The Devil's Elixir, Vol. 2 (of 2) by E. T. A. Hoffmann (PDF)

 

The Devil's Elixir, Vol. 2 (of 2)

 

by E. T. A. Hoffmann

 

(Part 1 of 2)

 

CHAPTER I.

Who is there, over the wide world, who has not, at one period or another, in a more or less degree, felt the mysterious influences of love?—Whoever thou art, then, courteous reader, who shalt, after the lapse of years, turn over these papers, recall, I beseech you, to recollection that noontide interval of dazzling brightness—contemplate once more that beautiful image, which came, like an impersonization of the abstract spirit of love, from divine regions, to meet you.

At that time, it was through her,—through her alone, that thou seemed'st assured of thine own existence! Canst thou not yet remember, how the rushing streams, the waving trees, and the balmy winds of evening, spoke to thee, in articulate and intelligible accents, of her, and of the prevailing passion which possessed thy whole heart and soul?—Canst thou yet behold how the flowers unfolded their bright beaming eyes, bearing to thine from her kisses and salutation?

Yet, suppose that she herself had actually come—that she vowed to be thine, and thine only—to live for thee alone—then didst thou fold her in thy embraces, and it seemed as if Heaven opened its eternal realms to receive you—as if thou could'st raise thyself with her above all the petty sorrows or enjoyments of this every-day and earthly sphere. Yet scarcely hadst thou formed such hopes ere she was lost! The bland illusion was broken. No longer could'st thou hear the music of her celestial voice; and only the sorrowful complaints of the despairing and forsaken lover sounded amid the desolate loneliness!

If then, reader, to me unknown!—if thou hast ever been persecuted by such a destiny, join, then, and sympathize with the grief of the penitent monk, who, recollecting still the sunny gleams of his youthful attachment, weeps on his hard couch, and whose fearful groans reverberate, in the stillness of night, through the gloomy aisles of the convent!—But thou, too, in spirit to me related, doubtless wilt concur in my belief, that it is not till after death, that the mysterious gifts and enjoyments of this passion can be obtained and fulfilled! This truth is, indeed, announced to us by many a hollow prophesying voice, which rises on our ears from the immeasurable depths of eternity; and as in those rites, celebrated by our earliest ancestors, (the children of nature,) death appears also to us the high festival of love!

I have said before, that my leading object in these pages was rapid, concise narrative, without any attempt at description. But of my emotions on meeting Aurelia, that evening, in the palace, no words could, however skilfully laboured, convey any adequate impression. I was struck as if with a thundershock. My breast heaved—my heart beat convulsively—and every pulse and vein throbbed almost audibly.

"To her!—to her!"—It seemed as if an over-powering impulse would force me to thrust aside the contemptible mob of insipid worldlings—of every-day flatterers, scarcely possessed of one rational idea, by whom she was surrounded—to crush, like webs of gossamer, those despicable barriers, and snatch her to my arms, in all the wild frenzy of undisguised passion! Methought I could have exclaimed aloud—"What, unhappy girl, dost thou strive against? With that supernatural power, which has irresistibly and unalterably chained thee to me?—Am I not thy fate, and art thou not indeed mine for ever?"

Yet notwithstanding these emotions, I contrived, far better than formerly, at the Baron's castle, to conceal from the bystanders my agitation. Besides, the eyes of all were directed to Aurelia; and thus, in a circle of people, who to my concerns were perfectly indifferent, I contrived to move about, without being particularly remarked or spoken to, which to me would have been intolerable, as I could but see, hear, and think of her alone.

Let no one insist that a truly beautiful girl appears to most advantage in a homely household dress. On the contrary, the beauty of woman, like that of flowers in a parterre, is then most attractive and irresistible when they are arrayed in their fullest pomp and magnificence. Say, then, oh lover! to whom I have before addressed myself, when thou for the first time beholdest the empress of thy heart—who had before worn a simple garb, now attired with splendour and gleaming, the cynosure of a brilliant party—did not a new and nameless rapture vibrate through every nerve and vein? She would appear to you indeed so strange! but this, joined to the knowledge that she was in reality the same, heightened the charms by which thy soul was wholly subjected. What unspeakable pleasure, if thou could'st, by stealth, seize and press her hand in the crowd, and say to thyself, she, who is here the magnet of all eyes, is mine by indissoluble bonds, and lives for me alone!

Thus I beheld Aurelia on that evening dressed with becoming splendour for her first introduction at court. Then the spirit of evil once more became powerful within me, and lifted up his internal voice, to which I now bent a willing ear—"Seest thou not now, Medardus," it began, "how thou triumph'st over all the conditional laws and limitations of this life—how Destiny now submits herself to thy will, and only knots more firmly the threads which thou thyself hadst spun?"

There were many other women at court who might well have passed for beautiful, but before the dazzling charms of Aurelia, they faded away into utter insignificance. A kind of inspiration now seemed to take possession of the most insipid and common-place characters. Even the old courtiers gave up their usual strain of unmeaning talk, and visibly exerted themselves, in order to appear to the best advantage in the eyes of the beautiful stranger.

Aurelia received all this homage with looks fixed on the ground, and with deep blushes; but now, when the Prince assembled the elder courtiers about himself, and many a handsome youth timidly and respectfully drew near her, she began, by degrees, to lose her embarrassment, and to seem more cheerful.

There was, in particular, a certain Major of the garde d'honneur, who succeeded in attracting a good deal of her attention, so that she at last appeared occupied with him in lively discourse. I knew this Major to be a decided favourite of the female sex; with a fine ear, he could catch even the very tone, sentiment, and voice of the person whom he addressed, so that the deceived listener seemed to hear a miraculous anticipation of her own thoughts—a chord struck in perfect unison. I now stood not far from Aurelia, who appeared to take no notice of me. Many times I was on the point of going up to her, but, as if bound by iron fetters, I could not move from the spot on which I stood. The bitterness of envy and jealousy possessed my heart. At last, as I steadfastly gazed on Aurelia and her fortunate companion, methought that the Major's features were changed into those of Victorin!

As if actuated by some demon, I wholly lost all self-possession. In a convulsed tone of bitter scorn and mockery, I laughed aloud—"Ha, ha, ha!—Thou revenant!—Thou cursed libertine!" cried I, "has thy bed then, in the devil's abyss, been so downy, that, in frenzied passion, thou darest aspire to the chosen paramour of the Monk?"

I know not if I actually uttered these words, but I heard myself laugh, and started up as from a dream, when the old Court-Marshal, taking my arm, gently inquired, "What makes you so merry, Mr Leonard?" An ice-cold shuddering passed over my whole frame.

