THE COLLECTED NOVELS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT. Guy de Maupassant
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madame.”
Then they were both silent. The only sound to be heard was the sobs of Rosalie and of the baroness.
Jeanne, quite overcome, felt her tears also beginning to flow; and they fell silently down her cheeks.
The maid’s child had the same father, as her child! Her anger was at an end; she now was filled with a dreary, slow, profound and infinite despair. She presently resumed in a changed, tearful voice, the voice of a woman who has been crying:
“When we returned from — from down there — from our journey — when did he begin again?”
The little maid, who had sunk down on the floor, faltered: “The first evening.”
Each word wrung Jeanne’s heart. So on the very first night of their return to the “Poplars” he left her for this girl. That was why he wanted to sleep alone!
She now knew all she wanted to know, and exclaimed: “Go away, go away!” And as Rosalie, perfectly crushed, did not stir, Jeanne called to her father: “Take her away, carry her away!” The priest, who had said nothing as yet, thought that the moment had arrived for him to preach a little sermon.
“What you have done is very wrong, my daughter, very wrong, and God will not pardon you so easily. Consider the hell that awaits you if you do not always act right. Now that you have a child you must behave yourself. No doubt madame la baronne will do something for you, and we will find you a husband.”
He would have continued speaking, but the baron, having again seized Rosalie by the shoulders, raised her from the floor and dragged her to the door, and threw her like a package into the corridor. As he turned back into the room, looking paler than his daughter, the priest resumed: “What can one do? They are all like that in the district. It is shocking, but cannot be helped, and then one must be a little indulgent toward the weaknesses of our nature. They never get married until they have become enceinte, never, madame.” He added, smiling: “One might call it a local custom. So, you see, monsieur, your maid did as all the rest do.”
But the baron, who was trembling with nervousness, interrupted him, saying, “She! what do I care about her! It is Julien with whom I am indignant. It is infamous, the way he has behaved, and I shall take my daughter away.”
He walked up and down excitedly, becoming more and more exasperated: “It is infamous to have betrayed my child, infamous! He is a wretch, this man, a cad, a wretch! and I will tell him so. I will slap his face. I will give him a horsewhipping!”
The priest, who was slowly taking a pinch of snuff, seated beside the baroness still in tears, and endeavoring to fulfill his office of a peacemaker, said: “Come, monsieur le baron, between ourselves, he has done what every one else does. Do you know many husbands who are faithful?” And he added with a sly good humor: “Come now, I wager that you have had your turn. Your hand on your heart, am I right?” The baron had stopped in astonishment before the priest, who continued: “Why, yes, you did just as others did. Who knows if you did not make love to a little sugar plum like that? I tell you that every one does. Your wife was none the less happy, or less loved; am I not right?”
The baron had not stirred, he was much disturbed. What the priest said was true, and he had sinned as much as any one and had not hesitated when his wife’s maids were in question. Was he a wretch on that account? Why should he judge Julien’s conduct so severely when his own had not been above blame?
The baroness, still struggling with her sobs, smiled faintly at the recollection of her husband’s escapades, for she belonged to the sentimental class for whom love adventures are a part of existence.
Jeanne, exhausted, lay with wide-open eyes, absorbed in painful reflection. Something Rosalie had said had wounded her as though an arrow had pierced her heart: “As for me, I said nothing, because I liked him.”
She had liked him also, and that was the only reason why she had given herself, bound herself for life to him, why she had renounced everything else, all her cherished plans, all the unknown future. She had fallen into this marriage, into this hole without any edges by which one could climb out, into this wretchedness, this sadness, this despair, because, like Rosalie, she had liked him!
The door was pushed violently open and Julien appeared, with a furious expression on his face. He had caught sight of Rosalie moaning on the stairs, and suspected that something was up, that the maid had probably told all. The sight of the priest riveted him to the spot.
“Why, what’s the matter?” he asked in a trembling but quiet tone.
The baron, so violent a short while ago, did not venture to speak, afraid of the priest’s remarks, and of what his son-in-law might say in the same strain. Little mother was weeping more copiously than ever; but Jeanne had raised herself with her hands and looked, breathing quickly, at the one who had caused her such cruel sorrow. She stammered out: “The fact is, we know all, all your rascality since — since the day you first entered this house — we know that the child of this maid is your child, just as — as — mine is — they will be brothers.” Overcome with sorrow at this thought, she buried herself in the sheets and wept bitterly.
Julien stood there gaping, not knowing what to say or do. The priest came to the rescue.
“Come, come, do not give way like that, my dear young lady, be sensible.” He rose, approached the bed and placed his warm hand on the despairing girl’s forehead. This seemed to soothe her strangely. She felt quieted, as if this strong peasant’s hand, accustomed to the gesture of absolution, to kindly consolations, had conveyed by its touch some mysterious solace.
The good man, still standing, continued: “Madame, we must always forgive. A great sorrow has come to you; but God in His mercy has balanced it by a great happiness, since you will become a mother. This child will be your comfort. In his name I implore you, I adjure you to forgive M. Julien’s error. It will be a new bond between you, a pledge of his future fidelity. Can you remain apart in your heart from him whose child you bear?”
She did not reply, crushed, mortified, exhausted as she was, without even strength for anger or resentment. Her nerves seemed relaxed, almost severed, she seemed to be scarcely alive.
The baroness, who seemed incapable of resentment, and whose mind was unequal to prolonged effort, murmured: “Come, come, Jeanne.”
Then the priest took the hand of the young man and leading him up to the bed, he placed his hand in that of his wife, and gave it a little tap as though to unite them more closely. Then laying aside his professional tone and manner, he said with a satisfied air: “Well, now, that’s done. Believe me, that is the best thing to do.” The two hands, joined for a moment, separated immediately. Julien, not daring to kiss Jeanne, kissed his motherin-law on the forehead, turned on his heel, took the arm of the baron, who acquiesced, happy at heart that the thing had been settled thus, and they went out together to smoke a cigar.
The patient, overcome, dozed off, while the priest and little mother talked in a low tone.
The priest explained and propounded his ideas, to which the baroness assented by nodding her head. He said in conclusion: “Well, then, that is understood; you will give this girl the Barville farm, and I will undertake to find her a husband, a good, steady fellow. Oh! with a property worth twenty thousand francs we shall have no lack of suitors. There will be more than enough to choose from.”
The baroness was smiling now, quite happy, with the remains of two tears that had dried on her cheeks.
She repeated: “That is settled. Barville is worth at least twenty thousand francs, but it will be settled on the child, the parents having the use of it during their lifetime.”
The curé rose, shook little mother’s hand, saying: “Do not disturb yourself, Madame la Baronne, do not disturb yourself; I know what an effort it is.”
As he went out he met Aunt Lison coming to see her patient. She noticed nothing; they told her nothing; and she knew nothing, as usual.
VIII