The Complete Works: Short Stories, Novels, Plays, Poetry, Memoirs and more. Guy de Maupassant
next day, as they were about to set out, she decided that she would not leave this humble cottage, where it seemed as though a fresh happiness had begun for her.
She called her host’s little wife into her room and, while making clear that she did not mean it as a present, she insisted, even with some annoyance, on sending her from Paris, as soon as she arrived, a remembrance, a remembrance to which she attached an almost superstitious significance.
The little Corsican refused for some time, not wishing to accept it. But at last she consented, saying:
“Well, then, send me a little pistol, a very small one.”
Jeanne opened her eyes in astonishment. The other added in her ear, as one confides a sweet and intimate secret: “It is to kill my brother-in-law.” And smiling, she hastily unwound the bandages around the helpless arm, and showing her firm, white skin with the scratch of a stiletto across it, now almost healed, she said: “If I had not been almost as strong as he is, he would have killed me. My husband is not jealous, he knows me; and, besides, he is ill, you know, and that quiets your blood. And, besides, madame, I am an honest woman; but my brother-in-law believes all that he hears. He is jealous for my husband and he will surely try it again. Then I shall have my little pistol; I shall be easy, and sure of my revenge.”
Jeanne promised to send the weapon, kissed her new friend tenderly and they set out on their journey.
The rest of the trip was nothing but a dream, a continual series of embraces, an intoxication of caresses. She saw nothing, neither the landscape, nor the people, nor the places where they stopped. She saw nothing but Julien.
On arriving at Bastia, they had to pay the guide. Julien fumbled in his pockets. Not finding what he wanted, he said to Jeanne: “As you are not using your mother’s two thousand francs, give them to me to carry. They will be safer in my belt, and it will avoid my having to make change.”
She handed him her purse.
They went to Leghorn, visited Florence, Genoa and all the Cornici. They reached Marseilles on a morning when the north wind was blowing. Two months had elapsed since they left the “Poplars.” It was now the 15th of October.
Jeanne, affected by the cold wind that seemed to come from yonder, from far-off Normandy, felt sad. Julien had, for some time, appeared changed, tired, indifferent, and she feared she knew not what.
They delayed their return home four days longer, not being able to make up their minds to leave this pleasant land of the sun. It seemed to her that she had come to an end of her happiness.
At length they left. They were to make all their purchases in Paris, prior to settling down for good at the “Poplars,” and Jeanne looked forward to bringing back some treasures, thanks to her mother’s present. But the first thing she thought of was the pistol promised to the little Corsican woman of Evisa.
The day after they arrived she said to Julien: “Dear, will you give me that money of mamma’s? I want to make my purchases.”
He turned toward her with a look of annoyance.
“How much do you want?”
“Why — whatever you please.”
“I will give you a hundred francs,” he replied, “but do not squander it.”
She did not know what to say, amazed and confused. At length she faltered: “But — I — handed you the money to — — “
He did not give her time to finish.
“Yes, of course. Whether it is in my pocket or yours makes no difference from the moment that we have the same purse. I do not refuse you, do I, since I am giving you a hundred francs?”
She took the five gold pieces without saying a word, but she did not venture to ask for any more, and she bought nothing but the pistol.
Eight days later they set out for the “Poplars.”
French
VI
The family and servants were awaiting them outside the white gate with brick supports. The post-chaise drew up and there were long and affectionate greetings. Little mother wept; Jeanne, affected, wiped away some tears; father nervously walked up and down.
Then, as the baggage was being unloaded, they told of their travels beside the parlor fire. Jeanne’s words flowed freely, and everything was told, everything, in a half hour, except, perhaps, a few little details forgotten in this rapid account.
The young wife then went to undo her parcels. Rosalie, also greatly affected, assisted her. When this was finished and everything had been put away, the little maid left her mistress, and Jeanne, somewhat fatigued, sat down.
She asked herself what she was now going to do, seeking some occupation for her mind, some work for her hands. She did not care to go down again into the drawingroom, where her mother was asleep, and she thought she would take a walk. But the country seemed so sad that she felt a weight at her heart on only looking out of the window.
Then it came to her that she had no longer anything to do, never again anything to do. All her young life at the convent had been preoccupied with the future, busied with dreams. The constant excitement of hope filled her hours at that time, so that she was not aware of their flight. Then hardly had she left those austere walls, where her illusions had unfolded, than her expectations of love were at once realized. The longed-for lover, met, loved and married within a few weeks, as one marries on these sudden resolves, had carried her off in his arms, without giving her time for reflection.
But now the sweet reality of the first days was to become the everyday reality, which closed the door on vague hopes, on the enchanting worries of the unknown. Yes, there was nothing more to look forward to. And there was nothing more to do, today, tomorrow, never. She felt all this vaguely as a certain disillusion, a certain crumbling of her dreams.
She rose and leaned her forehead against the cold window panes.
Then, after gazing for some time at the sky across which dark clouds were passing, she decided to go out.
Was this the same country, the same grass, the same trees as in May? What had become of the sunlit cheerfulness of the leaves and the poetry of the green grass, where dandelions, poppies and moon daisies bloomed and where yellow butterflies fluttered as though held by invisible wires? And this intoxication of the air teeming with life, with fragrance, with fertilizing pollen, existed no longer!
The avenues, soaked by the constant autumnal downpours, were covered with a thick carpet of fallen leaves which extended beneath the shivering bareness of the almost leafless poplars. She went as far as the shrubbery. It was as sad as the chamber of a dying person. A green hedge which separated the little winding walks was bare of leaves. Little birds flew from place to place with a little chilly cry, seeking a shelter.
The thick curtain of elm trees that formed a protection against the sea wind, the lime tree and the plane tree with their crimson and yellow tints seemed clothed, the one in red velvet and the other in yellow silk.
Jeanne walked slowly up and down petite mère’s avenue, alongside the Couillards’ farm. Something weighed on her spirit like a presentiment of the long boredom of the monotonous life about to begin.
She seated herself on the bank where Julien had first told her of his love and remained there, dreaming, scarcely thinking, depressed to the very soul, longing to lie down, to sleep, in order to escape the dreariness of the day.
All at once she perceived a gull crossing the sky, carried away in a gust of wind, and she recalled the eagle she had seen down there in Corsica, in the gloomy vale of Ota. She felt a spasm at her heart as at the remembrance of something pleasant that is gone by, and she had a sudden vision