The Guy De Maupassant Megapack: 144 Novels and Short Stories

by Guy de Maupassant

  Then he became afraid of his bed, and to avoid seeing it went to his smoking-room. He mechanically took a cigar, lighted it, and began walking back and forth. He was cold; he took a step toward the bell, to wake his valet, but stopped with hand raised toward the bell rope.

  “He would see that I am afraid!”

  And, instead of ringing, he made a fire himself. His hands quivered nervously as they touched various objects. His head grew dizzy, his thoughts confused, disjointed, painful; a numbness seized his spirit, as if he had been drinking.

  And all the time he kept on saying:

  “What shall I do? What will become of me?”

  His whole body trembled spasmodically; he rose, and, going to the window, drew back the curtains.

  The day—a summer day—was breaking. The pink sky cast a glow on the city, its roofs, and its walls. A flush of light enveloped the awakened world, like a caress from the rising sun, and the glimmer of dawn kindled new hope in the breast of the vicomte. What a fool he was to let himself succumb to fear before anything was decided—before his seconds had interviewed those of Georges Lamil, before he even knew whether he would have to fight or not!

  He bathed, dressed, and left the house with a firm step.

  He repeated as he went:

  “I must be firm—very firm. I must show that I am not afraid.”

  His seconds, the marquis and the colonel, placed themselves at his disposal, and, having shaken him warmly by the hand, began to discuss details.

  “You want a serious duel?” asked the colonel.

  “Yes—quite serious,” replied the vicomte.

  “You insist on pistols?” put in the marquis.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you leave all the other arrangements in our hands?”

  With a dry, jerky voice the vicomte answered:

  “Twenty paces—at a given signal—the arm to be raised, not lowered—shots to be exchanged until one or other is seriously wounded.”

  “Excellent conditions,” declared the colonel in a satisfied tone. “You are a good shot; all the chances are in your favor.”

  And they parted. The vicomte returned home to, wait for them. His agitation, only temporarily allayed, now increased momentarily. He felt, in arms, legs and chest, a sort of trembling—a continuous vibration; he could not stay still, either sitting or standing. His mouth was parched, and he made every now and then a clicking movement of the tongue, as if to detach it from his palate.

  He attempted, to take luncheon, but could not eat. Then it occurred to him to seek courage in drink, and he sent for a decanter of rum, of which he swallowed, one after another, six small glasses.

  A burning warmth, followed by a deadening of the mental faculties, ensued. He said to himself:

  “I know how to manage. Now it will be all right!”

  But at the end of an hour he had emptied the decanter, and his agitation was worse than ever. A mad longing possessed him to throw himself on the ground, to bite, to scream. Night fell.

  A ring at the bell so unnerved him that he had not the strength to rise to receive his seconds.

  He dared not even to speak to them, wish them good-day, utter a single word, lest his changed voice should betray him.

  “All is arranged as you wished,” said the colonel. “Your adversary claimed at first the privilege of the offended part; but he yielded almost at once, and accepted your conditions. His seconds are two military men.”

  “Thank you,” said the vicomte.

  The marquis added:

  “Please excuse us if we do not stay now, for we have a good deal to see to yet. We shall want a reliable doctor, since the duel is not to end until a serious wound has been inflicted; and you know that bullets are not to be trifled with. We must select a spot near some house to which the wounded party can be carried if necessary. In fact, the arrangements will take us another two or three hours at least.”

  The vicomte articulated for the second time:

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re all right?” asked the colonel. “Quite calm?”

  “Perfectly calm, thank you.”

  The two men withdrew.

  When he was once more alone he felt as though he should go mad. His servant having lighted the lamps, he sat down at his table to write some letters. When he had traced at the top of a sheet of paper the words: “This is my last will and testament,” he started from his seat, feeling himself incapable of connected thought, of decision in regard to anything.