Were not these the identical words of the pious brother Cyrillus, when, at the time of my investiture, he remarked my sinful laughter?—Scarcely was I able to utter some incoherent nonsense in reply—I felt conscious that Aurelia was no longer near to me, but did not venture to look up to see what had become of her. Instinctively, I resolved to make my escape, and ran with my utmost speed through the illuminated apartments. Doubtless, my appearance was in the utmost degree disordered, for I remarked how every one cleared the way for me as if seized with horror and affright. At length, I arrived at the outer-door, and leapt headlong rather than ran down the broad marble staircase.

Henceforward I completely avoided the court; for to see Aurelia again, without betraying the mystery which it was my interest to conceal, seemed to me impossible. Abandoned to my own reveries, I ran through the fields and woods, thinking of her, and beholding her alone. My conviction always became more certain that some mysterious destiny bound up her fate indissolubly with mine, and that my pursuit of her, which had many times appeared to me as an unpardonable crime, was but the fulfilment of an eternal and unalterable decree.

Thus encouraging myself, I laughed at the danger which now threatened me, if Aurelia should recognize in me the murderer of Hermogen! Besides, this appeared to me very improbable; and, meanwhile, the attentions of those fluttering youths who laboured to win for themselves the good graces of her who was altogether and exclusively mine, filled me with the utmost scorn and contempt for their endeavours.

"What," said I, "are to me these Counts, Freyherrs, Chamberlains, and military officers, in their motley coats bedaubed with lace, and hung with orders? What are they more than gaudy impertinent insects, which, if they became troublesome, I could with one blow crush to annihilation?"

Reflecting on the chapel adventure of the Cistertian Convent, it seemed to me as if, robed in my capuchin tunic, I could step in among them with Aurelia, habited like a bride, in my arms, and that this proud and haughty Princess should be forced even to sanction the marriage, and prepare the bridal festival for that conquering and triumphant monk, whom she now so much despised. Labouring with such thoughts, I frequently pronounced aloud, and unconsciously, the name of Aurelia; and, as before in the Capuchin Convent, laughed and howled like a madman!

But, ere long, this tempest was laid, and I began quietly to take counsel with myself in what manner I was now to act. Thus I was one morning gliding through the park, considering whether it would be prudent for me to attend another evening party at court, which had been announced to me, when some one touched me on the shoulder. It was the physician.

To my great surprise, after the usual salutations, he looked steadfastly in my face, took hold of my arm, and requested that I would allow him to feel my pulse. "What's the meaning of all this?" cried I, with some impatience.—"Nay," said he, "there is a sort of madness going about here, that seizes all at once upon honest Christian people, and makes them utter tremendous noises, though some will have it that the said noises are nothing more than very immoderate laughter. At the same time, this may be all a misconception; this devil of madness may be only a slight fever, with heat in the blood; therefore I beg of you, sir, allow me to feel your pulse."

"I assure you, sir," said I, "that I am well, and by no means understand the drift of this discourse." The physician, however, had kept hold of my arm, and now taking out his watch, counted my pulse with great precision. His conduct, indeed, puzzled me completely, and I entreated of him to explain himself.

"Do you not know, then, Mr Leonard," replied he, "that your behaviour has lately brought the whole court into the utmost confusion and consternation? Since that time, the lady of the upper Chamberlain has been almost perpetually in hysterics; and the President of the Consistorial Court has been obliged to put off hearing the weightiest causes, because it was your pleasure to tramp with all your might upon his gouty toes; so that, now confined to his arm-chair, he sits at home roaring and cursing most notably. This happened when you were running out of the hall, after you had laughed in such a demoniacal tone without any perceptible reason, that all were seized with the utmost horror."

At that moment I thought of the Court-Marshal, and said that I indeed recollected having laughed in that sudden manner, but that my conduct surely could not have been attended by such consequences, as the Marshal had only asked me, with great coolness, "Why I was so merry?"

"Nay, nay," answered the physician, "that will not prove much—The Marshal is such a homo impavidus, that the very devil himself could scarcely put him out of his way—He retained his ordinary placidity of manner, but the Consistorial President, on the other hand, was exceedingly disturbed in mind as well as in body, and maintained seriously, that none but the devil could have laughed in such a style.—But what is worst of all, our beautiful Aurelia was seized with such excessive terror, that all the efforts of the family to quiet her were in vain,—and she was soon obliged to retire, to the utter despair of the company. At the moment too, when you, Mr Leonard, so charmingly laughed, the Baroness Aurelia is said to have shrieked out the name, "Hermogen!" Now what may be the meaning of all this?—You are generally a pleasant, lively, and prudent man, Mr Leonard, and I cannot regret having confided to you the story of Francesco, which, if all suggestions be true, must be to you particularly intelligible and instructive!"

During this discourse, the physician had continued to hold my arm, and to gaze steadfastly in my face. Tired of this restraint, I disengaged myself with some roughness—and answered—"I really know not how to interpret all this discourse of yours, sir; but I must confess, that when I saw the beautiful Aurelia surrounded by that tribe of conceited young gentry, a very bitter remembrance from my early life was called up in my mind; and that, seized with a kind of angry scorn at the behaviour of such empty-brained coxcombs, I forgot in whose presence I was, and laughed aloud in a manner that would only have been warrantable when I was alone. I am truly sorry that I have unintentionally brought about so much mischief; but I have done penance on that score, having for some time denied myself the pleasure of being at court. I hope that the Prince's family and the Baroness Aurelia will excuse me."

"Alas! dear Mr Leonard," said the Doctor, "one is indeed subject to strange attacks and varieties of mind, which we might yet easily resist, if we were but pure in heart, and quiet in conscience."

"Who is there," said I vehemently, "on this earthly sphere, that may boast of being so?"—The physician suddenly changed his looks and tone. Mildly and seriously he said—"Mr Leonard, you appear to me to be really and truly sick: your looks are pale and disordered—your eyes are sunk, and gleam with a strange kind of fire—your pulse, too, is feverish, and your voice sounds strangely.—Shall I prescribe something for you?"

"Poison!" answered I, in a kind of hollow whisper.—"Ho, ho," said the physician, "does it stand thus with you?—Nay, nay, instead of poison, rather the tranquillizing and sedative remedy of pleasant society, and moderate dissipation. It may, however, be, that"—(hesitating)—"It is wonderful indeed, but——"

"I must beg of you, sir," said I, now quite angry, "not to torment me in that manner by your broken hints, but at once to speak out."

