The Complete Works: Short Stories, Novels, Plays, Poetry, Memoirs and more. Guy de Maupassant
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with cruel persistency, went on: “He wishes also to know for certain what name you mean to call your daughter. I told him we were hesitating between Marguerite and Genevieve.”
“I have changed my mind,” said she. “I intend to call her Arlette.”
Formerly, in the early days of her pregnancy, she had discussed with Paul the name which they ought to select whether for a son or for a daughter; and for a daughter they had remained undecided between Genevieve and Marguerite. She no longer wanted these two names.
William repeated: “Arlette! Arlette! That’s a very nice name — you are right. For my part, I would have liked to call her Christiane, like you. I adore that name — Christiane!”
She sighed deeply: “Oh! it forebodes too much suffering to bear the name of the Crucified.”
He reddened, never having dreamed of this comparison, and rising up: “Besides, Arlette is very nice. By-bye, my darling.”
As soon as he had left the room, she called the wet-nurse, and directed her for the future to place the cradle beside the bed.
When the little couch in the form of a wherry, always rocking, and carrying its white curtain like a sail on its mast of twisted copper, had been rolled close to the big bed, Christiane stretched out her hand to the sleeping infant, and she said in a very hushed voice: “Go by-bye, my baby! You will never find anyone who will love you as much as I.”
She passed the next few days in a state of tranquil melancholy, thinking a great deal, building up within herself a resisting soul, an energetic heart, in order to resume her life again in a few weeks. Her chief occupation now consisted in gazing into the eyes of her child, seeking to surprise in them a first look, but only seeing there two little bluish caverns invariably turned toward the sunlight coming in through the window.
And she experienced a feeling of profound sadness as she reflected that these eyes now closed in sleep would look out on the world, as she herself had looked on it, through the illusion of those secret dreamings which make the souls of young women trustful and joyous. They would love all that she had loved, the beautiful bright days, the flowers, the wood, and alas! living beings too! They would, no doubt, love a man! They would carry in their depths his image, well known, cherished, would see it when he would be far away, would be inflamed on seeing him again. And then — and then they would learn to weep! Tears, horrible tears, would flow over these little cheeks. And the frightful sufferings of love betrayed would render them unrecognizable, those poor wandering eyes which would be blue.
And she wildly embraced the child, saying to it: “Love me alone, my child!”
At length, one day, Professor Mas-Roussel, who came every morning to see her, declared: “You can soon get up for a little, Madame.”
Andermatt, when the physician had left, said to his wife: “It is very unfortunate that you are not quite well, for we have a very interesting experiment to-day at the establishment. Doctor Latonne has performed a real miracle with Père Clovis by subjecting him to his system of self-moving gymnastics. Just imagine! This old vagabond is now able to walk as well as anyone. The progress of the cure, moreover, is manifest after each exhibition!”
To please him, she asked: “And are you going to have a public exhibition?”
“Yes, and no. We are having an exhibition before the medical men and a few friends.”
“At what hour?”
“Three o’clock.”
“Will M. Bretigny be there?”
“Yes, yes. He promised me that he would come to it. From a medical point of view, it is exceedingly curious.”
“Well,” she said, “as I’ll just have risen myself at that time, you will ask M. Bretigny to come and see me. He will keep me company while you are looking at the experiment.”
“Yes, my darling.”
“You won’t forget?”
“No, no. Make your mind easy.”
And he went off in search of those who were to witness the exhibition.
After having been imposed upon by the Oriols at the time of the first treatment of the paralytic, he had in his turn imposed upon the credulity of invalids — so easy to get the better of, when it is a question of curing. And now he imposed upon himself with the farce of this cure, talking about it so frequently, with so much ardor and such an air of conviction that it would have been hard to determine whether he believed or disbelieved in it.
About three o’clock, all the persons whom he had induced to attend found themselves gathered together before the door of the establishment, expecting Père Clovis’s arrival. He made his appearance, leaning on two walking-sticks, always dragging his legs after him, and bowing politely to everyone as he passed.
The two Oriols followed him, together with the two young girls. Paul and Gontran accompanied their intended wives.
In the great hall where the articulated instruments were fixed, Doctor Latonne was waiting, and killed time by chatting with Andermatt and Doctor Honorat.
When he saw Père Clovis, a smile of delight passed over his clean-shaven lips. He asked: “Well! how are we going on to-day?”
“Oh! all right, all right.”
Petrus Martel and Saint Landri presented themselves. They wanted to satisfy their minds. The first believed; the second doubted. Behind them, people saw with astonishment Doctor Bonnefille coming up, saluting his rival, and extending his hand toward Andermatt. Doctor Black was the last to arrive.
“Well, Messieurs and Mesdemoiselles,” said Doctor Latonne, as he bowed to Louise and Charlotte Oriol, “you are going to witness a very curious phenomenon. Observe first, before the experiment, this worthy fellow walking a little, but very little. Can you walk without your sticks, Père Clovis?”
“Oh! no, Mochieu!”
“Good, then let us begin.”
The old fellow was hoisted on the armchair; his legs were strapped to the movable feet of the sitting-machine; then, at the command of the inspector: “Go quietly!” the attendant, with bare arms, turned the handle.
Thereupon, the right knee of the vagabond was seen rising up, stretching out, bending, then moving forward again; after that, the left knee did the same; and Père Clovis, seized with a sudden delight, began to laugh, while he repeated with his head and his long, white beard all the movements imposed on his legs.
The four physicians and Andermatt, stooping over him, examined him with the gravity of augurs, while Colosse exchanged sly winks with the old chap.
As the door had been left open, other persons kept constantly crowding in, and convinced and anxious bathers pressed forward to behold the experiment.
“Quicker!” said Doctor Latonne; and, in obedience to his command, the man who worked the handle turned it with greater energy. The old fellow’s legs began to go at a running pace, and he, seized with irresistible gaiety, like a child being tickled, laughed as loudly as ever he could, moving his head about wildly. And, in the midst of his peals of laughter, he kept repeating: “What a rigolo! what a rigolo!” having, no doubt, picked up this word from the mouth of some foreigner.
Colosse, in his turn, broke out, and, stamping on the ground with his foot and striking his thighs with his hands, he exclaimed: “Ha! bougrrre of a Cloviche! bougrrre of a Cloviche!”
“Enough!” was the inspector’s next command.
The vagabond was unfastened, and the physicians drew apart in order to verify the result.
Then Père Clovis was seen rising from the armchair, stepping on the ground, and walking. He proceeded with short steps, it was true, quite bent, and grimacing from fatigue at every effort, but still he walked!
Doctor