The Complete Works: Short Stories, Novels, Plays, Poetry, Memoirs and more. Guy de Maupassant
“With Charlotte.”
Now William had also a fixed idea himself which from this time forth never left him — his daughter, as yet barely alive, whom every moment he was going to look at. He felt indignant because Christiane’s first words were not to ask for the baby; and in a tone of gentle reproach: “Well, look here! you have not yet inquired about the little one. You are aware that she is going on very well?”
She trembled as if he had touched a living wound; but it was necessary for her to pass through all the stations of this Calvary.
“Bring her here,” she said.
He vanished to the foot of the bed behind the curtain, then he came back, his face lighted up with pride and happiness, and holding in his hands, in an awkward fashion, a bundle of white linen.
He laid it down on the embroidered pillow close to the head of Christiane, who was choking with emotion, and he said: “Look here, see how lovely she is!”
She looked. He opened with two of his fingers the fine lace with which was hidden from view a little red face, so small, so red, with closed eyes, and mouth constantly moving.
And she thought, as she leaned over this beginning of being: “This is my daughter — Paul’s daughter. Here then is what made me suffer so much. This — this — this is my daughter!”
Her repugnance toward the child, whose birth had so fiercely torn her poor heart and her tender woman’s body had, all at once, disappeared; she now contemplated it with ardent and sorrowing curiosity, with profound astonishment, the astonishment of a being who sees her firstborn come forth from her.
Andermatt was waiting for her to caress it passionately. He was surprised and shocked, and asked: “Are you not going to kiss it?”
She stooped quite gently toward this little red forehead; and in proportion as she drew her lips closer to it, she felt them drawn, called by it. And when she had placed them upon it, when she touched it, a little moist, a little warm, warm with her own life, it seemed to her that she could not withdraw her lips from that infantile flesh, that she would leave them there forever.
Something grazed her cheek; it was her husband’s beard as he bent forward to kiss her. And when he had pressed her a long time against himself with a grateful tenderness, he wanted, in his turn, to kiss his daughter, and with his outstretched mouth he gave it very soft little strokes on the nose.
Christiane, her heart shriveled up by this caress, gazed at both of them there by her side, at her daughter and at him — him!
He soon wanted to carry the infant back to its cradle.
“No,” said she, “let me have it a few minutes longer, that I may feel it close to my face. Don’t speak to me any more — don’t move — leave us alone, and wait.”
She passed one of her arms over the body hidden under the swaddling-clothes, put her forehead close to the little grinning face, shut her eyes, and no longer stirred, or thought about anything.
But, at the end of a few minutes, William softly touched her on the shoulder: “Come, my darling, you must be reasonable! No emotions, you know, no emotions!”
Thereupon, he bore away their little daughter, while the mother’s eyes followed the child till it had disappeared behind the curtain of the bed.
After that, he came back to her: “Then it is understood that I am to bring Madame Honorat to you tomorrow morning, to keep you company?”
She replied in a firm tone: “Yes, my dear, you may send her to me — tomorrow morning.”
And she stretched herself out in the bed, fatigued, worn out, perhaps a little less unhappy.
Her father and her brother came to see her in the evening, and told her news about the locality — the precipitate departure of Professor Cloche in search of his daughter, and the conjectures with reference to the Duchess de Ramas, who was no longer to be seen, and who was also supposed to have started on Mazelli’s track. Gontran laughed at these adventures, and drew a comic moral from the occurrences:
“The history of those spas is incredible. They are the only fairylands left upon the earth! In two months more things happen in them than in the rest of the universe during the remainder of the year. One might say with truth that the springs are not mineralized but bewitched. And it is everywhere the same, at Aix, Royat, Vichy, Luchon, and also at the sea-baths, at Dieppe, Étretat, Trouville, Biarritz, Cannes, and Nice. You meet there specimens of all kinds of people, of every social grade — admirable adventures, a mixture of races and people not to be found elsewhere, and marvelous incidents. Women play pranks there with facility and charming promptitude. At Paris one resists temptation — at the waters one falls; there you are! Some men find fortune at them, like Andermatt; others find death, like Aubry-Pasteur; others find worse even than that — and get married there — like myself and Paul. Isn’t it queer and funny, this sort of thing? You have heard about Paul’s intended marriage — have you not?”
She murmured: “Yes; William told me about it a little while ago.”
Gontran went on: “He is right, quite right. She is a peasant’s daughter. Well, what of that? She is better than an adventurer’s daughter or a daughter who’s too short. I knew Paul. He would have ended by marrying a streetwalker, provided she resisted him for six months. And to resist him it needed a jade or an innocent. He has lighted on the innocent. So much the better for him!”
Christiane listened, and every word, entering through her ears, went straight to her heart, and inflicted on her pain, horrible pain.
Closing her eyes, she said: “I am very tired. I would like to have a little rest.”
They embraced her and went out.
She could not sleep, so wakeful was her mind, active and racked with harrowing thoughts. That idea that he no longer loved her at all became so intolerable that, were it not for the presence of this woman, this nurse nodding asleep in the armchair, she would have got up, opened the window, and flung herself out on the steps of the hotel. A very thin ray of moonlight penetrated through an opening in the curtains, and formed a round bright spot on the floor. She observed it; and in a moment a crowd of memories rushed together into her brain: the lake, the wood, that first “I love you,” scarcely heard, so agitating, at Tournoel, and all their caresses, in the evening, beside the shadowy paths, and the road from La Roche Pradière.
Suddenly, she saw this white road, on a night when the heavens were filled with stars, and he, Paul, with his arm round a woman’s waist, kissing her at every step they walked. It was Charlotte! He pressed her against him, smiled as he knew how to smile, murmured in her ear sweet words, such as he knew how to utter, then flung himself on his knees and kissed the ground in front of her, just as he had kissed it in front of herself! It was so hard, so hard for her to bear, that turning round and hiding her face in the pillow, she burst out sobbing. She almost shrieked, so much did despair rend her soul. Every beat of her heart, which jumped into her throat, which throbbed in her temples, sent forth from her one word— “Paul — Paul — Paul” — endlessly re-echoed. She stopped up her ears with her hands in order to hear nothing more, plunged her head under the sheets; but then his name sounded in the depths of her bosom with every pant of her tormented heart.
The nurse, waking up, asked of her: “Are you worse, Madame?”
Christiane turned round, her face covered with tears, and murmured: “No, I was asleep — I was dreaming — I was frightened.”
Then, she begged of her to light two wax-candles, so that the ray of moonlight might be no longer visible. Toward morning, however, she slumbered.
She had been asleep for a few hours when Andermatt came in, bringing with him Madame Honorât. The fat lady, immediately adopting a familiar tone, questioned her like a doctor; then, satisfied with her answers, said: “Come, come! you’re going on very nicely!” Then she took off her hat, her gloves, and her shawl, and, addressing the nurse: