“After this he allowed her to kiss him as much as she wished. During the

next four years she put into his hands all her savings, which he

pocketed conscientiously in exchange for kisses. At one time it was

thirty sous, at another two francs. Again, she only had twelve sous. She

wept with grief and shame, explaining brokenly that it had been a poor

year. The next time she brought five francs, in one whole piece, which

made her laugh with joy. She no longer thought of any one but the boy,

and he watched for her with impatience; sometimes he would run to meet

her. This made her heart thump with joy. Suddenly he disappeared. He had

gone to boarding school. She found this out by careful investigation.

Then she used great diplomacy to persuade her parents to change their

route and pass by this way again during vacation. After a year of

scheming she succeeded. She had not seen him for two years, and scarcely

recognized him, he was so changed, had grown taller, better looking and

was imposing in his uniform, with its brass buttons. He pretended not to

see her, and passed by without a glance. She wept for two days and from

that time loved and suffered unceasingly.

“Every year he came home and she passed him, not daring to lift her

eyes. He never condescended to turn his head toward her. She loved him

madly, hopelessly. She said to me:

“'He is the only man whom I have ever seen. I don't even know if another

exists.' Her parents died. She continued their work.

“One day, on entering the village, where her heart always remained, she

saw Chouquet coming out of his pharmacy with a young lady leaning on his

arm. She was his wife. That night the chair-mender threw herself into

the river. A drunkard passing the spot pulled her out and took her to

the drug store. Young Chouquet came down in his dressing gown to revive

her. Without seeming to know who she was he undressed her and rubbed

her; then he said to her, in a harsh voice:

“'You are mad! People must not do stupid things like that.' His voice

brought her to life again. He had spoken to her! She was happy for a

long time. He refused remuneration for his trouble, although she

insisted.

“All her life passed in this way. She worked, thinking always of him.

She began to buy medicines at his pharmacy; this gave her a chance to

talk to him and to see him closely. In this way, she was still able to

give him money.

“As I said before, she died this spring. When she had closed her

pathetic story she entreated me to take her earnings to the man she

loved. She had worked only that she might leave him something to remind

him of her after her death. I gave the priest fifty francs for her

funeral expenses. The next morning I went to see the Chouquets. They

were finishing breakfast, sitting opposite each other, fat and red,

important and self-satisfied. They welcomed me and offered me some

coffee, which I accepted. Then I began my story in a trembling voice,

sure that they would be softened, even to tears. As soon as Chouquet

understood that he had been loved by 'that vagabond! that chair-mender!

that wanderer!' he swore with indignation as though his reputation had

been sullied, the respect of decent people lost, his personal honor,

something precious and dearer to him than life, gone. His exasperated

wife kept repeating: 'That beggar! That beggar!'

“Seeming unable to find words suitable to the enormity, he stood up and

began striding about. He muttered: 'Can you understand anything so

horrible, doctor? Oh, if I had only known it while she was alive, I

should have had her thrown into prison. I promise you she would not have

escaped.'

“I was dumfounded; I hardly knew what to think or say, but I had to

finish my mission. 'She commissioned me,' I said, 'to give you her

savings, which amount to three thousand five hundred francs. As what I

have just told you seems to be very disagreeable, perhaps you would

prefer to give this money to the poor.'

“They looked at me, that man and woman,' speechless with amazement. I

took the few thousand francs from out of my pocket. Wretched-looking

money from every country. Pennies and gold pieces all mixed together.

Then I asked:

“'What is your decision?'

“Madame Chouquet spoke first. 'Well, since it is the dying woman's wish,

it seems to me impossible to refuse it.'

“Her husband said, in a shamefaced manner: 'We could buy something for

our children with it.'

“I answered dryly: 'As you wish.'

“He replied: 'Well, give it to us anyhow, since she commissioned you to

do so; we will find a way to put it to some good purpose.'

“I gave them the money, bowed and left.

“The next day Chouquet came to me and said brusquely:

“'That woman left her wagon here—what have you done with it?'

“'Nothing; take it if you wish.'

“'It's just what I wanted,' he added, and walked off. I called him back

and said:

“'She also left her old horse and two dogs. Don't you need them?'

“He stared at me surprised: 'Well, no! Really, what would I do with

them?'

“'Dispose of them as you like.'

“He laughed and held out his hand to me. I shook it. What could I do?

The doctor and the druggist in a country village must not be at enmity.

I have kept the dogs. The priest took the old horse. The wagon is useful

to Chouquet, and with the money he has bought railroad stock. That is

the only deep, sincere love that I have ever known in all my life.”

The doctor looked up. The marquise, whose eyes were full of tears,

sighed and said:

“There is no denying the fact, only women know how to love.”

PIERROT

Mme. Lefevre was a country dame, a widow, one of these half peasants,

with ribbons and bonnets with trimming on them, one of those persons who

clipped her words and put on great airs in public, concealing the soul

of a pretentious animal beneath a comical and bedizened exterior, just

as the country-folks hide their coarse red hands in ecru silk gloves.

She had a servant, a good simple peasant, called Rose.

The two women lived in a little house with green shutters by the side of

the high road in Normandy, in the centre of the country of Caux. As they

had a narrow strip of garden in front of the house, they grew some

vegetables.

One night someone stole twelve onions. As soon as Rose became aware of

the theft, she ran to tell madame, who came downstairs in her woolen

petticoat. It was a shame and a disgrace! They had robbed her, Mme.

Lefevre! As there were thieves in the country, they might come back.

And the two frightened women examined the foot tracks, talking, and

supposing all sorts of things.

“See, they went that way! They stepped on the wall, they jumped into the

garden!”

And they became apprehensive for the future. How could they sleep in

peace now!

The news of the theft spread. The neighbors came, making examinations

and discussing the matter in their turn, while the two women explained

to each newcomer what they had observed and their opinion.

A farmer who lived near said to them:

“You ought to have a dog.”

That is true, they ought to have a dog, if it were only to give the

alarm. Not a big dog. Heavens! what would they do with a big dog? He

would eat their heads off. But a little dog (in Normandy they say

“quin”), a little puppy who would bark.

As soon as everyone had left, Mme. Lefevre discussed this idea of a dog

for some time. On reflection she made a thousand objections, terrified

at the idea of a bowl full of soup, for she belonged to that race of

parsimonious country women who always carry centimes in their pocket to

give alms in public to beggars on the road and to put in the Sunday

collection plate.

Rose, who loved animals, gave her opinion and defended it shrewdly. So

it was decided that they should have a dog, a very small dog.

They began to look for one, but could find nothing but big dogs, who

would devour enough soup to make one shudder. The grocer of Rolleville

had one, a tiny one, but he demanded two francs to cover the cost of

sending it. Mme. Lefevre declared that she would feed a “quin,” but

would not buy one.

The baker, who knew all that occurred, brought in his wagon one morning

a strange little yellow animal, almost without paws, with the body of a

crocodile, the head of a fox, and a curly tail—a true cockade, as big as

all the rest of him. Mme. Lefevre thought this common cur that cost

nothing was very handsome. Rose hugged it and asked what its name was.

“Pierrot,” replied the baker.

The dog was installed in an old soap box and they gave it some water

which it drank. They then offered it a piece of bread. He ate it. Mme.

Lefevre, uneasy, had an idea.

“When he is thoroughly accustomed to the house we can let him run. He

can find something to eat, roaming about the country.”

They let him run, in fact, which did not prevent him from being

famished. Also he never barked except to beg for food, and then he

barked furiously.

Anyone might come into the garden, and Pierrot would run up and fawn on

each one in turn and not utter a bark.

Mme. Lefevre, however, had become accustomed to the animal. She even

went so far as to like it and to give it from time to time pieces of

bread soaked in the gravy on her plate.

But she had not once thought of the dog tax, and when they came to

collect eight francs—eight francs, madame—for this puppy who never even

barked, she almost fainted from the shock.

It was immediately decided that they must get rid of Pierrot. No one

wanted him. Every one declined to take him for ten leagues around. Then

they resolved, not knowing what else to do, to make him “piquer du mas.”

“Piquer du mas” means to eat chalk. When one wants to get rid of a dog

they make him “Piquer du mas.”

In the midst of an immense plain one sees a kind of hut, or rather a

very small roof standing above the ground. This is the entrance to the

clay pit. A big perpendicular hole is sunk for twenty metres underground

and ends in a series of long subterranean tunnels.

Once a year they go down into the quarry at the time they fertilize the

ground. The rest of the year it serves as a cemetery for condemned dogs,

and as one passed by this hole plaintive howls, furious or despairing

barks and lamentable appeals reach one's ear.

Sportsmen's dogs and sheep dogs flee in terror from this mournful place,

and when one leans over it one perceives a disgusting odor of

putrefaction.

Frightful dramas are enacted in the darkness.

When an animal has suffered down there for ten or twelve days, nourished

on the foul remains of his predecessors, another animal, larger and more

vigorous, is thrown into the hole. There they are, alone, starving, with

glittering eyes. They watch each other, follow each other, hesitate in

doubt. But hunger impels them; they attack each other, fight desperately

for some time, and the stronger eats the weaker, devours him alive.

When it was decided to make Pierrot “piquer du mas” they looked round

for an executioner. The laborer who mended the road demanded six sous to

take the dog there. That seemed wildly exorbitant to Mme. Lefevre. The

neighbor's hired boy wanted five sous; that was still too much. So Rose

having observed that they had better carry it there themselves, as in

that way it would not be brutally treated on the way and made to suspect

its fate, they resolved to go together at twilight.

They offered the dog that evening a good dish of soup with a piece of

butter in it. He swallowed every morsel of it, and as he wagged his tail

with delight Rose put him in her apron.

They walked quickly, like thieves, across the plain. They soon perceived

the chalk pit and walked up to it. Mme. Lefevre leaned over to hear if

any animal was moaning. No, there were none there; Pierrot would be

alone. Then Rose, who was crying, kissed the dog and threw him into the

chalk pit, and they both leaned over, listening.

First they heard a dull sound, then the sharp, bitter, distracting cry

of an animal in pain, then a succession of little mournful cries, then

despairing appeals, the cries of a dog who is entreating, his head

raised toward the opening of the pit.

He yelped, oh, how he yelped!

They were filled with remorse, with terror, with a wild inexplicable

fear, and ran away from the spot. As Rose went faster Mme. Lefevre

cried: “Wait for me, Rose, wait for me!”

At night they were haunted by frightful nightmares.

Mme. Lefevre dreamed she was sitting down at table to eat her soup, but

when she uncovered the tureen Pierrot was in it. He jumped out and bit

her nose.

She awoke and thought she heard him yelping still. She listened, but she

was mistaken.

She fell asleep again and found herself on a high road, an endless road,

which she followed. Suddenly in the middle of the road she perceived a

basket, a large farmer's basket, lying there, and this basket frightened

her.

She ended by opening it, and Pierrot, concealed in it, seized her hand

and would not let go. She ran away in terror with the dog hanging to the

end of her arm, which he held between his teeth.

At daybreak she arose, almost beside herself, and ran to the chalk pit.

He was yelping, yelping still; he had yelped all night. She began to sob

and called him by all sorts of endearing names. He answered her with all

the tender inflections of his dog's voice.

Then she wanted to see him again, promising herself that she would give

him a good home till he died.

She ran to the chalk digger, whose business it was to excavate for

chalk, and told him the situation. The man listened, but said nothing.

When she had finished he said:

“You want your dog? That will cost four francs.” She gave a jump. All

her grief was at an end at once.

“Four francs!” she said. “You would die of it! Four francs!”

“Do you suppose I am going to bring my ropes, my windlass, and set it

up, and go down there with my boy and let myself be bitten, perhaps, by

your cursed dog for the pleasure of giving it back to you? You should

not have thrown it down there.”

She walked away, indignant. Four francs!

As soon as she entered the house she called Rose and told her of the

quarryman's charges. Rose, always resigned, repeated:

“Four francs! That is a good deal of money, madame.” Then she added: “If

we could throw him something to eat, the poor dog, so he will not die of

hunger.”

Mme. Lefevre approved of this and was quite delighted. So they set out

again with a big piece of bread and butter.

