids embracing each other. The

girls uttered exclamations of delight and looked at them with that

gravity natural to all women when they are considering an article of

dress. They consulted one another by their looks or in a whisper, and

replied in the same manner, and Madame Tellier was longingly handling a

pair of orange garters that were broader and more imposing looking than

the rest; really fit for the mistress of such an establishment.

The gentleman waited, for he had an idea.

“Come, my kittens,” he said, “you must try them on.”

There was a torrent of exclamations, and they squeezed their petticoats

between their legs, but he quietly waited his time and said: “Well, if

you will not try them on I shall pack them up again.”

And he added cunningly: “I offer any pair they like to those who will

try them on.”

But they would not, and sat up very straight and looked dignified.

But the two Pumps looked so distressed that he renewed his offer to

them, and Flora, especially, visibly hesitated, and he insisted: “Come,

my dear, a little courage! Just look at that lilac pair; it will suit

your dress admirably.”

That decided her, and pulling up her dress she showed a thick leg fit

for a milkmaid, in a badly fitting, coarse stocking. The commercial

traveller stooped down and fastened the garter. When he had done this,

he gave her the lilac pair and asked: “Who next?”

“I! I!” they all shouted at once, and he began on Rosa, who uncovered a

shapeless, round thing without any ankle, a regular “sausage of a leg,”

as Raphaele used to say.

Lastly, Madame Tellier herself put out her leg, a handsome, muscular

Norman leg, and in his surprise and pleasure, the commercial traveller

gallantly took off his hat to salute that master calf, like a true

French cavalier.

The two peasants, who were speechless from surprise, glanced sideways

out of the corner of one eye, and they looked so exactly like fowls that

the man with the light whiskers, when he sat up, said: “Co—co—ri—co”

under their very noses, and that gave rise to another storm of

amusement.

The old people got out at Motteville with their basket, their ducks and

their umbrella, and they heard the woman say to her husband as they went

away:

“They are no good and are off to that cursed place, Paris.”

The funny commercial traveller himself got out at Rouen, after behaving

so coarsely that Madame Tellier was obliged sharply to put him in his

right place, and she added, as a moral: “This will teach us not to talk

to the first comer.”

At Oissel they changed trains, and at a little station further on

Monsieur Joseph Rivet was waiting for them with a large cart with a

number of chairs in it, drawn by a white horse.

The carpenter politely kissed all the ladies and then helped them into

his conveyance.

Three of them sat on three chairs at the back, Raphaele, Madame Tellier

and her brother on the three chairs in front, while Rosa, who had no

seat, settled herself as comfortably as she could on tall Fernande's

knees, and then they set off.

But the horse's jerky trot shook the cart so terribly that the chairs

began to dance and threw the travellers about, to the right and to the

left, as if they were dancing puppets, which made them scream and make

horrible grimaces.

They clung on to the sides of the vehicle, their bonnets fell on their

backs, over their faces and on their shoulders, and the white horse went

on stretching out his head and holding out his little hairless tail like

a rat's, with which he whisked his buttocks from time to time.

Joseph Rivet, with one leg on the shafts and the other doubled under

him, held the reins with his elbows very high, and kept uttering a kind

of clucking sound, which made the horse prick up its ears and go faster.

The green country extended on either side of the road, and here and

there the colza in flower presented a waving expanse of yellow, from

which arose a strong, wholesome, sweet and penetrating odor, which the

wind carried to some distance.

The cornflowers showed their little blue heads amid the rye, and the

women wanted to pick them, but Monsieur Rivet refused to stop.

Then, sometimes, a whole field appeared to be covered with blood, so

thick were the poppies, and the cart, which looked as if it were filled

with flowers of more brilliant hue, jogged on through fields bright with

wild flowers, and disappeared behind the trees of a farm, only to

reappear and to go on again through the yellow or green standing crops,

which were studded with red or blue.

One o'clock struck as they drove up to the carpenter's door. They were

tired out and pale with hunger, as they had eaten nothing since they

left home. Madame Rivet ran out and made them alight, one after another,

and kissed them as soon as they were on the ground, and she seemed as if

she would never tire of kissing her sister-in-law, whom she apparently

wanted to monopolize. They had lunch in the workshop, which had been

cleared out for the next day's dinner.

The capital omelet, followed by boiled chitterlings and washed down with

good hard cider, made them all feel comfortable.

Rivet had taken a glass so that he might drink with them, and his wife

cooked, waited on them, brought in the dishes, took them out and asked

each of them in a whisper whether they had everything they wanted. A

number of boards standing against the walls and heaps of shavings that

had been swept into the corners gave out a smell of planed wood, a smell

of a carpenter's shop, that resinous odor which penetrates to the lungs.

They wanted to see the little girl, but she had gone to church and would

not be back again until evening, so they all went out for a stroll in

the country.

It was a small village, through which the highroad passed. Ten or a

dozen houses on either side of the single street were inhabited by the

butcher, the grocer, the carpenter, the innkeeper, the shoemaker and the

baker.

The church was at the end of the street and was surrounded by a small

churchyard, and four immense lime-trees, which stood just outside the

porch, shaded it completely. It was built of flint, in no particular

style, and had a slate-roofed steeple. When you got past it, you were

again in the open country, which was varied here and there by clumps of

trees which hid the homesteads.

Rivet had given his arm to his sister, out of politeness, although he

was in his working clothes, and was walking with her in a dignified

manner. His wife, who was overwhelmed by Raphaele's gold-striped dress,

walked between her and Fernande, and roly-poly Rosa was trotting behind

with Louise and Flora, the Seesaw, who was limping along, quite tired

out.

The inhabitants came to their doors, the children left off playing, and

a window curtain would be raised, so as to show a muslin cap, while an

old woman with a crutch, who was almost blind, crossed herself as if it

were a religious procession, and they all gazed for a long time at those

handsome ladies from town, who had come so far to be present at the

confirmation of Joseph Rivet's little girl, and the carpenter rose very

much in the public estimation.

As they passed the church they heard some children singing. Little

shrill voices were singing a hymn, but Madame Tellier would not let them

go in, for fear of disturbing the little cherubs.

After the walk, during which Joseph Rivet enumerated the principal

landed proprietors, spoke about the yield of the land and the

productiveness of the cows and sheep, he took his tribe of women home

and installed them in his house, and as it was very small, they had to

put them into the rooms, two and two.

Just for once Rivet would sleep in the workshop on the shavings; his

wife was to share her bed with her sister-in-law, and Fernande and

Raphaele were to sleep together in the next room. Louise and Flora were

put into the kitchen, where they had a mattress on the floor, and Rosa

had a little dark cupboard to herself at the top of the stairs, close to

the loft, where the candidate for confirmation was to sleep.

When the little girl came in she was overwhelmed with kisses; all the

women wished to caress her with that need of tender expansion, that

habit of professional affection which had made them kiss the ducks in

the railway carriage.

They each of them took her on their knees, stroked her soft, light hair

and pressed her in their arms with vehement and spontaneous outbursts of

affection, and the child, who was very good and religious, bore it all

patiently.

As the day had been a fatiguing one for everybody, they all went to bed

soon after dinner. The whole village was wrapped in that perfect

stillness of the country, which is almost like a religious silence, and

the girls, who were accustomed to the noisy evenings of their

establishment, felt rather impressed by the perfect repose of the

sleeping village, and they shivered, not with cold, but with those

little shivers of loneliness which come over uneasy and troubled hearts.

As soon as they were in bed, two and two together, they clasped each

other in their arms, as if to protect themselves against this feeling of

the calm and profound slumber of the earth. But Rosa, who was alone in

her little dark cupboard, felt a vague and painful emotion come over

her.

She was tossing about in bed, unable to get to sleep, when she heard the

faint sobs of a crying child close to her head, through the partition.

She was frightened, and called out, and was answered by a weak voice,

broken by sobs. It was the little girl, who was always used to sleeping

in her mother's room, and who was afraid in her small attic.

Rosa was delighted, got up softly so as not to awaken any one, and went

and fetched the child. She took her into her warm bed, kissed her and

pressed her to her bosom, lavished exaggerated manifestations of

tenderness on her, and at last grew calmer herself and went to sleep.

And till morning the candidate for confirmation slept with her head on

Rosa's bosom.

At five o'clock the little church bell, ringing the Angelus, woke the

women, who usually slept the whole morning long.

The villagers were up already, and the women went busily from house to

house, carefully bringing short, starched muslin dresses or very long

wax tapers tied in the middle with a bow of silk fringed with gold, and

with dents in the wax for the fingers.

The sun was already high in the blue sky, which still had a rosy tint

toward the horizon, like a faint remaining trace of dawn. Families of

fowls were walking about outside the houses, and here and there a black

cock, with a glistening breast, raised his head, which was crowned by

his red comb, flapped his wings and uttered his shrill crow, which the

other cocks repeated.

Vehicles of all sorts came from neighboring parishes, stopping at the

different houses, and tall Norman women dismounted, wearing dark

dresses, with kerchiefs crossed over the bosom, fastened with silver

brooches a hundred years old.

The men had put on their blue smocks over their new frock-coats or over

their old dress-coats of green-cloth, the two tails of which hung down

below their blouses. When the horses were in the stable there was a

double line of rustic conveyances along the road: carts, cabriolets,

tilburies, wagonettes, traps of every shape and age, tipping forward on

their shafts or else tipping backward with the shafts up in the air.

The carpenter's house was as busy as a bee-hive. The women, in dressing-

jackets and petticoats, with their thin, short hair, which looked faded

and worn, hanging down their backs, were busy dressing the child, who

was standing quietly on a table, while Madame Tellier was directing the

movements of her battalion. They washed her, did her hair, dressed her,

and with the help of a number of pins, they arranged the folds of her

dress and took in the waist, which was too large.

Then, when she was ready, she was told to sit down and not to move, and

the women hurried off to get ready themselves.

The church bell began to ring again, and its tinkle was lost in the air,

like a feeble voice which is soon drowned in space. The candidates came

out of the houses and went toward the parochial building, which

contained the two schools and the mansion house, and which stood quite

at one end of the village, while the church was situated at the other.

The parents, in their very best clothes, followed their children, with

embarrassed looks, and those clumsy movements of a body bent by toil.

The little girls disappeared in a cloud of muslin, which looked like

whipped cream, while the lads, who looked like embryo waiters in a cafe

and whose heads shone with pomatum, walked with their legs apart, so as

not to get any dust or dirt on their black trousers.

It was something for a family, to be proud of, when a large number of

relatives, who had come from a distance, surrounded the child, and the

carpenter's triumph was complete.

Madame Tellier's regiment, with its leader at its head, followed

Constance; her father gave his arm to his sister, her mother walked by

the side of Raphaele, Fernande with Rosa and Louise and Flora together,

and thus they proceeded majestically through the village, like a

general's staff in full uniform, while the effect on the village was

startling.

At the school the girls ranged themselves under the Sister of Mercy and

the boys under the schoolmaster, and they started off, singing a hymn as

they went. The boys led the way, in two files, between the two rows of

vehicles, from which the horses had been taken out, and the girls

followed in the same order; and as all the people in the village had

given the town ladies the precedence out of politeness, they came

immediately behind the girls, and lengthened the double line of the

procession still more, three on the right and three on the left, while

their dresses were as striking as a display of fireworks.

When they went into the church the congregation grew quite excited. They

pressed against each other, turned round and jostled one another in

order to see, and some of the devout ones spoke almost aloud, for they

were so astonished at the sight of those ladies whose dresses were more

elaborate than the priest's vestments.

The mayor offered them his pew, the first one on the right, close to the

choir, and Madame Tellier sat there with her sister-in-law, Fernande and

Raphaele. Rosa, Louise and Flora occupied the second seat, in company

with the carpenter.

The choir was full of kneeling children, the girls on one side and the

boys on the other, and the long wax tapers which they held looked like

lances pointing in all directions, and three men were standing in front

of the lectern, singing as loud as they could.

They prolonged the syllables of the sonorous Latin indefinitely, holding

on to “Amens” with interminable “a-a's,” which the reed stop of the

organ sustained in a monotonous, long-drawn-out tone.

A child's shrill voice took up the reply, and from time to time a priest

sitting in a stall and wearing a biretta got up, muttered something and

sat down again, while the three singers continued, their eyes fixed on

the big book of plain chant lying open before them on the outstretched

wings of a wooden eagle.

