What had become of Denis? He had probably escaped.
But what could he, Marambot, do now? Get up? Call for help? But if he should make the slightest motions, his wounds would undoubtedly open up again and he would die from loss of blood.
Suddenly he heard the door of his room open. His heart almost stopped. It was certainly Denis who was coming to finish him up. He held his breath in order to make the murderer think that he had been successful.
He felt his sheet being lifted up, and then someone feeling his stomach. A sharp pain near his hip made him start. He was being very gently washed with cold water. Therefore, someone must have discovered the misdeed and he was being cared for. A wild joy seized him; but prudently, he did not wish to show that he was conscious. He opened one eye, just one, with the greatest precaution.
He recognized Denis standing beside him, Denis himself! Mercy! He hastily closed his eye again.
Denis! What could he be doing? What did he want? What awful scheme could he now be carrying out?
What was he doing? Well, he was washing him in order to hide the traces of his crime! And he would now bury him in the garden, under ten feet of earth, so that no one could discover him! Or perhaps under the wine cellar! And M. Marambot began to tremble like a leaf. He kept saying to himself: “I am lost, lost!” He closed his eyes so as not to see the knife as it descended for the final stroke. It did not come. Denis was now lifting him up and bandaging him. Then he began carefully to dress the wound on his leg, as his master had taught him to do.
There was no longer any doubt. His servant, after wishing to kill him, was trying to save him.
Then M. Marambot, in a dying voice, gave him the practical piece of advice:
“Wash the wounds in a dilute solution of carbolic acid!”
Denis answered:
“This is what I am doing, monsieur.”
M. Marambot opened both his eyes. There was no sign of blood either on the bed, on the walls, or on the murderer. The wounded man was stretched out on clean white sheets.
The two men looked at each other.
Finally M. Marambot said calmly:
“You have been guilty of a great crime.”
Denis answered:
“I am trying to make up for it, monsieur. If you will not tell on me, I will serve you as faithfully as in the past.”
This was no time to anger his servant. M. Marambot murmured as he closed his eyes:
“I swear not to tell on you.”
Denis saved his master. He spent days and nights without sleep, never leaving the sick room, preparing drugs, broths, potions, feeling his pulse, anxiously counting the beats, attending him with the skill of a trained nurse and the devotion of a son.
He continually asked:
“Well, monsieur, how do you feel?”
M. Marambot would answer in a weak voice:
“A little better, my boy, thank you.”
And when the sick man would wake up at night, he would often see his servant seated in an armchair, weeping silently.
Never had the old druggist been so cared for, so fondled, so spoiled. At first he had said to himself:
“As soon as I am well I shall get rid of this rascal.”
He was now convalescing, and from day to day he would put off dismissing his murderer. He thought that no one would ever show him such care and attention, for he held this man through fear; and he warned him that he had left a document with a lawyer denouncing him to the law if any new accident should occur.
This precaution seemed to guarantee him against any future attack; and he then asked himself if it would not be wiser to keep this man near him, in order to watch him closely.
Just as formerly, when he would hesitate about taking some larger place of business, he could not make up his mind to any decision.
“There is always time,” he would say to himself.
Denis continued to show himself an admirable servant. M. Marambot was well. He kept him.
One morning, just as he was finishing breakfast, he suddenly heard a great noise in the kitchen. He hastened in there. Denis was struggling with two gendarmes. An officer was taking notes on his pad.
As soon as he saw his master, the servant began to sob, exclaiming:
“You told on me, monsieur, that’s not right, after what you had promised me. You have broken your word of honor, Monsieur Marambot; that is not right, that’s not right!”
M. Marambot, bewildered and distressed at being suspected, lifted his hand:
“I swear to you before the Lord, my boy that I did not tell on you. I haven’t the slightest idea how the police could have found out about your attack on me.”
The officer started:
“You say that he attacked you, M. Marambot?”
The bewildered druggist answered:
“Yes—but I did not tell on him—I haven’t said a word—I swear it—he has served me excellently from that time on—”
The officer pronounced severely:
“I will take down your testimony. The law will take notice of this new action, of which it was ignorant, Monsieur Marambot. I was commissioned to arrest your servant for the theft of two ducks surreptitiously taken by him from M. Duhamel of which act there are witnesses. I shall make a note of your information.”
Then, turning toward his men, he ordered:
“Come on, bring him along!”
The two gendarmes dragged Denis out.
The lawyer used a plea of insanity, contrasting the two misdeeds in order to strengthen his argument. He had clearly proved that the theft of the two ducks came from the same mental condition as the eight knife-wounds in the body of Maramlot. He had cunningly analyzed all the phases of this transitory condition of mental aberration, which could, doubtless, be cured by a few months’ treatment in a reputable sanatorium. He had spoken in enthusiastic terms of the continued devotion of this faithful servant, of the care with which he had surrounded his master, wounded by him in a moment of alienation.
Touched by this memory, M. Marambot felt the tears rising to his eyes.
