Original Short Stories – Volume 10. Guy de Maupassant
that you say, eh?’
“‘It’s marriage.”
“‘Marriage! So, then, you jackass, you’re to love.’
“‘That’s how it is, M’sieu le Baron.’
“And my father began to laugh so immoderately that my mother called out through the wall of the next room:
“‘What in the world is the matter with you, Gontran?’
“He replied:
“‘Come here, Catherine.’
“And when she came in he told her, with tears in his eyes from sheer laughter, that his idiot of a servant-man was lovesick.
“But my mother, instead of laughing, was deeply affected.
“‘Who is it that you have fallen in love with, my poor fellow?’ she asked.
“He answered without hesitation:
“‘With Louise, Madame le Baronne.’
“My mother said with the utmost gravity: ‘We must try to arrange this matter the best way we can.’
“So Louise was sent for and questioned by my mother; and she said in reply that she knew all about Jean’s liking for her, that in fact Jean had spoken to her about it several times, but that she did not want him. She refused to say why.
“And two months elapsed during which my father and mother never ceased to urge this girl to marry Jean. As she declared she was not in love with any other man, she could not give any serious reason for her refusal. My father at last overcame her resistance by means of a big present of money, and started the pair of them on a farm – this very farm. I did not see them for three years, and then I learned that Louise had died of consumption. But my father and mother died, too, in their turn, and it was two years more before I found myself face to face with Jean.
“At last one autumn day about the end of October the idea came into my head to go hunting on this part of my estate, which my father had told me was full of game.
“So one evening, one wet evening, I arrived at this house. I was shocked to find my father’s old servant with perfectly white hair, though he was not more than forty-five or forty-six years of age. I made him dine with me, at the very table where we are now sitting. It was raining hard. We could hear the rain battering at the roof, the walls, and the windows, flowing in a perfect deluge into the farmyard; and my dog was howling in the shed where the other dogs are howling to-night.
“All of a sudden, when the servant-maid had gone to bed, the man said in a timid voice:
“‘M’sieu le Baron.’
“‘What is it, my dear Jean?’
“‘I have something to tell you.’
“‘Tell it, my dear Jean.’
“‘You remember Louise, my wife.’
“‘Certainly, I remember her.’
“‘Well, she left me a message for you.’
“‘What was it?’
“‘A – a – well, it was what you might call a confession.’
“‘Ha – and what was it about?’
“‘It was – it was – I’d rather, all the same, tell you nothing about it – but I must – I must. Well, it’s this – it wasn’t consumption she died of at all. It was grief – well, that’s the long and short of it. As soon as she came to live here after we were married, she grew thin; she changed so that you wouldn’t know her, M’sieu le Baron. She was just as I was before I married her, but it was just the opposite, just the opposite.
“‘I sent for the doctor. He said it was her liver that was affected – he said it was what he called a “hepatic” complaint – I don’t know these big words, M’sieu le Baron. Then I bought medicine for her, heaps on heaps of bottles that cost about three hundred francs. But she’d take none of them; she wouldn’t have them; she said: “It’s no use, my poor Jean; it wouldn’t do me any good.” I saw well that she had some hidden trouble; and then I found her one time crying, and I didn’t know what to do, no, I didn’t know what to do. I bought her caps, and dresses, and hair oil, and earrings. Nothing did her any good. And I saw that she was going to die. And so one night at the end of November, one snowy night, after she had been in bed the whole day, she told me to send for the cure. So I went for him. As soon as he came – ’
“‘Jean,’ she said, ‘I am going to make a confession to you. I owe it to you, Jean. I have never been false to you, never! never, before or after you married me. M’sieu le Cure is there, and can tell you so; he knows my soul. Well, listen, Jean. If I am dying, it is because I was not able to console myself for leaving the chateau, because I was too fond of the young Baron Monsieur Rene, too fond of him, mind you, Jean, there was no harm in it! This is the thing that’s killing me. When I could see him no more I felt that I should die. If I could only have seen him, I might have lived, only seen him, nothing more. I wish you’d tell him some day, by and by, when I am no longer here. You will tell him, swear you, will, Jean – swear it – in the presence of M’sieu le Cure! It will console me to know that he will know it one day, that this was the cause of my death! Swear it!’
“‘Well, I gave her my promise, M’sieu It Baron, and on the faith of an honest man I have kept my word.’
“And then he ceased speaking, his eyes filling with tears.
“Good God! my dear boy, you can’t form any idea of the emotion that filled me when I heard this poor devil, whose wife I had killed without suspecting it, telling me this story on that wet night in this very kitchen.
“I exclaimed: ‘Ah! my poor Jean! my poor Jean!’
“He murmured: ‘Well, that’s all, M’sieu le Baron. I could not help it, one way or the other – and now it’s all over!’
“I caught his hand across the table, and I began to weep.
“He asked, ‘Will you come and see her grave?’ I nodded assent, for I couldn’t speak. He rose, lighted a lantern, and we walked through the blinding rain by the light of the lantern.
“He opened a gate, and I saw some crosses of black wood.
“Suddenly he stopped before a marble slab and said: ‘There it is,’ and he flashed the lantern close to it so that I could read the inscription:
“We fell on our knees in the damp grass, he and I, with the lantern between us, and I saw the rain beating on the white marble slab. And I thought of the heart of her sleeping there in her grave. Ah! poor heart! poor heart! Since then I come here every year. And I don’t know why, but I feel as if I were guilty of some crime in the presence of this man who always looks as if he forgave me.”
THE DEVIL
The peasant and the doctor stood on opposite sides of the bed, beside the old, dying woman. She was calm and resigned and her mind quite clear as she looked at them and listened to their conversation. She was going to die, and she did not rebel at it, for her time was come, as she was ninety-two.
The July sun streamed in at the window and the open door and cast its hot flames on the uneven brown clay floor, which had been stamped down by four generations of clodhoppers. The smell of the fields came in also, driven by the sharp wind and parched by the noontide heat. The grass-hoppers chirped themselves hoarse, and filled the country with their shrill noise, which was like that of the wooden toys which are sold to children at fair time.
The doctor raised his voice and said: “Honore, you cannot leave your mother in this state; she may die at any moment.” And the peasant, in great distress, replied: “But I must get in my wheat, for it has been lying on the ground a long time, and the weather is just right for it; what do you say about it, mother?”