The Project Gutenberg EBook of Original Short Stories of Maupassant, Volume 8, by Guy de Maupassant This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Original Short Stories, Volume 8 (of 13) Author: Guy de Maupassant Release Date: August 16, 2006 [EBook #3084] Last Updated: February 23, 2018 Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAUPASSANT SHORT STORIES *** Produced by David Widger
Caresses are nothing but anxious bliss, Vain attempts of love to unite souls through a kiss.One caress alone gives this deep sensation of two beings welded into one —it is the kiss. No violent delirium of complete possession is worth this trembling approach of the lips, this first moist and fresh contact, and then the long, lingering, motionless rapture. Therefore, my dear, the kiss is our strongest weapon, but we must take care not to dull it. Do not forget that its value is only relative, purely conventional. It continually changes according to circumstances, the state of expectancy and the ecstasy of the mind. I will call attention to one example. Another poet, Francois Coppee, has written a line which we all remember, a line which we find delightful, which moves our very hearts. After describing the expectancy of a lover, waiting in a room one winter's evening, his anxiety, his nervous impatience, the terrible fear of not seeing her, he describes the arrival of the beloved woman, who at last enters hurriedly, out of breath, bringing with her part of the winter breeze, and he exclaims:
Oh! the taste of the kisses first snatched through the veil.Is that not a line of exquisite sentiment, a delicate and charming observation, a perfect truth? All those who have hastened to a clandestine meeting, whom passion has thrown into the arms of a man, well do they know these first delicious kisses through the veil; and they tremble at the memory of them. And yet their sole charm lies in the circumstances, from being late, from the anxious expectancy, but from the purely—or, rather, impurely, if you prefer—sensual point of view, they are detestable. Think! Outside it is cold. The young woman has walked quickly; the veil is moist from her cold breath. Little drops of water shine in the lace. The lover seizes her and presses his burning lips to her liquid breath. The moist veil, which discolors and carries the dreadful odor of chemical dye, penetrates into the young man's mouth, moistens his mustache. He does not taste the lips of his beloved, he tastes the dye of this lace moistened with cold breath. And yet, like the poet, we would all exclaim:
Oh! the taste of the kisses first snatched through the veil.Therefore, the value of this caress being entirely a matter of convention, we must be careful not to abuse it. Well, my dear, I have several times noticed that you are very clumsy. However, you were not alone in that fault; the majority of women lose their authority by abusing the kiss with untimely kisses. When they feel that their husband or their lover is a little tired, at those times when the heart as well as the body needs rest, instead of understanding what is going on within him, they persist in giving inopportune caresses, tire him by the obstinacy of begging lips and give caresses lavished with neither rhyme nor reason. Trust in the advice of my experience. First, never kiss your husband in public, in the train, at the restaurant. It is bad taste; do not give in to your desires. He would feel ridiculous and would never forgive you. Beware of useless kisses lavished in intimacy. I am sure that you abuse them. For instance, I remember one day that you did something quite shocking. Probably you do not remember it. All three of us were together in the drawing-room, and, as you did not stand on ceremony before me, your husband was holding you on his knees and kissing you at great length on the neck, the lips and throat. Suddenly you exclaimed: “Oh! the fire!” You had been paying no attention to it, and it was almost out. A few lingering embers were glowing on the hearth. Then he rose, ran to the woodbox, from which he dragged two enormous logs with great difficulty, when you came to him with begging lips, murmuring: “Kiss me!” He turned his head with difficulty and tried to hold up the logs at the same time. Then you gently and slowly placed your mouth on that of the poor fellow, who remained with his neck out of joint, his sides twisted, his arms almost dropping off, trembling with fatigue and tired from his desperate effort. And you kept drawing out this torturing kiss, without seeing or understanding. Then when you freed him, you began to grumble: “How badly you kiss!” No wonder! Oh, take care of that! We all have this foolish habit, this unconscious need of choosing the most inconvenient moments. When he is carrying a glass of water, when he is putting on his shoes, when he is tying his scarf—in short, when he finds himself in any uncomfortable position —then is the time which we choose for a caress which makes him stop for a whole minute in the middle of a gesture with the sole desire of getting rid of us! Do not think that this criticism is insignificant. Love, my dear, is a delicate thing. The least little thing offends it; know that everything depends on the tact of our caresses. An ill-placed kiss may do any amount of harm. Try following my advice.
