Short
Story by Guy de Maupassant
There
were seven of us on a drag, four women and three men; one of the latter sat on
the box seat beside the coachman. We were ascending, at a snail's pace, the
winding road up the steep cliff along the coast.
Setting
out from Etretat at break of day in order to visit the ruins of Tancarville, we
were still half asleep, benumbed by the fresh air of the morning. The women
especially, who were little accustomed to these early excursions, half opened
and closed their eyes every moment, nodding their heads or yawning, quite
insensible to the beauties of the dawn.
It was
autumn. On both sides of the road stretched the bare fields, yellowed by the
stubble of wheat and oats which covered the soil like a beard that had been
badly shaved. The moist earth seemed to steam. Larks were singing high up in
the air, while other birds piped in the bushes.
The sun
rose at length in front of us, bright red on the plane of the horizon, and in
proportion as it ascended, growing clearer from minute to minute, the country
seemed to awake, to smile, to shake itself like a young girl leaving her bed in
her white robe of vapor. The Comte d'Etraille, who was seated on the box,
cried:
"Look!
look! a hare!" and he extended his arm toward the left, pointing to a
patch of clover. The animal scurried along, almost hidden by the clover, only
its large ears showing. Then it swerved across a furrow, stopped, started off
again at full speed, changed its course, stopped anew, uneasy, spying out every
danger, uncertain what route to take, when suddenly it began to run with great
bounds, disappearing finally in a large patch of beet-root. All the men had
waked up to watch the course of the animal.
Rene
Lamanoir exclaimed:
"We
are not at all gallant this morning," and; regarding his neighbor, the
little Baroness de Serennes, who struggled against sleep, he said to her in a
low tone: "You are thinking of your husband, baroness. Reassure yourself;
he will not return before Saturday, so you have still four days."
She
answered with a sleepy smile:
"How
stupid you are!" Then, shaking off her torpor, she added: "Now, let
somebody say something to make us laugh. You, Monsieur Chenal, who have the
reputation of having had more love affairs than the Due de Richelieu, tell us a
love story in which you have played a part; anything you like."
Leon
Chenal, an old painter, who had once been very handsome, very strong, very
proud of his physique and very popular with women, took his long white beard in
his hand and smiled. Then, after a few moments' reflection, he suddenly became
serious.
"Ladies,
it will not be an amusing tale, for I am going to relate to you the saddest
love affair of my life, and I sincerely hope that none of my friends may ever
pass through a similar experience.
"I
was twenty-five years of age and was pillaging along the coast of Normandy. I
call 'pillaging' wandering about, with a knapsack on one's back, from inn to
inn, under the pretext of making studies and sketching landscapes. I knew
nothing more enjoyable than that happy-go-lucky wandering life, in which one is
perfectly free, without shackles of any kind, without care, without
preoccupation, without thinking even of the morrow. One goes in any direction
one pleases, without any guide save his fancy, without any counsellor save his
eyes. One stops because a running brook attracts one, because the smell of
potatoes frying tickles one's olfactories on passing an inn. Sometimes it is
the perfume of clematis which decides one in his choice or the roguish glance of
the servant at an inn. Do not despise me for my affection for these rustics.
These girls have a soul as well as senses, not to mention firm cheeks and fresh
lips; while their hearty and willing kisses have the flavor of wild fruit. Love
is always love, come whence it may. A heart that beats at your approach, an eye
that weeps when you go away are things so rare, so sweet, so precious that they
must never be despised.
"I
have had rendezvous in ditches full of primroses, behind the cow stable and in
barns among the straw, still warm from the heat of the day. I have
recollections of coarse gray cloth covering supple peasant skin and regrets for
simple, frank kisses, more delicate in their unaffected sincerity than the
subtle favors of charming and distinguished women.
"But
what one loves most amid all these varied adventures is the country, the woods,
the rising of the sun, the twilight, the moonlight. These are, for the painter,
honeymoon trips with Nature. One is alone with her in that long and quiet association.
You go to sleep in the fields, amid marguerites and poppies, and when you open
your eyes in the full glare of the sunlight you descry in the distance the
little village with its pointed clock tower which sounds the hour of noon.
"You
sit down by the side of a spring which gushes out at the foot of an oak, amid a
growth of tall, slender weeds, glistening with life. You go down on your knees,
bend forward and drink that cold, pellucid water which wets your mustache and
nose; you drink it with a physical pleasure, as though you kissed the spring,
lip to lip. Sometimes, when you find a deep hole along the course of these tiny
brooks, you plunge in quite naked, and you feel on your skin, from head to
foot, as it were, an icy and delicious caress, the light and gentle quivering
of the stream.