Then silence ensued and the service went on. Toward the close Rosa, with

her head in both hands, suddenly thought of her mother, her village

church and her first communion. She almost fancied that that day had

returned, when she was so small and was almost hidden in her white

dress, and she began to cry.

First of all she wept silently, and the tears dropped slowly from her

eyes, but her emotion in creased with her recollections, and she began

to sob. She took out her pocket handkerchief, wiped her eyes and held it

to her mouth, so as not to scream, but it was in vain. A sort of rattle

escaped her throat, and she was answered by two other profound,

heartbreaking sobs, for her two neighbors, Louise and Flora, who were

kneeling near her, overcome by similar recollections, were sobbing by

her side, amid a flood of tears; and as tears are contagious, Madame

Tellier soon in turn found that her eyes were wet, and on turning to her

sister-in-law, she saw that all the occupants of her seat were also

crying.

Soon, throughout the church, here and there, a wife, a mother, a sister,

seized by the strange sympathy of poignant emotion, and affected at the

sight of those handsome ladies on their knees, shaken with sobs was

moistening her cambric pocket handkerchief and pressing her beating

heart with her left hand.

Just as the sparks from an engine will set fire to dry grass, so the

tears of Rosa and of her companions infected the whole congregation in a

moment. Men, women, old men and lads in new smocks were soon all

sobbing, and something superhuman seemed to be hovering over their

heads—a spirit, the powerful breath of an invisible and all powerful

Being.

Suddenly a species of madness seemed to pervade the church, the noise of

a crowd in a state of frenzy, a tempest of sobs and stifled cries. It

came like gusts of wind which blow the trees in a forest, and the

priest, paralyzed by emotion, stammered out incoherent prayers, without

finding words, ardent prayers of the soul soaring to heaven.

The people behind him gradually grew calmer. The cantors, in all the

dignity of their white surplices, went on in somewhat uncertain voices,

and the reed stop itself seemed hoarse, as if the instrument had been

weeping; the priest, however, raised his hand to command silence and

went and stood on the chancel steps, when everybody was silent at once.

After a few remarks on what had just taken place, and which he

attributed to a miracle, he continued, turning to the seats where the

carpenter's guests were sitting; “I especially thank you, my dear

sisters, who have come from such a distance, and whose presence among

us, whose evident faith and ardent piety have set such a salutary

example to all. You have edified my parish; your emotion has warmed all

hearts; without you, this great day would not, perhaps, have had this

really divine character. It is sufficient, at times, that there should

be one chosen lamb, for the Lord to descend on His flock.”

His voice failed him again, from emotion, and he said no more, but

concluded the service.

They now left the church as quickly as possible; the children themselves

were restless and tired with such a prolonged tension of the mind. The

parents left the church by degrees to see about dinner.

There was a crowd outside, a noisy crowd, a babel of loud voices, where

the shrill Norman accent was discernible. The villagers formed two

ranks, and when the children appeared, each family took possession of

their own.

The whole houseful of women caught hold of Constance, surrounded her and

kissed her, and Rosa was especially demonstrative. At last she took hold

of one hand, while Madame Tellier took the other, and Raphaele and

Fernande held up her long muslin skirt, so that it might not drag in the

dust; Louise and Flora brought up the rear with Madame Rivet; and the

child, who was very silent and thoughtful, set off for home in the midst

of this guard of honor.

Dinner was served in the workshop on long boards supported by trestles,

and through the open door they could see all the enjoyment that was

going on in the village. Everywhere they were feasting, and through

every window were to be seen tables surrounded by people in their Sunday

best, and a cheerful noise was heard in every house, while the men sat

in their shirt-sleeves, drinking glass after glass of cider.

In the carpenter's house the gaiety maintained somewhat of an air of

reserve, the consequence of the emotion of the girls in the morning, and

Rivet was the only one who was in a jolly mood, and he was drinking to

excess. Madame Tellier looked at the clock every moment, for, in order

not to lose two days running, they must take the 3:55 train, which would

bring them to Fecamp by dark.

The carpenter tried very hard to distract her attention, so as to keep

his guests until the next day, but he did not succeed, for she never

joked when there was business on hand, and as soon as they had had their

coffee she ordered her girls to make haste and get ready, and then,

turning to her brother, she said:

“You must put in the horse immediately,” and she herself went to finish

her last preparations.

When she came down again, her sister-in-law was waiting to speak to her

about the child, and a long conversation took place, in which, however,

nothing was settled. The carpenter's wife was artful and pretended to be

very much affected, and Madame Tellier, who was holding the girl on her

knee, would not pledge herself to anything definite, but merely gave

vague promises—she would not forget her, there was plenty of time, and

besides, they would meet again.

But the conveyance did not come to the door and the women did not come

downstairs. Upstairs they even heard loud laughter, romping, little

screams, and much clapping of hands, and so, while the carpenter's wife

went to the stable to see whether the cart was ready, madame went

upstairs.

Rivet, who was very drunk, was plaguing Rosa, who was half choking with

laughter. Louise and Flora were holding him by the arms and trying to

calm him, as they were shocked at his levity after that morning's

ceremony; but Raphaele and Fernande were urging him on, writhing and

holding their sides with laughter, and they uttered shrill cries at

every rebuff the drunken fellow received.

The man was furious, his face was red, and he was trying to shake off

the two women who were clinging to him, while he was pulling Rosa's

skirt with all his might and stammering incoherently.

But Madame Tellier, who was very indignant, went up to her brother,

seized him by the shoulders, and threw him out of the room with such

violence that he fell against the wall in the passage, and a minute

afterward they heard him pumping water on his head in the yard, and when

he reappeared with the cart he was quite calm.

They started off in the same way as they had come the day before, and

the little white horse started off with his quick, dancing trot. Under

the hot sun, their fun, which had been checked during dinner, broke out

again. The girls now were amused at the jolting of the cart, pushed

their neighbors' chairs, and burst out laughing every moment.

There was a glare of light over the country, which dazzled their eyes,

and the wheels raised two trails of dust along the highroad. Presently,

Fernande, who was fond of music, asked Rosa to sing something, and she

boldly struck up the “Gros Cure de Meudon,” but Madame Tellier made her

stop immediately, as she thought it a very unsuitable song for such a

day, and she added:

“Sing us something of Beranger's.” And so, after a moment's hesitation,

Rosa began Beranger's song “The Grandmother” in her worn-out voice, and

all the girls, and even Madame Tellier herself, joined in the chorus:

“How I regret My dimpled arms, My nimble legs, And vanished charms.”

“That is first rate,” Rivet declared, carried away by the rhythm, and

they shouted the refrain to every verse, while Rivet beat time on the

shaft with his foot, and with the reins on the back of the horse, who,

as if he himself were carried away by the rhythm, broke into a wild

gallop, and threw all the women in a heap, one on top of the other, on

the bottom of the conveyance.

They got up, laughing as if they were mad, and the Gong went on, shouted

at the top of their voices, beneath the burning sky, among the ripening

grain, to the rapid gallop of the little horse, who set off every time

the refrain was sung, and galloped a hundred yards, to their great

delight, while occasionally a stone-breaker by the roadside sat up and

looked at the load of shouting females through his wire spectacles.

When they got out at the station, the carpenter said:

“I am sorry you are going; we might have had some good times together.”

But Madame Tellier replied very sensibly: “Everything has its right

time, and we cannot always be enjoying ourselves.” And then he had a

sudden inspiration:

“Look here, I will come and see you at Fecamp next month.” And he gave

Rosa a roguish and knowing look.

“Come,” his sister replied, “you must be sensible; you may come if you

like, but you are not to be up to any of your tricks.”

He did not reply, and as they heard the whistle of the train, he

immediately began to kiss them all. When it came to Rosa's turn, he

tried to get to her mouth, which she, however, smiling with her lips

closed, turned away from him each time by a rapid movement of her head

to one side. He held her in his arms, but he could not attain his

object, as his large whip, which he was holding in his hand and waving

behind the girl's back in desperation, interfered with his movements.

“Passengers for Rouen, take your seats!” a guard cried, and they got in.

There was a slight whistle, followed by a loud whistle from the engine,

which noisily puffed out its first jet of steam, while the wheels began

to turn a little with a visible effort, and Rivet left the station and

ran along by the track to get another look at Rosa, and as the carriage

passed him, he began to crack his whip and to jump, while he sang at the

top of his voice:

“How I regret My dimpled arms, My nimble legs, And vanished charms.”

And then he watched a white pocket-handkerchief, which somebody was

waving, as it disappeared in the distance.

PART III

They slept the peaceful sleep of a quiet conscience, until they got to

Rouen, and when they returned to the house, refreshed and rested, Madame

Tellier could not help saying:

“It was all very well, but I was longing to get home.”

They hurried over their supper, and then, when they had put on their

usual evening costume, waited for their regular customers, and the

little colored lamp outside the door told the passers-by that Madame

Tellier had returned, and in a moment the news spread, nobody knew how

or through whom.

Monsieur Philippe, the banker's son, even carried his friendliness so

far as to send a special messenger to Monsieur Tournevau, who was in the

bosom of his family.

The fish curer had several cousins to dinner every Sunday, and they were

having coffee, when a man came in with a letter in his hand. Monsieur

Tournevau was much excited; he opened the envelope and grew pale; it

contained only these words in pencil:

“The cargo of cod has been found; the ship has come into port; good

business for you. Come immediately.”

He felt in his pockets, gave the messenger two sons, and suddenly

blushing to his ears, he said: “I must go out.” He handed his wife the

laconic and mysterious note, rang the bell, and when the servant came

in, he asked her to bring him has hat and overcoat immediately. As soon

as he was in the street, he began to hurry, and the way seemed to him to

be twice as long as usual, in consequence of his impatience.

Madame Tellier's establishment had put on quite a holiday look. On the

ground floor, a number of sailors were making a deafening noise, and

Louise and Flora drank with one and the other, and were being called for

in every direction at once.

The upstairs room was full by nine o'clock. Monsieur Vasse, the Judge of

the Tribunal of Commerce, Madame Tellier's regular but Platonic wooer,

was talking to her in a corner in a low voice, and they were both

smiling, as if they were about to come to an understanding.

Monsieur Poulin, the ex-mayor, was talking to Rosa, and she was running

her hands through the old gentleman's white whiskers.

Tall Fernande was on the sofa, her feet on the coat of Monsieur

Pinipesse, the tax collector, and leaning back against young Monsieur

Philippe, her right arm around his neck, while she held a cigarette in

her left hand.

Raphaele appeared to be talking seriously with Monsieur Dupuis, the

insurance agent, and she finished by saying: “Yes, I will, yes.”

Just then, the door opened suddenly, and Monsieur Tournevau came in, and

was greeted with enthusiastic cries of “Long live Tournevau!” And

Raphaele, who was dancing alone up and down the room, went and threw

herself into his arms. He seized her in a vigorous embrace and, without

saying a word, lifted her up as if she had been a feather.

Rosa was chatting to the ex-mayor, kissing him and puffing; both his

whiskers at the same time, in order to keep his head straight.

Fernanad and Madame Tellier remained with the four men, and Monsieur

Philippe exclaimed: “I will pay for some champagne; get three bottles,

Madame Tellier.” And Fernande gave him a hug, and whispered to him:

“Play us a waltz, will you?” So he rose and sat down at the old piano in

the corner, and managed to get a hoarse waltz out of the depths of the

instrument.

The tall girl put her arms round the tax collector, Madame Tellier let

Monsieur Vasse take her round the waist, and the two couples turned

round, kissing as they danced. Monsieur Vasse, who had formerly danced

in good society, waltzed with such elegance that Madame Tellier was

quite captivated.

Frederic brought the champagne; the first cork popped, and Monsieur

Philippe played the introduction to a quadrille, through which the four

dancers walked in society fashion, decorously, with propriety,

deportment, bows and curtsies, and then they began to drink.

Monsieur Philippe next struck up a lively polka, and Monsieur Tournevau

started off with the handsome Jewess, whom he held without letting her

feet touch the ground. Monsieur Pinipesse and Monsieur Vasse had started

off with renewed vigor, and from time to time one or other couple would

stop to toss off a long draught of sparkling wine, and that dance was

threatening to become never-ending, when Rosa opened the door.

“I want to dance,” she exclaimed. And she caught hold of Monsieur

Dupuis, who was sitting idle on the couch, and the dance began again.

But the bottles were empty. “I will pay for one,” Monsieur Tournevau

said. “So will I,” Monsieur Vasse declared. “And. I will do the same,”

Monsieur Dupuis remarked.

