“In the confusion of the moment—two men struggling together—I could hear them gasping—I wanted to call for help—then a fall! And then I felt myself seized by the arm: ‘Run, neighbor, run! This is no business of yours!’ It didn’t sound like the voice of a human being. And that was how—that was how I happened to be there, a helpless witness. I think that Don Nicasio meant to kill his wife, too; but the wretched woman escaped. She ran and shut herself up in her room. That is—I read so afterwards, in the papers. The husband would have been wiser to have killed her first. Evil weeds had better be torn up by the roots. What are you having that man write, your honor?”
“Nothing at all, as you call it. Just your deposition. The clerk will read it to you now, and you will sign it.”
“Can any harm come to me from it? I am innocent! I have only said what you wanted to make me say. You have tangled me up in a fine net, like a little fresh-water fish!”
“Wait a moment. And this is the most important thing of all. How did it happen that the mortal wounds on the dead man’s body were made with a razor?”
“Oh, the treachery of Don Nicasio! My God! My God! Yes, your honor. Two days before—no one can think of everything, no one can foresee everything—he came to the shop and said to me, ‘Neighbor, lend me a razor; I have a corn that is troubling me.’ He was so matter-of-fact about it that I did not hesitate for an instant. I even warned him, ‘Be careful! you can’t joke with corns! A little blood, and you may start a cancer!’ ‘Don’t borrow trouble, neighbor,’ he answered.”
“But the razor could not be found. You must have brought it away.”
“I? Who would remember a little thing like that? I was more dead than alive, your honor. Where are you trying to lead me, with your questions? I tell you, I am innocent!”
“Do not deny so obstinately. A frank confession will help you far more than to protest your innocence. The facts speak clearly enough. It is well known how passion maddens the heart and the brain. A man in that state is no longer himself.”
“That is the truth, your honor! That wretched woman bewitched me! She is sending me to the galleys! The more she said ‘No, no, no!’ the more I felt myself going mad, from head to foot, as if she were pouring fire over me, with her ‘No, no, no!’ But now—I do not want another man to suffer in my place. Yes, I was the one, I was the one who killed him! I was bewitched, your honor! I am willing to go to the galleys. But I am coming back here, if I have the good luck to live through my term. Oh, the justice of this world! To think that she goes scot free, the real and only cause of all the harm! But I will see that she gets justice, that I solemnly swear—with these two hands of mine, your honor! In prison I shall think of nothing else. And if I come back and find her alive—grown old and ugly, it makes no difference—she will have to pay for it, she will have to make good! Ah, ‘no, no, no!’ But I will say, ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ And I will drain her last drop of blood, if I have to end my days in the galleys. And the sooner, the better!”
Vendetta
&
The Confession of a Woman
GUY DE MAUPASSANT
A student of Gustave Flaubert who eventually outshone him, Henri-René-Albert-Guy de Maupassant (1850–1893) was born in Normandy, France, to an old and distinguished family. His parents divorced when he was eleven and his mother was befriended by Flaubert, who took an interest in her elder son, becoming his literary mentor and introducing him to the literary lights of France.
Immediately after graduating from high school, Maupassant served with distinction in the Franco-Prussian War, then took a job as a civil servant for nearly ten years. He began to write, first poetry, which was undistinguished, then short stories, most of which Flaubert forced him to discard as unworthy. When his first story was published in a collection with such literary lions of the day as Émile Zola, it was more highly praised by critics and readers alike, securing his future. Over the next decade, he wrote more than three hundred short stories, six novels, three travel books, poetry, several plays, and more than three hundred magazine articles.
His naturalistic style was a powerful influence on other great short story writers, including O. Henry and W. Somerset Maugham. Unfortunately, Maupassant died before his forty-third birthday. As an ardent womanizer, he had contracted syphilis when he was quite young and suffered from other ailments as well. His brother died in an asylum, and when Guy felt he was losing his mind, he twice attempted suicide; he died a lunatic.
Although both of the following stories involve murder, neither is a detective story. They are tragedies, as most crime stories are.
“Vendetta,” also published as “Semillante,” was originally published in the October 14, 1883, issue of Le Gaulois; “The Confession of a Woman,” also published as “The Confession,” was originally published in its English translation in the February 3, 1900, issue of The Wave.
VENDETTA
Guy de Maupassant
The widow of Paolo Saverini lived alone with her son in a poor little house on the outskirts of Bonifacio. The city, built on an outjutting part of the mountain, in places even overhanging the sea, looks across the foamy straits toward the southernmost coast of Sardinia. Around on the other side of the city is a kind of fjord which serves as a port, and which, after a winding journey, brings—as far as the first houses—the little Italian and Sardinian fishing smacks and, every two weeks, the old wheezy steamer which makes the trip to Ajaccio.
On the white mountain the clump of houses makes an even whiter spot. They look like the nests of wild birds, clinging to this peak, overlooking this terrible passage where vessels rarely venture. The wind, which blows uninterruptedly, has swept bare the forbidding coast; it engulfs itself in the narrow straits and lays waste both sides. The pale streaks of foam, clinging to the black rocks, whose countless peaks rise up out of the water, look like bits of rag floating and drifting on the surface of the sea.