"You
are gay on the hills, melancholy on the edge of ponds, inspired when the sun is
setting in an ocean of blood-red clouds and casts red reflections or the river.
And at night, under the moon, which passes across the vault of heaven, you
think of a thousand strange things which would never have occurred to your mind
under the brilliant light of day.
"So,
in wandering through the same country where we, are this year, I came to the
little village of Benouville, on the cliff between Yport and Etretat. I came
from Fecamp, following the coast, a high coast as straight as a wall, with its
projecting chalk cliffs descending perpendicularly into the sea. I had walked
since early morning on the short grass, smooth and yielding as a carpet, that
grows on the edge of the cliff. And, singing lustily, I walked with long
strides, looking sometimes at the slow circling flight of a gull with its white
curved wings outlined on the blue sky, sometimes at the brown sails of a
fishing bark on the green sea. In short, I had passed a happy day, a day of
liberty and of freedom from care.
"A
little farmhouse where travellers were lodged was pointed out to me, a kind of
inn, kept by a peasant woman, which stood in the centre of a Norman courtyard
surrounded by a double row of beeches.
"Leaving
the coast, I reached the hamlet, which was hemmed in by great trees, and I
presented myself at the house of Mother Lecacheur.
"She
was an old, wrinkled and stern peasant woman, who seemed always to receive
customers under protest, with a kind of defiance.
"It
was the month of May. The spreading apple trees covered the court with a shower
of blossoms which rained unceasingly both upon people and upon the grass.
"I
said: 'Well, Madame Lecacheur, have you a room for me?'
"Astonished
to find that I knew her name, she answered:
‘That
depends; everything is let, but all the same I can find out."
"In
five minutes we had come to an agreement, and I deposited my bag upon the
earthen floor of a rustic room, furnished with a bed, two chairs, a table and a
washbowl. The room looked into the large, smoky kitchen, where the lodgers took
their meals with the people of the farm and the landlady, who was a widow.
"I
washed my hands, after which I went out. The old woman was making a chicken
fricassee for dinner in the large fireplace in which hung the iron pot, black
with smoke.
‘You
have travellers, then, at the present time?' said I to her.
"She
answered in an offended tone of voice:
‘I have
a lady, an English lady, who has reached years of maturity. She occupies the
other room.'
"I
obtained, by means of an extra five sous a day, the privilege of dining alone
out in the yard when the weather was fine.
"My
place was set outside the door, and I was beginning to gnaw the lean limbs of
the Normandy chicken, to drink the clear cider and to munch the hunk of white
bread, which was four days old but excellent.
"Suddenly
the wooden gate which gave on the highway was opened, and a strange lady
directed her steps toward the house. She was very thin, very tall, so tightly
enveloped in a red Scotch plaid shawl that one might have supposed she had no
arms, if one had not seen a long hand appear just above the hips, holding a
white tourist umbrella. Her face was like that of a mummy, surrounded with
curls of gray hair, which tossed about at every step she took and made me
think, I know not why, of a pickled herring in curl papers. Lowering her eyes,
she passed quickly in front of me and entered the house.
"That
singular apparition cheered me. She undoubtedly was my neighbor, the English
lady of mature age of whom our hostess had spoken.
"I
did not see her again that day. The next day, when I had settled myself to
commence painting at the end of that beautiful valley which you know and which
extends as far as Etretat, I perceived, on lifting my eyes suddenly, something
singular standing on the crest of the cliff, one might have said a pole decked
out with flags. It was she. On seeing me, she suddenly disappeared. I reentered
the house at midday for lunch and took my seat at the general table, so as to
make the acquaintance of this odd character. But she did not respond to my
polite advances, was insensible even to my little attentions. I poured out water
for her persistently, I passed her the dishes with great eagerness. A slight,
almost imperceptible, movement of the head and an English word, murmured so low
that I did not understand it, were her only acknowledgments.
"I
ceased occupying myself with her, although she had disturbed my thoughts.
"At
the end of three days I knew as much about her as did Madame Lecacheur herself.