Your old aunt,
COLLETTE.
This story appeared in the Gaulois in November, 1882, under the pseudonym
of “Maufrigneuse.”
HOW HE GOT THE LEGION OF HONOR
From the time some people begin to talk they seem to have an overmastering
desire or vocation.
Ever since he was a child, M. Caillard had only had one idea in his head
—to wear the ribbon of an order. When he was still quite a small boy
he used to wear a zinc cross of the Legion of Honor pinned on his tunic,
just as other children wear a soldier's cap, and he took his mother's hand
in the street with a proud air, sticking out his little chest with its red
ribbon and metal star so that it might show to advantage.
His studies were not a success, and he failed in his examination for
Bachelor of Arts; so, not knowing what to do, he married a pretty girl, as
he had plenty of money of his own.
They lived in Paris, as many rich middle-class people do, mixing with
their own particular set, and proud of knowing a deputy, who might perhaps
be a minister some day, and counting two heads of departments among their
friends.
But M. Caillard could not get rid of his one absorbing idea, and he felt
constantly unhappy because he had not the right to wear a little bit of
colored ribbon in his buttonhole.
When he met any men who were decorated on the boulevards, he looked at
them askance, with intense jealousy. Sometimes, when he had nothing to do
in the afternoon, he would count them, and say to himself: “Just let me
see how many I shall meet between the Madeleine and the Rue Drouot.”
Then he would walk slowly, looking at every coat with a practiced eye for
the little bit of red ribbon, and when he had got to the end of his walk
he always repeated the numbers aloud.
“Eight officers and seventeen knights. As many as that! It is stupid to
sow the cross broadcast in that fashion. I wonder how many I shall meet
going back?”
And he returned slowly, unhappy when the crowd of passers-by interfered
with his vision.
He knew the places where most were to be found. They swarmed in the Palais
Royal. Fewer were seen in the Avenue de l'Opera than in the Rue de la
Paix, while the right side of the boulevard was more frequented by them
than the left.
They also seemed to prefer certain cafes and theatres. Whenever he saw a
group of white-haired old gentlemen standing together in the middle of the
pavement, interfering with the traffic, he used to say to himself:
“They are officers of the Legion of Honor,” and he felt inclined to take
off his hat to them.
He had often remarked that the officers had a different bearing to the
mere knights. They carried their head differently, and one felt that they
enjoyed a higher official consideration and a more widely extended
importance.
Sometimes, however, the worthy man would be seized with a furious hatred
for every one who was decorated; he felt like a Socialist toward them.
Then, when he got home, excited at meeting so many crosses—just as a
poor, hungry wretch might be on passing some dainty provision shop—he
used to ask in a loud voice:
“When shall we get rid of this wretched government?”
And his wife would be surprised, and ask:
“What is the matter with you to-day?”
“I am indignant,” he replied, “at the injustice I see going on around us.
Oh, the Communards were certainly right!”
After dinner he would go out again and look at the shops where the
decorations were sold, and he examined all the emblems of various shapes
and colors. He would have liked to possess them all, and to have walked
gravely at the head of a procession, with his crush hat under his arm and
his breast covered with decorations, radiant as a star, amid a buzz of
admiring whispers and a hum of respect.
But, alas! he had no right to wear any decoration whatever.
He used to say to himself: “It is really too difficult for any man to
obtain the Legion of Honor unless he is some public functionary. Suppose I
try to be appointed an officer of the Academy!”
But he did not know how to set about it, and spoke on the subject to his
wife, who was stupefied.
“Officer of the Academy! What have you done to deserve it?”
He got angry. “I know what I am talking about. I only want to know how to
set about it. You are quite stupid at times.”
She smiled. “You are quite right. I don't understand anything about it.”
An idea struck him: “Suppose you were to speak to M. Rosselin, the deputy;
he might be able to advise me. You understand I cannot broach the subject
to him directly. It is rather difficult and delicate, but coming from you
it might seem quite natural.”
Mme. Caillard did what he asked her, and M. Rosselin promised to speak to
the minister about it; and then Caillard began to worry him, till the
deputy told him he must make a formal application and put forward his
claims.
“What were his charms?” he said. “He was not even a Bachelor of Arts.”
However, he set to work and produced a pamphlet, with the title, “The
People's Right to Instruction,” but he could not finish it for want of
ideas.