They cut it in mouthfuls, which they threw down one after the other,

speaking by turns to Pierrot. As soon as the dog finished one piece he

yelped for the next.

They returned that evening and the next day and every day. But they made

only one trip.

One morning as they were just letting fall the first mouthful they

suddenly heard a tremendous barking in the pit. There were two dogs

there. Another had been thrown in, a large dog.

“Pierrot!” cried Rose. And Pierrot yelped and yelped. Then they began to

throw down some food. But each time they noticed distinctly a terrible

struggle going on, then plaintive cries from Pierrot, who had been

bitten by his companion, who ate up everything as he was the stronger.

It was in vain that they specified, saying:

“That is for you, Pierrot.” Pierrot evidently got nothing.

The two women, dumfounded, looked at each other and Mme. Lefevre said in

a sour tone:

“I could not feed all the dogs they throw in there! We must give it up.”

And, suffocating at the thought of all the dogs living at her expense,

she went away, even carrying back what remained of the bread, which she

ate as she walked along.

Rose followed her, wiping her eyes on the corner of her blue apron.

A NORMANDY JOKE

It was a wedding procession that was coming along the road between the

tall trees that bounded the farms and cast their shadow on the road. At

the head were the bride and groom, then the family, then the invited

guests, and last of all the poor of the neighborhood. The village

urchins who hovered about the narrow road like flies ran in and out of

the ranks or climbed up the trees to see it better.

The bridegroom was a good-looking young fellow, Jean Patu, the richest

farmer in the neighborhood, but he was above all things, an ardent

sportsman who seemed to take leave of his senses in order to satisfy

that passion, and who spent large sums on his dogs, his keepers, his

ferrets and his guns. The bride, Rosalie Roussel, had been courted by

all the likely young fellows in the district, for they all thought her

handsome and they knew that she would have a good dowry. But she had

chosen Patu; partly, perhaps, because she liked him better than she did

the others, but still more, like a careful Normandy girl, because he had

more crown pieces.

As they entered the white gateway of the husband's farm, forty shots

resounded without their seeing those who fired, as they were hidden in

the ditches. The noise seemed to please the men, who were slouching

along heavily in their best clothes, and Patu left his wife, and running

up to a farm servant whom he perceived behind a tree, took his gun and

fired a shot himself, as frisky as a young colt. Then they went on,

beneath the apple trees which were heavy with fruit, through the high

grass and through the midst of the calves, who looked at them with their

great eyes, got up slowly and remained standing, with their muzzles

turned toward the wedding party.

The men became serious when they came within measurable distance of the

wedding dinner. Some of them, the rich ones, had on tall, shining silk

hats, which seemed altogether out of place there; others had old head-

coverings with a long nap, which might have been taken for moleskin,

while the humblest among them wore caps. All the women had on shawls,

which they wore loosely on their back, holding the tips ceremoniously

under their arms. They were red, parti-colored, flaming shawls, and

their brightness seemed to astonish the black fowls on the dung-heap,

the ducks on the side of the pond and the pigeons on the thatched roofs.

The extensive farm buildings seemed to be waiting there at the end of

that archway of apple trees, and a sort of vapor came out of open door

and windows and an almost overpowering odor of eatables was exhaled from

the vast building, from all its openings and from its very walls. The

string of guests extended through the yard; but when the foremost of

them reached the house, they broke the chain and dispersed, while those

behind were still coming in at the open gate. The ditches were now lined

with urchins and curious poor people, and the firing did not cease, but

came from every side at once, and a cloud of smoke, and that odor which

has the same intoxicating effect as absinthe, blended with the

atmosphere. The women were shaking their dresses outside the door, to

get rid of the dust, were undoing their cap-strings and pulling their

shawls over their arms, and then they went into the house to lay them

aside altogether for the time. The table was laid in the great kitchen

that would hold a hundred persons; they sat down to dinner at two

o'clock; and at eight o'clock they were still eating, and the men, in

their shirt-sleeves, with their waistcoats unbuttoned and with red

faces, were swallowing down the food and drink as if they had been

whirlpools. The cider sparkled merrily, clear and golden in the large

glasses, by the side of the dark, blood-colored wine, and between every

dish they made a “hole,” the Normandy hole, with a glass of brandy which

inflamed the body and put foolish notions into the head. Low jokes were

exchanged across the table until the whole arsenal of peasant wit was

exhausted. For the last hundred years the same broad stories had served

for similar occasions, and, although every one knew them, they still hit

the mark and made both rows of guests roar with laughter.

At one end of the table four young fellows, who were neighbors, were

preparing some practical jokes for the newly married couple, and they

seemed to have got hold of a good one by the way they whispered and

laughed, and suddenly one of them, profiting by a moment of silence,

exclaimed: “The poachers will have a good time to-night, with this moon!

I say, Jean, you will not be looking at the moon, will you?” The

bridegroom turned to him quickly and replied: “Only let them come,

that's all!” But the other young fellow began to laugh, and said: “I do

not think you will pay much attention to them!”

The whole table was convulsed with laughter, so that the glasses shook,

but the bridegroom became furious at the thought that anybody would

profit by his wedding to come and poach on his land, and repeated: “I

only say-just let them come!”

Then there was a flood of talk with a double meaning which made the

bride blush somewhat, although she was trembling with expectation; and

when they had emptied the kegs of brandy they all went to bed. The young

couple went into their own room, which was on the ground floor, as most

rooms in farmhouses are. As it was very warm, they opened the window and

closed the shutters. A small lamp in bad taste, a present from the

bride's father, was burning on the chest of drawers, and the bed stood

ready to receive the young people.

The young woman had already taken off her wreath and her dress, and she

was in her petticoat, unlacing her boots, while Jean was finishing his

cigar and looking at her out of the corners of his eyes. Suddenly, with

a brusque movement, like a man who is about to set to work, he took off

his coat. She had already taken off her boots, and was now pulling off

her stockings, and then she said to him: “Go and hide yourself behind

the curtains while I get into bed.”

He seemed as if he were about to refuse; but at last he did as she asked

him, and in a moment she unfastened her petticoat, which slipped down,

fell at her feet and lay on the ground. She left it there, stepped over

it in her loose chemise and slipped into the bed, whose springs creaked

beneath her weight. He immediately went up to the bed, and, stooping

over his wife, he sought her lips, which she hid beneath the pillow,

when a shot was heard in the distance, in the direction of the forest of

Rapees, as he thought.

He raised himself anxiously, with his heart beating, and running to the

window, he opened the shutters. The full moon flooded the yard with

yellow light, and the reflection of the apple trees made black shadows

at their feet, while in the distance the fields gleamed, covered with

the ripe corn. But as he was leaning out, listening to every sound in

the still night, two bare arms were put round his neck, and his wife

whispered, trying to pull him back: “Do leave them alone; it has nothing

to do with you. Come to bed.”

He turned round, put his arms round her, and drew her toward him, but

just as he was laying her on the bed, which yielded beneath her weight,

they heard another report, considerably nearer this time, and Jean,

giving way to his tumultuous rage, swore aloud: “Damn it! They will

think I do not go out and see what it is because of you! Wait, wait a

few minutes!” He put on his shoes again, took down his gun, which was

always hanging within reach against the wall, and, as his wife threw

herself on her knees in her terror, imploring him not to go, he hastily

freed himself, ran to the window and jumped into the yard.

She waited one hour, two hours, until daybreak, but her husband did not

return. Then she lost her head, aroused the house, related how angry

Jean was, and said that he had gone after the poachers, and immediately

all the male farm-servants, even the boys, went in search of their

master. They found him two leagues from the farm, tied hand and foot,

half dead with rage, his gun broken, his trousers turned inside out, and

with three dead hares hanging round his neck, and a placard on his chest

with these words: “Who goes on the chase loses his place.”

In later years, when he used to tell this story of his wedding night, he

usually added: “Ah! as far as a joke went it was a good joke. They

caught me in a snare, as if I had been a rabbit, the dirty brutes, and

they shoved my head into a bag. But if I can only catch them some day

they had better look out for themselves!”

That is how they amuse themselves in Normandy on a wedding day.

FATHER MATTHEW

We had just left Rouen and were galloping along the road to Jumieges.

The light carriage flew along across the level country. Presently the

horse slackened his pace to walk up the hill of Cantelen.

One sees there one of the most magnificent views in the world. Behind us

lay Rouen, the city of churches, with its Gothic belfries, sculptured

like ivory trinkets; before us Saint Sever, the manufacturing suburb,

whose thousands of smoking chimneys rise amid the expanse of sky,

opposite the thousand sacred steeples of the old city.

On the one hand the spire of the cathedral, the highest of human

monuments, on the other the engine of the power-house, its rival, and

almost as high, and a metre higher than the tallest pyramid in Egypt.

Before us wound the Seine, with its scattered islands and bordered by

white banks, covered with a forest on the right and on the left immense

meadows, bounded by another forest yonder in the distance.

Here and there large ships lay at anchor along the banks of the wide

river. Three enormous steam boats were starting out, one behind the

other, for Havre, and a chain of boats, a bark, two schooners and a

brig, were going upstream to Rouen, drawn by a little tug that emitted a

cloud of black smoke.

My companion, a native of the country, did not glance at this wonderful

landscape, but he smiled continually; he seemed to be amused at his

thoughts. Suddenly he cried:

“Ah, you will soon see something comical—Father Matthew's chapel. That

is a sweet morsel, my boy.”

I looked at him in surprise. He continued:

“I will give you a whiff of Normandy that will stay by you. Father

Matthew is the handsomest Norman in the province and his chapel is one

of the wonders of the world, nothing more nor less. But I will first

give you a few words of explanation.

“Father Matthew, who is also called Father 'La Boisson,' is an old

sergeant-major who has come back to his native land. He combines in

admirable proportions, making a perfect whole, the humbug of the old

soldier and the sly roguery of the Norman. On his return to Normandy,

thanks to influence and incredible cleverness, he was made doorkeeper of

a votive chapel, a chapel dedicated to the Virgin and frequented chiefly

by young women who have gone astray . . . . He composed and had painted

a special prayer to his 'Good Virgin.' This prayer is a masterpiece of

unintentional irony, of Norman wit, in which jest is blended with fear

of the saint and with the superstitious fear of the secret influence of

something. He has not much faith in his protectress, but he believes in

her a little through prudence, and he is considerate of her through

policy.

“This is how this wonderful prayer begins:

“'Our good Madame Virgin Mary, natural protectress of girl mothers in

this land and all over the world, protect your servant who erred in a

moment of forgetfulness . . .'

“It ends thus:

“'Do not forget me, especially when you are with your holy spouse, and

intercede with God the Father that he may grant me a good husband, like

your own.'

“This prayer, which was suppressed by the clergy of the district, is

sold by him privately, and is said to be very efficacious for those who

recite it with unction.

“In fact he talks of the good Virgin as the valet de chambre of a

redoubted prince might talk of his master who confided in him all his

little private secrets. He knows a number of amusing anecdotes at his

expense which he tells confidentially among friends as they sit over

their glasses.

“But you will see for yourself.

“As the fees coming from the Virgin did not appear sufficient to him, he

added to the main figure a little business in saints. He has them all,

or nearly all. There was not room enough in the chapel, so he stored

them in the wood-shed and brings them forth as soon as the faithful ask

for them. He carved these little wooden statues himself—they are comical

in the extreme—and painted them all bright green one year when they were

painting his house. You know that saints cure diseases, but each saint

has his specialty, and you must not confound them or make any blunders.

They are as jealous of each other as mountebanks.

“In order that they may make no mistake, the old women come and consult

Matthew.

“'For diseases of the ear which saint is the best?'

“'Why, Saint Osyme is good and Saint Pamphilius is not bad.' But that is

not all.

“As Matthew has some time to spare, he drinks; but he drinks like a

professional, with conviction, so much so that he is intoxicated

regularly every evening. He is drunk, but he is aware of it. He is so

well aware of it that he notices each day his exact degree of

intoxication. That is his chief occupation; the chapel is a secondary

matter.

“And he has invented—listen and catch on—he has invented the

'Saoulometre.'

