A Very French Christmas

by Guy de Maupassant

  “White lie?”

  “Yes, it’s made up. But I didn’t feel like ... In the end, you know ... hostesses, alcohol, raunchy stories ... sorry ... I don’t want you to think I’m better then them, I .”

  “But you are.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Better than them. You are. Undeniably.”

  “That’s not what they think.”

  “They don’t think anything, Thomas. The only thing that interests them is their own careers. And money. Take me, for instance: they think I’m a dummy who needs to be ravished in order to let loose.”

  I recall the heat on my face. I wasn’t as free as her. I wasn’t used to a woman talking like that. Hélène wasn’t so crude. Hélène adhered to the norm.

  “I think I’m going to take a walk in town. Along the river, apparently it’s beautiful.”

  “It’s going to be dark soon.”

  “Exactly. Do you want to join me?”

  Such boldness was new for me, an audacity that pushed me to invite a woman I barely knew to join me for an evening walk. I wasn’t the type of man capable of such things. I had a good life; I was a father and a loving husband absorbed in work, a creature of habit whose children made fun of him at times because his rituals were immutable, a prisoner for whom books were the sole diversion—a passion shared by no one around me. And suddenly, with Alice Leprince, I entered into one of those secret novels that frightened and attracted me at the same time. I rediscovered a part of adolescence as well, before my path had already been decided, before bumpy roads became smooth highways.

  That’s how we ended up alongside the river, Alice Leprince and me. She very quickly confided her thoughts to me, by the way. Not just about other companies, but other cities, countries, horizons. She felt she couldn’t remain here for too long. She’d leave Fabre & Sons fairly soon. We talked for hours; there were times we said nothing. I hadn’t done that in years. It was as if all barriers had fallen away. In the middle of the night we returned separately to the hotel. She went first. I came back ten minutes later. We were afraid we’d run into our colleagues. We were wrong. They’d already come back. The evening at the Relax had turned out to be disappointing.

  My hand on her shoulder.

  My hand that slowly unfastens the white bra to unveil this naked shoulder with three moles at the base of the shoulder blade.

  I was thirty-nine. She was thirty-three.

  I remember all the details. They come to me sometimes at night. I drift from one dream to another and suddenly, she’s a fleeting apparition in a crowd, I run to find her, I cry out that I’m free now, have been free for a while, but she’s caught up in movement and disappears. I sigh. I’m used to it. I think I’ll chase after this chimera until I die.

  After my divorce, I tried to find Alice Leprince, even if I imagined her throwing open shutters overlooking the Grand Canal or the temples of Kyoto, an indefatigable adventurer, a freelance journalist, a talent scout. In fact, around the year 2000, I even learned how to use a computer and the Internet for the sole purpose of locating her. But women, by marrying and taking their husband’s last name, can easily erase their earthly traces. I quickly understood that it was wasted effort. Then, there were other interests, other novels, other goals, some traveling, health concerns, family worries, five successive women with whom I shared daily life and age that advances and gnaws. I forgot Alice Leprince.

  And then suddenly, she’s there—so different and yet unmistakable. Four decades later. One often believes that when you get older you won’t recognize those you knew when you were young, but that’s not true. It’s totally not true. Sure, the skin has withered, the smile is parched, there are wrinkles, but the face stays the same and the general allure doesn’t change that much in the end. Nor does desire. When she silently mouthed my first name, this name that no one had spoken at this table since I became Grandpa, a Grandpa like all the other Grandpas, a Grandpa without an identity, and when her lips formed “Thomas,” my throat became dry and my hands tingled. She froze for a few seconds, knitted her eyebrows, then furtively nodded her head toward the restaurant entrance. My heart didn’t stop pounding. I complied. The members of her family didn’t see anything. Mine either. A few seconds later, I saw her speak to the person sitting next to her—her daughter?—and move toward the restroom, shooting me a discrete, meaningful look. I coughed. I confided to Pierre, who was to my right, that I had a pressing need and I’d be back in a minute. He wanted to accompany me but I satisfied him with a “and what for?” that kept him from getting up. I sensed a twitching in my muscles and under my skin, as if suddenly I’d returned to life. No one paid attention to us. Grandma. Grandpa. We’re so insignificant in this world oriented toward youth. We found ourselves face-to-face in front of the restrooms. She smiled. I asked her at this point if I was ugly. She shook her head. She apologized. She explained that that’s the way it is, it’s so ...