They all began to clap their hands, and it soon became a regular ball,

and from time to time Louise and Flora ran upstairs quickly and had a

few turns, while their customers downstairs grew impatient, and then

they returned regretfully to the tap-room. At midnight they were still

dancing.

Madame Tellier let them amuse themselves while she had long private

talks in corners with Monsieur Vasse, as if to settle the last details

of something that had already been settled.

At last, at one o'clock, the two married men, Monsieur Tournevau and

Monsieur Pinipesse, declared that they were going home, and wanted to

pay. Nothing was charged for except the champagne, and that cost only

six francs a bottle, instead of ten, which was the usual price, and when

they expressed their surprise at such generosity, Madame Tellier, who

was beaming, said to them:

“We don't have a holiday every day.”

DENIS

To Leon Chapron.

Marambot opened the letter which his servant Denis gave him and smiled.

For twenty years Denis has been a servant in this house. He was a short,

stout, jovial man, who was known throughout the countryside as a model

servant. He asked:

“Is monsieur pleased? Has monsieur received good news?”

M. Marambot was not rich. He was an old village druggist, a bachelor,

who lived on an income acquired with difficulty by selling drugs to the

farmers. He answered:

“Yes, my boy. Old man Malois is afraid of the law-suit with which I am

threatening him. I shall get my money to-morrow. Five thousand francs

are not liable to harm the account of an old bachelor.”

M. Marambot rubbed his hands with satisfaction. He was a man of quiet

temperament, more sad than gay, incapable of any prolonged effort,

careless in business.

He could undoubtedly have amassed a greater income had he taken

advantage of the deaths of colleagues established in more important

centers, by taking their places and carrying on their business. But the

trouble of moving and the thought of all the preparations had always

stopped him. After thinking the matter over for a few days, he would be

satisfied to say:

“Bah! I'll wait until the next time. I'll not lose anything by the

delay. I may even find something better.”

Denis, on the contrary, was always urging his master to new enterprises.

Of an energetic temperament, he would continually repeat:

“Oh! If I had only had the capital to start out with, I could have made

a fortune! One thousand francs would do me.”

M. Marambot would smile without answering and would go out in his little

garden, where, his hands behind his back, he would walk about dreaming.

All day long, Denis sang the joyful refrains of the folk-songs of the

district. He even showed an unusual activity, for he cleaned all the

windows of the house, energetically rubbing the glass, and singing at

the top of his voice.

M. Marambot, surprised at his zeal, said to him several times, smiling:

“My boy, if you work like that there will be nothing left for you to do

to-morrow.”

The following day, at about nine o'clock in the morning, the postman

gave Denis four letters for his master, one of them very heavy. M.

Marambot immediately shut himself up in his room until late in the

afternoon. He then handed his servant four letters for the mail. One of

them was addressed to M. Malois; it was undoubtedly a receipt for the

money.

Denis asked his master no questions; he appeared to be as sad and gloomy

that day as he had seemed joyful the day before.

Night came. M. Marambot went to bed as usual and slept.

He was awakened by a strange noise. He sat up in his bed and listened.

Suddenly the door opened, and Denis appeared, holding in one hand a

candle and in the other a carving knife, his eyes staring, his face

contracted as though moved by some deep emotion; he was as pale as a

ghost.

M. Marambot, astonished, thought that he was sleep-walking, and he was

going to get out of bed and assist him when the servant blew out the

light and rushed for the bed. His master stretched out his hands to

receive the shock which knocked him over on his back; he was trying to

seize the hands of his servant, whom he now thought to be crazy, in

order to avoid the blows which the latter was aiming at him.

He was struck by the knife; once in the shoulder, once in the forehead

and the third time in the chest. He fought wildly, waving his arms

around in the darkness, kicking and crying:

“Denis! Denis! Are you mad? Listen, Denis!”

But the latter, gasping for breath, kept up his furious attack always

striking, always repulsed, sometimes with a kick, sometimes with a

punch, and rushing forward again furiously.

M. Marambot was wounded twice more, once in the leg and once in the

stomach. But, suddenly, a thought flashed across his mind, and he began

to shriek:

“Stop, stop, Denis, I have not yet received my money!”

The man immediately ceased, and his master could hear his labored

breathing in the darkness.

M. Marambot then went on:

“I have received nothing. M. Malois takes back what he said, the law-

suit will take place; that is why you carried the letters to the mail.

Just read those on my desk.”

With a final effort, he reached for his matches and lit the candle.

He was covered with blood. His sheets, his curtains, and even the walls,

were spattered with red. Denis, standing in the middle of the room, was

also bloody from head to foot.

When he saw the blood, M. Marambot thought himself dead, and fell

unconscious.

At break of day he revived. It was some time, however, before he

regained his senses, and was able to understand or remember. But,

suddenly, the memory of the attack and of his wounds returned to him,

and he was filled with such terror that he closed his eyes in order not

to see anything. After a few minutes he grew calmer and began to think.

He had not died immediately, therefore he might still recover. He felt

weak, very weak; but he had no real pain, although he noticed an

uncomfortable smarting sensation in several parts of his body. He also

felt icy cold, and all wet, and as though wrapped up in bandages. He

thought that this dampness came from the blood which he had lost; and he

shivered at the dreadful thought of this red liquid which had come from

his veins and covered his bed. The idea of seeing this terrible

spectacle again so upset him that he kept his eyes closed with all his

strength, as though they might open in spite of himself.

What had become of Denis? He had probably escaped.

But what could he, Marambot, do now? Get up? Call for help? But if he

should make the slightest motions, his wounds would undoubtedly open up

again and he would die from loss of blood.

Suddenly he heard the door of his room open. His heart almost stopped.

It was certainly Denis who was coming to finish him up. He held his

breath in order to make the murderer think that he had been successful.

He felt his sheet being lifted up, and then someone feeling his stomach.

A sharp pain near his hip made him start. He was being very gently

washed with cold water. Therefore, someone must have discovered the

misdeed and he was being cared for. A wild joy seized him; but

prudently, he did not wish to show that he was conscious. He opened one

eye, just one, with the greatest precaution.

He recognized Denis standing beside him, Denis himself! Mercy! He

hastily closed his eye again.

Denis! What could he be doing? What did he want? What awful scheme could

he now be carrying out?

What was he doing? Well, he was washing him in order to hide the traces

of his crime! And he would now bury him in the garden, under ten feet of

earth, so that no one could discover him! Or perhaps under the wine

cellar! And M. Marambot began to tremble like a leaf. He kept saying to

himself: “I am lost, lost!” He closed his eyes so as not to see the

knife as it descended for the final stroke. It did not come. Denis was

now lifting him up and bandaging him. Then he began carefully to dress

the wound on his leg, as his master had taught him to do.

There was no longer any doubt. His servant, after wishing to kill him,

was trying to save him.

Then M. Marambot, in a dying voice, gave him the practical piece of

advice:

“Wash the wounds in a dilute solution of carbolic acid!”

Denis answered:

“This is what I am doing, monsieur.”

M. Marambot opened both his eyes. There was no sign of blood either on

the bed, on the walls, or on the murderer. The wounded man was stretched

out on clean white sheets.

The two men looked at each other.

Finally M. Marambot said calmly:

“You have been guilty of a great crime.”

Denis answered:

“I am trying to make up for it, monsieur. If you will not tell on me, I

will serve you as faithfully as in the past.”

This was no time to anger his servant. M. Marambot murmured as he closed

his eyes:

“I swear not to tell on you.”

Denis saved his master. He spent days and nights without sleep, never

leaving the sick room, preparing drugs, broths, potions, feeling his

pulse, anxiously counting the beats, attending him with the skill of a

trained nurse and the devotion of a son.

He continually asked:

“Well, monsieur, how do you feel?”

M. Marambot would answer in a weak voice:

“A little better, my boy, thank you.”

And when the sick man would wake up at night, he would often see his

servant seated in an armchair, weeping silently.

Never had the old druggist been so cared for, so fondled, so spoiled. At

first he had said to himself:

“As soon as I am well I shall get rid of this rascal.”

He was now convalescing, and from day to day he would put off dismissing

his murderer. He thought that no one would ever show him such care and

attention, for he held this man through fear; and he warned him that he

had left a document with a lawyer denouncing him to the law if any new

accident should occur.

This precaution seemed to guarantee him against any future attack; and

he then asked himself if it would not be wiser to keep this man near

him, in order to watch him closely.

Just as formerly, when he would hesitate about taking some larger place

of business, he could not make up his mind to any decision.

“There is always time,” he would say to himself.

Denis continued to show himself an admirable servant. M. Marambot was

well. He kept him.

One morning, just as he was finishing breakfast, he suddenly heard a

great noise in the kitchen. He hastened in there. Denis was struggling

with two gendarmes. An officer was taking notes on his pad.

As soon as he saw his master, the servant began to sob, exclaiming:

“You told on me, monsieur, that's not right, after what you had promised

me. You have broken your word of honor, Monsieur Marambot; that is not

right, that's not right!”

M. Marambot, bewildered and distressed at being suspected, lifted his

hand:

“I swear to you before the Lord, my boy that I did not tell on you. I

haven't the slightest idea how the police could have found out about

your attack on me.”

The officer started:

“You say that he attacked you, M. Marambot?”

The bewildered druggist answered:

“Yes—but I did not tell on him—I haven't said a word—I swear it—he has

served me excellently from that time on—”

The officer pronounced severely:

“I will take down your testimony. The law will take notice of this new

action, of which it was ignorant, Monsieur Marambot. I was commissioned

to arrest your servant for the theft of two ducks surreptitiously taken

by him from M. Duhamel of which act there are witnesses. I shall make a

note of your information.”

Then, turning toward his men, he ordered:

“Come on, bring him along!”

The two gendarmes dragged Denis out.

The lawyer used a plea of insanity, contrasting the two misdeeds in

order to strengthen his argument. He had clearly proved that the theft

of the two ducks came from the same mental condition as the eight knife-

wounds in the body of Maramlot. He had cunningly analyzed all the phases

of this transitory condition of mental aberration, which could,

doubtless, be cured by a few months' treatment in a reputable

sanatorium. He had spoken in enthusiastic terms of the continued

devotion of this faithful servant, of the care with which he had

surrounded his master, wounded by him in a moment of alienation.

Touched by this memory, M. Marambot felt the tears rising to his eyes.

The lawyer noticed it, opened his arms with a broad gesture, spreading

out the long black sleeves of his robe like the wings of a bat, and

exclaimed:

“Look, look, gentleman of the jury, look at those tears. What more can I

say for my client? What speech, what argument, what reasoning would be

worth these tears of his master? They, speak louder than I do, louder

than the law; they cry: 'Mercy, for the poor wandering mind of a while

ago! They implore, they pardon, they bless!”

He was silent and sat down.

Then the judge, turning to Marambot, whose testimony had been excellent

for his servant, asked him:

“But, monsieur, even admitting that you consider this man insane, that

does not explain why you should have kept him. He was none the less

dangerous.”

Marambot, wiping his eyes, answered:

“Well, your honor, what can you expect? Nowadays it's so hard to find

good servants—I could never have found a better one.”

Denis was acquitted and put in a sanatorium at his master's expense.

MY WIFE

It had been a stag dinner. These men still came together once in a while

without their wives as they had done when they were bachelors. They

would eat for a long time, drink for a long time; they would talk of

everything, stir up those old and joyful memories which bring a smile to

the lip and a tremor to the heart. One of them was saying: “Georges, do

you remember our excursion to Saint-Germain with those two little girls

from Montmartre?”

“I should say I do!”

And a little detail here or there would be remembered, and all these

things brought joy to the hearts.

The conversation turned on marriage, and each one said with a sincere

air: “Oh, if it were to do over again!” Georges Duportin added: “It's

strange how easily one falls into it. You have fully decided never to

marry; and then, in the springtime, you go to the country; the weather

is warm; the summer is beautiful; the fields are full of flowers; you

meet a young girl at some friend's house—crash! all is over. You return

married!”

Pierre Letoile exclaimed: “Correct! that is exactly my case, only there

were some peculiar incidents—”

His friend interrupted him: “As for you, you have no cause to complain.

You have the most charming wife in the world, pretty, amiable, perfect!

You are undoubtedly the happiest one of us all.”

The other one continued: “It's not my fault.”

“How so?”

“It is true that I have a perfect wife, but I certainly married her much

against my will.”

“Nonsense!”

