The Guy De Maupassant Megapack: 144 Novels and Short Stories

by Guy de Maupassant

“Very well, then,” said he, “I will go halves with you. If we lose, I will repay you the ten thousand francs.”

  She was so pleased that she rose, took his head in both her hands, and began to kiss him eagerly. He did not resist at first, but as she grew bolder, clasping him to her and devouring him with caresses, he reflected that the other would be there shortly, and that if he yielded he would lose time and exhaust in the arms of the old woman an ardor that he had better reserve for the young one. So he repulsed her gently, saying, “Come, be good now.”

  She looked at him disconsolately, saying, “Oh, George, can’t I even kiss you?”

  He replied, “No, not today. I have a headache, and it upsets me.”

  She sat down again docilely between his knees, and asked, “Will you come and dine with us tomorrow? You would give me much pleasure.”

  He hesitated, but dared not refuse, so said, “Certainly.”

  “Thanks, darling.”

  She rubbed her cheek slowly against his breast with a regular and coaxing movement, and one of her long black hairs caught in his waistcoat. She noticed it, and a wild idea crossed her mind, one of those superstitious notions which are often the whole of a woman’s reason. She began to twist this hair gently round a button. Then she fastened another hair to the next button, and a third to the next. One to every button. He would tear them out of her head presently when he rose, and hurt her. What happiness! And he would carry away something of her without knowing it; he would carry away a tiny lock of her hair which he had never yet asked for. It was a tie by which she attached him to her, a secret, invisible bond, a talisman she left with him. Without willing it he would think of her, dream of her, and perhaps love her a little more the next day.

  He said, all at once, “I must leave you, because I am expected at the Chamber at the close of the sitting. I cannot miss attending today.”

  She sighed, “Already!” and then added, resignedly, “Go, dear, but you will come to dinner tomorrow.”

  And suddenly she drew aside. There was a short and sharp pain in her head, as though needles had been stuck into the skin. Her heart throbbed; she was pleased to have suffered a little by him. “Good-bye,” said she.

  He took her in his arms with a compassionate smile, and coldly kissed her eyes. But she, maddened by this contact, again murmured, “Already!” while her suppliant glance indicated the bedroom, the door of which was open.

  He stepped away from her, and said in a hurried tone, “I must be off; I shall be late.”

  Then she held out her lips, which he barely brushed with his, and having handed her her parasol, which she was forgetting, he continued, “Come, come, we must be quick, it is past three o’clock.”

  She went out before him, saying, “Tomorrow, at seven,” and he repeated, “Tomorrow, at seven.”

  They separated, she turning to the right and he to the left. Du Roy walked as far as the outer boulevard. Then he slowly strolled back along the Boulevard Malesherbes. Passing a pastry cook’s, he noticed some marrons glaces in a glass jar, and thought, “I will take in a pound for Clotilde.”

  He bought a bag of these sweetmeats, which she was passionately fond of, and at four o’clock returned to wait for his young mistress. She was a little late, because her husband had come home for a week, and said, “Can you come and dine with us tomorrow? He will be so pleased to see you.”

  “No, I dine with the governor. We have a heap of political and financial matters to talk over.”

  She had taken off her bonnet, and was now laying aside her bodice, which was too tight for her. He pointed out the bag on the mantel-shelf, saying, “I have bought you some marrons glaces.”

  She clapped her hands, exclaiming: “How nice; what a dear you are.”

  She took one, tasted them, and said: “They are delicious. I feel sure I shall not leave one of them.” Then she added, looking at George with sensual merriment: “You flatter all my vices, then.”

  She slowly ate the sweetmeats, looking continually into the bag to see if there were any left. “There, sit down in the armchair,” said she, “and I will squat down between your knees and nibble my bon-bons. I shall be very comfortable.”

  He smiled, sat down, and took her between his knees, as he had had Madame Walter shortly before. She raised her head in order to speak to him, and said, with her mouth full: “Do you know, darling, I dreamt of you? I dreamt that we were both taking a long journey together on a camel. He had two humps, and we were each sitting astride on a hump, crossing the desert. We had taken some sandwiches in a piece of paper and some wine in a bottle, and were dining on our humps. But it annoyed me because we could not do anything else; we were too far off from one another, and I wanted to get down.”