The house of Widow Saverini, clinging to the very edge of the precipice, looked out, through its three windows, over this wild and desolate picture. She lived there alone, with her son Antoine and their dog Semillante, a big thin beast, with a long rough coat, one of the kind of animals that is used for guarding the herds. The young man took her with him when out hunting.
One night, after some kind of quarrel, Antoine Saverini was treacherously stabbed by Nicolas Ravolati, who escaped the same evening to Sardinia.
When the old mother received the body of her son, which the neighbors had brought back to her, she did not cry, but stayed for a long time motionless, watching him; then, stretching her wrinkled hand over the body, she promised him a vendetta.
She did not wish anybody near her, so she shut herself up beside the body with the dog, which howled continuously, standing at the foot of the bed, her head stretched toward her master and her tail between her legs. The dog did not move any more than did the mother, who was now leaning over the body with a blank stare, weeping silently.
The young man, lying on his back, dressed in his jacket of coarse cloth torn at the chest, seemed to be asleep; but he had blood all over him—on his shirt, which had been torn off in order to administer the first aid, on his vest, on his trousers, on his face, on his hands. Clots of blood had hardened in his beard and in his hair.
His old mother began to talk to him. At the sound of this voice the dog quieted down.
“Never fear, my boy, my little baby, you shall be avenged. Sleep, sleep—you shall be avenged, do you hear? It’s your mother’s promise! And she always keeps her word, you know she does.”
Slowly she leaned over him, pressing her cold lips to his dead ones.
Then Semillante began to howl again, with a long, monotonous, penetrating, horrible howl.
The two of them, the woman and the dog, remained there until morning.
Antoine Saverini was buried the next day, and soon his name ceased to be mentioned in Bon
ifacio.
He had no brothers, no cousins—no man to carry on the vendetta. Only his mother thought of it, and she was an old woman.
On the other side of the straits she saw, from morning until night, a little white speck on the coast. It was the little Sardinian village, Longosardo, where Corsican criminals take refuge when they are too closely pursued. They comprise almost the entire population of this hamlet, opposite their native island, awaiting the time to return. She knew that Nicolas Ravolati had sought refuge in this village.
All alone, all day long, seated at her window, she looked over there and thought of revenge. How could she do anything without help—she, an invalid, and so near death? But she had promised, she had sworn on the body. She could not forget, she could not wait. What could she do?
She thought stubbornly. The dog, dozing at her feet, would sometimes lift her head and howl. Since her master’s death, she often howled thus, as though she were calling him, as though her beast’s soul, inconsolable, too, had also kept something in memory which nothing could wipe out.
One night, as Semillante began to howl, the mother suddenly got hold of an idea—a savage, vindictive, fierce idea. She thought it over until morning; then, having arisen at daybreak, she went to church. She prayed, prostrate on the floor, begging the Lord to help her, to support her, to give to her poor, broken-down body the strength she needed in order to avenge her son.
She returned home. In her yard she had an old barrel which served as a cistern. She turned it over, emptied it, made it fast to the ground with sticks and stones; then she chained Semillante to this improvised kennel.
All day and all night the dog howled. In the morning the old woman brought her some water in a bowl, but nothing more—no soup, no bread.
Another day went by. Semillante, weakened, was sleeping. The following day, eyes shining, hair on end the dog was pulling wildly at her chain.
All this day the old woman gave her nothing to eat. The beast, furious, was barking hoarsely. Another day passed.
Then, at daybreak, Mother Saverini asked a neighbor for some straw. She took the old rags which had formerly been worn by her husband and stuffed them so as to make them look like a human body.
Having planted a stick in the ground, in front of Semillante’s kennel, she tied to it this dummy, which seemed to be standing up. Then she made a head out of some old rags.
The dog, surprised, was watching this straw man, and was quiet, although famished. Then the old woman went to the store and bought a piece of black sausage. When she got home, she started a fire in the yard, near the kennel, and cooked the sausage. Semillante, wild, was jumping around frothing at the mouth, her eyes fixed on the food, whose smell went right to her stomach.
Then the mother made a necktie for the dummy with the smoking sausage. She tied it very tightly around the neck, and when she had finished she unleashed the dog.
With one leap the beast jumped at the dummy’s throat, and with her paws on his shoulders she began to tear at it. She would fall back with a piece of food in her mouth, then she would jump again, sinking her fangs into the ropes, and snatching a piece of meat would fall back again, and once more spring forward. She was tearing the face with her teeth, and the whole collar had disappeared.
The old woman, motionless and silent, was watching eagerly. Then she chained the beast up again, gave her no food for two more days, and began this strange exercise again.
For three months she trained the dog to this battle. She no longer chained her up, but just pointed to the dummy. She had taught Semillante to tear it up and to devour it without even hiding any food about the dummy’s neck. Then, as a reward, she would give the dog a piece of sausage.