“Yes—this is the adventure. I was thirty-five, and I had no more idea of

marrying than I had of hanging myself. Young girls seemed to me to be

inane, and I loved pleasure.

“During the month of May I was invited to the wedding of my cousin,

Simon d'Erabel, in Normandy. It was a regular Normandy wedding. We sat

down at the table at five o'clock in the evening and at eleven o'clock

we were still eating. I had been paired off, for the occasion, with a

Mademoiselle Dumoulin, daughter of a retired colonel, a young, blond,

soldierly person, well formed, frank and talkative. She took complete

possession of me for the whole day, dragged me into the park, made me

dance willy-nilly, bored me to death. I said to myself: 'That's all very

well for to-day, but tomorrow I'll get out. That's all there is to it!'

“Toward eleven o'clock at night the women retired to their rooms; the

men stayed, smoking while they drank or drinking while they smoked,

whichever you will.

“Through the open window we could see the country folks dancing. Farmers

and peasant girls were jumping about in a circle yelling at the top of

their lungs a dance air which was feebly accompanied by two violins and

a clarinet. The wild song of the peasants often completely drowned the

sound of the instruments, and the weak music, interrupted by the

unrestrained voices, seemed to come to us in little fragments of

scattered notes. Two enormous casks, surrounded by flaming torches,

contained drinks for the crowd. Two men were kept busy rinsing the

glasses or bowls in a bucket and immediately holding them under the

spigots, from which flowed the red stream of wine or the golden stream

of pure cider; and the parched dancers, the old ones quietly, the girls

panting, came up, stretched out their arms and grasped some receptacle,

threw back their heads and poured down their throats the drink which

they preferred. On a table were bread, butter, cheese and sausages. Each

one would step up from time to time and swallow a mouthful, and under

the starlit sky this healthy and violent exercise was a pleasing sight,

and made one also feel like drinking from these enormous casks and

eating the crisp bread and butter with a raw onion.

“A mad desire seized me to take part in this merrymaking, and I left my

companions. I must admit that I was probably a little tipsy, but I was

soon entirely so.

“I grabbed the hand of a big, panting peasant woman and I jumped her

about until I was out of breath.

“Then I drank some wine and reached for another girl. In order to

refresh myself afterward, I swallowed a bowlful of cider, and I began to

bounce around as if possessed.

“I was very light on my feet. The boys, delighted, were watching me and

trying to imitate me; the girls all wished to dance with me, and jumped

about heavily with the grace of cows.

“After each dance I drank a glass of wine or a glass of cider, and

toward two o'clock in the morning I was so drunk that I could hardly

stand up.

“I realized my condition and tried to reach my room. Everybody was

asleep and the house was silent and dark.

“I had no matches and everybody was in bed. As soon as I reached the

vestibule I began to, feel dizzy. I had a lot of trouble to find the

banister. At last, by accident, my hand came in contact with it, and I

sat down on the first step of the stairs in order to try to gather my

scattered wits.

“My room was on the second floor; it was the third door to the left.

Fortunately I had not forgotten that. Armed with this knowledge, I

arose, not without difficulty, and I began to ascend, step by step. In

my hands I firmly gripped the iron railing in order not to fall, and

took great pains to make no noise.

“Only three or four times did my foot miss the steps, and I went down on

my knees; but thanks to the energy of my arms and the strength of my

will, I avoided falling completely.

“At last I reached the second floor and I set out in my journey along

the hall, feeling my way by the walls. I felt one door; I counted:

'One'; but a sudden dizziness made me lose my hold on the wall, make a

strange turn and fall up against the other wall. I wished to turn in a

straight line: The crossing was long and full of hardships. At last I

reached the shore, and, prudently, I began to travel along again until I

met another door. In order to be sure to make no mistake, I again

counted out loud: 'Two.' I started out on my walk again. At last I found

the third door. I said: 'Three, that's my room,' and I turned the knob.

The door opened. Notwithstanding my befuddled state, I thought: 'Since

the door opens, this must be home.' After softly closing the door, I

stepped out in the darkness. I bumped against something soft: my easy-

chair. I immediately stretched myself out on it.

“In my condition it would not have been wise to look for my bureau, my

candles, my matches. It would have taken me at least two hours. It would

probably have taken me that long also to undress; and even then I might

not have succeeded. I gave it up.

“I only took my shoes off; I unbuttoned my waistcoat, which was choking

me, I loosened my trousers and went to sleep.

“This undoubtedly lasted for a long time. I was suddenly awakened by a

deep voice which was saying: 'What, you lazy girl, still in bed? It's

ten o'clock!'

“A woman's voice answered: 'Already! I was so tired yesterday.'

“In bewilderment I wondered what this dialogue meant. Where was I? What

had I done? My mind was wandering, still surrounded by a heavy fog. The

first voice continued: 'I'm going to raise your curtains.'

“I heard steps approaching me. Completely at a loss what to do, I sat

up. Then a hand was placed on my head. I started. The voice asked: 'Who

is there?' I took good care not to answer. A furious grasp seized me. I

in turn seized him, and a terrific struggle ensued. We were rolling

around, knocking over the furniture and crashing against the walls. A

woman's voice was shrieking: 'Help! help!'

“Servants, neighbors, frightened women crowded around us. The blinds

were open and the shades drawn. I was struggling with Colonel Dumoulin.

“I had slept beside his daughter's bed!

“When we were separated, I escaped to my room, dumbfounded. I locked

myself in and sat down with my feet on a chair, for my shoes had been

left in the young girl's room.

“I heard a great noise through the whole house, doors being opened and

closed, whisperings and rapid steps.

“After half an hour some one knocked on my door. I cried: 'Who is

there?' It was my uncle, the bridegroom's father. I opened the door:

“He was pale and furious, and he treated me harshly: 'You have behaved

like a scoundrel in my house, do you hear?' Then he added more gently

'But, you young fool, why the devil did you let yourself get caught at

ten o'clock in the morning? You go to sleep like a log in that room,

instead of leaving immediately—immediately after.'

“I exclaimed: 'But, uncle, I assure you that nothing occurred. I was

drunk and got into the wrong room.'

“He shrugged his shoulders! 'Don't talk nonsense.' I raised my hand,

exclaiming: 'I swear to you on my honor.' My uncle continued: 'Yes,

that's all right. It's your duty to say that.'

“I in turn grew angry and told him the whole unfortunate occurrence. He

looked at me with a bewildered expression, not knowing what to believe.

Then he went out to confer with the colonel.

“I heard that a kind of jury of the mothers had been formed, to which

were submitted the different phases of the situation.

“He came back an hour later, sat down with the dignity of a judge and

began: 'No matter what may be the situation, I can see only one way out

of it for you; it is to marry Mademoiselle Dumoulin.'

“I bounded out of the chair, crying: 'Never! never!'

“Gravely he asked: 'Well, what do you expect to do?'

“I answered simply: 'Why—leave as soon as my shoes are returned to me.'

“My uncle continued: 'Please do not jest. The colonel has decided to

blow your brains out as soon as he sees you. And you may be sure that he

does not threaten idly. I spoke of a duel and he answered: “No, I tell

you that I will blow his brains out.”'

“'Let us now examine the question from another point of view. Either you

have misbehaved yourself—and then so much the worse for you, my boy; one

should not go near a young girl—or else, being drunk, as you say, you

made a mistake in the room. In this case, it's even worse for you. You

shouldn't get yourself into such foolish situations. Whatever you may

say, the poor girl's reputation is lost, for a drunkard's excuses are

never believed. The only real victim in the matter is the girl. Think it

over.'

“He went away, while I cried after him: 'Say what you will, I'll not

marry her!'

“I stayed alone for another hour. Then my aunt came. She was crying. She

used every argument. No one believed my story. They could not imagine

that this young girl could have forgotten to lock her door in a house

full of company. The colonel had struck her. She had been crying the

whole morning. It was a terrible and unforgettable scandal. And my good

aunt added: 'Ask for her hand, anyhow. We may, perhaps, find some way

out of it when we are drawing up the papers.'

“This prospect relieved me. And I agreed to write my proposal. An hour

later I left for Paris. The following day I was informed that I had been

accepted.

“Then, in three weeks, before I had been able to find any excuse, the

banns were published, the announcement sent out, the contract signed,

and one Monday morning I found myself in a church, beside a weeping

young girl, after telling the magistrate that I consented to take her as

my companion—for better, for worse.

“I had not seen her since my adventure, and I glanced at her out of the

corner of my eye with a certain malevolent surprise. However, she was

not ugly—far from it. I said to myself: 'There is some one who won't

laugh every day.'

“She did not look at me once until, the evening, and she did not say a

single word.

“Toward the middle of the night I entered the bridal chamber with the

full intention of letting her know my resolutions, for I was now master.

I found her sitting in an armchair, fully dressed, pale and with red

eyes. As soon as I entered she rose and came slowly toward me saying:

'Monsieur, I am ready to do whatever you may command. I will kill myself

if you so desire'

“The colonel's daughter was as pretty as she could be in this heroic

role. I kissed her; it was my privilege.

“I soon saw that I had not got a bad bargain. I have now been married

five years. I do not regret it in the least.”

Pierre Letoile was silent. His companions were laughing. One of them

said: “Marriage is indeed a lottery; you must never choose your numbers.

The haphazard ones are the best.”

Another added by way of conclusion: “Yes, but do not forget that the god

of drunkards chose for Pierre.”

THE UNKNOWN

We were speaking of adventures, and each one of us was relating his

story of delightful experiences, surprising meetings, on the train, in a

hotel, at the seashore. According to Roger des Annettes, the seashore

was particularly favorable to the little blind god.

Gontran, who was keeping mum, was asked what he thought of it.

“I guess Paris is about the best place for that,” he said. “Woman is

like a precious trinket, we appreciate her all the more when we meet her

in the most unexpected places; but the rarest ones are only to be found

in Paris.”

He was silent for a moment, and then continued:

“By Jove, it's great! Walk along the streets on some spring morning. The

little women, daintily tripping along, seem to blossom out like flowers.

What a delightful, charming sight! The dainty perfume of violet is

everywhere. The city is gay, and everybody notices the women. By Jove,

how tempting they are in their light, thin dresses, which occasionally

give one a glimpse of the delicate pink flesh beneath!

“One saunters along, head up, mind alert, and eyes open. I tell you it's

great! You see her in the distance, while still a block away; you

already know that she is going to please you at closer quarters. You can

recognize her by the flower on her hat, the toss of her head, or her

gait. She approaches, and you say to yourself: 'Look out, here she is!'

You come closer to her and you devour her with your eyes.

“Is it a young girl running errands for some store, a young woman

returning from church, or hastening to see her lover? What do you care?

Her well-rounded bosom shows through the thin waist. Oh, if you could

only take her in your arms and fondle and kiss her! Her glance may be

timid or bold, her hair light or dark. What difference does it make? She

brushes against you, and a cold shiver runs down your spine. Ah, how you

wish for her all day! How many of these dear creatures have I met this

way, and how wildly in love I would have been had I known them more

intimately.

“Have you ever noticed that the ones we would love the most distractedly

are those whom we never meet to know? Curious, isn't it? From time to

time we barely catch a glimpse of some woman, the mere sight of whom

thrills our senses. But it goes no further. When I think of all the

adorable creatures that I have elbowed in the streets of Paris, I fairly

rave. Who are they! Where are they? Where can I find them again? There

is a proverb which says that happiness often passes our way; I am sure

that I have often passed alongside the one who could have caught me like

a linnet in the snare of her fresh beauty.”

Roger des Annettes had listened smilingly. He answered: “I know that as

well as you do. This is what happened to me: About five years ago, for

the first time I met, on the Pont de la Concorde, a young woman who made

a wonderful impression on me. She was dark, rather stout, with glossy

hair, and eyebrows which nearly met above two dark eyes. On her lip was

a scarcely perceptible down, which made one dream-dream as one dreams of

beloved woods, on seeing a bunch of wild violets. She had a small waist

and a well-developed bust, which seemed to present a challenge, offer a

temptation. Her eyes were like two black spots on white enamel. Her

glance was strange, vacant, unthinking, and yet wonderfully beautiful.

“I imagined that she might be a Jewess. I followed her, and then turned

round to look at her, as did many others. She walked with a swinging

gait that was not graceful, but somehow attracted one. At the Place de

la Concorde she took a carriage, and I stood there like a fool, moved by

the strongest desire that had ever assailed me.

“For about three weeks I thought only of her; and then her memory passed

out of my mind.