“There is no such instrument, but Matthew's observations are as precise

as those of a mathematician. You may hear him repeating incessantly:

'Since Monday I have had more than forty-five,' or else 'I was between

fifty-two and fifty-eight,' or else 'I had at least sixty-six to

seventy,' or 'Hullo, cheat, I thought I was in the fifties and here I

find I had had seventy-five!'

“He never makes a mistake.

“He declares that he never reached his limit, but as he acknowledges

that his observations cease to be exact when he has passed ninety, one

cannot depend absolutely on the truth of that statement.

“When Matthew acknowledges that he has passed ninety, you may rest

assured that he is blind drunk.

“On these occasions his wife, Melie, another marvel, flies into a fury.

She waits for him at the door of the house, and as he enters she roars

at him:

“'So there you are, slut, hog, giggling sot!'

“Then Matthew, who is not laughing any longer, plants himself opposite

her and says in a severe tone:

“'Be still, Melie; this is no time to talk; wait till to-morrow.'

“If she keeps on shouting at him, he goes up to her and says in a shaky

voice:

“'Don't bawl any more. I have had about ninety; I am not counting any

more. Look out, I am going to hit you!'

“Then Melie beats a retreat.

“If, on the following day, she reverts to the subject, he laughs in her

face and says:

“'Come, come! We have said enough. It is past. As long as I have not

reached my limit there is no harm done. But if I go past that, I will

allow you to correct me, my word on it!'”

We had reached the top of the hill. The road entered the delightful

forest of Roumare.

Autumn, marvellous autumn, blended its gold and purple with the

remaining traces of verdure. We passed through Duclair. Then, instead of

going on to Jumieges, my friend turned to the left and, taking a

crosscut, drove in among the trees.

And presently from the top of a high hill we saw again the magnificent

valley of the Seine and the winding river beneath us.

At our right a very small slate-covered building, with a bell tower as

large as a sunshade, adjoined a pretty house with green Venetian blinds,

and all covered with honeysuckle and roses.

“Here are some friends!” cried a big voice, and Matthew appeared on the

threshold. He was a man about sixty, thin and with a goatee and long,

white mustache.

My friend shook him by the hand and introduced me, and Matthew took us

into a clean kitchen, which served also as a dining-room. He said:

“I have no elegant apartment, monsieur. I do not like to get too far

away from the food. The saucepans, you see, keep me company.” Then,

turning to my friend:

“Why did you come on Thursday? You know quite well that this is the day

I consult my Guardian Saint. I cannot go out this afternoon.”

And running to the door, he uttered a terrific roar: “Melie!” which must

have startled the sailors in the ships along the stream in the valley

below.

Melie did not reply.

Then Matthew winked his eye knowingly.

“She is not pleased with me, you see, because yesterday I was in the

nineties.”

My friend began to laugh. “In the nineties, Matthew! How did you manage

it?”

“I will tell you,” said Matthew. “Last year I found only twenty rasieres

(an old dry measure) of apricots. There are no more, but those are the

only things to make cider of. So I made some, and yesterday I tapped the

barrel. Talk of nectar! That was nectar. You shall tell me what you

think of it. Polyte was here, and we sat down and drank a glass and

another without being satisfied (one could go on drinking it until to-

morrow), and at last, with glass after glass, I felt a chill at my

stomach. I said to Polyte: 'Supposing we drink a glass of cognac to warm

ourselves?' He agreed. But this cognac, it sets you on fire, so that we

had to go back to the cider. But by going from chills to heat and heat

to chills, I saw that I was in the nineties. Polyte was not far from his

limit.”

The door opened and Melie appeared. At once, before bidding us good-day,

she cried:

“Great hog, you have both of you reached your limit!”

“Don't say that, Melie; don't say that,” said Matthew, getting angry. “I

have never reached my limit.”

They gave us a delicious luncheon outside beneath two lime trees, beside

the little chapel and overlooking the vast landscape. And Matthew told

us, with a mixture of humor and unexpected credulity, incredible stories

of miracles.

We had drunk a good deal of delicious cider, sparkling and sweet, fresh

and intoxicating, which he preferred to all other drinks, and were

smoking our pipes astride our chairs when two women appeared.

They were old, dried up and bent. After greeting us they asked for Saint

Blanc. Matthew winked at us as he replied:

“I will get him for you.” And he disappeared in his wood shed. He

remained there fully five minutes. Then he came back with an expression

of consternation. He raised his hands.

“I don't know where he is. I cannot find him. I am quite sure that I had

him.” Then making a speaking trumpet of his hands, he roared once more:

“Meli-e-a!”

“What's the matter?” replied his wife from the end of the garden.

“Where's Saint Blanc? I cannot find him in the wood shed.”

Then Melie explained it this way:

“Was not that the one you took last week to stop up a hole in the rabbit

hutch?”

Matthew gave a start.

“By thunder, that may be!” Then turning to the women, he said:

“Follow me.”

They followed him. We did the same, almost choking with suppressed

laughter.

Saint Blanc was indeed stuck into the earth like an ordinary stake,

covered with mud and dirt, and forming a corner for the rabbit hutch.

As soon as they perceived him, the two women fell on their knees,

crossed themselves and began to murmur an “Oremus.” But Matthew darted

toward them.

“Wait,” he said, “you are in the mud; I will get you a bundle of straw.”

He went to fetch the straw and made them a priedieu. Then, looking at

his muddy saint and doubtless afraid of bringing discredit on his

business, he added:

“I will clean him off a little for you.”

He took a pail of water and a brush and began to scrub the wooden image

vigorously, while the two old women kept on praying.

When he had finished he said:

“Now he is all right.” And he took us back to the house to drink another

glass.

As he was carrying the glass to his lips he stopped and said in a rather

confused manner:

“All the same, when I put Saint Blanc out with the rabbits I thought he

would not make any more money. For two years no one had asked for him.

But the saints, you see, they are never out of date.”

ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES, Vol. 11.

GUY DE MAUPASSANT ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES Translated by ALBERT M. C.

McMASTER, B.A. A. E. HENDERSON, B.A. MME. QUESADA and Others

VOLUME XI.

THE UMBRELLA

Mme. Oreille was a very economical woman; she knew the value of a

centime, and possessed a whole storehouse of strict principles with

regard to the multiplication of money, so that her cook found the

greatest difficulty in making what the servants call their market-penny,

and her husband was hardly allowed any pocket money at all. They were,

however, very comfortably off, and had no children; but it really pained

Mme. Oreille to see any money spent; it was like tearing at her

heartstrings when she had to take any of those nice crown-pieces out of

her pocket; and whenever she had to spend anything, no matter how

necessary it might be, she slept badly the next night.

Oreille was continually saying to his wife:

“You really might be more liberal, as we have no children, and never

spend our income.”

“You don't know what may happen,” she used to reply. “It is better to

have too much than too little.”

She was a little woman of about forty, very active, rather hasty,

wrinkled, very neat and tidy, and with a very short temper.

Her husband frequently complained of all the privations she made him

endure; some of them were particularly painful to him, as they touched

his vanity.

He was one of the head clerks in the War Office, and only stayed on

there in obedience to his wife's wish, to increase their income which

they did not nearly spend.

For two years he had always come to the office with the same old patched

umbrella, to the great amusement of his fellow clerks. At last he got

tired of their jokes, and insisted upon his wife buying him a new one.

She bought one for eight francs and a half, one of those cheap articles

which large houses sell as an advertisement. When the men in the office

saw the article, which was being sold in Paris by the thousand, they

began their jokes again, and Oreille had a dreadful time of it. They

even made a song about it, which he heard from morning till night all

over the immense building.

Oreille was very angry, and peremptorily told his wife to get him a new

one, a good silk one, for twenty francs, and to bring him the bill, so

that he might see that it was all right.

She bought him one for eighteen francs, and said, getting red with anger

as she gave it to her husband:

“This will last you for five years at least.”

Oreille felt quite triumphant, and received a small ovation at the

office with his new acquisition.

When he went home in the evening his wife said to him, looking at the

umbrella uneasily:

“You should not leave it fastened up with the elastic; it will very

likely cut the silk. You must take care of it, for I shall not buy you a

new one in a hurry.”

She took it, unfastened it, and remained dumfounded with astonishment

and rage; in the middle of the silk there was a hole as big as a six-

penny-piece; it had been made with the end of a cigar.

“What is that?” she screamed.

Her husband replied quietly, without looking at it:

“What is it? What do you mean?”

She was choking with rage, and could hardly get out a word.

“You—you—have—burned—your umbrella! Why—you must be—mad! Do you wish to

ruin us outright?”

He turned round, and felt that he was growing pale.

“What are you talking about?”

“I say that you have burned your umbrella. Just look here.”

And rushing at him, as if she were going to beat him, she violently

thrust the little circular burned hole under his nose.

He was so utterly struck dumb at the sight of it that he could only

stammer out:

“What-what is it? How should I know? I have done nothing, I will swear.

I don't know what is the matter with the umbrella.”

“You have been playing tricks with it at the office; you have been

playing the fool and opening it, to show it off!” she screamed.

“I only opened it once, to let them see what a nice one it was, that is

all, I swear.”

But she shook with rage, and got up one of those conjugal scenes which

make a peaceable man dread the domestic hearth more than a battlefield

where bullets are raining.

She mended it with a piece of silk cut out of the old umbrella, which

was of a different color, and the next day Oreille went off very humbly

with the mended article in his hand. He put it into a cupboard, and

thought no more of it than of some unpleasant recollection.

But he had scarcely got home that evening when his wife took the

umbrella from him, opened it, and nearly had a fit when she saw what had

befallen it, for the disaster was irreparable. It was covered with small

holes, which evidently proceeded from burns, just as if some one had

emptied the ashes from a lighted pipe on to it. It was done for utterly,

irreparably.

She looked at it without a word, in too great a passion to be able to

say anything. He, also, when he saw the damage, remained almost

dumfounded, in a state of frightened consternation.

They looked at each other, then he looked at the floor; and the next

moment she threw the useless article at his head, screaming out in a

transport of the most violent rage, for she had recovered her voice by

that time:

“Oh! you brute! you brute! You did it on purpose, but I will pay you out

for it. You shall not have another.”

And then the scene began again, and after the storm had raged for an

hour, he at last was able to explain himself. He declared that he could

not understand it at all, and that it could only proceed from malice or

from vengeance.

A ring at the bell saved him; it was a friend whom they were expecting

to dinner.

Mme. Oreille submitted the case to him. As for buying a new umbrella,

that was out of the question; her husband should not have another. The

friend very sensibly said that in that case his clothes would be

spoiled, and they were certainly worth more than the umbrella. But the

little woman, who was still in a rage, replied:

“Very well, then, when it rains he may have the kitchen umbrella, for I

will not give him a new silk one.”

Oreille utterly rebelled at such an idea.

“All right,” he said; “then I shall resign my post. I am not going to

the office with the kitchen umbrella.”

The friend interposed.

“Have this one re-covered; it will not cost much.”

But Mme. Oreille, being in the temper that she was, said:

“It will cost at least eight francs to re-cover it. Eight and eighteen

are twenty-six. Just fancy, twenty-six francs for an umbrella! It is

utter madness!”

The friend, who was only a poor man of the middle classes, had an

inspiration:

“Make your fire assurance pay for it. The companies pay for all articles

that are burned, as long as the damage has been done in your own house.”

On hearing this advice the little woman calmed down immediately, and

then, after a moment's reflection, she said to her husband:

“To-morrow, before going to your office, you will go to the Maternelle

Assurance Company, show them the state your umbrella is in, and make

them pay for the damage.”

M. Oreille fairly jumped, he was so startled at the proposal.

“I would not do it for my life! It is eighteen francs lost, that is all.

It will not ruin us.”

The next morning he took a walking-stick when he went out, and, luckily,

it was a fine day.

Left at home alone, Mme. Oreille could not get over the loss of her

eighteen francs by any means. She had put the umbrella on the dining-

room table, and she looked at it without being able to come to any

determination.

Every moment she thought of the assurance company, but she did not dare

to encounter the quizzical looks of the gentlemen who might receive her,

for she was very timid before people, and blushed at a mere nothing, and

was embarrassed when she had to speak to strangers.