"She
was called Miss Harriet. Seeking out a secluded village in which to pass the
summer, she had been attracted to Benouville some six months before and did not
seem disposed to leave it. She never spoke at table, ate rapidly, reading all
the while a small book of the Protestant propaganda. She gave a copy of it to
everybody. The cure himself had received no less than four copies, conveyed by
an urchin to whom she had paid two sous commission. She said sometimes to our
hostess abruptly, without preparing her in the least for the declaration:
‘I love
the Saviour more than all. I admire him in all creation; I adore him in all nature;
I carry him always in my heart.'
"And
she would immediately present the old woman with one of her tracts which were
destined to convert the universe.
"In,
the village she was not liked. In fact, the schoolmaster having pronounced her
an atheist, a kind of stigma attached to her. The cure, who had been consulted
by Madame Lecacheur, responded:
‘She is
a heretic, but God does not wish the death of the sinner, and I believe her to
be a person of pure morals.'
"These
words, 'atheist,' 'heretic,' words which no one can precisely define, threw
doubts into some minds. It was asserted, however, that this English woman was
rich and that she had passed her life in travelling through every country in
the world because her family had cast her off. Why had her family cast her off?
Because of her impiety, of course!
"She
was, in fact, one of those people of exalted principles; one of those
opinionated puritans, of which England produces so many; one of those good and
insupportable old maids who haunt the tables d'hote of every hotel in Europe,
who spoil Italy, poison Switzerland, render the charming cities of the
Mediterranean uninhabitable, carry everywhere their fantastic manias their
manners of petrified vestals, their indescribable toilets and a certain odor of
India-rubber which makes one believe that at night they are slipped into a
rubber casing.
"Whenever
I caught sight of one of these individuals in a hotel I fled like the birds who
see a scarecrow in a field.
"This
woman, however, appeared so very singular that she did not displease me.
"Madame
Lecacheur, hostile by instinct to everything that was not rustic, felt in her
narrow soul a kind of hatred for the ecstatic declarations of the old maid. She
had found a phrase by which to describe her, a term of contempt that rose to
her lips, called forth by I know not what confused and mysterious mental
ratiocination. She said: 'That woman is a demoniac.' This epithet, applied to
that austere and sentimental creature, seemed to me irresistibly droll. I
myself never called her anything now but 'the demoniac,' experiencing a
singular pleasure in pronouncing aloud this word on perceiving her.
"One
day I asked Mother Lecacheur: 'Well, what is our demoniac about to- day?'
"To
which my rustic friend replied with a shocked air:
‘What do
you think, sir? She picked up a toad which had had its paw crushed and carried
it to her room and has put it in her washbasin and bandaged it as if it were a
man. If that is not profanation I should like to know what is!'
"On
another occasion, when walking along the shore she bought a large fish which
had just been caught, simply to throw it back into the sea again. The sailor
from whom she had bought it, although she paid him handsomely, now began to
swear, more exasperated, indeed, than if she had put her hand into his pocket
and taken his money. For more than a month he could not speak of the
circumstance without becoming furious and denouncing it as an outrage. Oh, yes!
She was indeed a demoniac, this Miss Harriet, and Mother Lecacheur must have
had an inspiration in thus christening her.
"The
stable boy, who was called Sapeur, because he had served in Africa in his
youth, entertained other opinions. He said with a roguish air: 'She is an old
hag who has seen life.'
"If
the poor woman had but known!
"The
little kind-hearted Celeste did not wait upon her willingly, but I was never
able to understand why. Probably her only reason was that she was a stranger,
of another race; of a different tongue and of another religion. She was, in
fact, a demoniac!
"She
passed her time wandering about the country, adoring and seeking God in nature.
I found her one evening on her knees in a cluster of bushes. Having discovered
something red through the leaves, I brushed aside the branches, and Miss
Harriet at once rose to her feet, confused at having been found thus, fixing on
me terrified eyes like those of an owl surprised in open day.
"Sometimes,
when I was working among the rocks, I would suddenly descry her on the edge of
the cliff like a lighthouse signal. She would be gazing in rapture at the vast
sea glittering in the sunlight and the boundless sky with its golden tints.
Sometimes I would distinguish her at the end of the valley, walking quickly with
her elastic English step, and I would go toward her, attracted by I know not
what, simply to see her illuminated visage, her dried-up, ineffable features,
which seemed to glow with inward and profound happiness.
"I
would often encounter her also in the corner of a field, sitting on the grass
under the shadow of an apple tree, with her little religious booklet lying open
on her knee while she gazed out at the distance.
