The Complete Works: Short Stories, Novels, Plays, Poetry, Memoirs and more. Guy de Maupassant
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it, could not keep himself from talking about it to Paul. And Paul, thinking it amusing, began to laugh. He had, besides, since the first equivocal remarks of his friend, resolved not to interfere in his affairs, and he often asked himself with uneasiness: “Can it be possible that he knows something about Christiane and me?”
He knew Gontran too well not to believe him capable of shutting his eyes to an intrigue on the part of his sister. But then, why did he not let it be understood sooner that he guessed it or was aware of it? Gontran was, in fact, one of those in whose opinion every woman in society ought to have a lover or lovers, one of those for whom the family is merely a society of mutual help, for whom morality is an attitude that is indispensable in order to veil the different appetites which nature has implanted in us, and for whom worldly honor is a front behind which amiable vices should be hidden. Moreover, if he had egged on his dear sister to marry Andermatt was it not with the vague, if not clearly-defined, idea that this Jew might be utilized, in every way, by all the family? — and he would probably have despised Christiane for being faithful to this husband of convenience, of utility, just as much as he would have despised himself for not borrowing freely from his brother-in-law’s purse.
Paul pondered over all this, and it disturbed his modern Don Quixote’s soul, which, in any event, was disposed toward compromise. He had, therefore, become very reserved with this enigmatic friend of his. When, accordingly, Gontran told him the use that he was making of Madame Honorat, Bretigny burst out laughing; and he had even, for some time past, allowed himself to be brought to that lady’s house, and found great pleasure in chatting with Charlotte there.
The doctor’s wife lent herself, with the best grace in the world, to the part she was made to play, and offered them tea about five o’clock, like the Parisian ladies, with little cakes manufactured by her own hands. On the first occasion when Paul made his way into this household, she welcomed him as if he were an old friend, made him sit down, removed his hat herself, in spite of his protests, and placed it beside the clock upon the mantelpiece. Then, eager, bustling, going from one to the other, tremendously big and fat, she asked:
“Do you feel inclined for a little dinner?”
Gontran told funny stories, joked, and laughed quite at his ease. Then, he took Louise into the recess of a window under the troubled eyes of Charlotte.
Madame Honorat, who sat chatting with Paul, said to him in a maternal tone:
“These dear children, they come here to have a few minutes’ conversation with one another. ’Tis very innocent — isn’t it, Monsieur Bretigny?”
“Oh! very innocent, Madame!”
When he came the next time, she familiarly addressed him as “Monsieur Paul,” treating him more or less as a crony.
And from that time forth, Gontran told him, with a sort of teasing liveliness, all about the complaisant behavior of the doctor’s wife, to whom he had said, the evening before: “Why do you never go out for a walk along the Sans-Souci road?”
“But we will go, M. le Comte — we will go.”’‘Say, tomorrow about three o’clock.”
“Tomorrow, about three o’clock, M. le Comte.” And Gontran explained to Paul: “You understand that in this drawingroom, I cannot say anything of a very confidential nature to the elder girl before the younger. But in the wood I can go on before or remain behind with Louise. So then you will come?”
“Yes, I have no objection.”
“Let us go on then.”
And they rose up, and set forth at a leisurely pace along the highroad; then, having passed through La Roche Pradière, they turned to the left and descended into the wooded glen in the midst of tangled brushwood. When they had passed the little river, they sat down at the side of the path and waited.
The three ladies soon arrived, walking in single file, Louise in front, and Madame Honorat in the rear.
They exhibited surprise on both sides at having met in this way. Gontran exclaimed: “Well, now, what a good idea this was of yours to come along here!” The doctor’s wife replied: “Yes, the idea was mine.”
They continued their walk. Louise and Gontran gradually quickened their steps, went on in advance, and rambled so far together that they disappeared from view at a turn of the narrow path.
The fat lady, who was breathing hard, murmured, as she cast an indulgent eye in their direction: “Bah! they’re young — they have legs. As for me, I can’t keep up with them.”
Charlotte exclaimed: “Wait! I’m going to call them back!”
She was rushing away. The doctor’s wife held her back: “Don’t interfere with them, child, if they want to chat! It would not be nice to disturb them. They will come back all right by themselves.”
And she sat down on the grass, under the shade of a pine-tree, fanning herself with her pocket-handkerchief. Charlotte cast a look of distress toward Paul, a look imploring and sorrowful.
He understood, and said: “Well, Mademoiselle, we are going to let Madame take a rest, and we’ll both go and overtake your sister.”
She answered impetuously: “Oh, yes, Monsieur.” Madame Honorat made no objection: “Go, my children, go. As for me, I’ll wait for you here. Don’t be too long.”
And they started off in their turn. They walked quickly at first, as they could see no sign of the two others, and hoped to come up with them; then, after a few minutes, it struck them that Louise and Gontran might have turned off to the right or to the left through the wood, and Charlotte began to call them in a trembling and undecided voice. There was no response. She exclaimed: “Oh! good heavens, where can they be?”
Paul felt himself overcome once more by that profound pity, by that sympathetic tenderness toward her which had previously taken possession of him on the edge of the crater of La Nugère.
He did not know what to say to this afflicted young creature. He felt a longing, a paternal and passionate longing to take her in his arms, to embrace her, to find sweet and consoling words with which to soothe her. But what words?
She looked about on every side, searched the branches with wild glances, listening to the faintest sounds, murmuring: “I think that they are here — No, there — Do you hear nothing?”
“No, Mademoiselle, I don’t hear anything. The best thing we can do is to wait here.”
“Oh! heavens, no. We must find them!”
He hesitated for a few seconds, and then said to her in a low tone: “This, then, causes you much pain?”
She raised toward his her eyes, in which there was a look of wild alarm, while the gathering tears filled them with a transparent watery mist, as yet held back by the lids, over which drooped the long, brown lashes. She strove to speak, but could not, and did not venture to open her lips. But her heart swollen, choked with grief, was yearning to pour itself out.
He went on: “So then you loved him very much. He is not worthy of your love. Take heart!”
She could not restrain herself any longer, and hiding with her hands the tears that now gushed forth from her eyes, she sobbed: “No! — no! — I do not love him — he — it is too base to have acted as he did. He made a fool of me — it is too base — too cowardly — but, all the same, it does pain me — a great deal — for it is hard — very hard — oh! yes. But what grieves me most is that my sister — my sister does not care for me any longer — she who has been even more wicked than he was! I feel that she no longer cares for me — not a bit — that she hates me —— I have only her — I have no one else — and I, I have done nothing!”
He only saw her ear and her neck with its young flesh sinking into the collar of her dress under the light material she wore till it was lost in the curves of her bust. And he felt himself overpowered with compassion, with sympathy, carried away by that impetuous desire of