  So he was going to fight! He could no longer avoid it. What, then, possessed him? He wished to fight, he was fully determined to fight, and yet, in spite of all his mental effort, in spite of the exertion of all his will power, he felt that he could not even preserve the strength necessary to carry him through the ordeal. He tried to conjure up a picture of the duel, his own attitude, and that of his enemy.

  Every now and then his teeth chattered audibly. He thought he would read, and took down Chateauvillard’s Rules of Dueling. Then he said:

  “Is the other man practiced in the use of the pistol? Is he well known? How can I find out?”

  He remembered Baron de Vaux’s book on marksmen, and searched it from end to end. Georges Lamil was not mentioned. And yet, if he were not an adept, would he have accepted without demur such a dangerous weapon and such deadly conditions?

  He opened a case of Gastinne Renettes which stood on a small table, and took from it a pistol. Next he stood in the correct attitude for firing, and raised his arm. But he was trembling from head to foot, and the weapon shook in his grasp.

  Then he said to himself:

  “It is impossible. I cannot fight like this.”

  He looked at the little black, death-spitting hole at the end of the pistol; he thought of dishonor, of the whispers at the clubs, the smiles in his friends’ drawing-rooms, the contempt of women, the veiled sneers of the newspapers, the insults that would be hurled at him by cowards.

  He still looked at the weapon, and raising the hammer, saw the glitter of the priming below it. The pistol had been left loaded by some chance, some oversight. And the discovery rejoiced him, he knew not why.

  If he did not maintain, in presence of his opponent, the steadfast bearing which was so necessary to his honor, he would be ruined forever. He would be branded, stigmatized as a coward, hounded out of society! And he felt, he knew, that he could not maintain that calm, unmoved demeanor. And yet he was brave, since the thought that followed was not even rounded to a finish in his mind; but, opening his mouth wide, he suddenly plunged the barrel of the pistol as far back as his throat, and pressed the trigger.

  When the valet, alarmed at the report, rushed into the room he found his master lying dead upon his back. A spurt of blood had splashed the white paper on the table, and had made a great crimson stain beneath the words:

  “This is my last will and testament.”

  OLD MONGILET

  In the office old Mongilet was considered a type. He was a good old employee, who had never been outside Paris but once in his life.

  It was the end of July, and each of us, every Sunday, went to roll in the grass, or soak in the water in the country near by. Asnieres, Argenteuil, Chatou, Borgival, Maisons, Poissy, had their habitues and their ardent admirers. We argued about the merits and advantages of all these places, celebrated and delightful to all Parsian employees.

  Daddy Mongilet declared:

  “You are like a lot of sheep! It must be pretty, this country you talk of!”

  “Well, how about you, Mongilet? Don’t you ever go on an excursion?”

  “Yes, indeed. I go in an omnibus. When I have had a good luncheon, without any hurry, at the wine shop down there, I look up my route with a plan of Paris, and the time table of the lines and connections. And then I climb up on the box, open my umbrella and off we go. Oh, I see lots of things, more than you, I bet! I change my surroundings. It is as though I were taking a journey across the world, the people are so different in
one street and another. I know my Paris better than anyone. And then, there is nothing more amusing than the entresols. You would not believe what one sees in there at a glance. One guesses at domestic scenes simply at sight of the face of a man who is roaring; one is amused on passing by a barber’s shop, to see the barber leave his customer whose face is covered with lather to look out in the street. One exchanges heartfelt glances with the milliners just for fun, as one has no time to alight. Ah, how many things one sees!

  “It is the drama, the real, the true, the drama of nature, seen as the horses trot by. Heavens! I would not give my excursions in the omnibus for all your stupid excursions in the woods.”

  “Come and try it, Mongilet, come to the country once just to see.”

  “I was there once,” he replied, “twenty years ago, and you will never catch me there again.”

  “Tell us about it, Mongilet.”

  “If you wish to hear it. This is how it was:

  “You knew Boivin, the old editorial clerk, whom we called Boileau?”

  “Yes, perfectly.”