"I
could not tear myself away from that quiet country neighborhood, to which I was
attached by a thousand links of love for its wide and peaceful landscape. I was
happy in this sequestered farm, far removed from everything, but in touch with
the earth, the good, beautiful, green earth. And--must I avow it?--there was,
besides, a little curiosity which retained me at the residence of Mother
Lecacheur. I wished to become acquainted a little with this strange Miss
Harriet and to know what transpires in the solitary souls of those wandering
old English women.
"We
became acquainted in a rather singular manner. I had just finished a study
which appeared to me to be worth something, and so it was, as it sold for ten
thousand francs fifteen years later. It was as simple, however, as two and two
make four and was not according to academic rules. The whole right side of my
canvas represented a rock, an enormous rock, covered with sea-wrack, brown,
yellow and red, across which the sun poured like a stream of oil. The light
fell upon the rock as though it were aflame without the sun, which was at my
back, being visible. That was all. A first bewildering study of blazing,
gorgeous light.
"On
the left was the sea, not the blue sea, the slate-colored sea, but a sea of
jade, greenish, milky and solid beneath the deep-colored sky.
"I
was so pleased with my work that I danced from sheer delight as I carried it
back to the inn. I would have liked the whole world to see it at once. I can
remember that I showed it to a cow that was browsing by the wayside, exclaiming
as I did so: 'Look at that, my old beauty; you will not often see its like
again.'
"When
I had reached the house I immediately called out to Mother Lecacheur, shouting
with all my might:
‘Hullo,
there! Mrs. Landlady, come here and look at this.'
"The
rustic approached and looked at my work with her stupid eyes which
distinguished nothing and could not even tell whether the picture represented
an ox or a house.
"Miss
Harriet just then came home, and she passed behind me just as I was holding out
my canvas at arm's length, exhibiting it to our landlady. The demoniac could
not help but see it, for I took care to exhibit the thing in such a way that it
could not escape her notice. She stopped abruptly and stood motionless,
astonished. It was her rock which was depicted, the one which she climbed to
dream away her time undisturbed.
"She
uttered a British 'Aoh,' which was at once so accentuated and so flattering
that I turned round to her, smiling, and said:
‘This is
my latest study, mademoiselle.'
"She
murmured rapturously, comically and tenderly:
‘Oh!
monsieur, you understand nature as a living thing.'
"I
colored and was more touched by that compliment than if it had come from a
queen. I was captured, conquered, vanquished. I could have embraced her, upon my
honor.
"I
took my seat at table beside her as usual. For the first time she spoke,
thinking aloud:
‘Oh! I
do love nature.'
"I
passed her some bread, some water, some wine. She now accepted these with a
little smile of a mummy. I then began to talk about the scenery.
"After
the meal we rose from the table together and walked leisurely across the
courtyard; then, attracted doubtless by the fiery glow which the setting sun
cast over the surface of the sea, I opened the gate which led to the cliff, and
we walked along side by side, as contented as two persons might be who have
just learned to understand and penetrate each other's motives and feelings.
"It
was one of those warm, soft evenings which impart a sense of ease to flesh and
spirit alike. All is enjoyment, everything charms. The balmy air, laden with
the perfume of grasses and the smell of seaweed, soothes the olfactory sense
with its wild fragrance, soothes the palate with its sea savor, soothes the
mind with its pervading sweetness.
"We
were now walking along the edge of the cliff, high above the boundless sea
which rolled its little waves below us at a distance of a hundred metres. And
we drank in with open mouth and expanded chest that fresh breeze, briny from
kissing the waves, that came from the ocean and passed across our faces.
"Wrapped
in her plaid shawl, with a look of inspiration as she faced the breeze, the English
woman gazed fixedly at the great sun ball as it descended toward the horizon.
Far off in the distance a three-master in full sail was outlined on the
blood-red sky and a steamship, somewhat nearer, passed along, leaving behind it
a trail of smoke on the horizon. The red sun globe sank slowly lower and lower
and presently touched the water just behind the motionless vessel, which, in
its dazzling effulgence, looked as though framed in a flame of fire. We saw it
plunge, grow smaller and disappear, swallowed up by the ocean.
"Miss
Harriet gazed in rapture at the last gleams of the dying day. She seemed
longing to embrace the sky, the sea, the whole landscape.
"She
murmured: 'Aoh! I love--I love' I saw a tear in her eye. She continued: 'I wish
I were a little bird, so that I could mount up into the firmament.'
"She
remained standing as I had often before seen her, perched on the cliff, her
face as red as her shawl. I should have liked to have sketched her in my album.
It would have been a caricature of ecstasy.
