I SHALL disclose neither the name of the man nor that of the country. It was far, far away from here on a hot, fertile coast. All day long we had been following the shore covered with crops and the blue, blue ocean. Flowers were growing right near the little, lapping waves. It was hot, that moist, perfumed heat of damp, fertile soil.
I had been told that that night I would find shelter in the house of a Frenchman, who lived on a little promontory, in a grove of orange-trees. Who was he? I did not know. He had arrived one morning ten years before; he had bought land, sown and tilled it; he had worked with a perfect fury. Then from month to month, from year to year, he increased his property; and through tireless work, cent by cent, he had amassed a small fortune.
Nevertheless, he kept on working. Rising with the sun, his whole day was spent superintending the work which was bringing him in the money which he seemed so ardently to desire. Now he appeared to be quite rich.
The sun was setting as I reached his house, which was large, surrounded by orange-trees and overlooking the sea.
As I drew near, a heavily bearded man appeared on the threshold. I bowed and asked him if he could put me up for the night. He held out his hand smiling:
" Enter, my dear sir, and make yourself at home."
He took me to a room, and put a servant at my disposal with the familiar ease of the man of the world; then he left me, saying:
"We will dine when you are ready to come down."
We dined tête-a-tête on a terrace facing the sea. At first I spoke to him of this rich, distant, unknown land. He smiled and answered:
"Yes, this land is beautiful. But no country pleases you far from the land you love."
"Do you miss France! "
"I miss Paris."
"Why don't you go back there? "
"I expect to."
And then we began to talk of France, of the boulevards, and of the things of Paris. His questions showed me that he had moved in good society, and many of the names he mentioned were known to me.
"Who is to be seen at Tortoni's nowadays? "
"The same old ones, except for those who have died."
I watched him attentively, pursued by a vague memory. I surely had seen that face somewhere. But where? When? He seemed tired but robust, sad but firm. His long blond beard fell down over his chest, and he had a habit of grasping it in his
hand and then running his fingers through it. He was slightly bald, with heavy eyebrows and a long mustache.
Behind us, the sun, like a ball of fire, was softly dipping into the placid ocean. The sweet, heavy aroma of orange-blossoms was everywhere. His eyes were fastened on mine, and he seemed to see reflected in them the distant image of his beloved Paris.
"Do you know Boutelle?"
"Certainly."
"Has he changed?"
"He is snowy white now."
"And La Eidamie! "
"He is still the same."
"And the women? Tell me about the women. Let me see—do you know Suzanne Verner? "
"Yes. She is fat and forgotten."
"Ah! and Sophie Astier? "
"Dead."
"Poor child! Did you—do you know ... "
He suddenly stopped talking and grew pale. Then in an altered voice he continued:
"No. I had better not talk of that. It upsets me too much."
Then, as though to change the topic, he arose.
"Do you wish to go inside? "
"All right."
And he persuaded me to enter the house.
The lower rooms were enormous, bare, sad, and seemed deserted. The dark-skinned servants had left plates and glasses scattered about everywhere.
My host smiled.
"This is the home, or rather the hut of an exile," he said. " But my room is a little neater. Let us go there."
When I first entered, I thought that I must be in some curiosity shop. The room was full of incongruous objects, queer and varied things which one understood immediately to be souvenirs. On the walls were two pretty copies of well-known paintings, tapestries, weapons both ancient and modern. Right in the middle of the most prominent panel was a square piece of white satin, enclosed in a heavy gilt frame. Surprised, I approached it in order better to observe it, and noticed a hair-pin fastened in the center of the rich material.
My host placed his hand on my shoulder.
"There," he said smiling, " is the only thing that I look at and the only thing that I have seen for ten years. Monsieur Prudhomme once exclaimed: 'This sword is the most beautiful day of my life.' I can say: 'This pin is all my life.' "
I hunted for some commonplace remark, and finally said:
"You have suffered through a woman!"
He answered gruffly:
"It would be truer if you were to say that I am suffering the tortures of the damned. But come out on the balcony. A name was on my lips a minute ago which I did not dare utter, for if you had answered ' dead,' as you did for Sophie Astier, I would have blown my brains out on the spot."