  He answered: “I want to get down, too.”

  He laughed, amused at the story, and encouraged her to talk nonsense, to chatter, to indulge in all the child’s play of conversation which lovers utter. The nonsense which he thought delightful in the mouth of Madame de Marelle would have exasperated him in that of Madame Walter. Clotilde, too, called him “My darling,” “My pet,” “My own.” These words seemed sweet and caressing. Said by the other woman shortly before, they had irritated and sickened him. For words of love, which are always the same, take the flavor of the lips they come from.

  But he was thinking, even while amusing himself with this nonsense, of the seventy thousand francs he was going to gain, and suddenly checked the gabble of his companion by two little taps with his finger on her head. “Listen, pet,” said he.

  “I am going to entrust you with a commission for your husband. Tell him from me to buy tomorrow ten thousand francs’ worth of the Morocco loan, which is quoted at seventy-two, and I promise him that he will gain from sixty to eighty thousand francs before three months are over. Recommend the most positive silence to him. Tell him from me that the expedition to Tangiers is decided on, and that the French government will guarantee the debt of Morocco. But do not let anything out about it. It is a State secret that I am entrusting to you.”

  She listened to him seriously, and murmured: “Thank you, I will tell my husband this evening. You can reckon on him; he will not talk. He is a very safe man, and there is no danger.”

  But she had eaten all the sweetmeats. She crushed up the bag between her hands and flung it into the fireplace. Then she said, “Let us go to bed,” and without getting up, began to unbutton George’s waistcoat. All at once she stopped, and pulling out between two fingers a long hair, caught in a buttonhole, began to laugh. “There, you have brought away one of Madeleine’s hairs. There is a faithful husband for you.”

  Then, becoming once more serious, she carefully examined on her head the almost imperceptible thread she had found, and murmured: “It is not Madeleine’s, it is too dark.”

  He smiled, saying: “It is very likely one of the maid’s.”

  But she was inspecting the waistcoat with the attention of a detective, and collected a second hair rolled round a button; then she perceived a third, and pale and somewhat trembling, exclaimed: “Oh, you have been sleeping with a woman who has wrapped her hair round all your buttons.”

  He was astonished, and gasped out: “No, you are mad.”

  All at once he remembered, understood it all, was uneasy at first, and then denied the charge with a chuckle, not vexed at the bottom that she should suspect him of other loves. She kept on searching, and still found hairs, which she rapidly untwisted and threw on the carpet. She had guessed matters with her artful woman’s instinct, and stammered out, vexed, angry, and ready to cry: “She loves you, she does—and she wanted you to take away something belonging to her. Oh, what a traitor you are!” But all at once she gave a cry, a shrill cry of nervous joy. “Oh! oh! it is an old woman—here is a white hair. Ah, you go in for old women now! Do they pay you, eh—do they pay you? Ah, so you have come to old women, have you? Then you have no longer any need of me. Keep the other one.”

  She rose, ran to her bodice thrown onto a
chair, and began hurriedly to put it on again. He sought to retain her, stammering confusedly: “But, no, Clo, you are silly. I do not know anything about it. Listen now—stay here. Come, now—stay here.”

  She repeated: “Keep your old woman—keep her. Have a ring made out of her hair—out of her white hair. You have enough of it for that.”

  With abrupt and swift movements she had dressed herself and put on her bonnet and veil, and when he sought to take hold of her, gave him a smack with all her strength. While he remained bewildered, she opened the door and fled.

  As soon as he was alone he was seized with furious anger against that old hag of a Mother Walter. Ah, he would send her about her business, and pretty roughly, too! He bathed his reddened cheek and then went out, in turn meditating vengeance. This time he would not forgive her. Ah, no! He walked down as far as the boulevard, and sauntering along stopped in front of a jeweler’s shop to look at a chronometer he had fancied for a long time back, and which was ticketed eighteen hundred francs. He thought all at once, with a thrill of joy at his heart, “If I gain my seventy thousand francs I can afford it.”