“Six months later I descried her in the Rue de la Paix again. On seeing

her I felt the same shock that one experiences on seeing a once dearly

loved woman. I stopped that I might better observe her. When she passed

close enough to touch me I felt as though I were standing before a red

hot furnace. Then, when she had passed by, I noticed a delicious

sensation, as of a cooling breeze blowing over my face. I did not follow

her. I was afraid of doing something foolish. I was afraid of myself.

“She haunted all my dreams.

“It was a year before I saw her again. But just as the sun was going

down on one beautiful evening in May I recognized her walking along the

Avenue des Champs-Elysees. The Arc de Triomphe stood out in bold relief

against the fiery glow of the sky. A golden haze filled the air; it was

one of those delightful spring evenings which are the glory of Paris.

“I followed her, tormented by a desire to address her, to kneel before

her, to pour forth the emotion which was choking me. Twice I passed by

her only to fall back, and each time as I passed by I felt this

sensation, as of scorching heat, which I had noticed in the Rue de la

Paix.

“She glanced at me, and then I saw her enter a house on the Rue de

Presbourg. I waited for her two hours and she did not come out. Then I

decided to question the janitor. He seemed not to understand me. 'She

must be visiting some one,' he said.

“The next time I was eight months without seeing her. But one freezing

morning in January, I was walking along the Boulevard Malesherbes at a

dog trot, so as to keep warm, when at the corner I bumped into a woman

and knocked a small package out of her hand. I tried to apologize. It

was she!

“At first I stood stock still from the shock; then having returned to

her the package which she had dropped, I said abruptly:

“'I am both grieved and delighted, madame, to have jostled you. For more

than two years I have known you, admired you, and had the most ardent

wish to be presented to you; nevertheless I have been unable to find out

who you are, or where you live. Please excuse these foolish words.

Attribute them to a passionate desire to be numbered among your

acquaintances. Such sentiments can surely offend you in no way! You do

not know me. My name is Baron Roger des Annettes. Make inquiries about

me, and you will find that I am a gentleman. Now, if you refuse my

request, you will throw me into abject misery. Please be good to me and

tell me how I can see you.'

“She looked at me with her strange vacant stare, and answered smilingly:

“'Give me your address. I will come and see you.'

“I was so dumfounded that I must have shown my surprise. But I quickly

gathered my wits together and gave her a visiting card, which she

slipped into her pocket with a quick, deft movement.

“Becoming bolder, I stammered:

“'When shall I see you again?'

“She hesitated, as though mentally running over her list of engagements,

and then murmured:

“'Will Sunday morning suit you?'

“'I should say it would!'

“She went on, after having stared at me, judged, weighed and analyzed me

with this heavy and vacant gaze which seemed to leave a quieting and

deadening impression on the person towards whom it was directed.

“Until Sunday my mind was occupied day and night trying to guess who she

might be and planning my course of conduct towards her. I finally

decided to buy her a jewel, a beautiful little jewel, which I placed in

its box on the mantelpiece, and left it there awaiting her arrival.

“I spent a restless night waiting for her.

“At ten o'clock she came, calm and quiet, and with her hand

outstretched, as though she had known me for years. Drawing up a chair,

I took her hat and coat and furs, and laid them aside. And then,

timidly, I took her hand in mine; after that all went on without a

hitch.

“Ah, my friends! what a bliss it is, to stand at a discreet distance and

watch the hidden pink and blue ribbons, partly concealed, to observe the

hazy lines of the beloved one's form, as they become visible through the

last of the filmy garments! What a delight it is to watch the ostrich-

like modesty of those who are in reality none too modest. And what is so

pretty as their motions!

“Her back was turned towards me, and suddenly, my eyes were irresistibly

drawn to a large black spot right between her shoulders. What could it

be? Were my eyes deceiving me? But no, there it was, staring me in the

face! Then my mind reverted to the faint down on her lip, the heavy

eyebrows almost meeting over her coal-black eyes, her glossy black hair

—I should have been prepared for some surprise.

“Nevertheless I was dumfounded, and my mind was haunted by dim visions

of strange adventures. I seemed to see before me one of the evil genii

of the Thousand and One Nights, one of these dangerous and crafty

creatures whose mission it is to drag men down to unknown depths. I

thought of Solomon, who made the Queen of Sheba walk on a mirror that he

might be sure that her feet were not cloven.

“And when the time came for me to sing of love to her, my voice forsook

me. At first she showed surprise, which soon turned to anger; and she

said, quickly putting on her wraps:

“'It was hardly worth while for me to go out of my way to come here.'

“I wanted her to accept the ring which I had bought for her, but she

replied haughtily: 'For whom do you take me, sir?' I blushed to the

roots of my hair. She left without saying another word.

“There is my whole adventure. But the worst part of it is that I am now

madly in love with her. I can't see a woman without thinking of her. All

the others disgust me, unless they remind me of her. I cannot kiss a

woman without seeing her face before me, and without suffering the

torture of unsatisfied desire. She is always with me, always there,

dressed or nude, my true love. She is there, beside the other one,

visible but intangible. I am almost willing to believe that she was

bewitched, and carried a talisman between her shoulders.

“Who is she? I don't know yet. I have met her once or twice since. I

bowed, but she pretended not to recognize me. Who is she? An Oriental?

Yes, doubtless an oriental Jewess! I believe that she must be a Jewess!

But why? Why? I don't know!”

THE APPARITION

The subject of sequestration of the person came up in speaking of a

recent lawsuit, and each of us had a story to tell—a true story, he

said. We had been spending the evening together at an old family mansion

in the Rue de Grenelle, just a party of intimate friends. The old

Marquis de la Tour-Samuel, who was eighty-two, rose, and, leaning his

elbow on the mantelpiece, said in his somewhat shaky voice:

“I also know of something strange, so strange that it has haunted me all

my life. It is now fifty-six years since the incident occurred, and yet

not a month passes that I do not see it again in a dream, so great is

the impression of fear it has left on my mind. For ten minutes I

experienced such horrible fright that ever since then a sort of constant

terror has remained with me. Sudden noises startle me violently, and

objects imperfectly distinguished at night inspire me with a mad desire

to flee from them. In short, I am afraid of the dark!

“But I would not have acknowledged that before I reached my present age.

Now I can say anything. I have never receded before real danger, ladies.

It is, therefore, permissible, at eighty-two years of age, not to be

brave in presence of imaginary danger.

“That affair so completely upset me, caused me such deep and mysterious

and terrible distress, that I never spoke of it to any one. I will now

tell it to you exactly as it happened, without any attempt at

explanation.

“In July, 1827, I was stationed at Rouen. One day as I was walking along

the quay I met a man whom I thought I recognized without being able to

recall exactly who he was. Instinctively I made a movement to stop. The

stranger perceived it and at once extended his hand.

“He was a friend to whom I had been deeply attached as a youth. For five

years I had not seen him; he seemed to have aged half a century. His

hair was quite white and he walked bent over as though completely

exhausted. He apparently understood my surprise, and he told me of the

misfortune which had shattered his life.

“Having fallen madly in love with a young girl, he had married her, but

after a year of more than earthly happiness she died suddenly of an

affection of the heart. He left his country home on the very day of her

burial and came to his town house in Rouen, where he lived, alone and

unhappy, so sad and wretched that he thought constantly of suicide.

“'Since I have found you again in this manner,' he said, 'I will ask you

to render me an important service. It is to go and get me out of the

desk in my bedroom—our bedroom—some papers of which I have urgent need.

I cannot send a servant or a business clerk, as discretion and absolute

silence are necessary. As for myself, nothing on earth would induce me

to reenter that house. I will give you the key of the room, which I

myself locked on leaving, and the key of my desk, also a few words for

my gardener, telling him to open the chateau for you. But come and

breakfast with me tomorrow and we will arrange all that.'

“I promised to do him the slight favor he asked. It was, for that

matter, only a ride which I could make in an hour on horseback, his

property being but a few miles distant from Rouen.

“At ten o'clock the following day I breakfasted, tete-a-tete, with my

friend, but he scarcely spoke.

“He begged me to pardon him; the thought of the visit I was about to

make to that room, the scene of his dead happiness, overcame him, he

said. He, indeed, seemed singularly agitated and preoccupied, as though

undergoing some mysterious mental struggle.

“At length he explained to me exactly what I had to do. It was very

simple. I must take two packages of letters and a roll of papers from

the first right-hand drawer of the desk, of which I had the key. He

added:

“'I need not beg you to refrain from glancing at them.'

“I was wounded at that remark and told him so somewhat sharply. He

stammered:

“'Forgive me, I suffer so,' and tears came to his eyes.

“At about one o'clock I took leave of him to accomplish my mission.

“'The weather was glorious, and I trotted across the fields, listening

to the song of the larks and the rhythmical clang of my sword against my

boot. Then I entered the forest and walked my horse. Branches of trees

caressed my face as I passed, and now and then I caught a leaf with my

teeth and chewed it, from sheer gladness of heart at being alive and

vigorous on such a radiant day.

“As I approached the chateau I took from my pocket the letter I had for

the gardener, and was astonished at finding it sealed. I was so

irritated that I was about to turn back without having fulfilled my

promise, but reflected that I should thereby display undue

susceptibility. My friend in his troubled condition might easily have

fastened the envelope without noticing that he did so.

“The manor looked as if it had been abandoned for twenty years. The open

gate was falling from its hinges, the walks were overgrown with grass

and the flower beds were no longer distinguishable.

“The noise I made by kicking at a shutter brought out an old man from a

side door. He seemed stunned with astonishment at seeing me. On

receiving my letter, he read it, reread it, turned it over and over,

looked me up and down, put the paper in his pocket and finally said:

“'Well, what is it you wish?'

“I replied shortly:

“'You ought to know, since you have just read your master's orders. I

wish to enter the chateau.'

“He seemed overcome.

“'Then you are going in—into her room?'

“I began to lose patience.

“'Damn it! Are you presuming to question me?'

“He stammered in confusion:

“'No—sir—but—but it has not been opened since—since the-death. If you

will be kind enough to wait five minutes I will go and—and see if—'

“I interrupted him angrily:

“'See here, what do you mean by your tricks?

“'You know very well you cannot enter the room, since here is the key!'

“He no longer objected.

“'Then, sir, I will show you the way.'

“'Show me the staircase and leave me. I'll find my way without you.'

“'But—sir—indeed—'

“This time I lost patience, and pushing him aside, went into the house.

“I first went through the kitchen, then two rooms occupied by this man

and his wife. I then crossed a large hall, mounted a staircase and

recognized the door described by my friend.

“I easily opened it, and entered the apartment. It was so dark that at

first I could distinguish nothing. I stopped short, disagreeably

affected by that disagreeable, musty odor of closed, unoccupied rooms.

As my eyes slowly became accustomed to the darkness I saw plainly enough

a large and disordered bedroom, the bed without sheets but still

retaining its mattresses and pillows, on one of which was a deep

impression, as though an elbow or a head had recently rested there.

“The chairs all seemed out of place. I noticed that a door, doubtless

that of a closet, had remained half open.

“I first went to the window, which I opened to let in the light, but the

fastenings of the shutters had grown so rusty that I could not move

them. I even tried to break them with my sword, but without success. As

I was growing irritated over my useless efforts and could now see fairly

well in the semi-darkness, I gave up the hope of getting more light, and

went over to the writing desk.

“I seated myself in an armchair and, letting down the lid of the desk, I

opened the drawer designated. It was full to the top. I needed but three

packages, which I knew how to recognize, and began searching for them.

“I was straining my eyes in the effort to read the superscriptions when

I seemed to hear, or, rather, feel, something rustle back of me. I paid

no attention, believing that a draught from the window was moving some

drapery. But in a minute or so another movement, almost imperceptible,

sent a strangely disagreeable little shiver over my skin. It was so

stupid to be affected, even slightly, that self-respect prevented my

turning around. I had just found the second package I needed and was

about to lay my hand on the third when a long and painful sigh, uttered

just at my shoulder, made me bound like a madman from my seat and land

several feet off. As I jumped I had turned round my hand on the hilt of

my sword, and, truly, if I had not felt it at my side I should have

taken to my heels like a coward.

“A tall woman dressed in white, stood gazing at me from the back of the

chair where I had been sitting an instant before.

“Such a shudder ran through all my limbs that I nearly fell backward. No

one who has not experienced it can understand that frightful,

unreasoning terror! The mind becomes vague, the heart ceases to beat,

the entire body grows as limp as a sponge.