But the regret at the loss of the eighteen francs pained her as if she

had been wounded. She tried not to think of it any more, and yet every

moment the recollection of the loss struck her painfully. What was she

to do, however? Time went on, and she could not decide; but suddenly,

like all cowards, on making a resolve, she became determined.

“I will go, and we will see what will happen.”

But first of all she was obliged to prepare the umbrella so that the

disaster might be complete, and the reason of it quite evident. She took

a match from the mantelpiece, and between the ribs she burned a hole as

big as the palm of her hand; then she delicately rolled it up, fastened

it with the elastic band, put on her bonnet and shawl, and went quickly

toward the Rue de Rivoli, where the assurance office was.

But the nearer she got, the slower she walked. What was she going to

say, and what reply would she get?

She looked at the numbers of the houses; there were still twenty-eight.

That was all right, so she had time to consider, and she walked slower

and slower. Suddenly she saw a door on which was a large brass plate

with “La Maternelle Fire Assurance Office” engraved on it. Already! She

waited a moment, for she felt nervous and almost ashamed; then she

walked past, came back, walked past again, and came back again.

At last she said to herself:

“I must go in, however, so I may as well do it sooner as later.”

She could not help noticing, however, how her heart beat as she entered.

She went into an enormous room with grated doors all round it, and above

them little openings at which a man's head appeared, and as a gentleman

carrying a number of papers passed her, she stopped him and said

timidly: “I beg your pardon, monsieur, but can you tell me where I must

apply for payment for anything that has been accidentally burned?”

He replied in a sonorous voice:

“The first door on the left; that is the department you want.”

This frightened her still more, and she felt inclined to run away, to

put in no claim, to sacrifice her eighteen francs. But the idea of that

sum revived her courage, and she went upstairs, out of breath, stopping

at almost every other step.

She knocked at a door which she saw on the first landing, and a clear

voice said, in answer:

“Come in!”

She obeyed mechanically, and found herself in a large room where three

solemn gentlemen, all with a decoration in their buttonholes, were

standing talking.

One of them asked her: “What do you want, madame?”

She could hardly get out her words, but stammered: “I have come—I have

come on account of an accident, something—“.

He very politely pointed out a seat to her,

“If you will kindly sit down I will attend to you in a moment.”

And, returning to the other two, he went on with the conversation.

“The company, gentlemen, does not consider that it is under any

obligation to you for more than four hundred thousand francs, and we can

pay no attention to your claim to the further sum of a hundred thousand,

which you wish to make us pay. Besides that, the surveyor's valuation—”

One of the others interrupted him:

“That is quite enough, monsieur; the law courts will decide between us,

and we have nothing further to do than to take our leave.” And they went

out after mutual ceremonious bows.

Oh! if she could only have gone away with them, how gladly she would

have done it; she would have run away and given up everything. But it

was too late, for the gentleman came back, and said, bowing:

“What can I do for you, madame?”

She could scarcely speak, but at last she managed to say:

“I have come-for this.”

The manager looked at the object which she held out to him in mute

astonishment.

With trembling fingers she tried to undo the elastic, and succeeding,

after several attempts, she hastily opened the damaged remains of the

umbrella.

“It looks to me to be in a very bad state of health,” he said

compassionately.

“It cost me twenty francs,” she said, with some hesitation.

He seemed astonished. “Really! As much as that?”

“Yes, it was a capital article, and I wanted you to see the condition it

is in.”

“Yes, yes, I see; very well. But I really do not understand what it can

have to do with me.”

She began to feel uncomfortable; perhaps this company did not pay for

such small articles, and she said:

“But—it is burned.”

He could not deny it.

“I see that very well,” he replied.

She remained open-mouthed, not knowing what to say next; then, suddenly

recollecting that she had left out the main thing, she said hastily:

“I am Mme. Oreille; we are assured in La Maternelle, and I have come to

claim the value of this damage.”

“I only want you to have it re-covered,” she added quickly, fearing a

positive refusal.

The manager was rather embarrassed, and said: “But, really, madame, we

do not sell umbrellas; we cannot undertake such kinds of repairs.”

The little woman felt her courage reviving; she was not going to give up

without a struggle; she was not even afraid any more, and said:

“I only want you to pay me the cost of repairing it; I can quite well

get it done myself.”

The gentleman seemed rather confused.

“Really, madame, it is such a very small matter! We are never asked to

give compensation for such trivial losses. You must allow that we cannot

make good pocket-handkerchiefs, gloves, brooms, slippers, all the small

articles which are every day exposed to the chances of being burned.”

She got red in the face, and felt inclined to fly into a rage.

“But, monsieur, last December one of our chimneys caught fire, and

caused at least five hundred francs' damage; M. Oreille made no claim on

the company, and so it is only just that it should pay for my umbrella

now.”

The manager, guessing that she was telling a lie, said, with a smile:

“You must acknowledge, madame, that it is very surprising that M.

Oreille should have asked no compensation for damages amounting to five

hundred francs, and should now claim five or six francs for mending an

umbrella.”

She was not the least put out, and replied:

“I beg your pardon, monsieur, the five hundred francs affected M.

Oreille's pocket, whereas this damage, amounting to eighteen francs,

concerns Mme. Oreille's pocket only, which is a totally different

matter.”

As he saw that he had no chance of getting rid of her, and that he would

only be wasting his time, he said resignedly:

“Will you kindly tell me how the damage was done?”

She felt that she had won the victory, and said:

“This is how it happened, monsieur: In our hall there is a bronze stick

and umbrella stand, and the other day, when I came in, I put my umbrella

into it. I must tell you that just above there is a shelf for the

candlesticks and matches. I put out my hand, took three or four matches,

and struck one, but it missed fire, so I struck another, which ignited,

but went out immediately, and a third did the same.”

The manager interrupted her to make a joke.

“I suppose they were government matches, then?”

She did not understand him, and went on:

“Very likely. At any rate, the fourth caught fire, and I lit my candle,

and went into my room to go to bed; but in a quarter of an hour I

fancied that I smelt something burning, and I have always been terribly

afraid of fire. If ever we have an accident it will not be my fault, I

assure you. I am terribly nervous since our chimney was on fire, as I

told you; so I got up, and hunted about everywhere, sniffing like a dog

after game, and at last I noticed that my umbrella was burning. Most

likely a match had fallen between the folds and burned it. You can see

how it has damaged it.”

The manager had taken his cue, and asked her: “What do you estimate the

damage at?”

She did not know what to say, as she was not certain what value to put

on it, but at last she replied:

“Perhaps you had better get it done yourself. I will leave it to you.”

He, however, naturally refused.

“No, madame, I cannot do that. Tell me the amount of your claim, that is

all I want to know.”

“Well, I think that—Look here, monsieur, I do not want to make any money

out of you, so I will tell you what we will do. I will take my umbrella

to the maker, who will re-cover it in good, durable silk, and I will

bring the bill to you. Will that suit you, monsieur?”

“Perfectly, madame; we will settle it so. Here is a note for the

cashier, who will repay you whatever it costs you.”

He gave Mme. Oreille a slip of paper, who took it, got up and went out,

thanking him, for she was in a hurry to escape lest he should change his

mind.

She went briskly through the streets, looking out for a really good

umbrella maker, and when she found a shop which appeared to be a first-

class one, she went in, and said, confidently:

“I want this umbrella re-covered in silk, good silk. Use the very best

and strongest you have; I don't mind what it costs.”

BELHOMME'S BEAST

The coach for Havre was ready to leave Criquetot, and all the passengers

were waiting for their names to be called out, in the courtyard of the

Commercial Hotel kept by Monsieur Malandain, Jr.

It was a yellow wagon, mounted on wheels which had once been yellow, but

were now almost gray through the accumulation of mud. The front wheels

were very small, the back ones, high and fragile, carried the large body

of the vehicle, which was swollen like the belly of an animal. Three

white horses, with enormous heads and great round knees, were the first

things one noticed. They were harnessed ready to draw this coach, which

had something of the appearance of a monster in its massive structure.

The horses seemed already asleep in front of the strange vehicle.

The driver, Cesaire Horlaville, a little man with a big paunch, supple

nevertheless, through his constant habit of climbing over the wheels to

the top of the wagon, his face all aglow from exposure to the brisk air

of the plains, to rain and storms, and also from the use of brandy, his

eyes twitching from the effect of constant contact with wind and hail,

appeared in the doorway of the hotel, wiping his mouth on the back of

his hand. Large round baskets, full of frightened poultry, were standing

in front of the peasant women. Cesaire Horlaville took them one after

the other and packed them on the top of his coach; then more gently, he

loaded on those containing eggs; finally he tossed up from below several

little bags of grain, small packages wrapped in handkerchiefs, pieces of

cloth, or paper. Then he opened the back door, and drawing a list from

his pocket he called:

“Monsieur le cure de Gorgeville.”

The priest advanced. He was a large, powerful, robust man with a red

face and a genial expression. He hitched up his cassock to lift his

foot, just as the women hold up their skirts, and climbed into the

coach.

“The schoolmaster of Rollebose-les-Grinets.”

The man hastened forward, tall, timid, wearing a long frock coat which

fell to his knees, and he in turn disappeared through the open door.

“Maitre Poiret, two seats.”

Poiret approached, a tall, round-shouldered man, bent by the plow,

emaciated through abstinence, bony, with a skin dried by a sparing use

of water. His wife followed him, small and thin, like a tired animal,

carrying a large green umbrella in her hands.

“Maitre Rabot, two seats.”

Rabot hesitated, being of an undecided nature. He asked:

“You mean me?”

The driver was going to answer with a jest, when Rabot dived head first

towards the door, pushed forward by a vigorous shove from his wife, a

tall, square woman with a large, round stomach like a barrel, and hands

as large as hams.

Rabot slipped into the wagon like a rat entering a hole.

“Maitre Caniveau.”

A large peasant, heavier than an ox, made the springs bend, and was in

turn engulfed in the interior of the yellow chest.

“Maitre Belhomme.”

Belhomme, tall and thin, came forward, his neck bent, his head hanging,

a handkerchief held to his ear as if he were suffering from a terrible

toothache.

All these people wore the blue blouse over quaint and antique coats of a

black or greenish cloth, Sunday clothes which they would only uncover in

the streets of Havre. Their heads were covered by silk caps at high as

towers, the emblem of supreme elegance in the small villages of

Normandy.

Cesaire Horlaville closed the door, climbed up on his box and snapped

his whip.

The three horses awoke and, tossing their heads, shook their bells.

The driver then yelling “Get up!” as loud as he could, whipped up his

horses. They shook themselves, and, with an effort, started off at a

slow, halting gait. And behind them came the coach, rattling its shaky

windows and iron springs, making a terrible clatter of hardware and

glass, while the passengers were tossed hither and thither like so many

rubber balls.

At first all kept silent out of respect for the priest, that they might

not shock him. Being of a loquacious and genial disposition, he started

the conversation.

“Well, Maitre Caniveau,” said he, “how are you getting along?”

The enormous farmer who, on account of his size, girth and stomach, felt

a bond of sympathy for the representative of the Church, answered with a

smile:

“Pretty well, Monsieur le cure, pretty well. And how are you?”

“Oh! I'm always well and healthy.”

“And you, Maitre Poiret?” asked the abbe.

“Oh! I'd be all right only the colzas ain't a-goin' to give much this

year, and times are so hard that they are the only things worth while

raisin'.”

“Well, what can you expect? Times are hard.”

“Hub! I should say they were hard,” sounded the rather virile voice of

Rabot's big consort.

As she was from a neighboring village, the priest only knew her by name.

“Is that you, Blondel?” he said.

“Yes, I'm the one that married Rabot.”

Rabot, slender, timid, and self-satisfied, bowed smilingly, bending his

head forward as though to say: “Yes, I'm the Rabot whom Blondel

married.”

Suddenly Maitre Belhomme, still holding his handkerchief to his ear,

began groaning in a pitiful fashion. He was going “Oh-oh-oh!” and

stamping his foot in order to show his terrible suffering.

“You must have an awful toothache,” said the priest.