  And he began to think of all the things he would do with these seventy thousand francs. In the first place, he would get elected deputy. Then he would buy his chronometer, and would speculate on the Bourse, and would—

  He did not want to go to the office, preferring to consult Madeleine before seeing Walter and writing his article, and started for home. He had reached the Rue Druot, when he stopped short. He had forgotten to ask after the Count de Vaudrec, who lived in the Chaussee d’Antin. He therefore turned back, still sauntering, thinking of a thousand things, mainly pleasant, of his coming fortune, and also of that scoundrel of a Laroche-Mathieu, and that old stickfast of a Madame Walter. He was not uneasy about the wrath of Clotilde, knowing very well that she forgave quickly.

  He asked the doorkeeper of the house in which the Count de Vaudrec resided: “How is Monsieur de Vaudrec? I hear that he has been unwell these last few days.”

  The man replied: “The Count is very bad indeed, sir. They are afraid he will not live through the night; the gout has mounted to his heart.”

  Du Roy was so startled that he no longer knew what he ought to do. Vaudrec dying! Confused and disquieting ideas shot through his mind that he dared not even admit to himself. He stammered: “Thank you; I will call again,” without knowing what he was saying.

  Then he jumped into a cab and was driven home. His wife had come in. He went into her room breathless, and said at once: “Have you heard? Vaudrec is dying.”

  She was sitting down reading a letter. She raised her eyes, and repeating thrice: “Oh! what do you say, what do you say, what do you say?”

  “I say that Vaudrec is dying from a fit of gout that has flown to the heart.” Then he added: “What do you think of doing?”

  She had risen livid, and with her cheeks shaken by a nervous quivering, then she began to cry terribly, hiding her face in her hands. She stood shaken by sobs and torn by grief. But suddenly she mastered her sorrow, and wiping her eyes, said: “I—I am going there—don’t bother about me—I don’t know when I shall be back—don’t wait for me.”

  He replied: “Very well, dear.” They shook hands, and she went off so hurriedly that she forgot her gloves.

  George, having dined alone, began to write his article. He did so exactly in accordance with the minister’s instructions, giving his readers to understand that the expedition to Morocco would not take place. Then he took it to the office, chatted for a few minutes with the governor, and went out smoking, light-hearted, though he knew not why. His wife had not come home, and he went to bed and fell asleep.

  Madeleine came in towards midnight. George, suddenly roused, sat up in bed. “Well?” he asked.

  He had never seen her so pale and so deeply moved. She murmured: “He is dead.”

  “Ah!—and he did not say anything?”

  “Nothing. He had lost consciousness when I arrived.”

  George was thinking. Questions rose to his lips that he did not dare to put. “Come to bed,” said he.

  She undressed rapidly, and slipped into bed beside him, when he resumed: “Were there any relations present at his death-bed?”

  “Only a nephew.”

  “Ah! Did he see this nephew often?”

  “Never. They had not met for ten years.”

  “Had he any other relatives?”

  “No, I do not think so.”

  “Then it is his nephew who will inherit?”

  “I do not know.”

  “He was very well off, Vaudrec?”

  “Yes, very well off.”

  “Do you know what his fortune was?”

  “No, not exactly. One or two millions, perhaps.”

  He said no more. She blew out the light, and they remained stretched out, side by side, in the darkness—silent, wakeful, and reflecting. He no longer felt inclined for sleep. He now thought the seventy thousand francs promised by Madame Walter insignificant. Suddenly he fancied that Madeleine was crying. He inquired, in order to make certain: “Are you asleep?”

  “No.”

  Her voice was tearful and quavering, and he said: “I forgot to tell you when I came in that your minister has let us in nicely.”

  “How so?”

  He told her at length, with all details, the plan hatched between Laroche-Mathieu and Walter. When he had finished, she asked: “How do you know this?”

  He replied: “You will excuse me not telling you. You have your means of information, which I do not seek to penetrate. I have mine, which I wish to keep to myself. I can, in any case, answer for the correctness of my information.”