He sought for easier subjects, and began several in succession. The first
was, “The Instruction of Children by Means of the Eye.” He wanted
gratuitous theatres to be established in every poor quarter of Paris for
little children. Their parents were to take them there when they were
quite young, and, by means of a magic lantern, all the notions of human
knowledge were to be imparted to them. There were to be regular courses.
The sight would educate the mind, while the pictures would remain
impressed on the brain, and thus science would, so to say, be made
visible. What could be more simple than to teach universal history,
natural history, geography, botany, zoology, anatomy, etc., etc., in this
manner?
He had his ideas printed in pamphlets, and sent a copy to each deputy, ten
to each minister, fifty to the President of the Republic, ten to each
Parisian, and five to each provincial newspaper.
Then he wrote on “Street Lending-Libraries.” His idea was to have little
pushcarts full of books drawn about the streets. Everyone would have a
right to ten volumes a month in his home on payment of one sou.
“The people,” M. Caillard said, “will only disturb itself for the sake of
its pleasures, and since it will not go to instruction, instruction must
come to it,” etc., etc.
His essays attracted no attention, but he sent in his application, and he
got the usual formal official reply. He thought himself sure of success,
but nothing came of it.
Then he made up his mind to apply personally. He begged for an interview
with the Minister of Public Instruction, and he was received by a young
subordinate, who was very grave and important, and kept touching the knobs
of electric bells to summon ushers, and footmen, and officials inferior to
himself. He declared to M. Caillard that his matter was going on quite
favorably, and advised him to continue his remarkable labors, and M.
Caillard set at it again.
M. Rosselin, the deputy, seemed now to take a great interest in his
success, and gave him a lot of excellent, practical advice. He, himself,
was decorated, although nobody knew exactly what he had done to deserve
such a distinction.
He told Caillard what new studies he ought to undertake; he introduced him
to learned societies which took up particularly obscure points of science,
in the hope of gaining credit and honors thereby; and he even took him
under his wing at the ministry.
One day, when he came to lunch with his friend—for several months
past he had constantly taken his meals there—he said to him in a
whisper as he shook hands: “I have just obtained a great favor for you.
The Committee of Historical Works is going to intrust you with a
commission. There are some researches to be made in various libraries in
France.”
Caillard was so delighted that he could scarcely eat or drink, and a week
later he set out. He went from town to town, studying catalogues,
rummaging in lofts full of dusty volumes, and was hated by all the
librarians.
One day, happening to be at Rouen, he thought he should like to go and
visit his wife, whom he had not seen for more than a week, so he took the
nine o'clock train, which would land him at home by twelve at night.
He had his latchkey, so he went in without making any noise, delighted at
the idea of the surprise he was going to give her. She had locked herself
in. How tiresome! However, he cried out through the door:
“Jeanne, it is I!”
She must have been very frightened, for he heard her jump out of her bed
and speak to herself, as if she were in a dream. Then she went to her
dressing room, opened and closed the door, and went quickly up and down
her room barefoot two or three times, shaking the furniture till the vases
and glasses sounded. Then at last she asked:
“Is it you, Alexander?”
“Yes, yes,” he replied; “make haste and open the door.”
As soon as she had done so, she threw herself into his arms, exclaiming:
“Oh, what a fright! What a surprise! What a pleasure!”
He began to undress himself methodically, as he did everything, and took
from a chair his overcoat, which he was in the habit of hanging up in the
hall. But suddenly he remained motionless, struck dumb with astonishment—there
was a red ribbon in the buttonhole:
“Why,” he stammered, “this—this—this overcoat has got the
ribbon in it!”
In a second, his wife threw herself on him, and, taking it from his hands,
she said:
“No! you have made a mistake—give it to me.”
But he still held it by one of the sleeves, without letting it go,
repeating in a half-dazed manner:
“Oh! Why? Just explain—Whose overcoat is it? It is not mine, as it
has the Legion of Honor on it.”
She tried to take it from him, terrified and hardly able to say:
“Listen—listen! Give it to me! I must not tell you! It is a secret.
Listen to me!”
But he grew angry and turned pale.
“I want to know how this overcoat comes to be here? It does not belong to
me.”
Then she almost screamed at him:
“Yes, it does; listen! Swear to me—well—you are decorated!”