The peasant stopped moaning for a minute and answered:

“No, Monsieur le cure, it is not the teeth. It's my ear-away down at the

bottom of my ear.”

“Well, what have you got in your ear? A lump of wax?”

“I don't know whether it's wax; but I know that it is a bug, a big bug,

that crawled in while I was asleep in the haystack.”

“A bug! Are you sure?”

“Am I sure? As sure as I am of heaven, Monsieur le cure! I can feel it

gnawing at the bottom of my ear! It's eating my head for sure! It's

eating my head! Oh-oh-oh!” And he began to stamp his foot again.

Great interest had been aroused among the spectators. Each one gave his

bit of advice. Poiret claimed that it was a spider, the teacher, thought

it might be a caterpillar. He had already seen such a thing once, at

Campemuret, in Orne, where he had been for six years. In this case the

caterpillar had gone through the head and out at the nose. But the man

remained deaf in that ear ever after, the drum having been pierced.

“It's more likely to be a worm,” said the priest.

Maitre Belhomme, his head resting against the door, for he had been the

last one to enter, was still moaning.

“Oh—oh—oh! I think it must be an ant, a big ant—there it is biting

again. Oh, Monsieur le cure, how it hurts! how it hurts!”

“Have you seen the doctor?” asked Caniveau.

“I should say not!”

“Why?”

The fear of the doctor seemed to cure Belhomme. He straightened up

without, however, dropping his handkerchief.

“What! You have money for them, for those loafers? He would have come

once, twice, three times, four times, five times! That means two five-

franc pieces, two five-franc pieces, for sure. And what would he have

done, the loafer, tell me, what would he have done? Can you tell me?”

Caniveau was laughing.

“No, I don't know. Where are you going?”

“I am going to Havre, to see Chambrelan.”

“Who is Chambrelan?”

“The healer, of course.”

“What healer?”

“The healer who cured my father.”

“Your father?”

“Yes, the healer who cured my father years ago.”

“What was the matter with your father?”

“A draught caught him in the back, so that he couldn't move hand or

foot.”

“Well, what did your friend Chambrelan do to him?”

“He kneaded his back with both hands as though he were making bread! And

he was all right in a couple of hours!”

Belhomme thought that Chambrelan must also have used some charm, but he

did not dare say so before the priest. Caniveau replied, laughing:

“Are you sure it isn't a rabbit that you have in your ear? He might have

taken that hole for his home. Wait, I'll make him run away.”

Whereupon Caniveau, making a megaphone of his hands, began to mimic the

barking of hounds. He snapped, howled, growled, barked. And everybody in

the carriage began to roar, even the schoolmaster, who, as a rule, never

ever smiled.

However, as Belhomme seemed angry at their making fun of him, the priest

changed the conversation and turning to Rabot's big wife, said:

“You have a large family, haven't you?”

“Oh, yes, Monsieur le cure—and it's a pretty hard matter to bring them

up!”

Rabot agreed, nodding his head as though to say: “Oh, yes, it's a hard

thing to bring up!”

“How many children?”

She replied authoritatively in a strong, clear voice:

“Sixteen children, Monsieur le cure, fifteen of them by my husband!”

And Rabot smiled broadly, nodding his head. He was responsible for

fifteen, he alone, Rabot! His wife said so! Therefore there could be no

doubt about it. And he was proud!

And whose was the sixteenth? She didn't tell. It was doubtless the

first. Perhaps everybody knew, for no one was surprised. Even Caniveau

kept mum.

But Belhomme began to moan again:

“Oh-oh-oh! It's scratching about in the bottom of my ear! Oh, dear, oh,

dear!”

The coach just then stopped at the Cafe Polyto. The priest said:

“If someone were to pour a little water into your ear, it might perhaps

drive it out. Do you want to try?”

“Sure! I am willing.”

And everybody got out in order to witness the operation. The priest

asked for a bowl, a napkin and a glass of water, then he told the

teacher to hold the patient's head over on one side, and, as soon as the

liquid should have entered the ear, to turn his head over suddenly on

the other side.

But Caniveau, who was already peering into Belhomme's ear to see if he

couldn't discover the beast, shouted:

“Gosh! What a mess! You'll have to clear that out, old man. Your rabbit

could never get through that; his feet would stick.”

The priest in turn examined the passage and saw that it was too narrow

and too congested for him to attempt to expel the animal. It was the

teacher who cleared out this passage by means of a match and a bit of

cloth. Then, in the midst of the general excitement, the priest poured

into the passage half a glass of water, which trickled over the face

through the hair and down the neck of the patient. Then the schoolmaster

quickly twisted the head round over the bowl, as though he were trying

to unscrew it. A couple of drops dripped into the white bowl. All the

passengers rushed forward. No insect had come out.

However, Belhomme exclaimed: “I don't feel anything any more.” The

priest triumphantly exclaimed: “Certainly it has been drowned.”

Everybody was happy and got back into the coach.

But hardly had they started when Belhomme began to cry out again. The

bug had aroused itself and had become furious. He even declared that it

had now entered his head and was eating his brain. He was howling with

such contortions that Poiret's wife, thinking him possessed by the

devil, began to cry and to cross herself. Then, the pain abating a

little, the sick man began to tell how it was running round in his ear.

With his finger he imitated the movements of the body, seeming to see

it, to follow it with his eyes: “There it goes up again! Oh—oh—oh—what

torture!”

Caniveau was getting impatient. “It's the water that is making the bug

angry. It is probably more accustomed to wine.”

Everybody laughed, and he continued: “When we get to the Cafe Bourbeux,

give it some brandy, and it won't bother you any more, I wager.”

But Belhomme could contain himself no longer; he began howling as though

his soul were being torn from his body. The priest was obliged to hold

his head for him. They asked Cesaire Horlaville to stop at the nearest

house. It was a farmhouse at the side of the road. Belhomme was carried

into it and laid on the kitchen table in order to repeat the operation.

Caniveau advised mixing brandy and water in order to benumb and perhaps

kill the insect. But the priest preferred vinegar.

They poured the liquid in drop by drop this time, that it might

penetrate down to the bottom, and they left it several minutes in the

organ that the beast had chosen for its home.

A bowl had once more been brought; Belhomme was turned over bodily by

the priest and Caniveau, while the schoolmaster was tapping on the

healthy ear in order to empty the other.

Cesaire Horlaville himself, whip in hand, had come in to observe the

proceedings.

Suddenly, at the bottom of the bowl appeared a little brown spot, no

bigger than a tiny seed. However, it was moving. It was a flea! First

there were cries of astonishment and then shouts of laughter. A flea!

Well, that was a good joke, a mighty good one! Caniveau was slapping his

thigh, Cesaire Horlaville snapped his whip, the priest laughed like a

braying donkey, the teacher cackled as though he were sneezing, and the

two women were giving little screams of joy, like the clucking of hens.

Belhomme had seated himself on the table and had taken the bowl between

his knees; he was observing, with serious attention and a vengeful anger

in his eye, the conquered insect which was twisting round in the water.

He grunted, “You rotten little beast!” and he spat on it.

The driver, wild with joy, kept repeating: “A flea, a flea, ah! there

you are, damned little flea, damned little flea, damned little flea!”

Then having calmed down a little, he cried: “Well, back to the coach!

We've lost enough time.”

DISCOVERY

The steamer was crowded with people and the crossing promised to be

good. I was going from Havre to Trouville.

The ropes were thrown off, the whistle blew for the last time, the whole

boat started to tremble, and the great wheels began to revolve, slowly

at first, and then with ever-increasing rapidity.

We were gliding along the pier, black with people. Those on board were

waving their handkerchiefs, as though they were leaving for America, and

their friends on shore were answering in the same manner.

The big July sun was shining down on the red parasols, the light

dresses, the joyous faces and on the ocean, barely stirred by a ripple.

When we were out of the harbor, the little vessel swung round the big

curve and pointed her nose toward the distant shore which was barely

visible through the early morning mist. On our left was the broad

estuary of the Seine, her muddy water, which never mingles with that of

the ocean, making large yellow streaks clearly outlined against the

immense sheet of the pure green sea.

As soon as I am on a boat I feel the need of walking to and fro, like a

sailor on watch. Why? I do not know. Therefore I began to thread my way

along the deck through the crowd of travellers. Suddenly I heard my name

called. I turned around. I beheld one of my old friends, Henri Sidoine,

whom I had not seen for ten years.

We shook hands and continued our walk together, talking of one thing or

another. Suddenly Sidoine, who had been observing the crowd of

passengers, cried out angrily:

“It's disgusting, the boat is full of English people!”

It was indeed full of them. The men were standing about, looking over

the ocean with an all-important air, as though to say: “We are the

English, the lords of the sea! Here we are!”

The young girls, formless, with shoes which reminded one of the naval

constructions of their fatherland, wrapped in multi-colored shawls, were

smiling vacantly at the magnificent scenery. Their small heads, planted

at the top of their long bodies, wore English hats of the strangest

build.

And the old maids, thinner yet, opening their characteristic jaws to the

wind, seemed to threaten one with their long, yellow teeth. On passing

them, one could notice the smell of rubber and of tooth wash.

Sidoine repeated, with growing anger:

“Disgusting! Can we never stop their coming to France?”

I asked, smiling:

“What have you got against them? As far as I am concerned, they don't

worry me.”

He snapped out:

“Of course they don't worry you! But I married one of them.”

I stopped and laughed at him.

“Go ahead and tell me about it. Does she make you very unhappy?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“No, not exactly.”

“Then she—is not true to you?”

“Unfortunately, she is. That would be cause for a divorce, and I could

get rid of her.”

“Then I'm afraid I don't understand!”

“You don't understand? I'm not surprised. Well, she simply learned how

to speak French—that's all! Listen.

“I didn't have the least desire of getting married when I went to spend

the summer at Etretat two years ago. There is nothing more dangerous

than watering-places. You have no idea how it suits young girls. Paris

is the place for women and the country for young girls.

“Donkey rides, surf-bathing, breakfast on the grass, all these things

are traps set for the marriageable man. And, really, there is nothing

prettier than a child about eighteen, running through a field or picking

flowers along the road.

“I made the acquaintance of an English family who were stopping at the

same hotel where I was. The father looked like those men you see over

there, and the mother was like all other Englishwomen.

“They had two sons, the kind of boys who play rough games with balls,

bats or rackets from morning till night; then came two daughters, the

elder a dry, shrivelled-up Englishwoman, the younger a dream of beauty,

a heavenly blonde. When those chits make up their minds to be pretty,

they are divine. This one had blue eyes, the kind of blue which seems to

contain all the poetry, all the dreams, all the hopes and happiness of

the world!

“What an infinity of dreams is caused by two such eyes! How well they

answer the dim, eternal question of our heart!

“It must not be forgotten either that we Frenchmen adore foreign women.

As soon as we meet a Russian, an Italian, a Swede, a Spaniard, or an

Englishwoman with a pretty face, we immediately fall in love with her.

We enthuse over everything which comes from outside—clothes, hats,

gloves, guns and—women. But what a blunder!

“I believe that that which pleases us in foreign women is their accent.

As soon as a woman speaks our language badly we think she is charming,

if she uses the wrong word she is exquisite and if she jabbers in an

entirely unintelligible jargon, she becomes irresistible.

“My little English girl, Kate, spoke a language to be marvelled at. At

the beginning I could understand nothing, she invented so many new

words; then I fell absolutely in love with this queer, amusing dialect.

All maimed, strange, ridiculous terms became delightful in her mouth.

Every evening, on the terrace of the Casino, we had long conversations

which resembled spoken enigmas.

“I married her! I loved her wildly, as one can only love in a dream. For

true lovers only love a dream which has taken the form of a woman.

“Well, my dear fellow, the most foolish thing I ever did was to give my

wife a French teacher. As long as she slaughtered the dictionary and

tortured the grammar I adored her. Our conversations were simple. They

revealed to me her surprising gracefulness and matchless elegance; they

showed her to me as a wonderful speaking jewel, a living doll made to be

kissed, knowing, after a fashion, how to express what she loved. She

reminded me of the pretty little toys which say 'papa' and 'mamma' when

you pull a string.