"Hold!" answered the Doctor. "Not so fast, Mr Leonard—yonder comes the Princess—there are in this world the strangest delusions, and for my part, I feel almost a conviction that people have here built up an hypothesis which a few minutes' explanation will dissolve into nothing. Yonder, as I said, comes the Princess with Aurelia.—Do you make use of this accidental rencontre. Offer your own excuses for your behaviour. Properly, indeed, your only crime is, that you have laughed—in an extraordinary tone it is true, and rather inopportunely. But who can help it, if people with weak nerves have on that occasion chosen to be so absurdly terrified?—Adieu!"

The physician started away with that vivacity which to him was peculiar.—The Princess and Aurelia were coming down the walk to meet me. I trembled; but with my whole strength laboured to regain composure, for after the mysterious discourse of the physician, I felt that it was my duty on the instant to defend my character. Resolutely, therefore, I went forward to meet them; but no sooner had Aurelia fixed her eyes upon me than she became deadly pale, and to my utter astonishment, with a suppressed scream, she fell down in a fainting fit, to the ground. I wished to assist her, but with looks of aversion and horror, the Princess then motioned me away, at the same time calling loudly for help!

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The Devil's Elixir, Vol. 1 (of 2) by E. T. A. Hoffmann (PDF)

The Devil's Elixir, Vol. 1 (of 2) by E. T. A. Hoffmann

 

 (Part 2 of 2)

 

CHAPTER I.

My life, from my fourth to my sixteenth year, was spent at a lonely farm-house, on the banks of the river Saale, near the Cistertian Monastery of Kreuzberg. The house, though not large, had once been the residence of a baronial family, that was now extinct, and of whose representatives strange stories were narrated. Of course, therefore, their castle was gloomy; of course, also, said to be haunted, and its immediate environs were in keeping with the character of the principal mansion.

There was, for example, a garden in the old style, with steps and terrace walks, now ruined and neglected; thick hedges of yew and cypress, with trees cut into fantastic shapes, which the present owner had not found leisure, or perhaps had not permission, to destroy. The surrounding country, however, at some distance, was very beautiful, presenting a fine diversity of hill and dale, rock, wood, and water. The situation of the Cistertian Convent, too, is particularly admired; but in the recollections which I am thus commencing, rapid, simple narrative must be my leading object; I have no time for diffuse and verbose description.

Being an only child, I was left much alone, and it is therefore not to be wondered at, that even at this early age, I should have exemplified an undue developement of the faculty of imagination, and betrayed singularities of thought and conduct, with proportionate defects in the more useful qualities of prudence and judgment. It is requisite to observe, however, that I was not born in this neighbourhood, but at the convent of the Holy Lime-Tree in Prussia, of which place, even at this day, I seem to retain the most accurate reminiscence. That I should be able to describe scenes and events which happened in my earliest infancy, need not be considered inexplicable, as I have heard so much of them from the narratives of others, that an impression was of course very powerfully made on my imagination, or rather, the impressions once made, have never been suffered to decay, like cyphers carved on a tree, which some fond lover fails not at frequent intervals to revisit and to renovate. Of my father's rank or station in the world, I know little or nothing. From all that I have heard, he must have been a person of considerable experience and knowledge of life; yet, by various anecdotes which have only of late become intelligible, it appears that my parents, from the enjoyment of affluence and prosperity, had sunk, all at once, into a state of the bitterest poverty and comparative degradation. I learn, moreover, that my father, having been once enticed by stratagems of the Arch Enemy into the commission of a mortal sin, wished, when, in his latter years, the grace of God had brought him to repentance, to expiate his guilt by a penitential pilgrimage from Italy to the convent of the Holy Lime-Tree, in the distant and cold climate of Prussia. On their laborious journey thither, his faithful partner in affliction perceived, for the first time after several years of a married life, that she was about to become a mother; and notwithstanding his extreme poverty, my father was by this occurrence greatly rejoiced, as it tended to the fulfilment of a mysterious vision, in which the blessed St Bernard had appeared, and promised to him forgiveness and consolation through the birth of a son.

In the convent of the Lime-Tree, my father was attacked by severe illness, and as, notwithstanding his debility, he would on no account forego any of the prescribed devotional exercises, his disease rapidly gained ground, till at last, in mysterious conformity to the words of St Bernard, he died consoled and absolved, almost at the same moment in which I came into the world.

With my first consciousness of existence dawned on my perceptions the beautiful imagery of the cloister and celebrated church of the Lime-Tree. Even at this moment, methinks the dark oak wood yet rustles around me; I breathe once more the fragrance of the luxuriant grass and variegated flowers which were my cradle. No noxious insect, no poisonous reptile, is found within the limits of that sanctuary. Scarce even the buzzing of a fly, or chirping of a grasshopper, interrupts the solemn stillness, diversified only by the pious songs of the monks, who walk about in long solemn processions, accompanied by pilgrims of all nations, waving their censers of consecrated perfume.

Even now, I seem yet vividly to behold in the middle of the church, the stem of the lime-tree cased in silver, that far-famed tree, on which supernatural visitants had placed the miraculous and wonder-working image of the Virgin, while from the walls and lofty dome, the well-known features of Saints and Angels are once more smiling upon me.

In like manner, it appears to me also, as if I had once beheld in the same place the mysterious figure of a tall, grave, and austere-looking man, of whom I was given to understand, that he could be no other but the far-famed Italian painter, who had, in times long past, been here professionally employed. No one understood his language, nor was his real history known to any one of the monks. This much only was certain, that he had, in a space of time incredibly short, filled the church with its richest ornaments, and then, as soon as his work was finished, immediately disappeared, no one could tell how or whither.

Not less vividly could I paint the portrait of a venerable pilgrim, who carried me about in his arms, and assisted me in my childish plays of searching for all sorts of variegated moss and pebbles in the forest. Yet, though the apparition of the painter was certainly real, that of the pilgrim, were it not for its influence on my after life, would seem to me but a dream.

One day this personage brought with him a boy of uncommon beauty, and about my equal in years, with whom I seated myself on the grass, sharing with him my treasured store of moss and pebbles, which he already knew how to form into various regular figures, and above all, into the holy sign of the cross. My mother, meanwhile, sat near us on a stone bench, and the old pilgrim stood behind her, contemplating with mild gravity our infantine employments.

