The Complete Works: Short Stories, Novels, Plays, Poetry, Memoirs and more. Guy de Maupassant
red and, right opposite to it, above the plain, the moon, red also, seemed to have come out to contemplate this spectacle. Then, when the palace, after it had been burning for some minutes, exploded like a ship which is blown up, flinging toward the wide heavens fantastic stars which burst in their turn, the moon remained all alone, calm and round, on the horizon.
The public applauded wildly, exclaiming: “Hurrah! Bravo! bravo!”
Andermatt, all of a sudden, said: “Let us go and open the ball, my dear boy. Are you willing to dance the first quadrille face to face with me?”
“Why, certainly, my dear brother-in-law.”
“Who have you thought of asking to dance with you? As for me, I have bespoken the Duchesse de Ramas.”
Gontran answered in a tone of indifference: “I will ask Charlotte Oriol.”
They reascended. As they passed in front of the spot where Christiane was resting with Paul Bretigny, they did not notice the pair. William murmured: “She has followed my advice. She went home to go to bed. She was quite tired out to-day.” And he advanced toward the ballroom which the attendants had been getting ready during the fireworks.
But Christiane had not returned to her room, as her husband supposed. As soon as she realized that she was alone with Paul she said to him in a very low tone, while she pressed his hand:
“So then you came. I was waiting for you for the past month. Every morning I kept asking myself, ‘Shall I see him to-day?’ and every night I kept saying to myself, ‘It will be tomorrow then.’ Why have you delayed so long, my love?”
He replied with some embarrassment: “I had matters to engage my attention — business.”
She leaned toward him, murmuring: “It was not right to leave me here alone with them, especially in my state.”
He moved his chair a little away from her.
“Be careful! We might be seen. These rockets light up the whole country around.”
She scarcely bestowed a thought on it; she said: “I love you so much!” Then, with sudden starts of joy: “Ah! how happy I feel, how happy I feel at finding that we are once more together, here! Are you thinking about it? What joy, Paul! How we are going to love one another again!”
She sighed, and her voice was so weak that it seemed a mere breath.
“I feel a foolish longing to embrace you, but it is foolish — there! — foolish. It is such a long time since I saw you!”
Then, suddenly, with the fierce energy of an impassioned woman, to whom everything should give way: “Listen! I want — you understand — I want to go with you immediately to the place where we said adieu to one another last year! You remember well, on the road from La Roche Pradière?”
He replied, stupefied: “But this is senseless! You cannot walk farther. You have been standing all day. This is senseless; I will not allow it.”
She had risen to her feet, and she said: “I am determined on it! If you do not accompany me, I’ll go alone!”
And pointing out to him the moon which had risen: “See here! It was an evening just like this! Do you remember how you kissed my shadow?”
He held her back: “Christiane — listen — this is ridiculous — Christiane!”
She did not reply, and walked toward the descent leading to the vineyards. He knew that calm will which nothing could divert from its purpose, the graceful obstinacy of these blue eyes, of that little forehead of a fair woman that could not be stopped; and he took her arm to sustain her on her way. “Supposing we are seen, Christiane?”
“You did not say that to me last year. And then, everyone is at the fete. We’ll be back before our absence can be noticed.”
It was soon necessary to ascend by the stony path. She panted, leaning with her whole weight on him, and at every step she said:
“It is good, it is good, to suffer thus!”
He stopped, wishing to bring her back. But she would not listen to him.
“No, no. I am happy. You don’t understand this, you. Listen! I feel it leaping in me — our child —— your child — what happiness. Give me your hand.”
She did not realize that he — this man — was one of the race of lovers who are not of the race of fathers. Since he discovered that she was pregnant, he kept away from her, and was disgusted with her, in spite of himself. He had often in bygone days said that a woman who has performed the function of reproduction is no longer worthy of love. What raised him to a high pitch of tenderness was that soaring of two hearts toward an inaccessible ideal, that entwining of two souls which are immaterial — all those artificial and unreal elements which poets have associated with this passion. In the physical woman he adored the Venus whose sacred side must always preserve the pure form of sterility. The idea of a little creature which owed its birth to him, a human larva stirring in that body defiled by it and already grown ugly, inspired him with an almost unconquerable repugnance. Maternity had made this woman a brute. She was no longer the exceptional being adored and dreamed about, but the animal that reproduces its species. And even a material disgust was mingled in him with these loathings of his mind.
How could she have felt or divined this — she whom each movement of the child she yearned for attached the more closely to her lover? This man whom she adored, whom she had every day loved a little more since the moment of their first kiss, had not only penetrated to the bottom of her heart, but had given her the proof that he had also entered into the very depths of her flesh, that he had sown his own life there, that he was going to come forth from her, again becoming quite small. Yes, she carried him there under her crossed hands, himself, her good, her dear, her tenderly beloved one, springing up again in her womb by the mystery of nature. And she loved him doubly, now that she had him in two forms — the big, and the little one as yet unknown, the one whom she saw, touched, embraced, and could hear speaking to her, and the one whom she could up to this only feel stirring under her skin. They had by this time reached the road.
“You were waiting for me over there that evening,” said she. And she held her lips out to him.
He kissed them, without replying, with a cold kiss.
She murmured for the second time: “Do you remember how you embraced me on the ground. We were like this — look!”
And in the hope that he would begin it all over again she commenced running to get some distance away from him. Then she stopped, out of breath, and waited, standing in the middle of the road. But the moon, which lengthened out her profile on the ground, traced there the protuberance of her swollen figure. And Paul, beholding at his feet the shadow of her pregnancy, remained unmoved at sight of it, wounded in his pcetic sense with shame, exasperated that she was not able to share his feelings or divine his thoughts, that she had not sufficient coquetry, tact, and feminine delicacy to understand all the shades which give such a different complexion to circumstances; and he said to her with impatience in his voice:
“Look here, Christiane! This child’s play is ridiculous.”
She came back to him moved, saddened, with outstretched arms, and, flinging herself on his breast:
“Ah! you love me less. I feel it! I am sure of it!’’
He took pity on her, and, encircling her head with his arms, he imprinted two long sweet kisses on her eyes.
Then in silence they retraced their steps. He could find nothing to say to her; and, as she leaned on him, exhausted by fatigue, he quickened his pace so that he might no longer feel against his side the touch of this enlarged figure. When they were near the hotel, they separated, and she went up to her own apartment.
The orchestra at the Casino was playing dance-music; and Paul went to look at the ball. It was a waltz; and they were all waltzing — Doctor Latonne with the younger Madame Paille,