“Now she talks—badly—very badly. She makes as many mistakes as ever—but

I can understand her.

“I have opened my doll to look inside—and I have seen. And now I have to

talk to her!

“Ah! you don't know, as I do, the opinions, the ideas, the theories of a

well-educated young English girl, whom I can blame in nothing, and who

repeats to me from morning till night sentences from a French reader

prepared in England for the use of young ladies' schools.

“You have seen those cotillon favors, those pretty gilt papers, which

enclose candies with an abominable taste. I have one of them. I tore it

open. I wished to eat what was inside and it disgusted me so that I feel

nauseated at seeing her compatriots.

“I have married a parrot to whom some old English governess might have

taught French. Do you understand?”

The harbor of Trouville was now showing its wooden piers covered with

people.

I said:

“Where is your wife?”

He answered:

“I took her back to Etretat.”

“And you, where are you going?”

“I? Oh, I am going to rest up here at Trouville.”

Then, after a pause, he added:

“You have no idea what a fool a woman can be at times!”

THE ACCURSED BREAD

Daddy Taille had three daughters: Anna, the eldest, who was scarcely

ever mentioned in the family; Rose, the second girl, who was eighteen,

and Clara, the youngest, who was a girl of fifteen.

Old Taille was a widower and a foreman in M. Lebrument's button

manufactory. He was a very upright man, very well thought of,

abstemious; in fact, a sort of model workman. He lived at Havre, in the

Rue d'Angouleme.

When Anna ran away from home the old man flew into a fearful rage. He

threatened to kill the head clerk in a large draper's establishment in

that town, whom he suspected. After a time, when he was told by various

people that she was very steady and investing money in government

securities, that she was no gadabout, but was a great friend of Monsieur

Dubois, who was a judge of the Tribunal of Commerce, the father was

appeased.

He even showed some anxiety as to how she was getting on, and asked some

of her old friends who had been to see her, and when told that she had

her own furniture, and that her mantelpiece was covered with vases and

the walls with pictures, that there were clocks and carpets everywhere,

he gave a broad contented smile. He had been working for thirty years to

get together a wretched five or six thousand francs. This girl was

evidently no fool.

One fine morning the son of Touchard, the cooper, at the other end of

the street, came and asked him for the hand of Rose, the second girl.

The old man's heart began to beat, for the Touchards were rich and in a

good position. He was decidedly lucky with his girls.

The marriage was agreed upon, and it was settled that it should be a

grand affair, and the wedding dinner was to be held at Sainte-Adresse,

at Mother Jusa's restaurant. It would cost a lot certainly, but never

mind, it did not matter just for once in a way.

But one morning, just as the old man was going home to luncheon with his

two daughters, the door opened suddenly, and Anna appeared. She was well

dressed and looked undeniably pretty and nice. She threw her arms round

her father's neck before he could say a word, then fell into her

sisters' arms with many tears and then asked for a plate, so that she

might share the family soup. Taille was moved to tears in his turn and

said several times:

“That is right, dear, that is right.”

Then she told them about herself. She did not wish Rose's wedding to

take place at Sainte-Adresse—certainly not. It should take place at her

house and would cost her father nothing. She had settled everything and

arranged everything, so it was “no good to say any more about it—there!”

“Very well, my dear! very well!” the old man said; “we will leave it

so.” But then he felt some doubt. Would the Touchards consent? But Rose,

the bride-elect, was surprised and asked: “Why should they object, I

should like to know? Just leave that to me; I will talk to Philip about

it.”

She mentioned it to her lover the very same day, and he declared it

would suit him exactly. Father and Mother Touchard were naturally

delighted at the idea of a good dinner which would cost them nothing and

said:

“You may be quite sure that everything will be in first-rate style.”

They asked to be allowed to bring a friend, Madame Florence, the cook on

the first floor, and Anna agreed to everything.

The wedding was fixed for the last Tuesday of the month.

After the civil formalities and the religious ceremony the wedding party

went to Anna's house. Among those whom the Tailles had brought was a

cousin of a certain age, a Monsieur Sauvetanin, a man given to

philosophical reflections, serious, and always very self-possessed, and

Madame Lamondois, an old aunt.

Monsieur Sautevanin had been told off to give Anna his arm, as they were

looked upon as the two most important persons in the company.

As soon as they had arrived at the door of Anna's house she let go her

companion's arm, and ran on ahead, saying: “I will show you the way,”

and ran upstairs while the invited guests followed more slowly; and,

when they got upstairs, she stood on one side to let them pass, and they

rolled their eyes and turned their heads in all directions to admire

this mysterious and luxurious dwelling.

The table was laid in the drawing-room, as the dining-room had been

thought too small. Extra knives, forks and spoons had been hired from a

neighboring restaurant, and decanters stood full of wine under the rays

of the sun which shone in through the window.

The ladies went into the bedroom to take off their shawls and bonnets,

and Father Touchard, who was standing at the door, made funny and

suggestive signs to the men, with many a wink and nod. Daddy Taille, who

thought a great deal of himself, looked with fatherly pride at his

child's well-furnished rooms and went from one to the other, holding his

hat in his hand, making a mental inventory of everything, and walking

like a verger in a church.

Anna went backward and forward, ran about giving orders and hurrying on

the wedding feast. Soon she appeared at the door of the dining-room and

cried: “Come here, all of you, for a moment,” and as the twelve guests

entered the room they saw twelve glasses of Madeira on a small table.

Rose and her husband had their arms round each other's waists and were

kissing each other in every corner. Monsieur Sauvetanin never took his

eyes off Anna.

They sat down, and the wedding breakfast began, the relations sitting at

one end of the table and the young people at the other. Madame Touchard,

the mother, presided on the right and the bride on the left. Anna looked

after everybody, saw that the glasses were kept filled and the plates

well supplied. The guests evidently felt a certain respectful

embarrassment at the sight of all the sumptuousness of the rooms and at

the lavish manner in which they were treated. They all ate heartily of

the good things provided, but there were no jokes such as are prevalent

at weddings of that sort; it was all too grand, and it made them feel

uncomfortable. Old Madame Touchard, who was fond of a bit of fun, tried

to enliven matters a little, and at the beginning of the dessert she

exclaimed: “I say, Philip, do sing us something.” The neighbors in their

street considered that he had the finest voice in all Havre.

The bridegroom got up, smiled, and, turning to his sister-in-law, from

politeness and gallantry, tried to think of something suitable for the

occasion, something serious and correct, to harmonize with the

seriousness of the repast.

Anna had a satisfied look on her face, and leaned back in her chair to

listen, and all assumed looks of attention, though prepared to smile

should smiles be called for.

The singer announced “The Accursed Bread,” and, extending his right arm,

which made his coat ruck up into his neck, he began.

It was decidedly long, three verses of eight lines each, with the last

line and the last but one repeated twice.

All went well for the first two verses; they were the usual commonplaces

about bread gained by honest labor and by dishonesty. The aunt and the

bride wept outright. The cook, who was present, at the end of the first

verse looked at a roll which she held in her hand, with streaming eyes,

as if it applied to her, while all applauded vigorously. At the end of

the second verse the two servants, who were standing with their backs to

the wall, joined loudly in the chorus, and the aunt and the bride wept

outright.

Daddy Taille blew his nose with the noise of a trombone, and old

Touchard brandished a whole loaf half over the table, and the cook shed

silent tears on the crust which she was still holding.

Amid the general emotion Monsieur Sauvetanin said:

“That is the right sort of song; very different from the nasty, risky

things one generally hears at weddings.”

Anna, who was visibly affected, kissed her hand to her sister and

pointed to her husband with an affectionate nod, as if to congratulate

her.

Intoxicated by his success, the young man continued, and unfortunately

the last verse contained words about the “bread of dishonor” gained by

young girls who had been led astray. No one took up the refrain about

this bread, supposed to be eaten with tears, except old Touchard and the

two servants. Anna had grown deadly pale and cast down her eyes, while

the bridegroom looked from one to the other without understanding the

reason for this sudden coldness, and the cook hastily dropped the crust

as if it were poisoned.

Monsieur Sauvetanin said solemnly, in order to save the situation: “That

last couplet is not at all necessary”; and Daddy Taille, who had got red

up to his ears, looked round the table fiercely.

Then Anna, her eyes swimming in tears, told the servants in the

faltering voice of a woman trying to stifle her sobs, to bring the

champagne.

All the guests were suddenly seized with exuberant joy, and all their

faces became radiant again. And when old Touchard, who had seen, felt

and understood nothing of what was going on, and pointing to the guests

so as to emphasize his words, sang the last words of the refrain:

“Children, I warn you all to eat not of that bread,” the whole company,

when they saw the champagne bottles, with their necks covered with gold

foil, appear, burst out singing, as if electrified by the sight:

“Children, I warn you all to eat not of that bread.”

THE DOWRY

The marriage of Maitre Simon Lebrument with Mademoiselle Jeanne Cordier

was a surprise to no one. Maitre Lebrument had bought out the practice

of Maitre Papillon; naturally, he had to have money to pay for it; and

Mademoiselle Jeanne Cordier had three hundred thousand francs clear in

currency, and in bonds payable to bearer.

Maitre Lebrument was a handsome man. He was stylish, although in a

provincial way; but, nevertheless, he was stylish—a rare thing at

Boutigny-le-Rebours.

Mademoiselle Cordier was graceful and fresh-looking, although a trifle

awkward; nevertheless, she was a handsome girl, and one to be desired.

The marriage ceremony turned all Boutigny topsy-turvy. Everybody admired

the young couple, who quickly returned home to domestic felicity, having

decided simply to take a short trip to Paris, after a few days of

retirement.

This tete-a-tete was delightful, Maitre Lebrument having shown just the

proper amount of delicacy. He had taken as his motto: “Everything comes

to him who waits.” He knew how to be at the same time patient and

energetic. His success was rapid and complete.

After four days, Madame Lebrument adored her husband. She could not get

along without him. She would sit on his knees, and taking him by the

ears she would say: “Open your mouth and shut your eyes.” He would open

his mouth wide and partly close his eyes, and he would try to nip her

fingers as she slipped some dainty between his teeth. Then she would

give him a kiss, sweet and long, which would make chills run up and down

his spine. And then, in his turn, he would not have enough caresses to

please his wife from morning to night and from night to morning.

When the first week was over, he said to his young companion:

“If you wish, we will leave for Paris next Tuesday. We will be like two

lovers, we will go to the restaurants, the theatres, the concert halls,

everywhere, everywhere!”

She was ready to dance for joy.

“Oh! yes, yes. Let us go as soon as possible.”

He continued:

“And then, as we must forget nothing, ask your father to have your dowry

ready; I shall pay Maitre Papillon on this trip.”

She answered:

“All right: I will tell him to-morrow morning.”

And he took her in his arms once more, to renew those sweet games of

love which she had so enjoyed for the past week.

The following Tuesday, father-in-law and mother-in-law went to the

station with their daughter and their son-in-law who were leaving for

the capital.

The father-in-law said:

“I tell you it is very imprudent to carry so much money about in a

pocketbook.” And the young lawyer smiled.

“Don't worry; I am accustomed to such things. You understand that, in my

profession, I sometimes have as much as a million about me. In this

manner, at least we avoid a great amount of red tape and delay. You

needn't worry.”

The conductor was crying:

“All aboard for Paris!”

They scrambled into a car, where two old ladies were already seated.

Lebrument whispered into his wife's ear:

“What a bother! I won't be able to smoke.”

She answered in a low voice

“It annoys me too, but not an account of your cigar.”

The whistle blew and the train started. The trip lasted about an hour,

during which time they did not say very much to each other, as the two

old ladies did not go to sleep.

As soon as they were in front of the Saint-Lazare Station, Maitre

Lebrument said to his wife:

“Dearie, let us first go over to the Boulevard and get something to eat;

then we can quietly return and get our trunk and bring it to the hotel.”

She immediately assented.

“Oh! yes. Let's eat at the restaurant. Is it far?”

He answered:

“Yes, it's quite a distance, but we will take the omnibus.”

She was surprised:

“Why don't we take a cab?”