Suddenly, while we were thus occupied, a troop of young people emerged from the thicket, of whom, judging by their dress and whole demeanour, it was easy to decide, that curiosity and idleness, not devotion, had led them to the Lime-Tree. On perceiving us, one of them began to laugh aloud, and exclaiming to his companions, "See there!—See there!—A holy family!—Here at last is something for my portfolio;" with these words he drew out paper and pencils, and set himself as if to sketch our portraits. Hereupon the old pilgrim was violently incensed, "Miserable scoffer!" he exclaimed, "thou forsooth wouldst be an artist, while to thy heart, the inspiration of faith and divine love is yet utterly unknown! But thy works will, like thyself, remain cold, senseless, and inanimate, and in the poverty of thine own soul, like an outcast in the desert, shalt thou perish!"

Terrified by this reproof, the young people hastened away. The old pilgrim also soon afterwards prepared for departure. "For this one day," said he to my mother, "I have been permitted to bring to you this miraculous child, in order that, by sympathy, he might kindle the flames of divine love in your son's heart; but I must now take him from you, nor shall you ever behold either of us in this world again. Your son will prove by nature admirably endowed with many valuable gifts; nor will the lessons which have now been impressed on his mind be from thence ever wholly effaced. Though the passions of his sinful father should boil and ferment in his veins, yet by proper education their influence might be repressed, and he might even raise himself up to be a valiant champion of our holy faith. Let him therefore be a monk!"

With these words he disappeared; and my mother could never sufficiently express how deep was the impression that his warning had left on her mind. She resolved, however, by no means to place any restraint on my natural inclinations, but quietly to acquiesce in whatever destination Providence, and the limited education she was able to bestow, might seem to point out for me.

The interval between this period and the time when my mother, on her homeward journey, stopped at the convent of Kreuzberg, remains a mere blank; not a trace of any event is left to me. The Abbess of the Cistertians (by birth a princess) had been formerly acquainted with my father, and on that account received us very kindly. I recover myself for the first time, when one morning my mother bestowed extraordinary care upon my dress; she also cut and arranged my wildly-grown hair, adorned it with ribbons which she had bought in the town, and instructed me as well as she could how I was to behave when presented at the convent.

At length, holding by my mother's hand, I had ascended the broad marble staircase, and entered a high vaulted apartment, adorned with devotional pictures, in which we found the Lady Abbess. She was a tall, majestic, and still handsome woman, to whom the dress of her order gave extraordinary dignity. "Is this your son?" said she to my mother, fixing on me at the same time her dark and penetrating eyes. Her voice, her dress, her tout ensemble,—even, the high vaulted room and strange objects by which I was surrounded, altogether had such an effect on my imagination, that, seized with a kind of horror, I began to weep bitterly. "How is this?" said the Abbess; "are you afraid of me? What is your name, child?"—"Francis," answered my mother.—"Franciscus!" repeated the Abbess, in a tone of deep melancholy, at the same time lifting me up in her arms, and pressing me to her bosom.

But here a new misfortune awaited us; I suddenly felt real and violent pain, and screamed aloud. The Abbess; terrified, let me go; and my mother, utterly confounded by my behaviour would have directly snatched me up and retired. This, however, our new friend would by no means permit. It was now perceived that a diamond cross, worn by the Princess, had, at the moment when she pressed me in her arms, wounded my neck in such manner, that the impression, in the form of a cross, was already quite visible, and even suffused with blood. "Poor Francis!" said the Abbess, "I have indeed been very cruel to you; but we shall yet, notwithstanding all this, be good friends."—An attendant nun now entered with wine and refreshments, at the sight of which I soon recovered my courage; and at last, seated on the Abbess's lap, began to eat boldly of the sweetmeats, which she with her own hand kindly held to my lips.

Afterwards, when I had, for the first time in my life, also tasted a few drops of good wine, that liveliness of humour, which, according to my mother's account, had been natural to me from infancy, was completely restored. I laughed and talked, to the great delight of the Princess and the nun, who remained in the room. To this moment, I know not how it occurred to my mother, or how she succeeded in leading me on to talk freely to the Abbess about all the wonders of my native monastery, or how, as if supernaturally inspired, I was able to describe the works of the unknown painter as correctly and livelily as if I had comprehended their whole import and excellence. Not contented with this, I went on into all the legends of the saints, as if I had already become intimately acquainted with the records of the church.

The Princess, and even my mother, looked at me with astonishment. At last, "Tell me, child," said the Abbess, "how is it possible that you can have learned all this?"—Without a moment's hesitation, I answered that a miraculous boy, who had been brought to us by the old pilgrim, had explained to me all the paintings in the church—nay, that he himself was able to make beautiful pictures, with moss and pebbles, on the ground; and had not only explained to me their import, but told me many legends of the saints.

The bell now rung for vespers. The nun had packed up and given to me a quantity of sweetmeats in a paper bag, which I grasped and pocketed with great satisfaction. The Abbess then rose from her seat: "Henceforward," said she, turning to my mother, "I shall look upon your son as my chosen eléve, and shall provide for him accordingly."—My mother was so much affected by this unexpected generosity, that she could only reply with tears, grasping in silence the hand of the Abbess. We had reached the door on our retreat, when the Princess came after us, took me up once more in her arms, first carefully putting aside the diamond cross, and weeping so that her tears dropped on my forehead, "Franciscus," said she, "be good and pious!" I was moved also, and wept without knowing wherefore.

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Complete Original Short Stories of Guy De Maupassant by Guy de Maupassant (PDF)

 

Complete Original Short Stories of Guy De Maupassant

by Guy de Maupassant

 
Translated by
ALBERT M. C. McMASTER, B.A.
A. E. HENDERSON, B.A.
MME. QUESADA and Others

CONTENTS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER

A     B     C     D     E     F     G     H     I     J     K     L     M     N     O     P     Q     R     S     T     U     V     W     XYZ




    CONTENTS IN EACH VOLUME

    VOLUME I.

    BOULE DE SUIF

    TWO FRIENDS

    THE LANCER'S WIFE

    THE PRISONERS

    TWO LITTLE SOLDIERS

    FATHER MILON

    A COUP D'ETAT

    LIEUTENANT LARE'S MARRIAGE

    THE HORRIBLE

    MADAME PARISSE

    MADEMOISELLE FIFI

    A DUEL

    ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES, Vol. 2.

    VOLUME II.

    THE COLONEL'S IDEAS

    MOTHER SAUVAGE

    EPIPHANY

    THE MUSTACHE

    MADAME BAPTISTE

    THE QUESTION OF LATIN

    A MEETING

    THE BLIND MAN

    INDISCRETION

    A FAMILY AFFAIR

    BESIDE SCHOPENHAUER'S CORPSE

    ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES, Vol. 3.