“I do not believe in ghosts, nevertheless I collapsed from a hideous

dread of the dead, and I suffered, oh! I suffered in a few moments more

than in all the rest of my life from the irresistible terror of the

supernatural. If she had not spoken I should have died perhaps. But she

spoke, she spoke in a sweet, sad voice that set my nerves vibrating. I

dare not say that I became master of myself and recovered my reason. No!

I was terrified and scarcely knew what I was doing. But a certain innate

pride, a remnant of soldierly instinct, made me, almost in spite of

myself, maintain a bold front. She said:

“'Oh, sir, you can render me a great service.'

“I wanted to reply, but it was impossible for me to pronounce a word.

Only a vague sound came from my throat. She continued:

“'Will you? You can save me, cure me. I suffer frightfully. I suffer,

oh! how I suffer!' and she slowly seated herself in my armchair, still

looking at me.

“'Will you?' she said.

“I nodded in assent, my voice still being paralyzed.

“Then she held out to me a tortoise-shell comb and murmured:

“'Comb my hair, oh! comb my hair; that will cure me; it must be combed.

Look at my head—how I suffer; and my hair pulls so!'

“Her hair, unbound, very long and very black, it seemed to me, hung over

the back of the armchair and touched the floor.

“Why did I promise? Why did I take that comb with a shudder, and why did

I hold in my hands her long black hair that gave my skin a frightful

cold sensation, as though I were handling snakes? I cannot tell.

“That sensation has remained in my fingers, and I still tremble in

recalling it.

“I combed her hair. I handled, I know not how, those icy locks. I

twisted, knotted, and unknotted, and braided them. She sighed, bowed her

head, seemed happy. Suddenly she said, 'Thank you!' snatched the comb

from my hands and fled by the door that I had noticed ajar.

“Left alone, I experienced for several seconds the horrible agitation of

one who awakens from a nightmare. At length I regained my senses. I ran

to the window and with a mighty effort burst open the shutters, letting

a flood of light into the room. Immediately I sprang to the door by

which that being had departed. I found it closed and immovable!

“Then the mad desire to flee overcame me like a panic the panic which

soldiers know in battle. I seized the three packets of letters on the

open desk, ran from the room, dashed down the stairs four steps at a

time, found myself outside, I know not how, and, perceiving my horse a

few steps off, leaped into the saddle and galloped away.

“I stopped only when I reached Rouen and alighted at my lodgings.

Throwing the reins to my orderly, I fled to my room and shut myself in

to reflect. For an hour I anxiously asked myself if I were not the

victim of a hallucination. Undoubtedly I had had one of those

incomprehensible nervous attacks those exaltations of mind that give

rise to visions and are the stronghold of the supernatural. And I was

about to believe I had seen a vision, had a hallucination, when, as I

approached the window, my eyes fell, by chance, upon my breast. My

military cape was covered with long black hairs! One by one, with

trembling fingers, I plucked them off and threw them away.

“I then called my orderly. I was too disturbed, too upset to go and see

my friend that day, and I also wished to reflect more fully upon what I

ought to tell him. I sent him his letters, for which he gave the soldier

a receipt. He asked after me most particularly, and, on being told I was

ill—had had a sunstroke—appeared exceedingly anxious. Next morning I

went to him, determined to tell him the truth. He had gone out the

evening before and had not yet returned. I called again during the day;

my friend was still absent. After waiting a week longer without news of

him, I notified the authorities and a judicial search was instituted.

Not the slightest trace of his whereabouts or manner of disappearance

was discovered.

“A minute inspection of the abandoned chateau revealed nothing of a

suspicious character. There was no indication that a woman had been

concealed there.

“After fruitless researches all further efforts were abandoned, and for

fifty-six years I have heard nothing; I know no more than before.”

ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES, Vol. 8.

GUY DE MAUPASSANT ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES Translated by ALBERT M. C.

McMASTER, B.A. A. E. HENDERSON, B.A. MME. QUESADA and Others

VOLUME VIII.

CLOCHETTE

How strange those old recollections are which haunt us, without our

being able to get rid of them.

This one is so very old that I cannot understand how it has clung so

vividly and tenaciously to my memory. Since then I have seen so many

sinister things, which were either affecting or terrible, that I am

astonished at not being able to pass a single day without the face of

Mother Bellflower recurring to my mind's eye, just as I knew her

formerly, now so long ago, when I was ten or twelve years old.

She was an old seamstress who came to my parents' house once a week,

every Thursday, to mend the linen. My parents lived in one of those

country houses called chateaux, which are merely old houses with gable

roofs, to which are attached three or four farms lying around them.

The village, a large village, almost a market town, was a few hundred

yards away, closely circling the church, a red brick church, black with

age.

Well, every Thursday Mother Clochette came between half-past six and

seven in the morning, and went immediately into the linen-room and began

to work. She was a tall, thin, bearded or rather hairy woman, for she

had a beard all over her face, a surprising, an unexpected beard,

growing in improbable tufts, in curly bunches which looked as if they

had been sown by a madman over that great face of a gendarme in

petticoats. She had them on her nose, under her nose, round her nose, on

her chin, on her cheeks; and her eyebrows, which were extraordinarily

thick and long, and quite gray, bushy and bristling, looked exactly like

a pair of mustaches stuck on there by mistake.

She limped, not as lame people generally do, but like a ship at anchor.

When she planted her great, bony, swerving body on her sound leg, she

seemed to be preparing to mount some enormous wave, and then suddenly

she dipped as if to disappear in an abyss, and buried herself in the

ground. Her walk reminded one of a storm, as she swayed about, and her

head, which was always covered with an enormous white cap, whose ribbons

fluttered down her back, seemed to traverse the horizon from north to

south and from south to north, at each step.

I adored Mother Clochette. As soon as I was up I went into the linen-

room where I found her installed at work, with a foot-warmer under her

feet. As soon as I arrived, she made me take the foot-warmer and sit

upon it, so that I might not catch cold in that large, chilly room under

the roof.

“That draws the blood from your throat,” she said to me.

She told me stories, whilst mending the linen with her long crooked

nimble fingers; her eyes behind her magnifying spectacles, for age had

impaired her sight, appeared enormous to me, strangely profound, double.

She had, as far as I can remember the things which she told me and by

which my childish heart was moved, the large heart of a poor woman. She

told me what had happened in the village, how a cow had escaped from the

cow-house and had been found the next morning in front of Prosper

Malet's windmill, looking at the sails turning, or about a hen's egg

which had been found in the church belfry without any one being able to

understand what creature had been there to lay it, or the story of Jean-

Jean Pila's dog, who had been ten leagues to bring back his master's

breeches which a tramp had stolen whilst they were hanging up to dry out

of doors, after he had been in the rain. She told me these simple

adventures in such a manner, that in my mind they assumed the

proportions of never-to-be-forgotten dramas, of grand and mysterious

poems; and the ingenious stories invented by the poets which my mother

told me in the evening, had none of the flavor, none of the breadth or

vigor of the peasant woman's narratives.

Well, one Tuesday, when I had spent all the morning in listening to

Mother Clochette, I wanted to go upstairs to her again during the day

after picking hazelnuts with the manservant in the wood behind the farm.

I remember it all as clearly as what happened only yesterday.

On opening the door of the linen-room, I saw the old seamstress lying on

the ground by the side of her chair, with her face to the ground and her

arms stretched out, but still holding her needle in one hand and one of

my shirts in the other. One of her legs in a blue stocking, the longer

one, no doubt, was extended under her chair, and her spectacles

glistened against the wall, as they had rolled away from her.

I ran away uttering shrill cries. They all came running, and in a few

minutes I was told that Mother Clochette was dead.

I cannot describe the profound, poignant, terrible emotion which stirred

my childish heart. I went slowly down into the drawing-room and hid

myself in a dark corner, in the depths of an immense old armchair, where

I knelt down and wept. I remained there a long time, no doubt, for night

came on. Suddenly somebody came in with a lamp, without seeing me,

however, and I heard my father and mother talking with the medical man,

whose voice I recognized.

He had been sent for immediately, and he was explaining the causes of

the accident, of which I understood nothing, however. Then he sat down

and had a glass of liqueur and a biscuit.

He went on talking, and what he then said will remain engraved on my

mind until I die! I think that I can give the exact words which he used.

“Ah!” said he, “the poor woman! She broke her leg the day of my arrival

here, and I had not even had time to wash my hands after getting off the

diligence before I was sent for in all haste, for it was a bad case,

very bad.

“She was seventeen, and a pretty girl, very pretty! Would any one

believe it? I have never told her story before, and nobody except myself

and one other person who is no longer living in this part of the country

ever knew it. Now that she is dead, I may be less discreet.

“Just then a young assistant-teacher came to live in the village; he was

a handsome, well-made fellow, and looked like a non-commissioned

officer. All the girls ran after him, but he paid no attention to them,

partly because he was very much afraid of his superior, the

schoolmaster, old Grabu, who occasionally got out of bed the wrong foot

first.

“Old Grabu already employed pretty Hortense who has just died here, and

who was afterwards nicknamed Clochette. The assistant master singled out

the pretty young girl, who was, no doubt, flattered at being chosen by

this impregnable conqueror; at any rate, she fell in love with him, and

he succeeded in persuading her to give him a first meeting in the hay-

loft behind the school, at night, after she had done her day's sewing.

“She pretended to go home, but instead of going downstairs when she left

the Grabus' she went upstairs and hid among the hay, to wait for her

lover. He soon joined her, and was beginning to say pretty things to

her, when the door of the hay-loft opened and the schoolmaster appeared,

and asked: 'What are you doing up there, Sigisbert?' Feeling sure that

he would be caught, the young schoolmaster lost his presence of mind and

replied stupidly: 'I came up here to rest a little amongst the bundles

of hay, Monsieur Grabu.'

“The loft was very large and absolutely dark, and Sigisbert pushed the

frightened girl to the further end and said: 'Go over there and hide

yourself. I shall lose my position, so get away and hide yourself.'

“When the schoolmaster heard the whispering, he continued: 'Why, you are

not by yourself?' 'Yes, I am, Monsieur Grabu!' 'But you are not, for you

are talking.' 'I swear I am, Monsieur Grabu.' 'I will soon find out,'

the old man replied, and double locking the door, he went down to get a

light.

“Then the young man, who was a coward such as one frequently meets, lost

his head, and becoming furious all of a sudden, he repeated: 'Hide

yourself, so that he may not find you. You will keep me from making a

living for the rest of my life; you will ruin my whole career. Do hide

yourself!' They could hear the key turning in the lock again, and

Hortense ran to the window which looked out on the street, opened it

quickly, and then said in a low and determined voice: 'You will come and

pick me up when he is gone,' and she jumped out.

“Old Grabu found nobody, and went down again in great surprise, and a

quarter of an hour later, Monsieur Sigisbert came to me and related his

adventure. The girl had remained at the foot of the wall unable to get

up, as she had fallen from the second story, and I went with him to

fetch her. It was raining in torrents, and I brought the unfortunate

girl home with me, for the right leg was broken in three places, and the

bones had come trough the flesh. She did not complain, and merely said,

with admirable resignation: 'I am punished, well punished!'

“I sent for assistance and for the work-girl's relatives and told them

a, made-up story of a runaway carriage which had knocked her down and

lamed her outside my door. They believed me, and the gendarmes for a

whole month tried in vain to find the author of this accident.

“That is all! And I say that this woman was a heroine and belonged to

the race of those who accomplish the grandest deeds of history.

“That was her only love affair, and she died a virgin. She was a martyr,

a noble soul, a sublimely devoted woman! And if I did not absolutely

admire her, I should not have told you this story, which I would never

tell any one during her life; you understand why.”

The doctor ceased. Mamma cried and papa said some words which I did not

catch; then they left the room and I remained on my knees in the

armchair and sobbed, whilst I heard a strange noise of heavy footsteps

and something knocking against the side of the staircase.

They were carrying away Clochette's body.

THE KISS

My Little Darling: So you are crying from morning until night and from

night until morning, because your husband leaves you; you do not know

what to do and so you ask your old aunt for advice; you must consider

her quite an expert. I don't know as much as you think I do, and yet I

am not entirely ignorant of the art of loving, or, rather, of making

one's self loved, in which you are a little lacking. I can admit that at

my age.

You say that you are all attention, love, kisses and caresses for him.

Perhaps that is the very trouble; I think you kiss him too much.