The lawyer noticed it, opened his arms with a broad gesture, spreading out the long black sleeves of his robe like the wings of a bat, and exclaimed:
“Look, look, gentleman of the jury, look at those tears. What more can I say for my client? What speech, what argument, what reasoning would be worth these tears of his master? They, speak louder than I do, louder than the law; they cry: ‘Mercy, for the poor wandering mind of a while ago! They implore, they pardon, they bless!”
He was silent and sat down.
Then the judge, turning to Marambot, whose testimony had been excellent for his servant, asked him:
“But, monsieur, even admitting that you consider this man insane, that does not explain why you should have kept him. He was none the less dangerous.”
Marambot, wiping his eyes, answered:
“Well, your honor, what can you expect? Nowadays it’s so hard to find good servants—I could never have found a better one.”
Denis was acquitted and put in a sanatorium at his master’s expense.
MY WIFE
It had been a stag dinner. These men still came together once in a while without their wives as they had done when they were bachelors. They would eat for a long time, drink for a long time; they would talk of everything, stir up those old and joyful memories which bring a smile to the lip and a tremor to the heart. One of them was saying: “Georges, do you remember our excursion to Saint-Germain with those two little girls from Montmartre?”
“I should say I do!”
And a little detail here or there would be remembered, and all these things brought joy to the hearts.
The conversation turned on marriage, and each one said with a sincere air: “Oh, if it were to do over again!” Georges Duportin added: “It’s strange how easily one falls into it. You have fully decided never to marry; and then, in the springtime, you go to the country; the weather is warm; the summer is beautif
ul; the fields are full of flowers; you meet a young girl at some friend’s house—crash! all is over. You return married!”
Pierre Letoile exclaimed: “Correct! that is exactly my case, only there were some peculiar incidents—”
His friend interrupted him: “As for you, you have no cause to complain. You have the most charming wife in the world, pretty, amiable, perfect! You are undoubtedly the happiest one of us all.”
The other one continued: “It’s not my fault.”
“How so?”
“It is true that I have a perfect wife, but I certainly married her much against my will.”
“Nonsense!”
“Yes—this is the adventure. I was thirty-five, and I had no more idea of marrying than I had of hanging myself. Young girls seemed to me to be inane, and I loved pleasure.
“During the month of May I was invited to the wedding of my cousin, Simon d’Erabel, in Normandy. It was a regular Normandy wedding. We sat down at the table at five o’clock in the evening and at eleven o’clock we were still eating. I had been paired off, for the occasion, with a Mademoiselle Dumoulin, daughter of a retired colonel, a young, blond, soldierly person, well formed, frank and talkative. She took complete possession of me for the whole day, dragged me into the park, made me dance willy-nilly, bored me to death. I said to myself: ‘That’s all very well for today, but tomorrow I’ll get out. That’s all there is to it!’
“Toward eleven o’clock at night the women retired to their rooms; the men stayed, smoking while they drank or drinking while they smoked, whichever you will.
“Through the open window we could see the country folks dancing. Farmers and peasant girls were jumping about in a circle yelling at the top of their lungs a dance air which was feebly accompanied by two violins and a clarinet. The wild song of the peasants often completely drowned the sound of the instruments, and the weak music, interrupted by the unrestrained voices, seemed to come to us in little fragments of scattered notes. Two enormous casks, surrounded by flaming torches, contained drinks for the crowd. Two men were kept busy rinsing the glasses or bowls in a bucket and immediately holding them under the spigots, from which flowed the red stream of wine or the golden stream of pure cider; and the parched dancers, the old ones quietly, the girls panting, came up, stretched out their arms and grasped some receptacle, threw back their heads and poured down their throats the drink which they preferred. On a table were bread, butter, cheese and sausages. Each one would step up from time to time and swallow a mouthful, and under the starlit sky this healthy and violent exercise was a pleasing sight, and made one also feel like drinking from these enormous casks and eating the crisp bread and butter with a raw onion.
“A mad desire seized me to take part in this merrymaking, and I left my companions. I must admit that I was probably a little tipsy, but I was soon entirely so.
“I grabbed the hand of a big, panting peasant woman and I jumped her about until I was out of breath.
“Then I drank some wine and reached for another girl. In order to refresh myself afterward, I swallowed a bowlful of cider, and I began to bounce around as if possessed.
“I was very light on my feet. The boys, delighted, were watching me and trying to imitate me; the girls all wished to dance with me, and jumped about heavily with the grace of cows.
“After each dance I drank a glass of wine or a glass of cider, and toward two o’clock in the morning I was so drunk that I could hardly stand up.
“I realized my condition and tried to reach my room. Everybody was asleep and the house was silent and dark.
“I had no matches and everybody was in bed. As soon as I reached the vestibule I began to, feel dizzy. I had a lot of trouble to find the banister. At last, by accident, my hand came in contact with it, and I sat down on the first step of the stairs in order to try to gather my scattered wits.
“My room was on the second floor; it was the third door to the left. Fortunately I had not forgotten that. Armed with this knowledge, I arose, not without difficulty, and I began to ascend, step by step. In my hands I firmly gripped the iron railing in order not to fall, and took great pains to make no noise.