    VOLUME III.

    MISS HARRIET

    LITTLE LOUISE ROQUE

    THE DONKEY

    MOIRON

    THE DISPENSER OF HOLY WATER

    A PARRICIDE

    BERTHA

    THE PATRON

    THE DOOR

    A SALE

    THE IMPOLITE SEX

    A WEDDING GIFT

    THE RELIC

    VOLUME IV.

    THE MORIBUND

    THE GAMEKEEPER

    THE STORY OF A FARM GIRL

    THE WRECK

    THEODULE SABOT'S CONFESSION

    THE WRONG HOUSE

    THE DIAMOND NECKLACE

    THE MARQUIS DE FUMEROL

    THE TRIP OF LE HORLA

    FAREWELL!

    THE WOLF

    THE INN

    VOLUME V.

    MONSIEUR PARENT

    QUEEN HORTENSE

    TIMBUCTOO

    TOMBSTONES

    MADEMOISELLE PEARL

    THE THIEF

    CLAIR DE LUNE

    WAITER, A “BOCK”

    AFTER

    FORGIVENESS

    IN THE SPRING

    A QUEER NIGHT IN PARIS

    VOLUME VI.

    THAT COSTLY RIDE

    USELESS BEAUTY

    THE FATHER

    MY UNCLE SOSTHENES

    THE BARONESS

    MOTHER AND SON

    THE HAND

    A TRESS OF HAIR

    ON THE RIVER

    THE CRIPPLE

    A STROLL

    ALEXANDRE

    THE LOG

    JULIE ROMAIN

    THE RONDOLI SISTERS

    VOLUME VII.

    THE FALSE GEMS

    FASCINATION

    YVETTE SAMORIS

    A VENDETTA

    MY TWENTY-FIVE DAYS

    “THE TERROR”

    LEGEND OF MONT ST. MICHEL

    A NEW YEAR'S GIFT

    FRIEND PATIENCE

    ABANDONED

    THE MAISON TELLIER

    DENIS

    MY WIFE

    THE UNKNOWN

    THE APPARITION

    VOLUME VIII.

    CLOCHETTE

    THE KISS

    THE LEGION OF HONOR

    THE TEST

    FOUND ON A DROWNED MAN

    THE ORPHAN

    THE BEGGAR

    THE RABBIT

    HIS AVENGER

    MY UNCLE JULES

    THE MODEL

    A VAGABOND

    THE FISHING HOLE

    THE SPASM

    IN THE WOOD

    MARTINE

    ALL OVER

    THE PARROT

    THE PIECE OF STRING

    VOLUME IX.

    TOINE

    MADAME HUSSON'S “ROSIER”

    THE ADOPTED SON

    COWARD

    OLD MONGILET

    MOONLIGHT

    THE FIRST SNOWFALL

    SUNDAYS OF A BOURGEOIS

    A RECOLLECTION

    OUR LETTERS

    THE LOVE OF LONG AGO

    FRIEND JOSEPH

    THE EFFEMINATES

    OLD AMABLE

    VOLUME X.

    THE CHRISTENING

    THE FARMER'S WIFE

    THE DEVIL

    THE SNIPE

    THE WILL

    WALTER SCHNAFFS' ADVENTURE

    AT SEA

    MINUET

    THE SON

    THAT PIG OF A MORIN

    SAINT ANTHONY

    LASTING LOVE

    PIERROT

    A NORMANDY JOKE

    FATHER MATTHEW

    VOLUME XI.

    THE UMBRELLA

    BELHOMME'S BEAST

    DISCOVERY

    THE ACCURSED BREAD

    THE DOWRY

    THE DIARY OF A MADMAN

    THE MASK

    THE PENGUINS' ROCK

    A FAMILY

    SUICIDES

    AN ARTIFICE

    DREAMS

    SIMON'S PAPA

    VOLUME XII.

    THE CHILD

    A COUNTRY EXCURSION

    ROSE

    ROSALIE PRUDENT

    REGRET

    A SISTER'S CONFESSION

    COCO

    DEAD WOMAN'S SECRET

    A HUMBLE DRAMA

    MADEMOISELLE COCOTTE

    THE CORSICAN BANDIT

    THE GRAVE

    VOLUME XIII.

    OLD JUDAS

    THE LITTLE CASK

    BOITELLE

    A WIDOW

    THE ENGLISHMAN OF ETRETAT

    MAGNETISM

    A FATHER'S CONFESSION

    A MOTHER OF MONSTERS

    AN UNCOMFORTABLE BED

    A PORTRAIT

    THE DRUNKARD

    THE WARDROBE

    THE MOUNTAIN POOL

    A CREMATION

    MISTI

    MADAME HERMET

    THE MAGIC COUCH

IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER

A     B     C     D     E     F     G     H     I     J     K     L     M     N     O     P     Q     R     S     T     U     V     W     XYZ
[ A ]

ABANDONED

THE ACCURSED BREAD

AFTER

ALEXANDRE

OLD AMABLE

THE APPARITION

AN ARTIFICE

HIS AVENGER
[ B ]

THE BARONESS

THE BEGGAR

BELHOMME'S BEAST

BERTHA

BESIDE SCHOPENHAUER'S CORPSE

THE BLIND MAN

BOITELLE

BOULE DE SUIF
[ C ]

THE CHILD

THE CHRISTENING

CLAIR DE LUNE

CLOCHETTE

COCO

THE CORSICAN BANDIT

THAT COSTLY RIDE

A COUNTRY EXCURSION

A COUP D'ETAT

COWARD

A CREMATION

THE CRIPPLE
[ D ]

DEAD WOMAN'S SECRET

DENIS

THE DEVIL

THE DIAMOND NECKLACE

THE DIARY OF A MADMAN

DISCOVERY

THE DISPENSER OF HOLY WATER

THE DONKEY

THE DOOR

THE DOWRY

DREAMS

THE DRUNKARD

A DUEL
[ E ]

THE EFFEMINATES

THE ENGLISHMAN OF ETRETAT

EPIPHANY
[ F ]

THE FALSE GEMS

A FAMILY

A FAMILY AFFAIR

FAREWELL!