  Then she murmured: “Yes, it is quite possible. I fancied they were up to something without us.”

  But George, who no longer felt sleepy, had drawn closer to his wife, and gently kissed her ear. She repulsed him sharply. “I beg of you to leave me alone. I am not in a mood to romp.” He turned resignedly towards the wall, and having closed his eyes, ended by falling asleep.

  XIV

  The church was draped with black, and over the main entrance a huge scutcheon, surmounted by a coronet, announced to the passers-by that a gentleman was being buried. The ceremony was just over, and those present at it were slowly dispersing, defiling past the coffin and the nephew of the Count de Vaudrec, who was shaking extended hands and returning bows. When George Du Roy and his wife came out of the church they began to walk homeward side by side, silent and preoccupied. At length George said, as though speaking to himself: “Really, it is very strange.”

  “What, dear?” asked Madeleine.

  “That Vaudrec should not have left us anything.”

  She blushed suddenly, as though a rosy veil had been cast over her white skin, and said: “Why should he have left us anything? There was no reason for it.” Then, after a few moments’ silence, she went on: “There is perhaps a will in the hands of some notary. We know nothing as yet.”

  He reflected for a short time, and then murmured: “Yes, it is probable, for, after all, he was the most intimate friend of us both. He dined with us twice a week, called at all hours, and was at home at our place, quite at home in every respect. He loved you like a father, and had no children, no brothers and sisters, nothing but a nephew, and a nephew he never used to see. Yes, there must be a will. I do not care for much, only a remembrance to show that he thought of us, that he loved us, that he recognized the affection we felt for him. He certainly owed us some such mark of friendship.”

  She said in a pensive and indifferent manner: “It is possible, indeed, that there may be a will.”

  As they entered their rooms, the man-servant handed a letter to Madeleine. She opened it, and then held it out to her husband. It ran as follows:

  “Office of Maitre Lamaneur, Notary,

  “17 Rue des Vosges.

  “MADAME: I have the honor to beg you to favor me with a call here on Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday betwe
en the hours of two and four, on business concerning you.—I am, etc.—LAMANEUR.”

  George had reddened in turn. “That is what it must be,” said he. “It is strange, though, that it is you who are summoned, and not myself, who am legally the head of the family.”

  She did not answer at once, but after a brief period of reflection, said: “Shall we go round there by and by?”

  “Yes, certainly.”

  They set out as soon as they had lunched. When they entered Maitre Lamaneur’s office, the head clerk rose with marked attention and ushered them in to his master. The notary was a round, little man, round all over. His head looked like a ball nailed onto another ball, which had legs so short that they almost resembled balls too. He bowed, pointed to two chairs, and turning towards Madeleine, said: “Madame, I have sent for you in order to acquaint you with the will of the Count de Vaudrec, in which you are interested.”

  George could not help muttering: “I thought so.”

  The notary went on: “I will read to you the document, which is very brief.”

  He took a paper from a box in front of him, and read as follows:

  “I, the undersigned, Paul Emile Cyprien Gontran, Count de Vaudrec, being sound in body and mind, hereby express my last wishes. As death may overtake us at any moment, I wish, in provision of his attacks, to take the precaution of making my will, which will be placed in the hands of Maitre Lamaneur. Having no direct heirs, I leave the whole of my fortune, consisting of stock to the amount of six hundred thousand francs, and landed property worth about five hundred thousand francs, to Madame Claire Madeleine Du Roy without any charge or condition. I beg her to accept this gift of a departed friend as a proof of a deep, devoted, and respectful affection.”

  The notary added: “That is all. This document is dated last August, and replaces one of the same nature, written two years back, with the name of Madame Claire Madeleine Forestier. I have this first will, too, which would prove, in the case of opposition on the part of the family, that the wishes of Count de Vaudrec did not vary.”

  Madeleine, very pale, looked at her feet. George nervously twisted the end of his moustache between his fingers. The notary continued after a moment of silence: “It is, of course, understood, sir, that your wife cannot accept the legacy without your consent.”