The Complete Works: Short Stories, Novels, Plays, Poetry, Memoirs and more. Guy de Maupassant
was out. She recognized Paul’s writing and opened it, trembling with anxiety. He wrote:
“My Dear Mother: I have not written sooner because I did not wish you to make a useless journey to Paris when it was my place to go and see you. I am just now in great sorrow and in great straits. My wife is dying after giving birth to a little girl three days ago, and I have not one sou. I do not know what to do with the child, whom my janitor’s wife is bringing up on the bottle as well as she can, but I fear I shall lose her. Could you not take charge of it? I absolutely do not know what to do, and I have no money to put her out to nurse. Answer by return mail.
“Your son, who loves you,
“Paul.”
Jeanne sank into a chair and had scarcely strength to call Rosalie. When the maid came into the room they read the letter over together and then remained silent for some time, face to face.
At last Rosalie said: “I am going to fetch the little one, madame. We cannot leave it like that.”
“Go, my girl,” replied Jeanne.
Then they were silent until the maid said: “Put on your hat, madame, and we will go to Goderville to see the lawyer. If she is going to die, the other one, M. Paul must marry her for the little one’s sake later on.”
Jeanne, without replying, put on her hat. A deep, inexpressible joy filled her heart, a treacherous joy that she sought to hide at any cost, one of those things of which one is ashamed, although cherishing it in one’s soul — her son’s sweetheart was going to die.
The lawyer gave the servant minute instructions, making her repeat them several times. Then, sure that she could make no mistake, she said: “Do not be afraid. I will see to it now.”
She set out for Paris that very night.
Jeanne passed two days in such a troubled condition that she could not think. The third morning she received merely a line from Rosalie saying she would be back on the evening train. That was all.
About three o’clock she drove in a neighbor’s light wagon to the station at Beuzeville to meet Rosalie.
She stood on the platform, looking at the railroad track as it disappeared on the horizon. She looked at the clock. Ten minutes still — five minutes still — two minutes more. Then the hour of the train’s arrival, but it was not in sight. Presently, however, she saw a cloud of white smoke and gradually it drew up in the station. She looked anxiously and at last perceived Rosalie carrying a sort of white bundle in her arms.
She wanted to go over toward her, but her knees seemed to grow weak and she was afraid of falling.
But the maid had seen her and came forward with her usual calm manner and said: “How do you do, madame? Here I am back again, but not without some difficulty.”
“Well?” faltered Jeanne.
“Well,” answered Rosalie, “she died last night. They were married and here is the little girl.” And she held out the child, who could not be seen under her wraps.
Jeanne took it mechanically and they left the station and got into the carriage.
“M. Paul will come as soon as the funeral is over — tomorrow about this time, I believe,” resumed Rosalie.
Jeanne murmured “Paul” and then was silent.
The wagon drove along rapidly, the peasant clacking his tongue to urge on the horse. Jeanne looked straight ahead of her into the clear sky through which the swallows darted in curves. Suddenly she felt a gentle warmth striking through to her skin; it was the warmth of the little being who was asleep on her lap.
Then she was overcome with an intense emotion, and uncovering gently the face of the sleeping infant, she raised it to her lips and kissed it passionately.
But Rosalie, happy though grumpy, stopped her; “Come, come, Madame Jeanne, stop that; you will make it cry.”
And then she added, probably in answer to her own thoughts: “Life, after all, is not as good or as bad as we believe it to be.”
French
Bel-Ami (The History of a Scoundrel)
French
I
When the cashier had given him the change out of his five francpiece, George Duroy left the restaurant.
As he had a good carriage, both naturally and from his military training, he drew himself up, twirled his moustache, and threw upon the lingering customers a rapid and sweeping glance — one of those glances which take in everything within their range like a casting net.
The women looked up at him in turn — three little work-girls, a middle-aged music mistress, disheveled, untidy, and wearing a bonnet always dusty and a dress always awry; and two shopkeepers’ wives dining with their husbands — all regular customers at this slap-bang establishment.
When he was on the pavement outside, he stood still for a moment, asking himself what he should do. It was the 28th of June, and he had just three francs forty centimes in his pocket to carry him to the end of the month.