She did not intend to joke at his expense.
He was so overcome that he let the overcoat fall and dropped into an
armchair.
“I am—you say I am—decorated?”
“Yes, but it is a secret, a great secret.”
She had put the glorious garment into a cupboard, and came to her husband
pale and trembling.
“Yes,” she continued, “it is a new overcoat that I have had made for you.
But I swore that I would not tell you anything about it, as it will not be
officially announced for a month or six weeks, and you were not to have
known till your return from your business journey. M. Rosselin managed it
for you.”
“Rosselin!” he contrived to utter in his joy. “He has obtained the
decoration for me? He—Oh!”
And he was obliged to drink a glass of water.
A little piece of white paper fell to the floor out of the pocket of the
overcoat. Caillard picked it up; it was a visiting card, and he read out:
“Rosselin-Deputy.”
“You see how it is,” said his wife.
He almost cried with joy, and, a week later, it was announced in the
Journal Officiel that M. Caillard had been awarded the Legion of Honor on
account of his exceptional services.
“I hate the poet who with tearful eye Murmurs some name while gazing tow'rds a star, Who sees no magic in the earth or sky, Unless Lizette or Ninon be not far. “The bard who in all Nature nothing sees Divine, unless a petticoat he ties Amorously to the branches of the trees Or nightcap to the grass, is scarcely wise. “He has not heard the Eternal's thunder tone, The voice of Nature in her various moods, Who cannot tread the dim ravines alone, And of no woman dream mid whispering woods.”I expected some reproaches. Nothing of the sort. She murmured: “How true it is!” I was astonished. Had she understood? Our boat had gradually approached the bank and become entangled in the branches of a willow which impeded its progress. I placed my arm round my companion's waist, and very gently approached my lips towards her neck. But she repulsed me with an abrupt, angry movement. “Have done, pray! How rude you are!” I tried to draw her toward me. She resisted, caught hold of the tree, and was near flinging us both into the water. I deemed it prudent to cease my importunities. She said: “I would rather capsize you. I feel so happy. I want to dream. This is so delightful.” Then, in a slightly malicious tone, she added: “Have you already forgotten the verses you repeated to me just now?” She was right. I became silent. She went on: “Come, now!” And I plied the oars once more. I began to think the night long and my position ridiculous. My companion said to me: “Will you make me a promise?” “Yes. What is it?” “To remain quiet, well-behaved and discreet, if I permit you—” “What? Say what you mean!” “Here is what I mean: I want to lie down on my back at the bottom of the boat with you by my side. But I forbid you to touch me, to embrace me —in short—to caress me.” I promised. She said warningly: “If you move, 'I'll capsize the boat.” And then we lay down side by side, our eyes turned toward the sky, while the boat glided slowly through the water. We were rocked by its gentle motion. The slight sounds of the night came to us more distinctly in the bottom of the boat, sometimes causing us to start. And I felt springing up within me a strange, poignant emotion, an infinite tenderness, something like an irresistible impulse to open my arms in order to embrace, to open my heart in order to love, to give myself, to give my thoughts, my body, my life, my entire being to some one. My companion murmured, like one in a dream: “Where are we; Where are we going? It seems to me that I am leaving the earth. How sweet it is! Ah, if you loved me—a little!!!” My heart began to throb. I had no answer to give. It seemed to me that I loved her. I had no longer any violent desire. I felt happy there by her side, and that was enough for me. And thus we remained for a long, long time without stirring. We had clasped each other's hands; some delightful force rendered us motionless, an unknown force stronger than ourselves, an alliance, chaste, intimate, absolute, of our beings lying there side by side, belonging to each other without contact. What was this? How do I know? Love, perhaps? Little by little the dawn appeared. It was three o'clock in the morning. Slowly a great brightness spread over the sky. The boat knocked up against something. I rose up. We had come close to a tiny islet. But I remained enchanted, in an ecstasy. Before us stretched the firmament, red, pink, violet, spotted with fiery clouds resembling golden vapor. The river was glowing with purple and three houses on one side of it seemed to be burning. I bent toward my companion. I was going to say, “Oh! look!” But I held my tongue, quite dazed, and I could no longer see anything except her. She, too, was rosy, with rosy flesh tints with a deeper tinge that was partly a reflection of the hue of the sky. Her tresses were rosy; her eyes were rosy; her teeth were rosy; her dress, her laces, her smile, all were rosy. And in truth I believed, so overpowering was the illusion, that the dawn was there in the flesh before me. She rose softly to her feet, holding out her lips to me; and I moved toward her, trembling, delirious feeling indeed that I was going to kiss Heaven, to kiss happiness, to kiss a dream that had become a woman, to kiss the ideal which had descended into human flesh. She said to me: “You have a caterpillar in your hair.” And, suddenly, I felt as sad as if I had lost all hope in life. That is all, madame. It is puerile, silly, stupid. But I am sure that since that day it would be impossible for me to love. And yet—who can tell? [The young man upon whom this letter was found was yesterday taken out of the Seine between Bougival and Marly. An obliging bargeman, who had searched the pockets in order to ascertain the name of the deceased, brought this paper to the author.]