"I
turned away so as not to laugh.
"I
then spoke to her of painting as I would have done to a fellow artist, using
the technical terms common among the devotees of the profession. She listened
attentively, eagerly seeking to divine the meaning of the terms, so as to
understand my thoughts. From time to time she would exclaim:
'Oh! I
understand, I understand. It is very interesting.'
"We
returned home.
"The
next day, on seeing me, she approached me, cordially holding out her hand; and
we at once became firm friends.
"She
was a good creature who had a kind of soul on springs, which became
enthusiastic at a bound. She lacked equilibrium like all women who are
spinsters at the age of fifty. She seemed to be preserved in a pickle of
innocence, but her heart still retained something very youthful and
inflammable. She loved both nature and animals with a fervor, a love like old
wine fermented through age, with a sensuous love that she had never bestowed on
men.
"One
thing is certain, that the sight of a bitch nursing her puppies, a mare roaming
in a meadow with a foal at its side, a bird's nest full of young ones,
screaming, with their open mouths and their enormous heads, affected her
perceptibly.
"Poor,
solitary, sad, wandering beings! I love you ever since I became acquainted with
Miss Harriet.
"I
soon discovered that she had something she would like to tell me, but dare not,
and I was amused at her timidity. When I started out in the morning with my
knapsack on my back, she would accompany me in silence as far as the end of the
village, evidently struggling to find words with which to begin a conversation.
Then she would leave me abruptly and walk away quickly with her springy step.
"One
day, however, she plucked up courage:
"I
would like to see how you paint pictures. Are you willing? I have been very
curious.'
"And
she blushed as if she had said something very audacious.
"I
conducted her to the bottom of the Petit-Val, where I had begun a large
picture.
"She
remained standing behind me, following all my gestures with concentrated
attention. Then, suddenly, fearing perhaps that she was disturbing me, she
said: 'Thank you,' and walked away.
"But
she soon became more friendly, and accompanied me every day, her countenance
exhibiting visible pleasure. She carried her camp stool under her arm, not
permitting me to carry it. She would remain there for hours, silent and
motionless, following with her eyes the point of my brush, in its every
movement. When I obtained unexpectedly just the effect I wanted by a dash of
color put on with the palette knife, she involuntarily uttered a little 'Ah!'
of astonishment, of joy, of admiration. She had the most tender respect for my
canvases, an almost religious respect for that human reproduction of a part of
nature's work divine. My studies appeared to her a kind of religious pictures,
and sometimes she spoke to me of God, with the idea of converting me.
"Oh,
he was a queer, good-natured being, this God of hers! He was a sort of village
philosopher without any great resources and without great power, for she always
figured him to herself as inconsolable over injustices committed under his
eyes, as though he were powerless to prevent them.
"She
was, however, on excellent terms with him, affecting even to be the confidante
of his secrets and of his troubles. She would say:
‘God
wills' or 'God does not will,' just like a sergeant announcing to a recruit:
'The colonel has commanded.'
"At
the bottom of her heart she deplored my ignorance of the intentions of the
Eternal, which she endeavored to impart to me.
"Almost
every day I found in my pockets, in my hat when I lifted it from the ground, in
my paintbox, in my polished shoes, standing in front of my door in the morning,
those little pious tracts which she no doubt, received directly from Paradise.
"I
treated her as one would an old friend, with unaffected cordiality. But I soon
perceived that she had changed somewhat in her manner, though, for a while, I
paid little attention to it.
"When
I was painting, whether in my valley or in some country lane, I would see her
suddenly appear with her rapid, springy walk. She would then sit down abruptly,
out of breath, as though she had been running or were overcome by some profound
emotion. Her face would be red, that English red which is denied to the people
of all other countries; then, without any reason, she would turn ashy pale and
seem about to faint away. Gradually, however, her natural color would return
and she would begin to speak.
"Then,
without warning, she would break off in the middle of a sentence, spring up
from her seat and walk away so rapidly and so strangely that I was at my wits'
ends to discover whether I had done or said anything to displease or wound her.
"I
finally came to the conclusion that those were her normal manners, somewhat
modified no doubt in my honor during the first days of our acquaintance.
"When
she returned to the farm, after walking for hours on the windy coast, her long
curls often hung straight down, as if their springs had been broken. This had
hitherto seldom given her any concern, and she would come to dinner without
embarrassment all dishevelled by her sister, the breeze.