THE STORY OF A FARM GIRL

THE FARMER'S WIFE

FASCINATION

THE FATHER

FATHER MATTHEW

FATHER MILON

A FATHER'S CONFESSION

THE FISHING HOLE

FORGIVENESS

FOUND ON A DROWNED MAN

FRIEND PATIENCE

TWO FRIENDS
[ G ]

THE GAMEKEEPER

THE GRAVE
[ H ]

THE HAND

THE HORRIBLE

A HUMBLE DRAMA
[ I ]

THE IMPOLITE SEX

INDISCRETION

THE INN

IN THE SPRING
[ J ]

FRIEND JOSEPH

OLD JUDAS

JULIE ROMAIN
[ K ]

THE KISS
[ L ]

THE LANCER'S WIFE

LASTING LOVE

THE LEGION OF HONOR

OUR LETTERS

LIEUTENANT LARE'S MARRIAGE

THE LITTLE CASK

TWO LITTLE SOLDIERS

THE LOG

LITTLE LOUISE ROQUE

THE LOVE OF LONG AGO
[ M ]

MADAME BAPTISTE

MADAME HERMET

MADAME HUSSON'S “ROSIER”

MADAME PARISSE

MADEMOISELLE COCOTTE

MADEMOISELLE FIFI

MADEMOISELLE PEARL

THE MAGIC COUCH

MAGNETISM

THE MAISON TELLIER

THE MARQUIS DE FUMEROL

MARTINE

THE MASK

A MEETING

MINUET

MISS HARRIET

MISTI

THE MODEL

MOIRON

OLD MONGILET

MONSIEUR PARENT

LEGEND OF MONT ST. MICHEL

MOONLIGHT

THE MORIBUND

MOTHER AND SON

A MOTHER OF MONSTERS

MOTHER SAUVAGE

THE MOUNTAIN POOL

MY WIFE
[ N ]

A NEW YEAR'S GIFT

A NORMANDY JOKE
[ O ]

THE ORPHAN

ALL OVER
[ P ]

A PARRICIDE

THE PARROT

THE PATRON

THE PENGUINS' ROCK

THE PIECE OF STRING

PIERROT

THAT PIG OF A MORIN

A PORTRAIT

THE PRISONERS
[ Q ]

QUEEN HORTENSE

A QUEER NIGHT IN PARIS

THE QUESTION OF LATIN
[ R ]

THE RABBIT

A RECOLLECTION

REGRET

THE RELIC

ON THE RIVER

THE RONDOLI SISTERS

ROSALIE PRUDENT

ROSE
[ S ]

SAINT ANTHONY

A SALE

AT SEA

SIMON'S PAPA

A SISTER'S CONFESSION

THE SNIPE

THE FIRST SNOWFALL

THE SON

THE SPASM

A STROLL

SUICIDES

SUNDAYS OF A BOURGEOIS
[ T ]

“THE TERROR”

THE TEST

THE ADOPTED SON

THE COLONEL'S IDEAS

THE MUSTACHE

THEODULE SABOT'S CONFESSION

THE THIEF

TIMBUCTOO

TOINE

TOMBSTONES

A TRESS OF HAIR

THE TRIP OF LE HORLA

MY TWENTY-FIVE DAYS
[ U ]

THE UMBRELLA

MY UNCLE JULES

MY UNCLE SOSTHENES

AN UNCOMFORTABLE BED

THE UNKNOWN

USELESS BEAUTY
[ V ]

A VAGABOND

A VENDETTA
[ W ]

WAITER, A “BOCK”

WALTER SCHNAFFS' ADVENTURE

THE WARDROBE

A WEDDING GIFT

A WIDOW

THE WILL

THE WOLF

IN THE WOOD

THE WRECK

THE WRONG HOUSE
[ Y ]

YVETTE SAMORIS



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About the Author

Henri Ren Albert Guy de Maupassant (Aug 5, 1850 - Jul 6, 1893) was a popular French author who wrote under the pen name Guy de Maupassant. He is considered one of the fathers of the modern short story as well as one of its finest practitioners. His prolific and deeply admired body of work influenced a great number of writers including William Somerset Maugham, O. Henry, Anton Chekhov, Kate Chopin and Henry James.

Pen Name: Guy de Maupassant
Born: Aug 5, 1850
Died: Jul 6, 1893

Guy de Maupassant at Amazon

The Drunkard by Guy de Maupassant

 

The Drunkard

by Guy de Maupassant (1850-1893) 

Approximate Word Count: 1691

The north wind was blowing a hurricane, driving through the sky big, black, heavy clouds from which the rain poured down on the earth with terrific violence.

A high sea was raging and dashing its huge, slow, foamy waves along the coast with the rumbling sound of thunder. The waves followed each other close, rolling in as high as mountains, scattering the foam as they broke.

The storm engulfed itself in the little valley of Yport, whistling and moaning, tearing the shingles from the roofs, smashing the shutters, knocking down the chimneys, rushing through the narrow streets in such gusts that one could walk only by holding on to the walls, and children would have been lifted up like leaves and carried over the houses into the fields.

The fishing smacks had been hauled high up on land, because at high tide the sea would sweep the beach. Several sailors, sheltered behind the curved bottoms of their boats, were watching this battle of the sky and the sea.

Then, one by one, they went away, for night was falling on the storm, wrapping in shadows the raging ocean and all the battling elements.

Just two men remained, their hands plunged deep into their pockets, bending their backs beneath the squall, their woolen caps pulled down over their ears; two big Normandy fishermen, bearded, their skin tanned through exposure, with the piercing black eyes of the sailor who looks over the horizon like a bird of prey.

One of them was saying:

“Come on, Jeremie, let’s go play dominoes. It’s my treat.”

The other hesitated a while, tempted on one hand by the game and the thought of brandy, knowing well that, if he went to Paumelle’s, he would return home drunk; held back, on the other hand, by the idea of his wife remaining alone in the house.

He asked:

“Any one might think that you had made a bet to get me drunk every night. Say, what good is it doing you, since it’s always you that’s treating?”

Nevertheless he was smiling at the idea of all this brandy drunk at the expense of another. He was smiling the contented smirk of an avaricious Norman.

Mathurin, his friend, kept pulling him by the sleeve.

“Come on, Jeremie. This isn’t the kind of a night to go home without anything to warm you up. What are you afraid of? Isn’t your wife going to warm your bed for you?”

Jeremie answered:

“The other night I couldn’t find the door—I had to be fished out of the ditch in front of the house!”

He was still laughing at this drunkard’s recollection, and he was unconsciously going toward Paumelle’s Cafe, where a light was shining in the window; he was going, pulled by Mathurin and pushed by the wind, unable to resist these combined forces.

The low room was full of sailors, smoke and noise. All these men, clad in woolens, their elbows on the tables, were shouting to make themselves heard. The more people came in, the more one had to shout in order to overcome the noise of voices and the rattling of dominoes on the marble tables.