“Oh! what joy, what joy it is,
To pick the sweet, wild strawberries.”
He was now walking on thick, damp, cool moss, and that soft carpet under
his feet made him feel absurdly inclined to turn head over heels as he
used to do when a child, so he took a run, turned a somersault, got up and
began over again. And between each time he began to sing again:
“Oh! what joy, what joy it is,
To pick the sweet, wild strawberries.”
Suddenly he found himself above a deep road, and in the road he saw a tall
girl, a servant, who was returning to the village with two pails of milk.
He watched, stooping down, and with his eyes as bright as those of a dog
who scents a quail, but she saw him raised her head and said: “Was that
you singing like that?” He did not reply, however, but jumped down into
the road, although it was a fall of at least six feet and when she saw him
suddenly standing in front of her, she exclaimed: “Oh! dear, how you
frightened me!”
But he did not hear her, for he was drunk, he was mad, excited by another
requirement which was more imperative than hunger, more feverish than
alcohol; by the irresistible fury of the man who has been deprived of
everything for two months, and who is drunk; who is young, ardent and
inflamed by all the appetites which nature has implanted in the vigorous
flesh of men.
The girl started back from him, frightened at his face, his eyes, his
half-open mouth, his outstretched hands, but he seized her by the
shoulders, and without a word, threw her down in the road.
She let her two pails fall, and they rolled over noisily, and all the milk
was spilt, and then she screamed lustily, but it was of no avail in that
lonely spot.
When she got up the thought of her overturned pails suddenly filled her
with fury, and, taking off one of her wooden sabots, she threw it at the
man to break his head if he did not pay her for her milk.
But he, mistaking the reason of this sudden violent attack, somewhat
sobered, and frightened at what he had done, ran off as fast as he could,
while she threw stones at him, some of which hit him in the back.
He ran for a long time, very long, until he felt more tired than he had
ever been before. His legs were so weak that they could scarcely carry
him; all his ideas were confused, he lost recollection of everything and
could no longer think about anything, and so he sat down at the foot of a
tree, and in five minutes was fast asleep. He was soon awakened, however,
by a rough shake, and, on opening his eyes, he saw two cocked hats of
shiny leather bending over him, and the two gendarmes of the morning, who
were holding him and binding his arms.
“I knew I should catch you again,” said the brigadier jeeringly. But
Randel got up without replying. The two men shook him, quite ready to ill
treat him if he made a movement, for he was their prey now. He had become
a jailbird, caught by those hunters of criminals who would not let him go
again.
“Now, start!” the brigadier said, and they set off. It was late afternoon,
and the autumn twilight was setting in over the land, and in half an hour
they reached the village, where every door was open, for the people had
heard what had happened. Peasants and peasant women and girls, excited
with anger, as if every man had been robbed and every woman attacked,
wished to see the wretch brought back, so that they might overwhelm him
with abuse. They hooted him from the first house in the village until they
reached the Hotel de Ville, where the mayor was waiting for him to be
himself avenged on this vagabond, and as soon as he saw him approaching he
cried:
“Ah! my fine fellow! here we are!” And he rubbed his hands, more pleased
than he usually was, and continued: “I said so. I said so, the moment I
saw him in the road.”
And then with increased satisfaction:
“Oh, you blackguard! Oh, you dirty blackguard! You will get your twenty
years, my fine fellow!”
MY DEAR FRIEND: You have, without doubt, forgotten me, for it is now
twenty-five years since we saw each other. I was young; I am old.
