The Complete Works: Short Stories, Novels, Plays, Poetry, Memoirs and more. Guy de Maupassant
filled with indignation and wounded in his feelings as a father, went to look for Julien, and said to him abruptly: “Sir, I have come to ask you for an explanation of your conduct toward my daughter. You have been unfaithful to her with your maid, which is a double insult.”
Julien pretended to be innocent, denied everything positively, swore, took God as his witness. What proof had they? he asked. Was not Jeanne delirious? Had she not had brain fever? Had she not run out in the snow, in an attack of delirium, at the very beginning of her illness? And it was just at this time, when she was running about the house almost naked, that she pretends that she saw her maid in her husband’s room!
And he grew angry, threatened a lawsuit, became furious. The baron, bewildered, made excuses, begged his pardon, and held out his loyal hand to Julien, who refused to take it.
When Jeanne heard what her husband had said, she did not show any annoyance, but replied: “He is lying, papa, but we shall end by convicting him.”
For some days she remained taciturn and reserved, thinking over matters. The third morning she asked to see Rosalie. The baron refused to send her up, saying she had left. Jeanne persisted, saying: “Well, let some one go and fetch her.”
She was beginning to get excited when the doctor came. They told him everything, so that he could form an opinion. But Jeanne suddenly burst into tears, her nerves all unstrung, and almost screamed: “I want Rosalie; I wish to see her!”
The doctor took hold of her hand and said in a low tone: “Calm yourself, madame; any emotion may lead to serious consequences, for you are enceinte.”
She was dumfounded, as though she had received a blow; and it seemed to her that she felt the first stirrings of life within her. Then she was silent, not even listening to what was being said, absorbed in her own thoughts. She could not sleep that night for thinking of the new life that was developing in her, and was sad at the thought that it was Julien’s child, and might resemble him. The following morning she sent for the baron. “Little father,” she said, “my resolution is formed; I wish to know everything, and especially just now; you understand, I insist, and you know that you must not thwart me in my present condition. Listen! You must go and get M. le Curé. I need him here to keep Rosalie from telling a lie. Then, as soon as he comes, send him up to me, and you stay downstairs with little mother. And, above all things, see that Julien does not suspect anything.”
An hour later the priest came, looking fatter than ever, and puffing like the baroness. He sat down in an armchair and began to joke, wiping his forehead as usual with his plaid handkerchief. “Well, baroness, I do not think we grow any thinner; I think we make a good pair.” Then, turning toward the patient, he said: “Eh, what is this I hear, young lady, that we are soon to have a fresh baptism? Aha, it will not be a boat this time.” And in a graver tone he added: “It will be a defender of the country; unless” — after a moment’s reflection — it “should be the prospective mother of a family, like you, madame,” bowing to the baroness.
The door at the end of the room opened and Rosalie appeared, beside herself, weeping, refusing to enter the room, clinging to the door frame, and being pushed forward by the baron. Quite out of patience, he thrust her into the room. She covered her face with her hands and remained standing there, sobbing.
Jeanne, as soon as she saw her, rose to a sitting posture, whiter than the sheets, and with her heart beating wildly. She could not speak, could hardly breathe. At length she said, in a voice broken with emotion: “I — I — will not — need — to question you. It — it is enough for me to see you thus — to — to see your — your shame in my presence.”
After a pause, for she was out of breath, she continued: “I had M. le Curé come, so that it might be like a confession, you understand.”
Rosalie, motionless, uttered little cries that were almost screams behind her hands.
The baron, whose anger was gaining ground, seized her arms, and snatching her hands from her face, he threw her on her knees beside the bed, saying: “Speak! Answer!”
She remained on the ground, in the position assigned to Magdalens, her cap awry, her apron on the floor, and her face again covered by her hands.
Then the priest said: “Come, my girl, listen to what is said to you, and reply. We do not want to harm you, but we want to know what occurred.”
Jeanne, leaning over, looked at her and said: “Is it true that you were with Julien when I surprised you?”
Rosalie moaned through her fingers, “Yes, madame.”
Then the baroness suddenly began to cry in a choking fashion, and her convulsive sobs accompanied those of Rosalie.
Jeanne, with her eyes fixed on the maid, said: “How long had this been going on?”
“Ever since he came here,” faltered Rosalie.
Jeanne could not understand. “Ever since he came — then — ever since — ever since the spring?”
“Yes, madame.”
“Ever since he came into this house?”
“Yes, madame.”
And Jeanne, as if overflowing with questions, asked, speaking precipitately:
“But how did it happen? How did he approach you? How did he persuade you? What did he say? When, how did you ever yield to him? How could you ever have done it?”
Rosalie, removing her hands from her face, and overwhelmed also with a feverish desire to speak, said:
“How do I know, myself? It was the day he dined here for the first time, and he came up to my room. He had hidden himself in the loft. I did not dare to scream for fear of making a scandal. I no longer knew what I was doing. Then I said nothing because I liked him.”
Then Jeanne exclaimed with almost a scream:
“But — your — your child — is his child?”
Rosalie sobbed.
“Yes, madame.”
Then they were both silent. The only sound to be heard was the sobs of Rosalie and of the baroness.
Jeanne, quite overcome, felt her tears also beginning to flow; and they fell silently down her cheeks.
The maid’s child had the same father, as her child! Her anger was at an end; she now was filled with a dreary, slow, profound and infinite despair. She presently resumed in a changed, tearful voice, the voice of a woman who has been crying:
“When we returned from — from down there — from our journey — when did he begin again?”
The little maid, who had sunk down on the floor, faltered: “The first evening.”
Each word wrung Jeanne’s heart. So on the very first night of their return to the “Poplars” he left her for this girl. That was why he wanted to sleep alone!
She now knew all she wanted to know, and exclaimed: “Go away, go away!” And as Rosalie, perfectly crushed, did not stir, Jeanne called to her father: “Take her away, carry her away!” The priest, who had said nothing as yet, thought that the moment had arrived for him to preach a little sermon.
“What you have done is very wrong, my daughter, very wrong, and God will not pardon you so easily. Consider the hell that awaits you if you do not always act right. Now that you have a child you must behave yourself. No doubt madame la baronne will do something for you, and we will find you a husband.”
He would have continued speaking, but the baron, having again seized Rosalie by the shoulders, raised her from the floor and dragged her to the door, and threw her like a package into the corridor. As he turned back into the room, looking paler than his daughter, the priest resumed: “What can one do? They are all like that in the district. It is shocking, but cannot be helped, and then one must be a little indulgent toward the weaknesses of our nature. They