  “He was my office chum. The rascal had a house at Colombes and always invited me to spend Sunday with him. He would say:

  “‘Come along, Maculotte [he called me Maculotte for fun]. You will see what a nice excursion we will take.’

  “I let myself be entrapped like an animal, and set out, one morning by the 8 o’clock train. I arrived at a kind of town, a country town where there is nothing to see, and I at length found my way to an old wooden door with an iron bell, at the end of an alley between two walls.

  “I rang, and waited a long time, and at last the door was opened. What was it that opened it? I could not tell at the first glance. A woman or an ape? The creature was old, ugly, covered with old clothes that looked dirty and wicked. It had chicken’s feathers in its hair and looked as though it would devour me.

  “‘What do you want?’ she said.

  “‘Mr. Boivin.’

  “‘What do you want of him, of Mr. Boivin?’

  “I felt ill at ease on being questioned by this fury. I stammered: ‘Why—he expects me.’

  “‘Ah, it is you who have come to luncheon?’

  “‘Yes,’ I stammered, trembling.

  “Then, turning toward the house, she cried in an angry tone:

  “‘Boivin, here is your man!’

  “It was my friend’s wife. Little Boivin appeared immediately on the threshold of a sort of barrack of plaster covered with zinc, that looked like a foot stove. He wore white duck trousers covered with stains and a dirty Panama hat.

  “After shaking my hands warmly, he took me into what he called his garden. It was at the end of another alleyway enclosed by high walls and was a little square the size of a pocket handkerchief, surrounded by houses that were so high that the sun, could reach it only two or three hours in the day. Pansies, pinks, wallflowers and a few rose bushes were languishing in this well without air, and hot as an oven from the refraction of heat from the roofs.

  “‘I have no trees,’ said Boivin, ‘but the neighbors’ walls take their place. I have as much shade as in a wood.’

  “Then he took hold of a button of my coat and said in a low tone:

  “‘You can do me a service. You saw the wife. She is not agreeable, eh? Today, as I had invited you, she gave me clean clothes; but if I spot them all is lost. I counted on you to water my plants.’

  “I agreed. I took off my coat, rolled up my sleeves, and began to work the handle of a kind of pump that wheezed, puffed and rattled like a consumptive as it emitted a thread of water like a Wallace drinking fountain. It took me ten minutes to water it and I was in a bath of perspiration. Boivin directed me:

  “‘Here—this plant—a little more; enough—now this one.’

  “The watering pot leaked and my feet got more water than the flowers. The bottoms of my trousers were soaking and covered with mud. And twenty times running I kept it up, soaking my feet afresh each time, and perspiring anew as I worked the handle of the pump. And when I was tired out and wanted to stop, Boivin, in a tone of entreaty, said as he put his hand on my arm:

  “Just one more watering pot full—just one, and that will be all.’

  “To thank me he gave me a rose, a big rose, but hardly had it touched my button-hole than it fell to pieces, leaving only a hard little green knot as a decoration. I was surprised, but said nothing.

  “Mme. Boivin’s voice was heard in the distance:

  “‘Are you ever coming? When you know that luncheon is ready!’

  “We went toward the foot stove. If the garden was in the shade, the house, on the other hand, was in the blazing sun, and the sweating room in the Turkish bath is not as hot as was my friend’s dining room.

  “Three plates at the side of which were some half-washed forks, were placed on a table of yellow wood in the middle of which stood an earthenware dish containing boiled beef and potatoes. We began to eat.

  “A large water bottle full of water lightly colored with wine attracted my attention. Boivin, embarrassed, said to his wife:

  “‘See here, my dear, just on a special occasion, are you not going to give us some plain wine?’

  “She looked at him furiously.

  “‘So that you may both get tipsy, is that it, and stay here gabbing all day? A fig for your special occasion!’

  “He said no more. After the stew she brought in another dish of potatoes cooked with bacon. When this dish was finished, still in silence, she announced:

  “‘That is all! Now get out!’

  “Boivin looked at her in astonishment.