When I bade you farewell, I left Paris in order to follow into the
provinces my husband, my old husband, whom you used to call “my
hospital.” Do you remember him? He died five years ago, and now I
am returning to Paris to get my daughter married, for I have a
daughter, a beautiful girl of eighteen, whom you have never seen.
I informed you of her birth, but you certainly did not pay much
attention to so trifling an event.
You are still the handsome Lormerin; so I have been told. Well, if
you still recollect little Lise, whom you used to call Lison, come
and dine with her this evening, with the elderly Baronne de Vance
your ever faithful friend, who, with some emotion, although happy,
reaches out to you a devoted hand, which you must clasp, but no
longer kiss, my poor Jaquelet.
LISE DE VANCE.
Lormerin's heart began to throb. He remained sunk in his armchair with the
letter on his knees, staring straight before him, overcome by a poignant
emotion that made the tears mount up to his eyes!
If he had ever loved a woman in his life it was this one, little Lise,
Lise de Vance, whom he called “Ashflower,” on account of the strange color
of her hair and the pale gray of her eyes. Oh! what a dainty, pretty,
charming creature she was, this frail baronne, the wife of that gouty,
pimply baron, who had abruptly carried her off to the provinces, shut her
up, kept her in seclusion through jealousy, jealousy of the handsome
Lormerin.
Yes, he had loved her, and he believed that he too, had been truly loved.
She familiarly gave him, the name of Jaquelet, and would pronounce that
word in a delicious fashion.
A thousand forgotten memories came back to him, far, off and sweet and
melancholy now. One evening she had called on him on her way home from a
ball, and they went for a stroll in the Bois de Boulogne, she in evening
dress, he in his dressing-jacket. It was springtime; the weather was
beautiful. The fragrance from her bodice embalmed the warm air-the odor of
her bodice, and perhaps, too, the fragrance of her skin. What a divine
night! When they reached the lake, as the moon's rays fell across the
branches into the water, she began to weep. A little surprised, he asked
her why.
“I don't know. The moon and the water have affected me. Every time I see
poetic things I have a tightening at the heart, and I have to cry.”
He smiled, affected himself, considering her feminine emotion charming
—the unaffected emotion of a poor little woman, whom every sensation
overwhelms. And he embraced her passionately, stammering:
“My little Lise, you are exquisite.”
What a charming love affair, short-lived and dainty, it had been and over
all too quickly, cut short in the midst of its ardor by this old brute of
a baron, who had carried off his wife, and never let any one see her
afterward.
Lormerin had forgotten, in fact, at the end of two or three months. One
woman drives out another so quickly in Paris, when one is a bachelor! No
matter; he had kept a little altar for her in his heart, for he had loved
her alone! He assured himself now that this was so.
He rose, and said aloud: “Certainly, I will go and dine with her this
evening!”
And instinctively he turned toward the mirror to inspect himself from head
to foot. He reflected: “She must look very old, older than I look.” And he
felt gratified at the thought of showing himself to her still handsome,
still fresh, of astonishing her, perhaps of filling her with emotion, and
making her regret those bygone days so far, far distant!
He turned his attention to the other letters. They were of no importance.
The whole day he kept thinking of this ghost of other days. What was she
like now? How strange it was to meet in this way after twenty-five years!
But would he recognize her?
He made his toilet with feminine coquetry, put on a white waistcoat, which
suited him better with the coat than a black one, sent for the hairdresser
to give him a finishing touch with the curling iron, for he had preserved
his hair, and started very early in order to show his eagerness to see
her.
The first thing he saw on entering a pretty drawing-room newly furnished
was his own portrait, an old faded photograph, dating from the days when
he was a beau, hanging on the wall in an antique silk frame.
He sat down and waited. A door opened behind him. He rose up abruptly,
and, turning round, beheld an old woman with white hair who extended both
hands toward him.
He seized them, kissed them one after the other several times; then,
lifting up his head, he gazed at the woman he had loved.
Yes, it was an old lady, an old lady whom he did not recognize, and who,
while she smiled, seemed ready to weep.
He could not abstain from murmuring:
“Is it you, Lise?”
She replied:
“Yes, it is I; it is I, indeed. You would not have known me, would you? I
have had so much sorrow—so much sorrow. Sorrow has consumed my life.