  “Unexpected?”

  “Unexpected, no. More like not something I thought would actually happen. I knew that your son had taken over the restaurant. I dragged my family here several times in the hope of finding you. I knew you were still alive.”

  “You could have just come to my house.”

  She shrugged her shoulders, told me that she’d done that a few times over the past few months, but had never dared to ring the bell, or call. She was afraid. Of everything. That I wouldn’t recognize her. That I would be blind, deaf, on a respirator. Or worse, a victim of Alzheimer’s.

  “I remember you so well, Alice. You’re my only regret.”

  Her hand stroked mine. The effect was immediate. I felt myself blush to the roots of my hair. She passed a hand through my hair. She suggested that we take a walk by the river.

  “What river?”

  “There’s one nearby, no? If not, we’ll go a little farther.”

  “It’s winter, Alice.”

  “Do you lack imagination at this stage?”

  “I’ve always been that way.”

  “I’m not sure of that. Will you join me?”

  “On foot?”

  “Let’s not overdo it. In a few minutes, we’ll be frozen. How about you take your car?”

  I sigh. I reply that I haven’t driven in ages. She smiles again—lighting up this sordid setting, the entryway to the restrooms in a restaurant called La Tambouille, deep in the French provinces, a day of mandatory libations. She transforms it into a rugged landscape overlooking the Mediterranean, a steep road in the Alps.

  “Very well, we’ll take mine. I’ve always liked driving. Wait ten minutes, I’ll go get the keys.”

  I cast a nervous glance at the family table. I’m not afraid that they’ll be upset their Christmas has been ruined. No. I fear that they’ll interfere. That they’ll deprive us of this last bit of freedom. I needn’t be so worried. They’re involved in heated conversations mixing politics, TV, social media and celebrities. They’re not paying attention to me.

  I see Hélène say a few words to her daughter, smile, touch her arm, and surreptitiously grab her purse. And as she walks along the wall of the restaurant to rejoin me, I hear your voice, Hélène, and it overwhelms me.

  I guessed it, you see.

  I suspected you were behind all this.

  It’s your gift, isn’t it? For my last Christmas?

  Thank you, Hélène.

  A thousand times, thank you.

  2017

  ST. ANTHONY AND HIS PIG

  Paul Arène

  St. Anthony pushed open the door and saw in his cabin half a dozen little children who had come up from the village, in spite of the storm, to bring him some honey and nuts, dainties which the good hermit allowed himself to enjoy once a year, on Christmas Day, on account of his great age.

  “Sit around the fire, friends, and throw on two or three pine knots to make a blaze. That’s right. Now make room for Barrabas; poor, faithful Barrabas, who is so cold that his tail is all out of curl.”

  The children
coughed and wiped their noses, and Barrabas—for that is the real name of St. Anthony’s pig—Barrabas grunted, with his feet comfortably buried in the warm ashes.

  The saint threw back his hood, shook the snow from his shoulders, passed his hand over his long gray beard, all hung with little icicles, and having seated himself, began:

  “So you want me to tell you about my temptation?”

  “Yes, good St. Anthony; yes, kind St. Anthony.”

  “My temptation? But you know as much as I do about my temptation. It has been drawn and painted a thousand times, and you can see on my wall—God forgive me this piece of vanity—all the prints, old and new, dedicated to my glory and that of Barrabas; from Épinal’s sketch which costs a sou including the song, to the admirable masterpieces of Teniers, Breughel, and Callot.

  “I am sure your mothers must have taken you to the marionnette theater at Luxembourg, to see my poor hermitage, just as it is here, with the chapel, the cabin, the bell hanging in the crotch of a tree, and myself at prayer, while Proserpine offers me a cup, and a host of little devils dancing at the end of a string are tormenting and terrifying poor Barrabas.