We were out on the balcony, from which we could see two bays, one to the right and one to the left, enclosed by great, gray mountains. It was the hour of twilight, when the earth receives its light from the reflected rays of the sun.
He continued:
"Is Jeanne de Limours still alive?"
He was staring at me with an expression of pitiful suffering.
I smiled.
"I should say so, and more beautiful than ever."
"Do you know her? "
"Yes."
He hesitated: "In full intimacy? "
"No."
He took my hand in his.
"Talk to me about her."
"But I have nothing to say. She is one of the most charming and courted women, or rather girls, in all Paris. She lives an easy and princely life.
That's all."
He murmured: " I love her," just as he would have said: " I am going to die." Then, quickly: " Ah! for three years, ours was an entrancing yet terrible life. I all but killed her five or six times; she tried to put my eyes out with that hair-pin which you have just seen. Here, look at that little white spot under the pupil of my left eye. How we loved each other! I can't explain such a passion—you would not understand it.
"A simple love probably exists, one caused by the yearning of two hearts, of two souls; but there is also another kind of love, cruel and hard love, caused by the unconquerable attraction of two opposite natures which hate and adore each other.
"That girl ruined me in three years. I was worth four millions; she squandered them serenely, with that placid smile which seemed to drop from her eyes to her lips.
''Do you know her ? There is something irresistible about her! What it is I don't know. Is it the piercing glance of her gray eyes, which pierces you like cold steel, and sticks like a barbed arrowhead? I think it is rather a sweet, indifferent, seductive smile which stays on her face like a mask. Her
languorous gracefulness slowly wraps itself around your heart and holds it captive. Her easy motions and soft musical voice, her graceful gestures and winning smile are the very essence of poetry. For three years she was the only person I saw on the earth. How I suffered! She was unfaithful to me. With whom? With anybody! Why? Just in order to deceive me. When I found it out and accused her and upbraided her for it she calmly admitted it. ' Are we married? ' she asked.
" Since coming here, I have thought about her so much that I have finally come to understand her: that girl is Manon Lescaut returned to earth. She is Manon, who could not love without deceiving; Manon, for whom love and money were one."
He was silent. Then after a few minutes:
"When I had spent my last cent on her, she calmly said to me: ' You understand, my dear, that I can't live on fresh air and good weather. I love you dearly, better than anyone; but I must live. Poverty and I could never get along together.'
"If I were to tell you what a dreadful life I led with her! When I looked at her, I felt as much like killing her as I did like kissing her! When I glanced her way, I felt an overpowering desire to take her in my arms and hug her to death. There was something in her eyes, something treacherous and intangible which made me despise her; that is perhaps why I loved her so much. Woman, the cruel yet maddening Feminine, was stronger in her than in anybody I had ever known. She was more feminine than any other woman ever was.
"For instance, when I went out with her she would look at all the men, and would seem to offer herself to them through that one glance. That exasperated me, and yet attached me to her all the
more. Notwithstanding her modest and quiet manner, she seemed to belong to everybody who passed her in the street, in spite of myself, in spite of her, just by her nature. Do you understand what I mean?
"What torture! At the theater, in the restaurant, people seemed to snatch her from under my very eyes. And in truth, as soon as I left her alone she did belong to others.
"I have not seen her for ten years, and I love her more passionately than ever before."
Darkness had spread its somber cloak over the earth. The penetrating odor of orange-blossoms was floating through the air.
I said to him:
"Will you see her again? "
He answered:
"Of course! I am worth now, in land and money, about seven or eight hundred thousand francs. When the million is complete, I will sell all I own and leave. I will have enough to spend a year with her—one good year. And then farewell—my life will be over! "
I asked: "And then? "
''Then! I know not. All will be over! I may ask her to engage me as her servant."
_________________
reprinted from The complete works
of Guy de Maupassant:
Translations and critical and interpretative essays,
Volume 1 Guy de Maupassant and Frederick Caesar de Sumichrast
Brunswick Subscription Co., 1917
