The Complete Works: Short Stories, Novels, Plays, Poetry, Memoirs and more. Guy de Maupassant
eyes their brilliant triumph, he looked upon it as a just reparation for the indignities that so long had been heaped upon them. He saw them masters of kings, who are the masters of the people — sustaining thrones or allowing them to collapse, able to make a nation bankrupt as one might a wine-merchant, proud in the presence of princes who had grown humble, and casting their impure gold into the half-open purses of the most Catholic sovereigns, who thanked them by conferring on them titles of nobility and lines of railway. So he consented to the marriage of William Andermatt with Christiane de Ravenel.
As for Christiane, under the unconscious pressure of Madame Icardon, her mother’s old companion, who had become her intimate adviser since the Marquise’s death, a pressure to which was added that of her father and the interested indifference of her brother, she consented to marry this big, overrich youth, who was not ugly but scarcely pleased her, just as she would have consented to spend a summer in a disagreeable country.
She found him a good fellow, kind, not stupid, nice in intimate relations; but she frequently laughed at him along with Gontran, whose gratitude was of the perfidious order.
He would say to her: “Your husband is rosier and balder than ever. He looks like a sickly flower, or a sucking pig with its hair shaved off. Where does he get these colors?” —
She would reply: “I assure you I have nothing to do with it. There are days when I feel inclined to paste him on a box of sugarplums.”
But they had arrived in front of the baths. Two men were seated on straw chairs with their backs to the wall, smoking their pipes, one at each side of the door.
Said Gontran: “Look, here are two good types. Watch the fellow at the right, the hunchback with the Greek cap! That’s Père Printemps, an ex-jailer from Riom, who has become the guardian, almost the manager, of the Enval establishment. For him nothing is changed, and he governs the invalids just as he did his prisoners in former days. The bathers are always prisoners, their bathing-boxes are cells, the douche-room a black-hole, and the place where Doctor Bonnefille practices his stomach-washings with the aid of the Baraduc sounding-line a chamber of mysterious torture. He does not salute any of the men on the strength of the principle that all convicts are contemptible beings. He treats women with much more consideration, upon my honor — a consideration mingled with astonishment, for he had none of them under his control in the prison of Riom. That retreat being destined for males only, he has not yet got accustomed to talking to members of the fair sex. The other fellow is the cashier. I defy you to make him write your name. You are just going to see.”
And Gontran, addressing the man at the left, slowly said:
“Monsieur Seminois, this is my sister, Madame Andermatt, who wants to subscribe for a dozen baths.”
The cashier, very tall, very thin, with a poor appearance, rose up, went into his office, which exactly faced the study of the medical inspector, opened his book, and asked:
“What name?”
“Andermatt.”
“What did you say?”
“Andermatt.”
“How do you spell it?”
“A-n-d-e-r-m-a-t-t.”
“All right.”
And he slowly wrote it down. When he had finished, Gontran asked:
“Would you kindly read over my sister’s name?”
“Yes, Monsieur! Madame Anterpat.”
Christiane laughed till the tears came into her eyes, paid for her tickets, and then asked:
“What is it that one hears up there?”
Gontran took her arm in his. Two angry voices reached their ears on the stairs. They went up, opened a door, and saw a large coffee-room with a billiard table in the center. Two men in their shirtsleeves at opposite sides of the billiard-table, each with a cue in his hand, were furiously abusing one another.
“Eighteen!”
“Seventeen!”
“I tell you I’m eighteen.”
“That’s not true — you’re only seventeen!”
It was the director of the Casino, M. Petrus Martel of the Odéon, who was playing his ordinary game with the comedian of his company, M. Lapalme of the Grand Theater of Bordeaux.
Petrus Martel, whose stomach, stout and inactive, swayed underneath his shirt above a pair of pantaloons fastened anyhow, after having been a strolling player in various places, had undertaken the directorship of the Casino of Enval, and spent his days in drinking the allowances intended for the bathers. He wore an immense mustache like a dragoon, which was steeped from morning till night in the froth of bocks and the sticky syrup of liqueurs, and he had aroused in the old comedian whom he had enlisted in his service an immoderate passion for billiards.
As soon as they got up in the morning, they proceeded to play a game, insulted and threatened one another, expunged the record, began over again, scarcely gave themselves time for breakfast, and could not tolerate two clients coming to drive them away from their green cloth.
They soon put everyone to flight, and did not find this sort of existence unpleasant, though Petrus Martel always found himself at the end of the season in a bankrupt condition.
The female attendant, overwhelmed, would have to look on all day at this endless game, listen to the interminable discussion, and carry from morning till night glasses of beer or halfglasses of brandy to the two indefatigable players.
But Gontran carried off his sister: “Come into the park. ’Tis fresher.”
At the end of the establishment they suddenly perceived the orchestra under a Chinese kiosque. A fairhaired young man, frantically playing the violin, was conducting with movements of his head. His hair was shaking from one side to the other in the effort to keep time, and his entire torso bent forward and rose up again, swaying from left to right, like the stick of the leader of an orchestra. Facing him sat three strange-looking musicians. This was the maestro, Saint Landri.
He and his assistants — a pianist, whose instrument, mounted on rollers, was wheeled each morning from the vestibule of the baths to the kiosque; an enormous flautist, who presented the appearance of sucking a match while tickling it with his big swollen fingers, and a double-bass of consumptive aspect — produced with much fatigue this perfect imitation of a bad barrel-organ, which had astonished Christiane in the village street.
As she stopped to look at them, a gentleman saluted her brother.
“Good day, my dear Count.”
“Good day, doctor.”
And Gontran introduced them: “My sister — Doctor Honorat.”
She could scarcely restrain her merriment at the sight of this third physician. The latter bowed and made some complimentary remark.
“I hope that Madame is not an invalid?”
“Yes — slightly.”
He did not go farther with the matter, and changed the subject.
“You are aware, my dear Count, that you will shortly have one of the most interesting spectacles that could await you on your arrival in this district.”
“What is it, pray, doctor?”
“Père Oriol is going to blast his hill. This is of no consequence to you, but for us it is a big event.” And he proceeded to explain. “Père Oriol — the richest peasant in this part of the country — he is known to be worth over fifty thousand francs a year
—— owns all the vineyards along the plain up to the outlet of Enval. Now, just as you go out from the village at the division of the valley, rises a little mountain, or rather a high knoll, and on this knoll are the best vineyards of Père Oriol. In the midst of two