He began to scold her smilingly:

“Is that the way you save money? A cab for a five minutes' ride at six

cents a minute! You would deprive yourself of nothing.”

“That's so,” she said, a little embarrassed.

A big omnibus was passing by, drawn by three big horses, which were

trotting along. Lebrument called out:

“Conductor! Conductor!”

The heavy carriage stopped. And the young lawyer, pushing his wife, said

to her quickly:

“Go inside; I'm going up on top, so that I may smoke at least one

cigarette before lunch.”

She had no time to answer. The conductor, who had seized her by the arm

to help her up the step, pushed her inside, and she fell into a seat,

bewildered, looking through the back window at the feet of her husband

as he climbed up to the top of the vehicle.

And she sat there motionless, between a fat man who smelled of cheap

tobacco and an old woman who smelled of garlic.

All the other passengers were lined up in silence—a grocer's boy, a

young girl, a soldier, a gentleman with gold-rimmed spectacles and a big

silk hat, two ladies with a self-satisfied and crabbed look, which

seemed to say: “We are riding in this thing, but we don't have to,” two

sisters of charity and an undertaker. They looked like a collection of

caricatures.

The jolting of the wagon made them wag their heads and the shaking of

the wheels seemed to stupefy them—they all looked as though they were

asleep.

The young woman remained motionless.

“Why didn't he come inside with me?” she was saying to herself. An

unaccountable sadness seemed to be hanging over her. He really need not

have acted so.

The sisters motioned to the conductor to stop, and they got off one

after the other, leaving in their wake the pungent smell of camphor. The

bus started tip and soon stopped again. And in got a cook, red-faced and

out of breath. She sat down and placed her basket of provisions on her

knees. A strong odor of dish-water filled the vehicle.

“It's further than I imagined,” thought Jeanne.

The undertaker went out, and was replaced by a coachman who seemed to

bring the atmosphere of the stable with him. The young girl had as a

successor a messenger, the odor of whose feet showed that he was

continually walking.

The lawyer's wife began to feel ill at ease, nauseated, ready to cry

without knowing why.

Other persons left and others entered. The stage went on through

interminable streets, stopping at stations and starting again.

“How far it is!” thought Jeanne. “I hope he hasn't gone to sleep! He has

been so tired the last few days.”

Little by little all the passengers left. She was left alone, all alone.

The conductor cried:

“Vaugirard!”

Seeing that she did not move, he repeated:

“Vaugirard!”

She looked at him, understanding that he was speaking to her, as there

was no one else there. For the third time the man said:

“Vaugirard!”

Then she asked:

“Where are we?”

He answered gruffly:

“We're at Vaugirard, of course! I have been yelling it for the last half

hour!”

“Is it far from the Boulevard?” she said.

“Which boulevard?”

“The Boulevard des Italiens.”

“We passed that a long time ago!”

“Would you mind telling my husband?”

“Your husband! Where is he?”

“On the top of the bus.”

“On the top! There hasn't been anybody there for a long time.”

She started, terrified.

“What? That's impossible! He got on with me. Look well! He must be

there.”

The conductor was becoming uncivil:

“Come on, little one, you've talked enough! You can find ten men for

every one that you lose. Now run along. You'll find another one

somewhere.”

Tears were coming to her eyes. She insisted:

“But, monsieur, you are mistaken; I assure you that you must be

mistaken. He had a big portfolio under his arm.”

The man began to laugh:

“A big portfolio! Oh, yes! He got off at the Madeleine. He got rid of

you, all right! Ha! ha! ha!”

The stage had stopped. She got out and, in spite of herself, she looked

up instinctively to the roof of the bus. It was absolutely deserted.

Then she began to cry, and, without thinking that anybody was listening

or watching her, she said out loud:

“What is going to become of me?”

An inspector approached:

“What's the matter?”

The conductor answered, in a bantering tone of voice:

“It's a lady who got left by her husband during the trip.”

The other continued:

“Oh! that's nothing. You go about your business.”

Then he turned on his heels and walked away.

She began to walk straight ahead, too bewildered, too crazed even to

understand what had happened to her. Where was she to go? What could she

do? What could have happened to him? How could he have made such a

mistake? How could he have been so forgetful?

She had two francs in her pocket. To whom could she go? Suddenly she

remembered her cousin Barral, one of the assistants in the offices of

the Ministry of the Navy.

She had just enough to pay for a cab. She drove to his house. He met her

just as he was leaving for his office. He was carrying a large portfolio

under his arm, just like Lebrument.

She jumped out of the carriage.

“Henry!” she cried.

He stopped, astonished:

“Jeanne! Here—all alone! What are you doing? Where have you come from?”

Her eyes full of tears, she stammered:

“My husband has just got lost!”

“Lost! Where?”

“On an omnibus.”

“On an omnibus?”

Weeping, she told him her whole adventure.

He listened, thought, and then asked:

“Was his mind clear this morning?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Did he have much money with him?”

“Yes, he was carrying my dowry.”

“Your dowry! The whole of it?”

“The whole of it—in order to pay for the practice which he bought.”

“Well, my dear cousin, by this time your husband must be well on his way

to Belgium.”

She could not understand. She kept repeating:

“My husband—you say—”

“I say that he has disappeared with your—your capital—that's all!”

She stood there, a prey to conflicting emotions, sobbing.

“Then he is—he is—he is a villain!”

And, faint from excitement, she leaned her head on her cousin's shoulder

and wept.

As people were stopping to look at them, he pushed her gently into the

vestibule of his house, and, supporting her with his arm around her

waist, he led her up the stairs, and as his astonished servant opened

the door, he ordered:

“Sophie, run to the restaurant and get a luncheon for two. I am not

going to the office to-day.”

THE DIARY OF A MADMAN

He was dead—the head of a high tribunal, the upright magistrate whose

irreproachable life was a proverb in all the courts of France.

Advocates, young counsellors, judges had greeted him at sight of his

large, thin, pale face lighted up by two sparkling deep-set eyes, bowing

low in token of respect.

He had passed his life in pursuing crime and in protecting the weak.

Swindlers and murderers had no more redoubtable enemy, for he seemed to

read the most secret thoughts of their minds.

He was dead, now, at the age of eighty-two, honored by the homage and

followed by the regrets of a whole people. Soldiers in red trousers had

escorted him to the tomb and men in white cravats had spoken words and

shed tears that seemed to be sincere beside his grave.

But here is the strange paper found by the dismayed notary in the desk

where he had kept the records of great criminals! It was entitled: WHY?

20th June, 1851. I have just left court. I have condemned Blondel to

death! Now, why did this man kill his five children? Frequently one

meets with people to whom the destruction of life is a pleasure. Yes,

yes, it should be a pleasure, the greatest of all, perhaps, for is not

killing the next thing to creating? To make and to destroy! These two

words contain the history of the universe, all the history of worlds,

all that is, all! Why is it not intoxicating to kill?

25th June. To think that a being is there who lives, who walks, who

runs. A being? What is a being? That animated thing, that bears in it

the principle of motion and a will ruling that motion. It is attached to

nothing, this thing. Its feet do not belong to the ground. It is a grain

of life that moves on the earth, and this grain of life, coming I know

not whence, one can destroy at one's will. Then nothing—nothing more. It

perishes, it is finished.

26th June. Why then is it a crime to kill? Yes, why? On the contrary, it

is the law of nature. The mission of every being is to kill; he kills to

live, and he kills to kill. The beast kills without ceasing, all day,

every instant of his existence. Man kills without ceasing, to nourish

himself; but since he needs, besides, to kill for pleasure, he has

invented hunting! The child kills the insects he finds, the little

birds, all the little animals that come in his way. But this does not

suffice for the irresistible need to massacre that is in us. It is not

enough to kill beasts; we must kill man too. Long ago this need was

satisfied by human sacrifices. Now the requirements of social life have

made murder a crime. We condemn and punish the assassin! But as we

cannot live without yielding to this natural and imperious instinct of

death, we relieve ourselves, from time to time, by wars. Then a whole

nation slaughters another nation. It is a feast of blood, a feast that

maddens armies and that intoxicates civilians, women and children, who

read, by lamplight at night, the feverish story of massacre.

One might suppose that those destined to accomplish these butcheries of

men would be despised! No, they are loaded with honors. They are clad in

gold and in resplendent garments; they wear plumes on their heads and

ornaments on their breasts, and they are given crosses, rewards, titles

of every kind. They are proud, respected, loved by women, cheered by the

crowd, solely because their mission is to shed human blood; They drag

through the streets their instruments of death, that the passer-by, clad

in black, looks on with envy. For to kill is the great law set by nature

in the heart of existence! There is nothing more beautiful and honorable

than killing!

30th June. To kill is the law, because nature loves eternal youth. She

seems to cry in all her unconscious acts: “Quick! quick! quick!” The

more she destroys, the more she renews herself.

2d July. A human being—what is a human being? Through thought it is a

reflection of all that is; through memory and science it is an abridged

edition of the universe whose history it represents, a mirror of things

and of nations, each human being becomes a microcosm in the macrocosm.

3d July. It must be a pleasure, unique and full of zest, to kill; to

have there before one the living, thinking being; to make therein a

little hole, nothing but a little hole, to see that red thing flow which

is the blood, which makes life; and to have before one only a heap of

limp flesh, cold, inert, void of thought!

5th August. I, who have passed my life in judging, condemning, killing

by the spoken word, killing by the guillotine those who had killed by

the knife, I, I, if I should do as all the assassins have done whom I

have smitten, I—I—who would know it?

10th August. Who would ever know? Who would ever suspect me, me, me,

especially if I should choose a being I had no interest in doing away

with?

15th August. The temptation has come to me. It pervades my whole being;

my hands tremble with the desire to kill.

22d August. I could resist no longer. I killed a little creature as an

experiment, for a beginning. Jean, my servant, had a goldfinch in a cage

hung in the office window. I sent him on an errand, and I took the

little bird in my hand, in my hand where I felt its heart beat. It was

warm. I went up to my room. From time to time I squeezed it tighter; its

heart beat faster; this was atrocious and delicious. I was near choking

it. But I could not see the blood.

Then I took scissors, short-nail scissors, and I cut its throat with

three slits, quite gently. It opened its bill, it struggled to escape

me, but I held it, oh! I held it—I could have held a mad dog—and I saw

the blood trickle.

And then I did as assassins do—real ones. I washed the scissors, I

washed my hands. I sprinkled water and took the body, the corpse, to the

garden to hide it. I buried it under a strawberry-plant. It will never

be found. Every day I shall eat a strawberry from that plant. How one

can enjoy life when one knows how!

My servant cried; he thought his bird flown. How could he suspect me?

Ah! ah!

25th August. I must kill a man! I must—

30th August. It is done. But what a little thing! I had gone for a walk

in the forest of Vernes. I was thinking of nothing, literally nothing. A

child was in the road, a little child eating a slice of bread and

butter.

He stops to see me pass and says, “Good-day, Mr. President.”

And the thought enters my head, “Shall I kill him?”

I answer: “You are alone, my boy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All alone in the wood?”

“Yes, sir.”

The wish to kill him intoxicated me like wine. I approached him quite

softly, persuaded that he was going to run away. And, suddenly, I seized

him by the throat. He looked at me with terror in his eyes—such eyes! He

held my wrists in his little hands and his body writhed like a feather

over the fire. Then he moved no more. I threw the body in the ditch, and

some weeds on top of it. I returned home, and dined well. What a little

thing it was! In the evening I was very gay, light, rejuvenated; I

passed the evening at the Prefect's. They found me witty. But I have not

seen blood! I am tranquil.

31st August. The body has been discovered. They are hunting for the

assassin. Ah! ah!

1st September. Two tramps have been arrested. Proofs are lacking.

2d September. The parents have been to see me. They wept! Ah! ah!

6th October. Nothing has been discovered. Some strolling vagabond must

have done the deed. Ah! ah! If I had seen the blood flow, it seems to me

I should be tranquil now! The desire to kill is in my blood; it is like

the passion of youth at twenty.

20th October. Yet another. I was walking by the river, after breakfast.