  “‘But the pigeon—the pigeon you plucked this morning?’

  “She put her hands on her hips:

  “‘Perhaps you have not had enough? Because you bring people here is no reason why we should devour all that there is in the house. What is there for me to eat this evening?’

  “We rose. Solvin whispered

  “‘Wait for me a second, and we will skip.’

  “He went into the kitchen where his wife had gone, and I overheard him say:

  “‘Give me twenty sous, my dear.’

  “‘What do you want with twenty sons?’

  “‘Why, one does not know what may happen. It is always better to have some money.’

  “She yelled so that I should hear:

  “‘No, I will not give it to you! As the man has had luncheon here, the least he can do is to pay your expenses for the day.’

  “Boivin came back to fetch me. As I wished to be polite I bowed to the mistress of the house, stammering:

  “‘Madame—many thanks—kind welcome.’

  “‘That’s all right,’ she replied. ‘But do not bring him back drunk, for you will have to answer to me, you know!’

  “We set out. We had to cross a perfectly bare plain under the burning sun. I attempted to gather a flower along the road and gave a cry of pain. It had hurt my hand frightfully. They call these plants nettles. And, everywhere, there was a smell of manure, enough to turn your stomach.

  “Boivin said, ‘Have a little patience and we will reach the river bank.’

  “We reached the river. Here there was an odor of mud and dirty water, and the sun blazed down on the water so that it burned my eyes. I begged Boivin to go under cover somewhere. He took me into a kind of shanty filled with men, a river boatmen’s tavern.

  “He said:

  “‘This does not look very grand, but it is very comfortable.’

  “I was hungry. I ordered an omelet. But to and behold, at the second glass of wine, that beggar, Boivin, lost his head, and I understand why his wife gave him water diluted.

  “He got up, declaimed, wanted to show his strength, interfered in a quarrel between two drunken men who were fighting, and, but for the landlord, who came to the rescue, we should both have been killed.

  “I dragged him away, holding him up until we reached the first bush where I deposited him. I lay down beside him and, it
seems, I fell asleep. We must certainly have slept a long time, for it was dark when I awoke. Boivin was snoring at my side. I shook him; he rose but he was still drunk, though a little less so.

  “We set out through the darkness across the plain. Boivin said he knew the way. He made me turn to the left, then to the right, then to the left. We could see neither sky nor earth, and found ourselves lost in the midst of a kind of forest of wooden stakes, that came as high as our noses. It was a vineyard and these were the supports. There was not a single light on the horizon. We wandered about in this vineyard for about an hour or two, hesitating, reaching out our arms without finding any limit, for we kept retracing our steps.

  “At length Boivin fell against a stake that tore his cheek and he remained in a sitting posture on the ground, uttering with all his might long and resounding hallos, while I screamed ‘Help! Help!’ as loud as I could, lighting candle-matches to show the way to our rescuers, and also to keep up my courage.

  “At last a belated peasant heard us and put us on our right road. I took Boivin to his home, but as I was leaving him on the threshold of his garden, the door opened suddenly and his wife appeared, a candle in her hand. She frightened me horribly.

  “As soon as she saw her husband, whom she must have been waiting for since dark, she screamed, as she darted toward me:

  “‘Ah, scoundrel, I knew you would bring him back drunk!’

  “My, how I made my escape, running all the way to the station, and as I thought the fury was pursuing me I shut myself in an inner room as the train was not due for half an hour.

  “That is why I never married, and why I never go out of Paris.”

  MOONLIGHT

  Madame Julie Roubere was expecting her elder sister, Madame Henriette Letore, who had just returned from a trip to Switzerland.

  The Letore household had left nearly five weeks before. Madame Henriette had allowed her husband to return alone to their estate in Calvados, where some business required his attention, and had come to spend a few days in Paris with her sister. Night came on. In the quiet parlor Madame Roubere was reading in the twilight in an absent-minded way, raising her, eyes whenever she heard a sound.