Jeremie and Mathurin sat down in a corner and began a game, and the glasses were emptied in rapid succession into their thirsty throats.

Then they played more games and drank more glasses. Mathurin kept pouring and winking to the saloon keeper, a big, red-faced man, who chuckled as though at the thought of some fine joke; and Jeremie kept absorbing alcohol and wagging his head, giving vent to a roar of laughter and looking at his comrade with a stupid and contented expression.

All the customers were going away. Every time that one of them would open the door to leave a gust of wind would blow into the cafe, making the tobacco smoke swirl around, swinging the lamps at the end of their chains and making their flames flicker, and suddenly one could hear the deep booming of a breaking wave and the moaning of the wind.

Jeremie, his collar unbuttoned, was taking drunkard’s poses, one leg outstretched, one arm hanging down and in the other hand holding a domino.

They were alone now with the owner, who had come up to them, interested.

He asked:

“Well, Jeremie, how goes it inside? Feel less thirsty after wetting your throat?”

Jeremie muttered:

“The more I wet it, the drier it gets inside.”

The innkeeper cast a sly glance at Mathurin. He said:

“And your brother, Mathurin, where’s he now?”

The sailor laughed silently:

“Don’t worry; he’s warm, all right.”

And both of them looked toward Jeremie, who was triumphantly putting down the double six and announcing:

“Game!”

Then the owner declared:

“Well, boys, I’m goin’ to bed. I will leave you the lamp and the bottle; there’s twenty cents’ worth in it. Lock the door when you go, Mathurin, and slip the key under the mat the way you did the other night.”

Mathurin answered:

“Don’t worry; it’ll be all right.”

Paumelle shook hands with his two customers and slowly went up the wooden stairs. For several minutes his heavy step echoed through the little house. Then a loud creaking announced that he had got into bed.

The two men continued to play. From time to time a more violent gust of wind would shake the whole house, and the two drinkers would look up, as though some one were about to enter. Then Mathurin would take the bottle and fill Jeremie’s glass. But suddenly the clock over the bar struck twelve. Its hoarse clang sounded like the rattling of saucepans. Then Mathurin got up like a sailor whose watch is over.

“Come on, Jeremie, we’ve got to get out.”

The other man rose to his feet with difficulty, got his balance by leaning on the table, reached the door and opened it while his companion was putting out the light.

As soon as they were in the street Mathurin locked the door and then said:

“Well, so long. See you to-morrow night!”

And he disappeared in the darkness.

Jeremie took a few steps, staggered, stretched out his hands, met a wall which supported him and began to stumble along. From time to time a gust of wind would sweep through the street, pushing him forward, making him run for a few steps; then, when the wind would die down, he would stop short, having lost his impetus, and once more he would begin to stagger on his unsteady drunkard’s legs.

He went instinctively toward his home, just as birds go to their nests. Finally he recognized his door, and began to feel about for the keyhole and tried to put the key in it. Not finding the hole, he began to swear. Then he began to beat on the door with his fists, calling for his wife to come and help him:

“Melina! Oh, Melina!”

As he leaned against the door for support, it gave way and opened, and Jeremie, losing his prop, fell inside, rolling on his face into the middle of his room, and he felt something heavy pass over him and escape in the night.

He was no longer moving, dazed by fright, bewildered, fearing the devil, ghosts, all the mysterious beings of darkness, and he waited a long time without daring to move. But when he found out that nothing else was moving, a little reason returned to him, the reason of a drunkard.

Gently he sat up. Again he waited a long time, and at last, growing bolder, he called:

“Melina!”

His wife did not answer.

Then, suddenly, a suspicion crossed his darkened mind, an indistinct, vague suspicion. He was not moving; he was sitting there in the dark, trying to gather together his scattered wits, his mind stumbling over incomplete ideas, just as his feet stumbled along.

Once more he asked:

“Who was it, Melina? Tell me who it was. I won’t hurt you!”

He waited, no voice was raised in the darkness. He was now reasoning with himself out loud.

“I’m drunk, all right! I’m drunk! And he filled me up, the dog; he did it, to stop my goin’ home. I’m drunk!”

And he would continue:

“Tell me who it was, Melina, or somethin’ll happen to you.”

After having waited again, he went on with the slow and obstinate logic of a drunkard:

“He’s been keeping me at that loafer Paumelle’s place every night, so as to stop my going home. It’s some trick. Oh, you damned carrion!”

Slowly he got on his knees. A blind fury was gaining possession of him, mingling with the fumes of alcohol.

He continued:

“Tell me who it was, Melina, or you’ll get a licking—I warn you!”

He was now standing, trembling with a wild fury, as though the alcohol had set his blood on fire. He took a step, knocked against a chair, seized it, went on, reached the bed, ran his hands over it and felt the warm body of his wife.

Then, maddened, he roared:

“So! You were there, you piece of dirt, and you wouldn’t answer!”

And, lifting the chair, which he was holding in his strong sailor’s grip, he swung it down before him with an exasperated fury. A cry burst from the bed, an agonizing, piercing cry. Then he began to thrash around like a thresher in a barn. And soon nothing more moved. The chair was broken to pieces, but he still held one leg and beat away with it, panting.

At last he stopped to ask:

“Well, are you ready to tell me who it was?”

Melina did not answer.

Then tired out, stupefied from his exertion, he stretched himself out on the ground and slept.

When day came a neighbor, seeing the door open, entered. He saw Jeremie snoring on the floor, amid the broken pieces of a chair, and on the bed a pulp of flesh and blood.

 

 

About the Author

Henri Ren Albert Guy de Maupassant (Aug 5, 1850 - Jul 6, 1893) was a popular French author who wrote under the pen name Guy de Maupassant. He is considered one of the fathers of the modern short story as well as one of its finest practitioners. His prolific and deeply admired body of work influenced a great number of writers including William Somerset Maugham, O. Henry, Anton Chekhov, Kate Chopin and Henry James.

Pen Name: Guy de Maupassant
Born: Aug 5, 1850
Died: Jul 6, 1893

Guy de Maupassant at Amazon

A Dead Woman's Secret by Guy de Maupassant

 A Dead Woman's Secret by Guy de Maupassant  

 

Approximate Word Count: 1411

The woman had died without pain, quietly, as a woman should whose life had been blameless. Now she was resting in her bed, lying on her back, her eyes closed, her features calm, her long white hair carefully arranged as though she had done it up ten minutes before dying. The whole pale countenance of the dead woman was so collected, so calm, so resigned that one could feel what a sweet soul had lived in that body, what a quiet existence this old soul had led, how easy and pure the death of this parent had been.