But now
she would go to her room and arrange the untidy locks, and when I would say,
with familiar gallantry, which, however, always offended her ‘You are as
beautiful as a star to-day, Miss Harriet,' a blush would immediately rise to
her cheeks, the blush of a young girl, of a girl of fifteen.
"Then
she would suddenly become quite reserved and cease coming to watch me paint. I
thought, 'This is only a fit of temper; it will blow over.' But it did not
always blow over, and when I spoke to her she would answer me either with
affected indifference or with sullen annoyance.
"She
became by turns rude, impatient and nervous. I never saw her now except at meals,
and we spoke but little. I concluded at length that I must have offended her in
some way, and, accordingly, I said to her one evening:
‘Miss
Harriet, why is it that you do not act toward me as formerly? What have I done
to displease you? You are causing me much pain!'
"She
replied in a most comical tone of anger:
‘I am
just the same with you as formerly. It is not true, not true,' and she ran
upstairs and shut herself up in her room.
"Occasionally
she would look at me in a peculiar manner. I have often said to myself since
then that those who are condemned to death must look thus when they are
informed that their last day has come. In her eye there lurked a species of
insanity, an insanity at once mystical and violent; and even more, a fever, an
aggravated longing, impatient and impotent, for the unattained and
unattainable.
"Nay,
it seemed to me there was also going on within her a struggle in which her
heart wrestled with an unknown force that she sought to master, and even,
perhaps, something else. But what do I know? What do I know?
"It
was indeed a singular revelation.
"For
some time I had commenced to work, as soon as daylight appeared, on a picture
the subject of which was as follows:
"A
deep ravine, enclosed, surmounted by two thickets of trees and vines, extended
into the distance and was lost, submerged in that milky vapor, in that cloud
like cotton down that sometimes floats over valleys at daybreak. And at the
extreme end of that heavy, transparent fog one saw, or, rather, surmised, that
a couple of human beings were approaching, a human couple, a youth and a
maiden, their arms interlaced, embracing each other, their heads inclined
toward each other, their lips meeting.
"A
first ray of the sun, glistening through the branches, pierced that fog of the
dawn, illuminated it with a rosy reflection just behind the rustic lovers,
framing their vague shadows in a silvery background. It was well done; yes,
indeed, well done.
"I
was working on the declivity which led to the Valley of Etretat. On this
particular morning I had, by chance, the sort of floating vapor which I needed.
Suddenly something rose up in front of me like a phantom; it was Miss Harriet.
On seeing me she was about to flee. But I called after her, saying: 'Come here,
come here, mademoiselle. I have a nice little picture for you.'
"She
came forward, though with seeming reluctance. I handed her my sketch. She said
nothing, but stood for a long time, motionless, looking at it, and suddenly she
burst into tears. She wept spasmodically, like men who have striven hard to
restrain their tears, but who can do so no longer and abandon themselves to
grief, though still resisting. I sprang to my feet, moved at the sight of a
sorrow I did not comprehend, and I took her by the hand with an impulse of
brusque affection, a true French impulse which acts before it reflects.
"She
let her hands rest in mine for a few seconds, and I felt them quiver as if all
her nerves were being wrenched. Then she withdrew her hands abruptly, or,
rather, snatched them away.
"I
recognized that tremor, for I had felt it, and I could not be deceived. Ah! the
love tremor of a woman, whether she be fifteen or fifty years of age, whether
she be of the people or of society, goes so straight to my heart that I never
have any hesitation in understanding it!
"Her
whole frail being had trembled, vibrated, been overcome. I knew it. She walked
away before I had time to say a word, leaving me as surprised as if I had witnessed
a miracle and as troubled as if I had committed a crime.
"I
did not go in to breakfast. I went to take a turn on the edge of the cliff,
feeling that I would just as lief weep as laugh, looking on the adventure as
both comic and deplorable and my position as ridiculous, believing her unhappy
enough to go insane.
"I
asked myself what I ought to do. It seemed best for me to leave the place, and
I immediately resolved to do so.
"Somewhat
sad and perplexed, I wandered about until dinner time and entered the farmhouse
just when the soup had been served up.
"I
sat down at the table as usual. Miss Harriet was there, eating away solemnly,
without speaking to any one, without even lifting her eyes. Her manner and
expression were, however, the same as usual.
"I
waited patiently till the meal had been finished, when, turning toward the
landlady, I said: 'Well, Madame Lecacheur, it will not be long now before I
shall have to take my leave of you.'
"The
good woman, at once surprised and troubled, replied in her drawling voice: 'My
dear sir, what is it you say? You are going to leave us after I have become so
accustomed to you?'