My dear, we have in our hands the most terrible power in the world:

LOVE.

Man is gifted with physical strength, and he exercises force. Woman is

gifted with charm, and she rules with caresses. It is our weapon,

formidable and invincible, but we should know how to use it.

Know well that we are the mistresses of the world! To tell the history

of Love from the beginning of the world would be to tell the history of

man himself: Everything springs from it, the arts, great events,

customs, wars, the overthrow of empires.

In the Bible you find Delila, Judith; in fables we find Omphale, Helen;

in history the Sabines, Cleopatra and many others.

Therefore we reign supreme, all-powerful. But, like kings, we must make

use of delicate diplomacy.

Love, my dear, is made up of imperceptible sensations. We know that it

is as strong as death, but also as frail as glass. The slightest shock

breaks it, and our power crumbles, and we are never able to raise it

again.

We have the power of making ourselves adored, but we lack one tiny

thing, the understanding of the various kinds of caresses. In embraces

we lose the sentiment of delicacy, while the man over whom we rule

remains master of himself, capable of judging the foolishness of certain

words. Take care, my dear; that is the defect in our armor. It is our

Achilles' heel.

Do you know whence comes our real power? From the kiss, the kiss alone!

When we know how to hold out and give up our lips we can become queens.

The kiss is only a preface, however, but a charming preface. More

charming than the realization itself. A preface which can always be read

over again, whereas one cannot always read over the book.

Yes, the meeting of lips is the most perfect, the most divine sensation

given to human beings, the supreme limit of happiness: It is in the kiss

alone that one sometimes seems to feel this union of souls after which

we strive, the intermingling of hearts, as it were.

Do you remember the verses of Sully-Prudhomme:

Caresses are nothing but anxious bliss, Vain attempts of love to unite

souls through a kiss.

One caress alone gives this deep sensation of two beings welded into one

—it is the kiss. No violent delirium of complete possession is worth

this trembling approach of the lips, this first moist and fresh contact,

and then the long, lingering, motionless rapture.

Therefore, my dear, the kiss is our strongest weapon, but we must take

care not to dull it. Do not forget that its value is only relative,

purely conventional. It continually changes according to circumstances,

the state of expectancy and the ecstasy of the mind. I will call

attention to one example.

Another poet, Francois Coppee, has written a line which we all remember,

a line which we find delightful, which moves our very hearts.

After describing the expectancy of a lover, waiting in a room one

winter's evening, his anxiety, his nervous impatience, the terrible fear

of not seeing her, he describes the arrival of the beloved woman, who at

last enters hurriedly, out of breath, bringing with her part of the

winter breeze, and he exclaims:

Oh! the taste of the kisses first snatched through the veil.

Is that not a line of exquisite sentiment, a delicate and charming

observation, a perfect truth? All those who have hastened to a

clandestine meeting, whom passion has thrown into the arms of a man,

well do they know these first delicious kisses through the veil; and

they tremble at the memory of them. And yet their sole charm lies in the

circumstances, from being late, from the anxious expectancy, but from

the purely—or, rather, impurely, if you prefer—sensual point of view,

they are detestable.

Think! Outside it is cold. The young woman has walked quickly; the veil

is moist from her cold breath. Little drops of water shine in the lace.

The lover seizes her and presses his burning lips to her liquid breath.

The moist veil, which discolors and carries the dreadful odor of

chemical dye, penetrates into the young man's mouth, moistens his

mustache. He does not taste the lips of his beloved, he tastes the dye

of this lace moistened with cold breath. And yet, like the poet, we

would all exclaim:

Oh! the taste of the kisses first snatched through the veil.

Therefore, the value of this caress being entirely a matter of

convention, we must be careful not to abuse it.

Well, my dear, I have several times noticed that you are very clumsy.

However, you were not alone in that fault; the majority of women lose

their authority by abusing the kiss with untimely kisses. When they feel

that their husband or their lover is a little tired, at those times when

the heart as well as the body needs rest, instead of understanding what

is going on within him, they persist in giving inopportune caresses,

tire him by the obstinacy of begging lips and give caresses lavished

with neither rhyme nor reason.

Trust in the advice of my experience. First, never kiss your husband in

public, in the train, at the restaurant. It is bad taste; do not give in

to your desires. He would feel ridiculous and would never forgive you.

Beware of useless kisses lavished in intimacy. I am sure that you abuse

them. For instance, I remember one day that you did something quite

shocking. Probably you do not remember it.

All three of us were together in the drawing-room, and, as you did not

stand on ceremony before me, your husband was holding you on his knees

and kissing you at great length on the neck, the lips and throat.

Suddenly you exclaimed: “Oh! the fire!” You had been paying no attention

to it, and it was almost out. A few lingering embers were glowing on the

hearth. Then he rose, ran to the woodbox, from which he dragged two

enormous logs with great difficulty, when you came to him with begging

lips, murmuring:

“Kiss me!” He turned his head with difficulty and tried to hold up the

logs at the same time. Then you gently and slowly placed your mouth on

that of the poor fellow, who remained with his neck out of joint, his

sides twisted, his arms almost dropping off, trembling with fatigue and

tired from his desperate effort. And you kept drawing out this torturing

kiss, without seeing or understanding. Then when you freed him, you

began to grumble: “How badly you kiss!” No wonder!

Oh, take care of that! We all have this foolish habit, this unconscious

need of choosing the most inconvenient moments. When he is carrying a

glass of water, when he is putting on his shoes, when he is tying his

scarf—in short, when he finds himself in any uncomfortable position

—then is the time which we choose for a caress which makes him stop for

a whole minute in the middle of a gesture with the sole desire of

getting rid of us!

Do not think that this criticism is insignificant. Love, my dear, is a

delicate thing. The least little thing offends it; know that everything

depends on the tact of our caresses. An ill-placed kiss may do any

amount of harm.

Try following my advice.

Your old aunt, COLLETTE.

This story appeared in the Gaulois in November, 1882, under the

pseudonym of “Maufrigneuse.”

THE LEGION OF HONOR

HOW HE GOT THE LEGION OF HONOR

From the time some people begin to talk they seem to have an

overmastering desire or vocation.

Ever since he was a child, M. Caillard had only had one idea in his head

—to wear the ribbon of an order. When he was still quite a small boy he

used to wear a zinc cross of the Legion of Honor pinned on his tunic,

just as other children wear a soldier's cap, and he took his mother's

hand in the street with a proud air, sticking out his little chest with

its red ribbon and metal star so that it might show to advantage.

His studies were not a success, and he failed in his examination for

Bachelor of Arts; so, not knowing what to do, he married a pretty girl,

as he had plenty of money of his own.

They lived in Paris, as many rich middle-class people do, mixing with

their own particular set, and proud of knowing a deputy, who might

perhaps be a minister some day, and counting two heads of departments

among their friends.

But M. Caillard could not get rid of his one absorbing idea, and he felt

constantly unhappy because he had not the right to wear a little bit of

colored ribbon in his buttonhole.

When he met any men who were decorated on the boulevards, he looked at

them askance, with intense jealousy. Sometimes, when he had nothing to

do in the afternoon, he would count them, and say to himself: “Just let

me see how many I shall meet between the Madeleine and the Rue Drouot.”

Then he would walk slowly, looking at every coat with a practiced eye

for the little bit of red ribbon, and when he had got to the end of his

walk he always repeated the numbers aloud.

“Eight officers and seventeen knights. As many as that! It is stupid to

sow the cross broadcast in that fashion. I wonder how many I shall meet

going back?”

And he returned slowly, unhappy when the crowd of passers-by interfered

with his vision.

He knew the places where most were to be found. They swarmed in the

Palais Royal. Fewer were seen in the Avenue de l'Opera than in the Rue

de la Paix, while the right side of the boulevard was more frequented by

them than the left.

They also seemed to prefer certain cafes and theatres. Whenever he saw a

group of white-haired old gentlemen standing together in the middle of

the pavement, interfering with the traffic, he used to say to himself:

“They are officers of the Legion of Honor,” and he felt inclined to take

off his hat to them.

He had often remarked that the officers had a different bearing to the

mere knights. They carried their head differently, and one felt that

they enjoyed a higher official consideration and a more widely extended

importance.

Sometimes, however, the worthy man would be seized with a furious hatred

for every one who was decorated; he felt like a Socialist toward them.

Then, when he got home, excited at meeting so many crosses—just as a

poor, hungry wretch might be on passing some dainty provision shop—he

used to ask in a loud voice:

“When shall we get rid of this wretched government?”

And his wife would be surprised, and ask:

“What is the matter with you to-day?”

“I am indignant,” he replied, “at the injustice I see going on around

us. Oh, the Communards were certainly right!”

After dinner he would go out again and look at the shops where the

decorations were sold, and he examined all the emblems of various shapes

and colors. He would have liked to possess them all, and to have walked

gravely at the head of a procession, with his crush hat under his arm

and his breast covered with decorations, radiant as a star, amid a buzz

of admiring whispers and a hum of respect.

But, alas! he had no right to wear any decoration whatever.

He used to say to himself: “It is really too difficult for any man to

obtain the Legion of Honor unless he is some public functionary. Suppose

I try to be appointed an officer of the Academy!”

But he did not know how to set about it, and spoke on the subject to his

wife, who was stupefied.

“Officer of the Academy! What have you done to deserve it?”

He got angry. “I know what I am talking about. I only want to know how

to set about it. You are quite stupid at times.”

She smiled. “You are quite right. I don't understand anything about it.”

An idea struck him: “Suppose you were to speak to M. Rosselin, the

deputy; he might be able to advise me. You understand I cannot broach

the subject to him directly. It is rather difficult and delicate, but

coming from you it might seem quite natural.”

Mme. Caillard did what he asked her, and M. Rosselin promised to speak

to the minister about it; and then Caillard began to worry him, till the

deputy told him he must make a formal application and put forward his

claims.

“What were his charms?” he said. “He was not even a Bachelor of Arts.”

However, he set to work and produced a pamphlet, with the title, “The

People's Right to Instruction,” but he could not finish it for want of

ideas.

He sought for easier subjects, and began several in succession. The

first was, “The Instruction of Children by Means of the Eye.” He wanted

gratuitous theatres to be established in every poor quarter of Paris for

little children. Their parents were to take them there when they were

quite young, and, by means of a magic lantern, all the notions of human

knowledge were to be imparted to them. There were to be regular courses.

The sight would educate the mind, while the pictures would remain

impressed on the brain, and thus science would, so to say, be made

visible. What could be more simple than to teach universal history,

natural history, geography, botany, zoology, anatomy, etc., etc., in

this manner?

He had his ideas printed in pamphlets, and sent a copy to each deputy,

ten to each minister, fifty to the President of the Republic, ten to

each Parisian, and five to each provincial newspaper.

Then he wrote on “Street Lending-Libraries.” His idea was to have little

pushcarts full of books drawn about the streets. Everyone would have a

right to ten volumes a month in his home on payment of one sou.

“The people,” M. Caillard said, “will only disturb itself for the sake

of its pleasures, and since it will not go to instruction, instruction

must come to it,” etc., etc.

His essays attracted no attention, but he sent in his application, and

he got the usual formal official reply. He thought himself sure of

success, but nothing came of it.

Then he made up his mind to apply personally. He begged for an interview

with the Minister of Public Instruction, and he was received by a young

subordinate, who was very grave and important, and kept touching the

knobs of electric bells to summon ushers, and footmen, and officials

inferior to himself. He declared to M. Caillard that his matter was

going on quite favorably, and advised him to continue his remarkable

labors, and M. Caillard set at it again.

M. Rosselin, the deputy, seemed now to take a great interest in his

success, and gave him a lot of excellent, practical advice. He, himself,

was decorated, although nobody knew exactly what he had done to deserve

such a distinction.

He told Caillard what new studies he ought to undertake; he introduced

him to learned societies which took up particularly obscure points of

science, in the hope of gaining credit and honors thereby; and he even

took him under his wing at the ministry.

One day, when he came to lunch with his friend—for several months past

he had constantly taken his meals there—he said to him in a whisper as

he shook hands: “I have just obtained a great favor for you. The

Committee of Historical Works is going to intrust you with a commission.

There are some researches to be made in various libraries in France.”

Caillard was so delighted that he could scarcely eat or drink, and a

week later he set out. He went from town to town, studying catalogues,

rummaging in lofts full of dusty volumes, and was hated by all the

librarians.