  “After a while, when you have learned to read, you will see behind the glass doors of your father’s bookcase these words:

  “The Temptation of St. Anthony, by Gustave Flaubert, in letters of gold on the back of a handsome book.

  “This M. Flaubert is a clever fellow, though he does not write for little children like you, and what he says about me is all very true. The artists, of whom I spoke to you just now, have not omitted any of the devils which have tormented me at different times; in fact, they have added a few.

  “That is the reason, my children, that I am afraid I should weary you if I should tell you again things that you already know so well.”

  “Oh, St. Anthony! Oh, good St. Anthony!”

  “Let me tell you something else—”

  “No, no; the temptation, the temptation!”

  “Well, well,” said St. Anthony, “I see that I shall not escape the temptation this year; but as you have been unusually good, I will tell you about one which no artist has ever painted, and which M. Flaubert knows nothing about. Nevertheless it was a terrible temptation—was it not, Barrabas?—and kept me a long time on the slope at whose foot the fires of hell are glowing.

  “It was at midnight, just such a night as this, that the thing occurred.”

  At this beginning, Barrabas, evidently interested, raised himself on his two front feet to listen, the children shivered and drew closer together, and here is the Christmas story which the good saint told them:

  “Well, my friends, I must tell you that after a thousand successive temptations, the devils, all at once, stopped tormenting me. My nights were once more peaceful. No more monsters with horns and tails, carrying me through the air on their bat’s wings; no more devil’s imps with he-goat’s beards and monkey faces; no more infernal musicians trying to frighten Barrabas, with their stomachs made of a double bass, and great noses which sounded like an unearthly clarion; no more Queen Proserpines in robes of gold and precious stones, graceful and majestic.

  “And I said to myself, ‘All’s well, Anthony; the devils are discouraged.’ Barrabas and I were as happy as we could be, on our rock.

  “Barrabas followed me about everywhere, delighting me with his childish gaiety. As for me, I did what all good hermits do. I prayed, I rang my bell at the proper times, and between my prayers and offices, I drew water from the spring for the vegetables in my garden.

  “This lasted six months or more; six delightful months of solitude.

  “I slept in perfect security, but unhappily the Evil One was still awake.

  “One day, near Christmastime, I was about to sun myself in my doorway, when a man presented himself. He wore hobnailed shoes and a square-cut velvet coat, and carried on his back a peddler’s pack.

  “He called out:

  “‘Spits, spits, spits! Buy some spits!’ with a slight Auvergnese accent.

  “‘Do you want a spit, good hermit?’

  “‘Go your way, my good man. I live on cold water and roots and have no use for your spits.’

  “‘All right, all right. I am only trying to sell my wares.’

  “‘However,’ added he, with a fiendish glance at Barrabas, who, more sagacious than I, was grunting furiously in a corner, ‘however, that fellow there looks so fat and sleek, that I thought—God forgive me! that you might be keeping him for your Christmas Eve supper.’

  “The fact was that Barrabas, the rascal, had grown very fat, now that the devils no longer troubled his digestion.

  “I suddenly became aware of this fact, but was far enough from any thought of feasting upon my only friend, so when I saw the peddler go down the path, spit in hand, I could not help laughing at the idea. Little by little, however, like the growth of a noxious weed, the infernal idea—for it was evidently a devil from hell disguised as a peddler, who had tried to sell me the spit—this infernal idea of eating Barrabas took root in my mind. I saw spits; I dreamed of spits. In vain I increased my mortifications and penances. Penances and mortifications availed nothing, and fasting—fasting only seemed to sharpen my appetite.

  “I avoided looking at Barrabas. I no longer dared take him with me on my expeditions, and when, at my return, he ran to rub the rough bristles on his back against my bare feet, I turned away my eyes right quickly and had not the heart to caress him.

  “But I am afraid, children, that this does not interest you much and perhaps you would prefer—”

  “No, good St. Anthony!”

  “Go on, kind St. Anthony!”