Kneeling beside the bed, her son, a magistrate with inflexible principles, and her daughter, Marguerite, known as Sister Eulalie, were weeping as though their hearts would break. She had, from childhood up, armed them with a strict moral code, teaching them religion, without weakness, and duty, without compromise. He, the man, had become a judge and handled the law as a weapon with which he smote the weak ones without pity. She, the girl, influenced by the virtue which had bathed her in this austere family, had become the bride of the Church through her loathing for man.

They had hardly known their father, knowing only that he had made their mother most unhappy, without being told any other details.

The nun was wildly-kissing the dead woman's hand, an ivory hand as white as the large crucifix lying across the bed. On the other side of the long body the other hand seemed still to be holding the sheet in the death grasp; and the sheet had preserved the little creases as a memory of those last movements which precede eternal immobility.

A few light taps on the door caused the two sobbing heads to look up, and the priest, who had just come from dinner, returned. He was red and out of breath from his interrupted digestion, for he had made himself a strong mixture of coffee and brandy in order to combat the fatigue of the last few nights and of the wake which was beginning.

He looked sad, with that assumed sadness of the priest for whom death is a bread winner. He crossed himself and approaching with his professional gesture: "Well, my poor children! I have come to help you pass these last sad hours." But Sister Eulalie suddenly arose. "Thank you, "father, but my brother and I prefer to remain alone with her. This is our last chance to see her, and we wish to be together, all three of us, as we--we--used to be when we were small and our poor mo--mother----"
 

Grief and tears stopped her; she could not continue.

Once more serene, the priest bowed, thinking of his bed. "As you wish, my children." He kneeled, crossed himself, prayed, arose and went out quietly, murmuring: "She was a saint!"

They remained alone, the dead woman and her children. The ticking of the clock, hidden in the shadow, could be heard distinctly, and through the open window drifted in the sweet smell of hay and of woods, together with the soft moonlight. No other noise could be heard over the land except the occasional croaking of the frog or the chirping of some belated insect. An infinite peace, a divine melancholy, a silent serenity surrounded this dead woman, seemed to be breathed out from her and to appease nature itself.

Then the judge, still kneeling, his head buried in the bed clothes, cried in a voice altered by grief and deadened by the sheets and blankets: "Mamma, mamma, mamma!" And his sister, frantically striking her forehead against the woodwork, convulsed, twitching and trembling as in an epileptic fit, moaned: "Jesus, Jesus, mamma, Jesus!" And both of them, shaken by a storm of grief, gasped and choked.
 

The crisis slowly calmed down and they began to weep quietly, just as on the sea when a calm follows a squall.

A rather long time passed and they arose and looked at their dead. And the memories, those distant memories, yesterday so dear, to-day so torturing, came to their minds with all the little forgotten details, those little intimate familiar details which bring back to life the one who has left. They recalled to each other circumstances, words, smiles, intonations of the mother who was no longer to speak to them. They saw her again happy and calm. They remembered things which she had said, and a little motion of the hand, like beating time, which she often used when emphasizing something important.

And they loved her as they never had loved her before. They measured the depth of their grief, and thus they discovered how lonely they would find themselves.
 

It was their prop, their guide, their whole youth, all the best part of their lives which was disappearing. It was their bond with life, their mother, their mamma, the connecting link with their forefathers which they would thenceforth miss. They now became solitary, lonely beings; they could no longer look back.

The nun said to her brother: "You remember how mamma used always to read her old letters; they are all there in that drawer. Let us, in turn, read them; let us live her whole life through tonight beside her! It would be like a road to the cross, like making the acquaintance of her mother, of our grandparents, whom we never knew, but whose letters are there and of whom she so often spoke, do you remember?"
 

Out of the drawer they took about ten little packages of yellow paper, tied with care and arranged one beside the other. They threw these relics on the bed and chose one of them on which the word "Father" was written. They opened and read it.
 

It was one of those old-fashioned letters which one finds in old family desk drawers, those epistles which smell of another century. The first one started: "My dear," another one: "My beautiful little girl," others: "My dear child," or: "My dear daughter." And suddenly the nun began to read aloud, to read over to the dead woman her whole history, all her tender memories. The judge, resting his elbow on the bed, was listening with his eyes fastened on his mother. The motionless body seemed happy.
 

Sister Eulalie, interrupting herself, said suddenly:

"These ought to be put in the grave with her; they ought to be used as a shroud and she ought to be buried in it." She took another package, on which no name was written. She began to read in a firm voice: "My adored one, I love you wildly. Since yesterday I have been suffering the tortures of the damned, haunted by our memory. I feel your lips against mine, your eyes in mine, your breast against mine. I love you, I love you! You have driven me mad. My arms open, I gasp, moved by a wild desire to hold you again. My whole soul and body cries out for you, wants you. I have kept in my mouth the taste of your kisses--"

The judge had straightened himself up. The nun stopped reading. He snatched the letter from her and looked for the signature. There was none, but only under the words, "The man who adores you," the name "Henry." Their father's name was Rene. Therefore this was not from him. The son then quickly rummaged through the package of letters, took one out and read: "I can no longer live without your caresses." Standing erect, severe as when sitting on the bench, he looked unmoved at the dead woman. The nun, straight as a statue, tears trembling in the corners of her eyes, was watching her brother, waiting. Then he crossed the room slowly, went to the window and stood there, gazing out into the dark night.

When he turned around again Sister Eulalie, her eyes dry now, was still standing near the bed, her head bent down.
 

He stepped forward, quickly picked up the letters and threw them pell-mell back into the drawer. Then he closed the curtains of the bed.
 

When daylight made the candles on the table turn pale the son slowly left his armchair, and without looking again at the mother upon whom he had passed sentence, severing the tie that united her to son and daughter, he said slowly: "Let us now retire, sister."

 About the Author

Henri Ren Albert Guy de Maupassant (Aug 5, 1850 - Jul 6, 1893) was a popular French author who wrote under the pen name Guy de Maupassant. He is considered one of the fathers of the modern short story as well as one of its finest practitioners. His prolific and deeply admired body of work influenced a great number of writers including William Somerset Maugham, O. Henry, Anton Chekhov, Kate Chopin and Henry James.

Pen Name: Guy de Maupassant
Born: Aug 5, 1850
Died: Jul 6, 1893

Guy de Maupassant at Amazon