As soon as she would see the “man,” Semillante would begin to tremble, then she would look up to her mistress, who, lifting her finger, would cry, “Go!”
When the widow thought that the proper time had come, she went to confession, and one Sunday morning she partook of communion with an ecstatic fervor; then, having put on men’s clothes, looking like an old tramp, she struck a bargain with a Sardinian fisherman who carried her and her dog to the other side.
In a bag she had a large piece of sausage. Semillante had had nothing to eat for two days. The old woman kept letting the dog smell the food, and goading her.
They got to Longosardo. The Corsican woman walked with a limp. She went to a baker’s shop and asked for Nicolas Ravolati. He had taken up his old trade, that of carpenter, and was working alone at the back of his store.
The old woman opened the door and called, “Nicolas!”
He turned around; then, releasing her dog, she cried, “Go, go! Eat him up!”
The maddened animal sprang for the murderer’s throat. The man stretched out his arms, seized the dog, and rolled to the ground. For a few seconds he squirmed, beating the ground with his feet; then he stopped moving as Semillante dug her fangs into his throat and tore it to ribbons.
Two neighbors, seated before their door, remembered perfectly having seen an old beggar come out with a thin black dog which was eating something its master was giving her.
At nightfall the old woman was home again. She slept well that night.
THE CONFESSION OF A WOMAN
Guy de Maupassant
Marguerite de Thérelles was dying. Although she was only fifty-six, she looked at least seventy-five. She was gasping, paler than her sheets, shaken with frightful shudders, her face distorted, her eyes haggard, as though they saw some frightful thing.
Her elder sister, Suzanne, six years older, was sobbing on her knees at the bedside. A little table had been drawn up to the dying woman’s couch, and on the tablecloth stood two lighted candles, for they were waiting for the priest, who was to administer extreme unction, the last sacrament.
The apartment wore the sinister aspect of all chambers of death, their air of despairing farewell. Medicine bottles stood on the tables, cloths lay about in corners, kicked or swept out of the way. The disordered chairs themselves looked frightened, as though they had run in every direction. For Death, the victor, was there, hidden, waiting.
The story of the two sisters was very touching. It had been told far and wide, and had filled many eyes with tears.
Suzanne, the elder, had once been deeply in love with a young man who loved her. They were betrothed and were only awaiting the day fixed for the wedding, when Henry de Sampierre died suddenly.
The young girl’s despair was terrible, and she declared that she would never marry. She kept her word. She put on widow’s clothes and never gave them up.
Then her sister, her little sister Marguerite, who was only twelve years old, came the morning and threw herself into her elder sister’s arms, saying:
“Sister, I don’t want you to be unhappy. I don’t want you to cry all your life long. I will never leave you, never, never! I won’t marry either. I will stay with you forever and ever.”
Suzanne kissed her, touched by her childish devotion, believing in it not at all.
But the little sister kept her word, and, despite her parents’ prayers and her sister’s entreaties, she never married. She was pretty, very pretty; she refused several young men who seemed to love her; she never left her sister.
* * *
—
They lived together all the days of their lives, without ever being parted. They lived side by side, inseparable. But Marguerite always seemed sad and depressed, more melancholy than the elder, as though crushed, perhaps, by her sublime self-sacrifice. She aged more rapidly, had white hair at the age of thirty, and, often ill, seemed the victim of some secret gnawing malady.
Now she was to be the first to die.
She had not spoken for twenty-four hours. She had only said, at the first glimmer of dawn:
“Go and fetch the priest; the time has come.”
Since then she had l
ain still on her back, shaken with fits of shuddering, her lips trembling as though terrible words had risen from her heart and could not issue forth, her eyes wild with terror, a fearful sight.
Her sister, mad with grief, was crying brokenly, her forehead pressed against the edge of the bed, and repeating:
“Margot, my poor Margot, my little one!”
She had always called her “my little one,” just as the younger had always called her “Sister.”
Steps sounded on the staircase. The door opened. A choirboy appeared, followed by the old priest in his surplice. As soon as she saw him, the dying woman sat up with a convulsive movement, opened her lips, babbled two or three words, and fell to scraping her nails together as though she meant to make a hole in them.
The Abbé Simon went up to her, took her hand, kissed her on the brow, and said gently:
“God forgive you, my child; be brave, the time has come: speak.”
Then Marguerite, shivering from head to foot, shaking the whole bed with her nervous movements, stammered:
“Sit down, Sister, and listen.”
The priest bent down to Suzanne, still lying at the foot of the bed, raised her, placed her in an armchair, and, taking in each hand the hand of one of the sisters, murmured:
“O Lord God, give them strength, grant them thy pity!”
And Marguerite began to speak. The words came from her throat one by one, hoarse, deliberate, as though they were very weary.
* * *
—
“Mercy, mercy, Sister, forgive me! Oh, if you knew how all my life I have dreaded this moment!…”
“What have I to forgive you, little thing?” stammered Suzanne, her tears choking her. “You have given me everything, sacrificed everything for me; you are an angel.”
But Marguerite interrupted her:
The Big Book of Victorian Mysteries Page 99