  “Well, then I will go on, however painful it may be to me to recall those terrible memories. What temptations! What trials! The devil often makes use of the most innocent things to lead a man astray.

  “Near my hermitage there was a little wood (I think there are still a few trees there) where some good people had given me permission to take Barrabas to eat acorns.

  “It was our favorite walk at sunset, when the oak leaves smell so good.

  “I read, while Barrabas gorged himself with acorns, and often while he rooted about in the damp leaves, he turned up rough-looking black balls, which smelled very nice indeed, and these he ate greedily.”

  “Perhaps they were truffles, good St. Anthony.”

  “Yes, my little friend, truffles; a cryptogamous plant which I had scorned till that time, but whose odor struck me all at once as very delicious and appetizing.

  “So that from that moment every time that Barrabas dug up a truffle, I made him drop it by hitting him a sharp blow on the snout with a stick, and then—wretched hypocrite that I was—threw him a chestnut or two so that he might not become discouraged.”

  “Oh, St. Anthony!”

  “In that way I collected several pounds.”

  “And you were going to cook Barrabas’s feet with truffles?”

  “Well, I had not altogether decided to do so, but I acknowledge I was thinking about it.

  “Beside my door,” continued the hermit, “a seed brought by the wind had sprouted and grown up between the rock and the wall. Its long leaves of a grayish green smelled very nice, and in the spring the bees came to steal honey from its little purple flowers. I loved this modest plant, which seemed to grow for me alone. I watered it. I cared for it. I put a little earth about its roots.

  “But, alas, one morning as I broke off a little sprig and smelled it, I had a sudden and tempting vision of quarters of pork roasting on a spit, deluging with their golden gravy, bits of an herb thrust into the meat and shriveling and curling in the heat of the fire. My plant, my modest little plant, was the sage so dear to cooks, and its savory odor thenceforth called to mind only images of spareribs and roast pig. Ashamed of myself, I pulled up my sage, and gave all the truffles at once to Barrabas, who had a grand feast on them.

  “But I was not to get off so cheaply. The sage pulled up, the truffles thrown away,
my temptation still continued.

  “They became more frequent, more irresistible as Christmastime approached.

  “Put yourselves in my place: with a robust stomach, for years poorly nourished with roots and cold water, what I saw pass at the foot of my rock, on the high road which leads to the city, was well fitted to ruin a holier man than I. What a procession, my friends! The country people—good Christians as they were—were preparing for the Christmas Eve feast a week beforehand, and from morn till night nothing went by but eatables. Carts full of deer and wild boars, nets full of lobsters, hampers full of fish and oysters; cocks and hens hanging by their feet under the wagons; fat sheep going to the slaughterhouse; ducks and pheasants; a flock of squawking geese; turkeys shaking their crimson wattles; not to mention the good country women carrying baskets full of fruit ripened on straw, bunches of grapes, and white winter melons; eggs and milk for custards and creams; honey in the comb and in jars; cheeses and dried figs.

  “And, greatest temptation of all, the despairing cries of some poor pig, tied by the leg and dragged squealing along.

  “At last Christmas came. The Midnight Mass over at the hermitage, and everybody gone, I locked the chapel and shut myself up quickly in my hut. It was cold: as cold as it is today. The north wind blew and the fields and roads were covered with snow. I heard laughing and singing outside. It was some of my parishioners who were going to eat their Christmas Eve feast in the neighborhood. I looked through the hole in my shutter. Here and there over the white plain the bright fires shone out from the farmhouse windows, and down below the illuminated city sent up a glow to heaven, like the reflection from a great furnace. Then I called to mind the Christmas Eve feasts of my gormandizing youth. My grandfather presiding at the table, and christening with new wine the great backlog. I saw the smoking dishes, the white tablecloth, the firelight dancing on the pewter pots and platters on the dresser; and at the thought of myself alone with Barrabas, when all the world was feasting, sitting before a miserable fire, with a jug of water and a wretched root, a sudden sadness seized me. I cried, ‘What a Christmas feast,’ and burst into tears.