And I saw, under a willow, a fisherman asleep. It was noon. A spade was

standing in a potato-field near by, as if expressly, for me.

I took it. I returned; I raised it like a club, and with one blow of the

edge I cleft the fisherman's head. Oh! he bled, this one! Rose-colored

blood. It flowed into the water, quite gently. And I went away with a

grave step. If I had been seen! Ah! ah! I should have made an excellent

assassin.

25th October. The affair of the fisherman makes a great stir. His

nephew, who fished with him, is charged with the murder.

26th October. The examining magistrate affirms that the nephew is

guilty. Everybody in town believes it. Ah! ah!

27th October. The nephew makes a very poor witness. He had gone to the

village to buy bread and cheese, he declared. He swore that his uncle

had been killed in his absence! Who would believe him?

28th October. The nephew has all but confessed, they have badgered him

so. Ah! ah! justice!

15th November. There are overwhelming proofs against the nephew, who was

his uncle's heir. I shall preside at the sessions.

25th January. To death! to death! to death! I have had him condemned to

death! Ah! ah! The advocate-general spoke like an angel! Ah! ah! Yet

another! I shall go to see him executed!

10th March. It is done. They guillotined him this morning. He died very

well! very well! That gave me pleasure! How fine it is to see a man's

head cut off!

Now, I shall wait, I can wait. It would take such a little thing to let

myself be caught.

The manuscript contained yet other pages, but without relating any new

crime.

Alienist physicians to whom the awful story has been submitted declare

that there are in the world many undiscovered madmen as adroit and as

much to be feared as this monstrous lunatic.

THE MASK

There was a masquerade ball at the Elysee-Montmartre that evening. It

was the 'Mi-Careme', and the crowds were pouring into the brightly

lighted passage which leads to the dance ball, like water flowing

through the open lock of a canal. The loud call of the orchestra,

bursting like a storm of sound, shook the rafters, swelled through the

whole neighborhood and awoke, in the streets and in the depths of the

houses, an irresistible desire to jump, to get warm, to have fun, which

slumbers within each human animal.

The patrons came from every quarter of Paris; there were people of all

classes who love noisy pleasures, a little low and tinged with debauch.

There were clerks and girls—girls of every description, some wearing

common cotton, some the finest batiste; rich girls, old and covered with

diamonds, and poor girls of sixteen, full of the desire to revel, to

belong to men, to spend money. Elegant black evening suits, in search of

fresh or faded but appetizing novelty, wandering through the excited

crowds, looking, searching, while the masqueraders seemed moved above

all by the desire for amusement. Already the far-famed quadrilles had

attracted around them a curious crowd. The moving hedge which encircled

the four dancers swayed in and out like a snake, sometimes nearer and

sometimes farther away, according to the motions of the performers. The

two women, whose lower limbs seemed to be attached to their bodies by

rubber springs, were making wonderful and surprising motions with their

legs. Their partners hopped and skipped about, waving their arms about.

One could imagine their panting breath beneath their masks.

One of them, who had taken his place in the most famous quadrille, as

substitute for an absent celebrity, the handsome “Songe-au-Gosse,” was

trying to keep up with the tireless “Arete-de-Veau” and was making

strange fancy steps which aroused the joy and sarcasm of the audience.

He was thin, dressed like a dandy, with a pretty varnished mask on his

face. It had a curly blond mustache and a wavy wig. He looked like a wax

figure from the Musee Grevin, like a strange and fantastic caricature of

the charming young man of fashion plates, and he danced with visible

effort, clumsily, with a comical impetuosity. He appeared rusty beside

the others when he tried to imitate their gambols: he seemed overcome by

rheumatism, as heavy as a great Dane playing with greyhounds. Mocking

bravos encouraged him. And he, carried away with enthusiasm, jigged

about with such frenzy that suddenly, carried away by a wild spurt, he

pitched head foremost into the living wall formed by the audience, which

opened up before him to allow him to pass, then closed around the

inanimate body of the dancer, stretched out on his face.

Some men picked him up and carried him away, calling for a doctor. A

gentleman stepped forward, young and elegant, in well-fitting evening

clothes, with large pearl studs. “I am a professor of the Faculty of

Medicine,” he said in a modest voice. He was allowed to pass, and he

entered a small room full of little cardboard boxes, where the still

lifeless dancer had been stretched out on some chairs. The doctor at

first wished to take off the mask, and he noticed that it was attached

in a complicated manner, with a perfect network of small metal wires

which cleverly bound it to his wig and covered the whole head. Even the

neck was imprisoned in a false skin which continued the chin and was

painted the color of flesh, being attached to the collar of the shirt.

All this had to be cut with strong scissors. When the physician had slit

open this surprising arrangement, from the shoulder to the temple, he

opened this armor and found the face of an old man, worn out, thin and

wrinkled. The surprise among those who had brought in this seemingly

young dancer was so great that no one laughed, no one said a word.

All were watching this sad face as he lay on the straw chairs, his eyes

closed, his face covered with white hair, some long, falling from the

forehead over the face, others short, growing around the face and the

chin, and beside this poor head, that pretty little, neat varnished,

smiling mask.

The man regained consciousness after being inanimate for a long time,

but he still seemed to be so weak and sick that the physician feared

some dangerous complication. He asked: “Where do you live?”

The old dancer seemed to be making an effort to remember, and then he

mentioned the name of the street, which no one knew. He was asked for

more definite information about the neighborhood. He answered with a

great slowness, indecision and difficulty, which revealed his upset

state of mind. The physician continued:

“I will take you home myself.”

Curiosity had overcome him to find out who this strange dancer, this

phenomenal jumper might be. Soon the two rolled away in a cab to the

other side of Montmartre.

They stopped before a high building of poor appearance. They went up a

winding staircase. The doctor held to the banister, which was so grimy

that the hand stuck to it, and he supported the dizzy old man, whose

forces were beginning to return. They stopped at the fourth floor.

The door at which they had knocked was opened by an old woman, neat

looking, with a white nightcap enclosing a thin face with sharp

features, one of those good, rough faces of a hard-working and faithful

woman. She cried out:

“For goodness sake! What's the matter?”

He told her the whole affair in a few words. She became reassured and

even calmed the physician himself by telling him that the same thing had

happened many times. She said: “He must be put to bed, monsieur, that is

all. Let him sleep and tomorrow he will be all right.”

The doctor continued: “But he can hardly speak.”

“Oh! that's just a little drink, nothing more; he has eaten no dinner,

in order to be nimble, and then he took a few absinthes in order to work

himself up to the proper pitch. You see, drink gives strength to his

legs, but it stops his thoughts and words. He is too old to dance as he

does. Really, his lack of common sense is enough to drive one mad!”

The doctor, surprised, insisted:

“But why does he dance like that at his age?”

She shrugged her shoulders and turned red from the anger which was

slowly rising within her and she cried out:

“Ah! yes, why? So that the people will think him young under his mask;

so that the women will still take him for a young dandy and whisper

nasty things into his ears; so that he can rub up against all their

dirty skins, with their perfumes and powders and cosmetics. Ah! it's a

fine business! What a life I have had for the last forty years! But we

must first get him to bed, so that he may have no ill effects. Would you

mind helping me? When he is like that I can't do anything with him

alone.”

The old man was sitting on his bed, with a tipsy look, his long white

hair falling over his face. His companion looked at him with tender yet

indignant eyes. She continued:

“Just see the fine head he has for his age, and yet he has to go and

disguise himself in order to make people think that he is young. It's a

perfect shame! Really, he has a fine head, monsieur! Wait, I'll show it

to you before putting him to bed.”

She went to a table on which stood the washbasin a pitcher of water,

soap and a comb and brush. She took the brush, returned to the bed and

pushed back the drunkard's tangled hair. In a few seconds she made him

look like a model fit for a great painter, with his long white locks

flowing on his neck. Then she stepped back in order to observe him,

saying: “There! Isn't he fine for his age?”

“Very,” agreed the doctor, who was beginning to be highly amused.

She added: “And if you had known him when he was twenty-five! But we

must get him to bed, otherwise the drink will make him sick. Do you mind

drawing off that sleeve? Higher-like that-that's right. Now the

trousers. Wait, I will take his shoes off—that's right. Now, hold him

upright while I open the bed. There—let us put him in. If you think that

he is going to disturb himself when it is time for me to get in you are

mistaken. I have to find a little corner any place I can. That doesn't

bother him! Bah! You old pleasure seeker!”

As soon as he felt himself stretched out in his sheets the old man

closed his eyes, opened them closed them again, and over his whole face

appeared an energetic resolve to sleep. The doctor examined him with an

ever-increasing interest and asked: “Does he go to all the fancy balls

and try to be a young man?” “To all of them, monsieur, and he comes back

to me in the morning in a deplorable condition. You see, it's regret

that leads him on and that makes him put a pasteboard face over his own.

Yes, the regret of no longer being what he was and of no longer making

any conquests!”

He was sleeping now and beginning to snore. She looked at him with a

pitying expression and continued: “Oh! how many conquests that man has

made! More than one could believe, monsieur, more than the finest

gentlemen of the world, than all the tenors and all the generals.”

“Really? What did he do?”

“Oh! it will surprise you at first, as you did not know him in his palmy

days. When I met him it was also at a ball, for he has always frequented

them. As soon as I saw him I was caught—caught like a fish on a hook.

Ah! how pretty he was, monsieur, with his curly raven locks and black

eyes as large as saucers! Indeed, he was good looking! He took me away

that evening and I never have left him since, never, not even for a day,

no matter what he did to me! Oh! he has often made it hard for me!”

The doctor asked: “Are you married?”

She answered simply: “Yes, monsieur, otherwise he would have dropped me

as he did the others. I have been his wife and his servant, everything,

everything that he wished. How he has made me cry—tears which I did not

show him; for he would tell all his adventures to me—to me,

monsieur—without understanding how it hurt me to listen.”

“But what was his business?”

“That's so. I forgot to tell you. He was the foreman at Martel's—a

foreman such as they never had had—an artist who averaged ten francs an

hour.”

“Martel?—who is Martel?”

“The hairdresser, monsieur, the great hairdresser of the Opera, who had

all the actresses for customers. Yes, sir, all the smartest actresses

had their hair dressed by Ambrose and they would give him tips that made

a fortune for him. Ah! monsieur, all the women are alike, yes, all of

them. When a man pleases their fancy they offer themselves to him. It is

so easy—and it hurt me so to hear about it. For he would tell me

everything—he simply could not hold his tongue—it was impossible. Those

things please the men so much! They seem to get even more enjoyment out

of telling than doing.

“When I would see him coming in the evening, a little pale, with a

pleased look and a bright eye, would say to myself: 'One more. I am sure

that he has caught one more.' Then I felt a wild desire to question him

and then, again, not to know, to stop his talking if he should begin.

And we would look at each other.

“I knew that he would not keep still, that he would come to the point. I

could feel that from his manner, which seemed to laugh and say: 'I had a

fine adventure to-day, Madeleine.' I would pretend to notice nothing, to

guess nothing; I would set the table, bring on the soup and sit down

opposite him.

“At those times, monsieur, it was as if my friendship for him had been

crushed in my body as with a stone. It hurt. But he did not understand;

he did not know; he felt a need to tell all those things to some one, to

boast, to show how much he was loved, and I was the only one he had to

whom he could talk-the only one. And I would have to listen and drink it

in, like poison.

“He would begin to take his soup and then he would say: 'One more,

Madeleine.'

“And I would think: 'Here it comes! Goodness! what a man! Why did I ever

meet him?'

“Then he would begin: 'One more! And a beauty, too.' And it would be

some little one from the Vaudeville or else from the Varietes, and some

of the big ones, too, some of the most famous. He would tell me their

names, how their apartments were furnished, everything, everything,

monsieur. Heartbreaking details. And he would go over them and tell his

story over again from beginning to end, so pleased with himself that I

would pretend to laugh so that he would not get angry with me.

“Everything may not have been true! He liked to glorify himself and was

quite capable of inventing such things! They may perhaps also have been

true! On those evenings he would pretend to be tired and wish to go to

bed after supper. We would take supper at eleven, monsieur, for he could

never get back from work earlier.