The Complete Works: Short Stories, Novels, Plays, Poetry, Memoirs and more. Guy de Maupassant
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William did not know what to think. He muttered: “In point of fact, it is possible. He has been rather hot on her for some time past! But in that case the whole knoll is ours — the whole knoll! Oh! I must make certain of this immediately.” And he went out after the doctor in order to meet Paul before breakfast.
As he was entering the hotel, he was informed that his wife had several times asked to see him. He found her still in bed, chatting with her father and with her brother, who was looking through the newspapers with a rapid and wandering glance. She felt poorly, very poorly, restless. She was afraid, without knowing why. And then an idea had come to her, and had for some days been growing stronger in her brain, as usually happens with pregnant women. She wanted to consult Doctor Black. From the effect of hearing around her some jokes at Doctor Latonne’s expense, she had lost all confidence in him, and she wanted another opinion, that of Doctor Black, whose success was constantly increasing. Fears, all the fears, all the hauntings, by which women toward the close of pregnancy are besieged, now tortured her from morning until night. Since the night before, in consequence of a dream, she imagined that the Cæsarian operation might be necessary. And she was present in thought at this operation performed on herself. She saw herself lying on her back in a bed covered with blood, while something red was being taken away, which did not move, which did not cry, and which was dead! And for ten minutes she shut her eyes, in order to witness this over again, to be present once more at her horrible and painful punishment. She had, therefore, become impressed with the notion that Doctor Black alone could tell her the truth, and she wanted him at once; she required him to examine her immediately, immediately, immediately! Andermatt, greatly agitated, did not know what answer to give her.
“But my dear child, it is difficult, having regard to my relations with Latonne it is even impossible. Listen! an idea occurs to me: I will look up Professor Mas-Roussel, who is a hundred times better than Black. He will not refuse to come when I ask him.”
But she persisted. She wanted Black, and no one else. She required to see him with his big bulldog’s head beside her. It was a longing, a wild, superstitious desire. She considered it necessary for him to see her.
Then William attempted to change the current of her thoughts:
“You haven’t heard how that intriguer Mazelli carried off Professor Cloche’s daughter the other night.
They are gone away; nobody can tell where they levanted to. There’s a nice story for you!”
She was propped up on her pillow, her eyes strained with grief, and she faltered: “Oh! the poor Duchess — the poor woman — how I pity her!” Her heart had long since learned to understand that other woman’s heart, bruised and impassioned! She suffered from the same malady and wept the same tears. But she resumed: “Listen, Will! Go and find M. Black for me. I know I shall die unless he comes!”
Andermatt caught her hand, and tenderly kissed it: “Come, my little Christiane, be reasonable — understand.”
He saw her eyes filled with tears, and, turning toward the Marquis:
“It is you that ought to do this, my dear father-in-law. As for me, I can’t do it. Black comes here every day about one o’clock to see the Princess de Maldebourg. Stop him in the passage, and send him in to your daughter. You can easily wait an hour, can you not, Christiane?”
She consented to wait an hour, but refused to get up to breakfast with the men, who passed alone into the diningroom.
Paul was there already. Andermatt, when he saw him, exclaimed: “Ah! tell me now, what is it I have been told a little while ago? You are going to marry Charlotte Oriol? It is not true, is it?”
The young man replied in a low tone, casting a restless look toward the closed door: “Good God! it is true!” Nobody having been sure of it till now, the three stared at him in amazement.
William asked: “What came over you? With your fortune, to marry — to embarrass yourself with one woman, when you have the whole of them? And then, after all, the family leaves something to be desired in the matter of refinement. It is all very well for Gontran, who hasn’t a sou!”
Bretigny began to laugh: “My father made a fortune out of flour; he was then a miller on a large scale. If you had known him, you might have said he lacked refinement. As for the young girl— “
Andermatt interrupted him: “Oh! perfect — charming — perfect — and you know — she will be as rich as yourself — if not more so. I answer for it — I — I answer for it!”
Gontran murmured: “Yes, this marriage interferes with nothing, and covers retreats. Only he was wrong in not giving us notice beforehand. How the devil was this business managed, my friend?”
Thereupon, Paul related all that had occurred with some slight modifications. He told about his hesitation, which he exaggerated, and his sudden determination on discovering from the young girl’s own lips that she loved him. He described the unexpected entrance of Père Oriol, their quarrel, which he enlarged upon, the countryman’s doubts concerning his fortune, and the incident of the stamped paper drawn by the old man out of the press.
Andermatt, laughing till the tears ran down his face, hit the table with his fist: “Ha! he did that over again, the stamped paper touch! It’s my invention, that is!”
But Paul stammered, reddening a little: “Pray don’t let your wife know about it yet. Owing to the terms which we are on at present, it is more suitable that I should announce it to her myself.” Gontran eyed his friend with an odd, good-humored smile, which seemed to say: “This is quite right, all this, quite right! That’s the way things ought to end, without noise, without scandals, without any dramatic situations.”
He suggested: “If you like, my dear Paul, we’ll go together, after dinner, when she’s up, and you will inform her of your decision.”
Their eyes met, fixed, full of unfathomable thoughts, then looked in another direction. And Paul replied with an air of indifference:
“Yes, willingly. We’ll talk about this presently.” A waiter from the hotel came to inform them that Doctor Black had just arrived for his visit to the Princess; and the Marquis forthwith went out to catch him in the passage. He explained the situation to the doctor, his son-in-law’s embarrassment and his daughter’s earnest wish, and he brought him in without resistance.
As soon as the little man with the big head had entered Christiane’s apartment, she said: “Papa, leave us alone!” And the Marquis withdrew.
Thereupon, she enumerated her disquietudes, her terrors, her nightmares, in a low, sweet voice, as though she were at confession. And the physician listened to her like a priest, covering her sometimes with his big round eyes, showed his attention by a little nod of the head, murmured a “That’s it,” which seemed to mean, “I know your case at the end of my fingers, and I will cure you whenever I like.”
When she had finished speaking, he began in his turn to question her with extreme minuteness of detail about her life, her habits, her course of diet, her treatment. At one moment he appeared to express approval with a gesture, at another to convey blame with an “Oh!” full of reservations. When she came to her great fear that the child was misplaced, he rose up, and with an ecclesiastical modesty, lightly passed his hand over the counterpane, and then remarked, “No, it’s all right.”
And she felt a longing to embrace him. What a good man this physician was!
He sat down at the table, took a sheet of paper, and wrote out the prescription. It was long, very long. Then he came back close to the bed, and, in an altered tone, clearly indicating that he had finished his professional and sacred duty, he began to chat. He had a deep, unctuous voice, the powerful voice of a thickset dwarf, and there were hidden questions in his most ordinary phrases. He talked about everything. Gontran’s marriage seemed to interest him considerably. Then, with his ugly smile like that of an ill-shaped being:
“I have said nothing yet to you about M. Bretigny’s marriage, although it cannot be a secret,