THE COLLECTED NOVELS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT. Guy de Maupassant
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“If you like,” said she, “we will first go for a stroll, and then come home here at eleven. The weather is splendid for walking.”
He replied, in a grumbling tone: “Why go out? We are very comfortable here.”
She said, without taking off her bonnet: “If you knew, the moonlight is beautiful. It is splendid walking about tonight.”
“Perhaps so, but I do not care for walking about!”
He had said this in an angry fashion. She was struck and hurt by it, and asked: “What is the matter with you? Why do you go on in this way? I should like to go for a stroll, and I don’t see how that can vex you.”
He got up in a rage. “It does not vex me. It is a bother, that is all.”
She was one of those sort of women whom resistance irritates and impoliteness exasperates, and she said disdainfully and with angry calm: “I am not accustomed to be spoken to like that. I will go alone, then. Goodbye.”
He understood that it was serious, and darting towards her, seized her hands and kissed them, saying: “Forgive me, darling, forgive me. I am very nervous this evening, very irritable. I have had vexations and annoyances, you know — matters of business.”
She replied, somewhat softened, but not calmed down: “That does not concern me, and I will not bear the consequences of your ill-temper.”
He took her in his arms, and drew her towards the couch.
“Listen, darling, I did not want to hurt you; I was not thinking of what I was saying.”
He had forced her to sit down, and, kneeling before her, went on: “Have you forgiven me? Tell me you have forgiven me?”
She murmured, coldly: “Very well, but do not do so again;” and rising, she added: “Now let us go for a stroll.”
He had remained at her feet, with his arms clasped about her hips, and stammered: “Stay here, I beg of you. Grant me this much. I should so like to keep you here this evening all to myself, here by the fire. Say yes, I beg of you, say yes.”
She answered plainly and firmly: “No, I want to go out, and I am not going to give way to your fancies.”
He persisted. “I beg of you, I have a reason, a very serious reason.”
She said again: “No; and if you won’t go out with me, I shall go. Goodbye.”
She had freed herself with a jerk, and gained the door. He ran towards her, and clasped her in his arms, crying:
“Listen, Clo, my little Clo; listen, grant me this much.”
She shook her head without replying, avoiding his kisses, and striving to escape from his grasp and go.
He stammered: “Clo, my little Clo, I have a reason.”
She stopped, and looking him full in the face, said: “You are lying. What is it?”
He blushed not knowing what to say, and she went on in an indignant tone: “You see very well that you are lying, you low brute.” And with an angry gesture and tears in her eyes, she escaped him.
He again caught her by the shoulders, and, in despair, ready to acknowledge anything in order to avoid a rupture, he said, in a despairing tone: “I have not a son. That’s what it all means.” She stopped short, and looking into his eyes to read the truth in them, said: “You say?”
He had flushed to the roots of his hair. “I say that I have not a sou. Do you understand? Not twenty sous, not ten, not enough to pay for a glass of cassis in the café we may go into. You force me to confess what I am ashamed of. It was, however, impossible for me to go out with you, and when we were seated with refreshments in front of us to tell you quietly that I could not pay for them.”
She was still looking him in the face. “It is true, then?”
In a moment he had turned out all his pockets, those of his trousers, coat, and waistcoat, and murmured: “There, are you satisfied now?”
Suddenly opening her arms, in an outburst of passion, she threw them around his neck, crying: “Oh, my poor darling, my poor darling, if I had only known. How did it happen?”
She made him sit down, and sat down herself on his knees; then, with her arm round his neck, kissing him every moment on his moustache, his mouth, his eyes, she obliged him to tell her how this misfortune had come about.
He invented a touching story. He had been obliged to come to the assistance of his father, who found himself in difficulties. He had not only handed over to him all his savings, but had even incurred heavy debts on his behalf. He added: “I shall be pinched to the last degree for at least six months, for I have exhausted all my resources. So much the worse; there are crises in every life. Money, after all, is not worth troubling about.”
She whispered: “I will lend you some; will you let me?”
He answered, with dignity: “You are very kind, pet; but do not think of that, I beg of you. You would hurt my feelings.”
She was silent, and then clasping him in her arms, murmured: “You will never know how much I love you.”
It was one of their most pleasant evenings.
As she was leaving, she remarked, smilingly: “How nice it is when one is in your position to find money you had forgotten in your pocket — a coin that had worked its way between the stuff and the lining.”
He replied, in a tone of conviction: “Ah, yes, that it is.”
She insisted on walking home, under the pretense that the moon was beautiful and went into ecstasies over it. It was a cold, still night at the beginning of winter. Pedestrians and horses went by quickly, spurred by a sharp frost. Heels rang on the pavement. As she left him she said: “Shall we meet again the day after tomorrow?”
“Certainly.”
“At the same time?”
“The same time.”
“Goodbye, dearest.” And they kissed lovingly.
Then he walked home swiftly, asking himself what plan he could hit on the morrow to get out of his difficulty. But as he opened the door of his room, and fumbled in his waistcoat pocket for a match, he was stupefied to find a coin under his fingers. As soon as he had a light he hastened to examine it. It was a louis. He thought he must be mad. He turned it over and over, seeking by what miracle it could have found its way there. It could not, however, have fallen from heaven into his pocket.
Then all at once he guessed, and an angry indignation awoke within him. His mistress had spoken of money slipping into the lining, and being found in times of poverty. It was she who had tendered him this alms. How shameful! He swore: “Ah! I’ll talk to her the day after tomorrow. She shall have a nice time over it.”
And he went to bed, his heart filled with anger and humiliation.
He woke late. He was hungry. He tried to go to sleep again, in order not to get up till two o’clock, and then said to himself: “That will not forward matters. I must end by finding some money.” Then he went out, hoping that an idea might occur to him in the street. It did not; but at every restaurant he passed a longing to eat made his mouth water. As by noon he had failed to hit on any plan, he suddenly made up his mind: “I will lunch out of Clotilde’s twenty francs. That won’t hinder me from paying them back tomorrow.”
He, therefore, lunched for two francs fifty centimes. On reaching the office he also gave three francs to the messenger, saying: “Here, Foucart, here is the money you lent me last night for my cab.”
He worked till seven o’clock. Then he went and dined taking another three francs. The two evening bocks brought the expenditure of the day up to nine francs thirty centimes. But as he could not re-establish a credit or create fresh resources in twenty-four hours, he borrowed another six francs fifty centimes the next day from the twenty he was going to return that