"I
glanced at Miss Harriet out of the corner of my eye. Her countenance did not
change in the least. But Celeste, the little servant, looked up at me. She was
a fat girl, of about eighteen years of age, rosy, fresh, as strong as a horse,
and possessing the rare attribute of cleanliness. I had kissed her at odd times
in out-of-the-way corners, after the manner of travellers--nothing more.
"The
dinner being at length over, I went to smoke my pipe under the apple trees,
walking up and down from one end of the enclosure to the other. All the
reflections which I had made during the day, the strange discovery of the
morning, that passionate and grotesque attachment for me, the recollections
which that revelation had suddenly called up, recollections at once charming
and perplexing, perhaps also that look which the servant had cast on me at the
announcement of my departure--all these things, mixed up and combined, put me
now in a reckless humor, gave me a tickling sensation of kisses on the lips and
in my veins a something which urged me on to commit some folly.
"Night
was coming on, casting its dark shadows under the trees, when I descried
Celeste, who had gone to fasten up the poultry yard at the other end of the
enclosure. I darted toward her, running so noiselessly that she heard nothing,
and as she got up from closing the small trapdoor by which the chickens got in
and out, I clasped her in my arms and rained on her coarse, fat face a shower
of kisses. She struggled, laughing all the time, as she was accustomed to do in
such circumstances. Why did I suddenly loose my grip of her? Why did I at once
experience a shock? What was it that I heard behind me?
"It
was Miss Harriet, who had come upon us, who had seen us and who stood in front
of us motionless as a spectre. Then she disappeared in the darkness.
"I
was ashamed, embarrassed, more desperate at having been thus surprised by her
than if she had caught me committing some criminal act.
"I
slept badly that night. I was completely unnerved and haunted by sad thoughts.
I seemed to hear loud weeping, but in this I was no doubt deceived. Moreover, I
thought several times that I heard some one walking up and down in the house
and opening the hall door.
"Toward
morning I was overcome by fatigue and fell asleep. I got up late and did not go
downstairs until the late breakfast, being still in a bewildered state, not
knowing what kind of expression to put on.
"No
one had seen Miss Harriet. We waited for her at table, but she did not appear.
At length Mother Lecacheur went to her room. The English woman had gone out.
She must have set out at break of day, as she was wont to do, in order to see
the sun rise.
"Nobody
seemed surprised at this, and we began to eat in silence.
"The
weather was hot, very hot, one of those broiling, heavy days when not a leaf
stirs. The table had been placed out of doors, under an apple tree, and from
time to time Sapeur had gone to the cellar to draw a jug of cider, everybody
was so thirsty. Celeste brought the dishes from the kitchen, a ragout of mutton
with potatoes, a cold rabbit and a salad. Afterward she placed before us a dish
of strawberries, the first of the season.
"As
I wished to wash and freshen these, I begged the servant to go and draw me a
pitcher of cold water.
"In
about five minutes she returned, declaring that the well was dry. She had
lowered the pitcher to the full extent of the cord and had touched the bottom,
but on drawing the pitcher up again it was empty. Mother Lecacheur, anxious to
examine the thing for herself, went and looked down the hole. She returned,
announcing that one could see clearly something in the well, something
altogether unusual. But this no doubt was bundles of straw, which a neighbor
had thrown in out of spite.
"I
wished to look down the well also, hoping I might be able to clear up the
mystery, and I perched myself close to the brink. I perceived indistinctly a
white object. What could it be? I then conceived the idea of lowering a lantern
at the end of a cord. When I did so the yellow flame danced on the layers of
stone and gradually became clearer. All four of us were leaning over the
opening, Sapeur and Celeste having now joined us. The lantern rested on a
black-and-white indistinct mass, singular, incomprehensible. Sapeur exclaimed:
‘It is a
horse. I see the hoofs. It must have got out of the meadow during the night and
fallen in headlong.'
"But
suddenly a cold shiver froze me to the marrow. I first recognized a foot, then
a leg sticking up; the whole body and the other leg were completely under
water.
"I
stammered out in a loud voice, trembling so violently that the lantern danced
hither and thither over the slipper:
‘It is a
woman! Who-who-can it be? It is Miss Harriet!'
"Sapeur
alone did not manifest horror. He had witnessed many such scenes in Africa.
"Mother
Lecacheur and Celeste began to utter piercing screams and ran away.