One day, happening to be at Rouen, he thought he should like to go and

visit his wife, whom he had not seen for more than a week, so he took

the nine o'clock train, which would land him at home by twelve at night.

He had his latchkey, so he went in without making any noise, delighted

at the idea of the surprise he was going to give her. She had locked

herself in. How tiresome! However, he cried out through the door:

“Jeanne, it is I!”

She must have been very frightened, for he heard her jump out of her bed

and speak to herself, as if she were in a dream. Then she went to her

dressing room, opened and closed the door, and went quickly up and down

her room barefoot two or three times, shaking the furniture till the

vases and glasses sounded. Then at last she asked:

“Is it you, Alexander?”

“Yes, yes,” he replied; “make haste and open the door.”

As soon as she had done so, she threw herself into his arms, exclaiming:

“Oh, what a fright! What a surprise! What a pleasure!”

He began to undress himself methodically, as he did everything, and took

from a chair his overcoat, which he was in the habit of hanging up in

the hall. But suddenly he remained motionless, struck dumb with

astonishment—there was a red ribbon in the buttonhole:

“Why,” he stammered, “this—this—this overcoat has got the ribbon in it!”

In a second, his wife threw herself on him, and, taking it from his

hands, she said:

“No! you have made a mistake—give it to me.”

But he still held it by one of the sleeves, without letting it go,

repeating in a half-dazed manner:

“Oh! Why? Just explain—Whose overcoat is it? It is not mine, as it has

the Legion of Honor on it.”

She tried to take it from him, terrified and hardly able to say:

“Listen—listen! Give it to me! I must not tell you! It is a secret.

Listen to me!”

But he grew angry and turned pale.

“I want to know how this overcoat comes to be here? It does not belong

to me.”

Then she almost screamed at him:

“Yes, it does; listen! Swear to me—well—you are decorated!”

She did not intend to joke at his expense.

He was so overcome that he let the overcoat fall and dropped into an

armchair.

“I am—you say I am—decorated?”

“Yes, but it is a secret, a great secret.”

She had put the glorious garment into a cupboard, and came to her

husband pale and trembling.

“Yes,” she continued, “it is a new overcoat that I have had made for

you. But I swore that I would not tell you anything about it, as it will

not be officially announced for a month or six weeks, and you were not

to have known till your return from your business journey. M. Rosselin

managed it for you.”

“Rosselin!” he contrived to utter in his joy. “He has obtained the

decoration for me? He—Oh!”

And he was obliged to drink a glass of water.

A little piece of white paper fell to the floor out of the pocket of the

overcoat. Caillard picked it up; it was a visiting card, and he read

out:

“Rosselin-Deputy.”

“You see how it is,” said his wife.

He almost cried with joy, and, a week later, it was announced in the

Journal Officiel that M. Caillard had been awarded the Legion of Honor

on account of his exceptional services.

THE TEST

The Bondels were a happy family, and although they frequently quarrelled

about trifles, they soon became friends again.

Bondel was a merchant who had retired from active business after saving

enough to allow him to live quietly; he had rented a little house at

Saint-Germain and lived there with his wife. He was a quiet man with

very decided opinions; he had a certain degree of education and read

serious newspapers; nevertheless, he appreciated the gaulois wit.

Endowed with a logical mind, and that practical common sense which is

the master quality of the industrial French bourgeois, he thought

little, but clearly, and reached a decision only after careful

consideration of the matter in hand. He was of medium size, with a

distinguished look, and was beginning to turn gray.

His wife, who was full of serious qualities, had also several faults.

She had a quick temper and a frankness that bordered upon violence. She

bore a grudge a long time. She had once been pretty, but had now become

too stout and too red; but in her neighborhood at Saint-Germain she

still passed for a very beautiful woman, who exemplified health and an

uncertain temper.

Their dissensions almost always began at breakfast, over some trivial

matter, and they often continued all day and even until the following

day. Their simple, common, limited life imparted seriousness to the most

unimportant matters, and every topic of conversation became a subject of

dispute. This had not been so in the days when business occupied their

minds, drew their hearts together, and gave them common interests and

occupation.

But at Saint-Germain they saw fewer people. It had been necessary to

make new acquaintances, to create for themselves a new world among

strangers, a new existence devoid of occupations. Then the monotony of

loneliness had soured each of them a little; and the quiet happiness

which they had hoped and waited for with the coming of riches did not

appear.

One June morning, just as they were sitting down to breakfast, Bondel

asked:

“Do you know the people who live in the little red cottage at the end of

the Rue du Berceau?”

Madame Bondel was out of sorts. She answered:

“Yes and no; I am acquainted with them, but I do not care to know them.”

“Why not? They seem to be very nice.”

“Because—”

“This morning I met the husband on the terrace and we took a little walk

together.”

Seeing that there was danger in the air, Bendel added: “It was he who

spoke to me first.”

His wife looked at him in a displeased manner. She continued: “You would

have done just as well to avoid him.”

“Why?”

“Because there are rumors about them.”

“What kind?”

“Oh! rumors such as one often hears!”

M. Bondel was, unfortunately, a little hasty. He exclaimed:

“My dear, you know that I abhor gossip. As for those people, I find them

very pleasant.”

She asked testily: “The wife also?”

“Why, yes; although I have barely seen her.”

The discussion gradually grew more heated, always on the same subject

for lack of others. Madame Bondel obstinately refused to say what she

had heard about these neighbors, allowing things to be understood

without saying exactly what they were. Bendel would shrug his shoulders,

grin, and exasperate his wife. She finally cried out: “Well! that

gentleman is deceived by his wife, there!”

The husband answered quietly: “I can't see how that affects the honor of

a man.”

She seemed dumfounded: “What! you don't see?—you don't see?—well, that's

too much! You don't see!—why, it's a public scandal! he is disgraced!”

He answered: “Ah! by no means! Should a man be considered disgraced

because he is deceived, because he is betrayed, robbed? No, indeed! I'll

grant you that that may be the case for the wife, but as for him—”

She became furious, exclaiming: “For him as well as for her. They are

both in disgrace; it's a public shame.”

Bondel, very calm, asked: “First of all, is it true? Who can assert such

a thing as long as no one has been caught in the act?”

Madame Bondel was growing uneasy; she snapped: “What? Who can assert it?

Why, everybody! everybody! it's as clear as the nose on your face.

Everybody knows it and is talking about it. There is not the slightest

doubt.”

He was grinning: “For a long time people thought that the sun revolved

around the earth. This man loves his wife and speaks of her tenderly and

reverently. This whole business is nothing but lies!”

Stamping her foot, she stammered: “Do you think that that fool, that

idiot, knows anything about it?”

Bondel did not grow angry; he was reasoning clearly: “Excuse me. This

gentleman is no fool. He seemed to me, on the contrary, to be very

intelligent and shrewd; and you can't make me believe that a man with

brains doesn't notice such a thing in his own house, when the neighbors,

who are not there, are ignorant of no detail of this liaison—for I'll

warrant that they know everything.”

Madame Bondel had a fit of angry mirth, which irritated her husband's

nerves. She laughed: “Ha! ha! ha! they're all the same! There's not a

man alive who could discover a thing like that unless his nose was stuck

into it!”

The discussion was wandering to other topics now. She was exclaiming

over the blindness of deceived husbands, a thing which he doubted and

which she affirmed with such airs of personal contempt that he finally

grew angry. Then the discussion became an angry quarrel, where she took

the side of the women and he defended the men. He had the conceit to

declare: “Well, I swear that if I had ever been deceived, I should have

noticed it, and immediately, too. And I should have taken away your

desire for such things in such a manner that it would have taken more

than one doctor to set you on foot again!”

Boiling with anger, she cried out to him: “You! you! why, you're as big

a fool as the others, do you hear!”

He still maintained: “I can swear to you that I am not!”

She laughed so impertinently that he felt his heart beat and a chill run

down his back. For the third time he said:

“I should have seen it!”

She rose, still laughing in the same manner. She slammed the door and

left the room, saying: “Well! if that isn't too much!”

Bondel remained alone, ill at ease. That insolent, provoking laugh had

touched him to the quick. He went outside, walked, dreamed. The

realization of the loneliness of his new life made him sad and morbid.

The neighbor, whom he had met that morning, came to him with

outstretched hands. They continued their walk together. After touching

on various subjects they came to talk of their wives. Both seemed to

have something to confide, something inexpressible, vague, about these

beings associated with their lives; their wives. The neighbor was

saying:

“Really, at times, one might think that they bear some particular ill-

will toward their husband, just because he is a husband. I love my

wife—I love her very much; I appreciate and respect her; well! there are

times when she seems to have more confidence and faith in our friends

than in me.”

Bondel immediately thought: “There is no doubt; my wife was right!”

When he left this man he began to think things over again. He felt in

his soul a strange confusion of contradictory ideas, a sort of interior

burning; that mocking, impertinent laugh kept ringing in his ears and

seemed to say: “Why; you are just the same as the others, you fool!”

That was indeed bravado, one of those pieces of impudence of which a

woman makes use when she dares everything, risks everything, to wound

and humiliate the man who has aroused her ire. This poor man must also

be one of those deceived husbands, like so many others. He had said

sadly: “There are times when she seems to have more confidence and faith

in our friends than in me.” That is how a husband formulated his

observations on the particular attentions of his wife for another man.

That was all. He had seen nothing more. He was like the rest—all the

rest!

And how strangely Bondel's own wife had laughed as she said: “You, too

—you, too.” How wild and imprudent these creatures are who can arouse

such suspicions in the heart for the sole purpose of revenge!

He ran over their whole life since their marriage, reviewed his mental

list of their acquaintances, to see whether she had ever appeared to

show more confidence in any one else than in himself. He never had

suspected any one, he was so calm, so sure of her, so confident.

But, now he thought of it, she had had a friend, an intimate friend, who

for almost a year had dined with them three times a week. Tancret, good

old Tancret, whom he, Bendel, loved as a brother and whom he continued

to see on the sly, since his wife, he did not know why, had grown angry

at the charming fellow.

He stopped to think, looking over the past with anxious eyes. Then he

grew angry at himself for harboring this shameful insinuation of the

defiant, jealous, bad ego which lives in all of us. He blamed and

accused himself when he remembered the visits and the demeanor of this

friend whom his wife had dismissed for no apparent reason. But,

suddenly, other memories returned to him, similar ruptures due to the

vindictive character of Madame Bondel, who never pardoned a slight. Then

he laughed frankly at himself for the doubts which he had nursed; and he

remembered the angry looks of his wife as he would tell her, when he

returned at night: “I saw good old Tancret, and he wished to be

remembered to you,” and he reassured himself.

She would invariably answer: “When you see that gentleman you can tell

him that I can very well dispense with his remembrances.” With what an

irritated, angry look she would say these words! How well one could feel

that she did not and would not forgive—and he had suspected her even for

a second? Such foolishness!

But why did she grow so angry? She never had given the exact reason for

this quarrel. She still bore him that grudge! Was it?—But no—no—and

Bondel declared that he was lowering himself by even thinking of such

things.

Yes, he was undoubtedly lowering himself, but he could not help thinking

of it, and he asked himself with terror if this thought which had

entered into his mind had not come to stop, if he did not carry in his

heart the seed of fearful torment. He knew himself; he was a man to

think over his doubts, as formerly he would ruminate over his commercial

operations, for days and nights, endlessly weighing the pros and the

cons.

He was already becoming excited; he was walking fast and losing his

calmness. A thought cannot be downed. It is intangible, cannot be

caught, cannot be killed.

Suddenly a plan occurred to him; it was bold, so bold that at first he

doubted whether he would carry it out.

Each time that he met Tancret, his friend would ask for news of Madame

Bondel, and Bondel would answer: “She is still a little angry.” Nothing

more. Good Lord! What a fool he had been! Perhaps!

Well, he would take the train to Paris, go to Tancret, and bring him

back with him that very evening, assuring him that his wife's mysterious

anger had disappeared. But how would Madame Bondel act? What a scene

there would be! What anger! what scandal! What of it?—that would be

revenge! When she should come face to face with him, unexpectedly, he

certainly ought to be able to read the truth in their expressions.

He immediately went to the station, bought his ticket, got into the car,

and as soon as he felt him self being carried away by the train, he felt

a fear, a kind of dizziness, at what he was going to do. In order not to

weaken, back down, and return alone, he tried not to think of the matter

any longer, to bring his mind to bear on other affairs, to do what he

had decided to do with a blind resolution; and he began to hum tunes

from operettas and music halls until he reached Paris.