Look at me now—or, rather, don't look at me! But how handsome you
have kept—and young! If I had by chance met you in the street I
would have exclaimed: 'Jaquelet!'. Now, sit down and let us, first of all,
have a chat. And then I will call my daughter, my grown-up daughter.
You'll see how she resembles me—or, rather, how I resembled her—no,
it is not quite that; she is just like the 'me' of former days—you
shall see! But I wanted to be alone with you first. I feared that there
would be some emotion on my side, at the first moment. Now it is all over;
it is past. Pray be seated, my friend.”
He sat down beside her, holding her hand; but he did not know what to say;
he did not know this woman—it seemed to him that he had never seen
her before. Why had he come to this house? What could he talk about? Of
the long ago? What was there in common between him and her? He could no
longer recall anything in presence of this grandmotherly face. He could no
longer recall all the nice, tender things, so sweet, so bitter, that had
come to his mind that morning when he thought of the other, of little
Lise, of the dainty Ashflower. What, then, had become of her, the former
one, the one he had loved? That woman of far-off dreams, the blonde with
gray eyes, the young girl who used to call him “Jaquelet” so prettily?
They remained side by side, motionless, both constrained, troubled,
profoundly ill at ease.
As they talked only commonplaces, awkwardly and spasmodically and slowly,
she rose and pressed the button of the bell.
“I am going to call Renee,” she said.
There was a tap at the door, then the rustle of a dress; then a young
voice exclaimed:
“Here I am, mamma!”
Lormerin remained bewildered as at the sight of an apparition.
He stammered:
“Good-day, mademoiselle.”
Then, turning toward the mother:
“Oh! it is you!”
In fact, it was she, she whom he had known in bygone days, the Lise who
had vanished and come back! In her he found the woman he had won
twenty-five years before. This one was even younger, fresher, more
childlike.
He felt a wild desire to open his arms, to clasp her to his heart again,
murmuring in her ear:
“Good-morning, Lison!”
A man-servant announced:
“Dinner is ready, madame.”
And they proceeded toward the dining-room.
What passed at this dinner? What did they say to him, and what could he
say in reply? He found himself plunged in one of those strange dreams
which border on insanity. He gazed at the two women with a fixed idea in
his mind, a morbid, self-contradictory idea:
“Which is the real one?”
The mother smiled again repeating over and over:
“Do you remember?” And it was in the bright eyes of the young girl that he
found again his memories of the past. Twenty times he opened his mouth to
say to her: “Do you remember, Lison?” forgetting this white-haired lady
who was looking at him tenderly.
And yet, there were moments when, he no longer felt sure, when he lost his
head. He could see that the woman of to-day was not exactly the woman of
long ago. The other one, the former one, had in her voice, in her glances,
in her entire being, something which he did not find again. And he made
prodigious efforts of mind to recall his lady love, to seize again what
had escaped from her, what this resuscitated one did not possess.
The baronne said:
“You have lost your old vivacity, my poor friend.”
He murmured:
“There are many other things that I have lost!”
But in his heart, touched with emotion, he felt his old love springing to
life once more, like an awakened wild beast ready to bite him.
The young girl went on chattering, and every now and then some familiar
intonation, some expression of her mother's, a certain style of speaking
and thinking, that resemblance of mind and manner which people acquire by
living together, shook Lormerin from head to foot. All these things
penetrated him, making the reopened wound of his passion bleed anew.
He got away early, and took a turn along the boulevard. But the image of
this young girl pursued him, haunted him, quickened his heart, inflamed
his blood. Apart from the two women, he now saw only one, a young one, the
old one come back out of the past, and he loved her as he had loved her in
bygone years. He loved her with greater ardor, after an interval of
twenty-five years.
He went home to reflect on this strange and terrible thing, and to think
what he should do.
But, as he was passing, with a wax candle in his hand, before the glass,
the large glass in which he had contemplated himself and admired himself
before he started, he saw reflected there an elderly, gray-haired man; and
suddenly he recollected what he had been in olden days, in the days of
little Lise. He saw himself charming and handsome, as he had been when he
was loved! Then, drawing the light nearer, he looked at himself more
closely, as one inspects a strange thing with a magnifying glass, tracing
the wrinkles, discovering those frightful ravages, which he had not
perceived till now.
And he sat down, crushed at the sight of himself, at the sight of his
lamentable image, murmuring:
“All over, Lormerin!”
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