“Only three or four times did my foot miss the steps, and I went down on my knees; but thanks to the energy of my arms and the strength of my will, I avoided falling completely.
“At last I reached the second floor and I set out in my journey along the hall, feeling my way by the walls. I felt one door; I counted: ‘One’; but a sudden dizziness made me lose my hold on the wall, make a strange turn and fall up against the other wall. I wished to turn in a straight line: The crossing was long and full of hardships. At last I reached the shore, and, prudently, I began to travel along again until I met another door. In order to be sure to make no mistake, I again counted out loud: ‘Two.’ I started out on my walk again. At last I found the third door. I said: ‘Three, that’s my room,’ and I turned the knob. The door opened. Notwithstanding my befuddled state, I thought: ‘Since the door opens, this must be home.’ After softly closing the door, I stepped out in the darkness. I bumped against something soft: my easy-chair. I immediately stretched myself out on it.
“In my condition it would not have been wise to look for my bureau, my candles, my matches. It would have taken me at least two hours. It would probably have taken me that long also to undress; and even then I might not have succeeded. I gave it up.
“I only took my shoes off; I unbuttoned my waistcoat, which was choking me, I loosened my trousers and went to sleep.
“This undoubtedly lasted for a long time. I was suddenly awakened by a deep voice which was saying: ‘What, you lazy girl, still in bed? It’s ten o’clock!’
“A woman’s voice answered: ‘Already! I was so tired yesterday.’
“In bewilderment I wondered what this dialogue meant. Where was I? What had I done? My mind was wandering, still surrounded by a heavy fog. The first voice continued: ‘I’m going to raise your curtains.’
“I heard steps approaching me. Completely at a loss what to do, I sat up. Then a hand was placed on my head. I started. The voice asked: ‘Who is there?’ I took good care not to answer. A furious grasp seized me. I in turn seized him, and a terrific struggle ensued. We were rolling around, knocking over the furniture and crashing against the walls. A woman’s voice was shrieking: ‘Help! help!’
“Servants, neighbors, frightened women crowded around us. The blinds were open and the shades drawn. I was struggling with Colonel Dumoulin.
“I had slept beside his daughter’s bed!
“When we were separated, I escaped to my room, dumbfounded. I locked myself in and sat down with my feet on a chair, for my shoes had been left in the young girl’s room.
“I heard a great noise through the whole house, doors being opened and closed, whisperings and rapid steps.
“After half an hour some one knocked on my door. I cried: ‘Who is there?’ It was my uncle, the bridegroom’s father. I opened the door:
“He was pale and furious, and he treated me harshly: ‘You have behaved like a scoundrel in my house, do you hear?’ Then he added more gently ‘But, you young fool, why the devil did you let yourself get caught at ten o’clock in the morning? You go to sleep like a log in that room, instead of leaving immediately—immediately after.’
“I exclaimed: ‘But, uncle, I assure you that nothing occurred. I was drunk and got into the wrong room.’
“He shrugged his shoulders! ‘Don’t talk nonsense.’ I raised my hand, exclaiming: ‘I swear to you on my honor.’ My uncle continued: ‘Yes, that’s all right. It’s your duty to say that.’
“I in turn grew angry and told him the whole unfortunate occurrence. He looked at me with a bewildered expression, not knowing what to believe. Then he went out to confer with the colonel.
“I heard that a kind of jury of the mothers had been formed, to which were submitted the different phases of the situation.
“He came back an hour later, sat down with the di
gnity of a judge and began: ‘No matter what may be the situation, I can see only one way out of it for you; it is to marry Mademoiselle Dumoulin.’
“I bounded out of the chair, crying: ‘Never! never!’
“Gravely he asked: ‘Well, what do you expect to do?’
“I answered simply: ‘Why—leave as soon as my shoes are returned to me.’
“My uncle continued: ‘Please do not jest. The colonel has decided to blow your brains out as soon as he sees you. And you may be sure that he does not threaten idly. I spoke of a duel and he answered: “No, I tell you that I will blow his brains out.”’
“‘Let us now examine the question from another point of view. Either you have misbehaved yourself—and then so much the worse for you, my boy; one should not go near a young girl—or else, being drunk, as you say, you made a mistake in the room. In this case, it’s even worse for you. You shouldn’t get yourself into such foolish situations. Whatever you may say, the poor girl’s reputation is lost, for a drunkard’s excuses are never believed. The only real victim in the matter is the girl. Think it over.’
“He went away, while I cried after him: ‘Say what you will, I’ll not marry her!’
“I stayed alone for another hour. Then my aunt came. She was crying. She used every argument. No one believed my story. They could not imagine that this young girl could have forgotten to lock her door in a house full of company. The colonel had struck her. She had been crying the whole morning. It was a terrible and unforgettable scandal. And my good aunt added: ‘Ask for her hand, anyhow. We may, perhaps, find some way out of it when we are drawing up the papers.’
The Guy De Maupassant Megapack: 144 Novels and Short Stories Page 84