"But
it was necessary to recover the corpse of the dead woman. I attached the young
man securely by the waist to the end of the pulley rope and lowered him very
slowly, watching him disappear in the darkness. In one hand he held the lantern
and a rope in the other. Soon I recognized his voice, which seemed to come from
the centre of the earth, saying:
'Stop!'
"I
then saw him fish something out of the water. It was the other leg. He then
bound the two feet together and shouted anew:
‘Haul
up!'
"I
began to wind up, but I felt my arms crack, my muscles twitch, and I was in
terror lest I should let the man fall to the bottom. When his head appeared at
the brink I asked:
‘Well?'
as if I expected he had a message from the drowned woman.
"We
both got on the stone slab at the edge of the well and from opposite sides we
began to haul up the body.
"Mother
Lecacheur and Celeste watched us from a distance, concealed from view behind
the wall of the house. When they saw issuing from the hole the black slippers
and white stockings of the drowned person they disappeared.
"Sapeur
seized the ankles, and we drew up the body of the poor woman. The head was
shocking to look at, being bruised and lacerated, and the long gray hair, out
of curl forevermore, hanging down tangled and disordered.
‘In the
name of all that is holy! how lean she is,' exclaimed Sapeur in a contemptuous
tone.
"We
carried her into the room, and as the women did not put in an appearance I,
with the assistance of the stable lad, dressed the corpse for burial.
"I
washed her disfigured face. Under the touch of my finger an eye was slightly
opened and regarded me with that pale, cold look, that terrible look of a
corpse which seems to come from the beyond. I braided as well as I could her
dishevelled hair and with my clumsy hands arranged on her head a novel and
singular coiffure. Then I took off her dripping wet garments, baring, not
without a feeling of shame, as though I had been guilty of some profanation,
her shoulders and her chest and her long arms, as slim as the twigs of a tree.
"I
next went to fetch some flowers, poppies, bluets, marguerites and fresh,
sweet-smelling grass with which to strew her funeral couch.
"I
then had to go through the usual formalities, as I was alone to attend to
everything. A letter found in her pocket, written at the last moment, requested
that her body be buried in the village in which she had passed the last days of
her life. A sad suspicion weighed on my heart. Was it not on my account that
she wished to be laid to rest in this place?
"Toward
evening all the female gossips of the locality came to view the remains of the
defunct, but I would not allow a single person to enter. I wanted to be alone,
and I watched beside her all night.
"I
looked at the corpse by the flickering light of the candles, at this unhappy
woman, unknown to us all, who had died in such a lamentable manner and so far
away from home. Had she left no friends, no relations behind her? What had her
infancy been? What had been her life? Whence had she come thither alone, a
wanderer, lost like a dog driven from home? What secrets of sufferings and of
despair were sealed up in that unprepossessing body, in that poor body whose
outward appearance had driven from her all affection, all love?
"How
many unhappy beings there are! I felt that there weighed upon that human
creature the eternal injustice of implacable nature! It was all over with her,
without her ever having experienced, perhaps, that which sustains the greatest
outcasts to wit, the hope of being loved once! Otherwise why should she thus
have concealed herself, fled from the face of others? Why did she love
everything so tenderly and so passionately, everything living that was not a
man?
"I
recognized the fact that she believed in a God, and that she hoped to receive
compensation from the latter for all the miseries she had endured. She would
now disintegrate and become, in turn, a plant. She would blossom in the sun,
the cattle would browse on her leaves, the birds would bear away the seeds, and
through these changes she would become again human flesh. But that which is
called the soul had been extinguished at the bottom of the dark well. She
suffered no longer. She had given her life for that of others yet to come.
"Hours
passed away in this silent and sinister communion with the dead. A pale light
at length announced the dawn of a new day; then a red ray streamed in on the
bed, making a bar of light across the coverlet and across her hands. This was
the hour she had so much loved. The awakened birds began to sing in the trees.
"I
opened the window to its fullest extent and drew back the curtains that the
whole heavens might look in upon us, and, bending over the icy corpse, I took
in my hands the mutilated head and slowly, without terror or disgust, I imprinted
a kiss, a long kiss, upon those lips which had never before been kissed."
Leon
Chenal remained silent. The women wept. We heard on the box seat the Count
d'Atraille blowing his nose from time to time. The coachman alone had gone to
sleep. The horses, who no longer felt the sting of the whip, had slackened
their pace and moved along slowly. The drag, hardly advancing at all, seemed
suddenly torpid, as if it had been freighted with sorrow.
