The Complete Works: Short Stories, Novels, Plays, Poetry, Memoirs and more. Guy de Maupassant
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about her condition, which made her heart dance with joy; but this preoccupation with a matter which he regarded as vexatious, ugly, and unclean clashed with his devoted exaltation about the idol that he had adored. At a later stage, when he saw her altered, thin, her cheeks hollow, her complexion yellow, he thought that she might have spared him that spectacle, and might have vanished for a few months from his sight, to reappear afterward fresher and prettier than ever, thus knowing how to make him forget this accident, or perhaps knowing how to unite to her coquettish fascinations as a mistress, another charm, the thoughtful reserve of a young mother, who only allows her baby to be seen at a distance covered up in red ribbons.
She had, besides, a rare opportunity of displaying that tact which he expected of her by spending the summer apart from him at Mont Oriol, and leaving him in Paris so that he might not see her robbed of her freshness and beauty. He had fondly hoped that she might have understood him.
But, immediately on reaching Auvergne, she had appealed to him in incessant and despairing letters so numerous and so urgent that he had come to her through weakness, through pity. And now she was boring him to death with her ungracious and lugubrious tenderness; and he felt an extreme longing to get away from her, to see no more of her, to listen no longer to her talk about love, so irritating and out of place. He would have liked to tell her plainly all that he had in his mind, to point out to her how unskillful and foolish she showed herself; but he could not bring himself to do this, and he dared not take his departure. As a result he could not restrain himself from testifying his impatience with her in bitter and hurtful words.
She was stung by them the more because, every day more ill, more heavy, tormented by all the sufferings of pregnant women, she had more need than ever of being consoled, fondled, encompassed with affection. She loved him with that utter abandonment of body and soul, of her entire being, which sometimes renders love a sacrifice without reservations and without bounds. She no longer looked upon herself as his mistress, but as his wife, his companion, his devotee, his worshiper, his prostrate slave, his chattel. For her there seemed no further need of any gallantry, coquetry, constant desire to please, or fresh indulgence between them, since she belonged to him entirely, since they were linked together by that chain so sweet and so strong — the child which would soon be born. When they were alone at the window, she renewed her tender lamentation: “Paul, my dear Paul, tell me, do you love me as much as ever?”
“Yes, certainly! Come now, you keep repeating this every day — it will end by becoming monotonous.”
“Pardon me. It is because I find it impossible to believe it any longer, and I want you to reassure me; I want to hear you saying it to me forever that word which is so sweet; and, as you don’t repeat it to me so often as you used to do, I am compelled to ask for it, to implore it, to beg for it from you.”
“Well, yes, I love you! But let us talk of something else, I entreat of you.”
“Ah! how hard you are!”
“Why, no! I am not hard. Only — only you do not understand — you do not understand that— ““Oh! yes! I understand well that you no longer love me. If you knew how I am suffering!”
“Come, Christiane, I beg of you not to make me nervous. If you knew yourself how awkward what you are now doing is!”
“Ah! if you loved me, you would not talk to me in this way.”
“But, deuce take it! if I did not love you, I would not have come.”
“Listen. You belong to me now. You are mine; I am yours. There is between us that tie of a budding life which nothing can break; but will you promise me that, if one day, you should come ‘to love me no more, you will tell me so?”
“Yes, I do promise you.”
“You swear it to me?”
“I swear it to you.”
“But then, all the same, we would remain friends, would we not?”
“Certainly, let us remain friends.”
“On the day when you no longer regard me with love you’ll come to find me and you’ll say to me: ‘My little Christiane, I am very fond of you, but it is not the same thing any more. Let us be friends, there! nothing but friends.’”
“That is understood; I promise it to you.”
“You swear it to me?”
“I swear it to you.”
“No matter, it would cause me great grief. How you adored me last year!”
A voice called out behind them: “The Duchess de Ramas-Aldavarra.”
She had come as a neighbor, for Christiane held receptions each day for the principal bathers, just as princes hold receptions in their kingdoms.
Doctor Mazelli followed the lovely Spaniard with a smiling and submissive air. The two women pressed one another’s hands, sat down, and commenced to chat.
Andermatt called Paul across to him: “My dear friend come here! Mademoiselle Oriol reads the cards splendidly; she has told me some astonishing things! “ He took Paul by the arm, and added: “What an odd being you are! At Paris, we never saw you, even once a month, in spite of the entreaties of my wife. Here it required fifteen letters to get you to come. And since you have come, one would think you are losing a million a day, you look so disconsolate. Come, are you hearing any matter that ruffles you? We might be able to assist you. You should tell us about it.”
“Nothing at all, my dear fellow. If I haven’t visited you more frequently in Paris— ’tis because at Paris, you understand— “
“Perfectly — I grasp your meaning. But here, at least, you ought to be in good spirits. I am preparing for you two or three fêtes, which will, I am sure, be very successful.”
“Madame Barre and Professor Cloche” were announced. He entered with his daughter, a young widow, red-haired and bold-faced. Then, almost in the same breath, the manservant called out: “Professor Mas-Roussel.”
His wife accompanied him, pale, worn, with flat headbands drawn over her temples.
Professor Remusot had left the day before, after having, it was said, purchased his chalet on exceptionally favorable conditions.
The two other doctors would have liked to know what these conditions were, but Andermatt merely said in reply to them: “Oh! we have made little advantageous arrangements for everybody. If you desired to follow his example, we might see our way to a mutual understanding — we might see our way. When you have made up your mind, you can let me know, and then we’ll talk about it.”
Doctor Latonne appeared in his turn, then Doctor Honorât, without his wife, whom he did not bring with him. A din of voices now filled the drawingroom, the loud buzz of conversation. Gontran never left Louise Oriol’s side, put his head over her shoulder in addressing her, and said with a laugh every now and again to whoever was passing near him: “This is an enemy of whom I am making a conquest.”
Mazelli took a seat beside Professor Cloche’s daughter. For some days he had been constantly following her about; and she had received his advances with provoking audacity.
The Duchess, who kept him well in view, appeared irritated and trembling. Suddenly she rose, crossed the drawingroom, and interrupted her doctor’s confidential chat with the pretty red-haired widow, saying: “Come, Mazelli, we are going to retire. I feel rather ill at ease.”
As soon as they had gone out, Christiane drew close to Paul’s side, and said to him: “Poor woman! she must suffer so much!”
He asked heedlessly: “Who, pray?”
“The Duchess! You don’t see how jealous she is.” He replied abruptly: “If you begin to groan over everything you can lay hold of now, you’ll have no end of weeping.”
She turned away, ready, indeed, to shed tears, so cruel did she find him, and, sitting