Original Short Stories – Volume 09. Guy de Maupassant

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СКАЧАТЬ howling brat, as one carries away a wished-for knick-knack from a shop.

      The Tuvaches, from their door, watched her departure, silent, serious, perhaps regretting their refusal.

      Nothing more was heard of little Jean Vallin. The parents went to the lawyer every month to collect their hundred and twenty francs. They had quarrelled with their neighbors, because Mother Tuvache grossly insulted them, continually, repeating from door to door that one must be unnatural to sell one’s child; that it was horrible, disgusting, bribery. Sometimes she would take her Charlot in her arms, ostentatiously exclaiming, as if he understood:

      “I didn’t sell you, I didn’t! I didn’t sell you, my little one! I’m not rich, but I don’t sell my children!”

      The Vallins lived comfortably, thanks to the pension. That was the cause of the unappeasable fury of the Tuvaches, who had remained miserably poor. Their eldest went away to serve his time in the army; Charlot alone remained to labor with his old father, to support the mother and two younger sisters.

      He had reached twenty-one years when, one morning, a brilliant carriage stopped before the two cottages. A young gentleman, with a gold watch-chain, got out, giving his hand to an aged, white-haired lady. The old lady said to him: “It is there, my child, at the second house.” And he entered the house of the Vallins as though at home.

      The old mother was washing her aprons; the infirm father slumbered at the chimney-corner. Both raised their heads, and the young man said:

      “Good-morning, papa; good-morning, mamma!”

      They both stood up, frightened! In a flutter, the peasant woman dropped her soap into the water, and stammered:

      “Is it you, my child? Is it you, my child?”

      He took her in his arms and hugged her, repeating: “Good-morning, mamma,” while the old man, all a-tremble, said, in his calm tone which he never lost: “Here you are, back again, Jean,” as if he had just seen him a month ago.

      When they had got to know one another again, the parents wished to take their boy out in the neighborhood, and show him. They took him to the mayor, to the deputy, to the cure, and to the schoolmaster.

      Charlot, standing on the threshold of his cottage, watched him pass. In the evening, at supper, he said to the old people: “You must have been stupid to let the Vallins’ boy be taken.”

      The mother answered, obstinately: “I wouldn’t sell my child.”

      The father remained silent. The son continued:

      “It is unfortunate to be sacrificed like that.”

      Then Father Tuvache, in an angry tone, said:

      “Are you going to reproach us for having kept you?” And the young man said, brutally:

      “Yes, I reproach you for having been such fools. Parents like you make the misfortune of their children. You deserve that I should leave you.” The old woman wept over her plate. She moaned, as she swallowed the spoonfuls of soup, half of which she spilled: “One may kill one’s self to bring up children!”

      Then the boy said, roughly: “I’d rather not have been born than be what I am. When I saw the other, my heart stood still. I said to myself: ‘See what I should have been now!’” He got up: “See here, I feel that I would do better not to stay here, because I would throw it up to you from morning till night, and I would make your life miserable. I’ll never forgive you for that!”

      The two old people were silent, downcast, in tears.

      He continued: “No, the thought of that would be too much. I’d rather look for a living somewhere else.”

      He opened the door. A sound of voices came in at the door. The Vallins were celebrating the return of their child.

      COWARD

      In society he was called “Handsome Signoles.” His name was Vicomte Gontran-Joseph de Signoles.

      An orphan, and possessed of an ample fortune, he cut quite a dash, as it is called. He had an attractive appearance and manner, could talk well, had a certain inborn elegance, an air of pride and nobility, a good mustache, and a tender eye, that always finds favor with women.

      He was in great request at receptions, waltzed to perfection, and was regarded by his own sex with that smiling hostility accorded to the popular society man. He had been suspected of more than one love affair, calculated to enhance the reputation of a bachelor. He lived a happy, peaceful life – a life of physical and mental well-being. He had won considerable fame as a swordsman, and still more as a marksman.

      “When the time comes for me to fight a duel,” he said, “I shall choose pistols. With such a weapon I am sure to kill my man.”

      One evening, having accompanied two women friends of his with their husbands to the theatre, he invited them to take some ice cream at Tortoni’s after the performance. They had been seated a few minutes in the restaurant when Signoles noticed that a man was staring persistently at one of the ladies. She seemed annoyed, and lowered her eyes. At last she said to her husband:

      “There’s a man over there looking at me. I don’t know him; do you?”

      The husband, who had noticed nothing, glanced across at the offender, and said:

      “No; not in the least.”

      His wife continued, half smiling, half angry:

      “It’s very tiresome! He quite spoils my ice cream.”

      The husband shrugged his shoulders.

      “Nonsense! Don’t take any notice of him. If we were to bother our heads about all the ill-mannered people we should have no time for anything else.”

      But the vicomte abruptly left his seat. He could not allow this insolent fellow to spoil an ice for a guest of his. It was for him to take cognizance of the offence, since it was through him that his friends had come to the restaurant. He went across to the man and said:

      “Sir, you are staring at those ladies in a manner I cannot permit. I must ask you to desist from your rudeness.”

      The other replied:

      “Let me alone, will you!”

      “Take care, sir,” said the vicomte between his teeth, “or you will force me to extreme measures.”

      The man replied with a single word – a foul word, which could be heard from one end of the restaurant to the other, and which startled every one there. All those whose backs were toward the two disputants turned round; all the others raised their heads; three waiters spun round on their heels like tops; the two lady cashiers jumped, as if shot, then turned their bodies simultaneously, like two automata worked by the same spring.

      There was dead silence. Then suddenly a sharp, crisp sound. The vicomte had slapped his adversary’s face. Every one rose to interfere. Cards were exchanged.

      When the vicomte reached home he walked rapidly up and down his room for some minutes. He was in a state of too great agitation to think connectedly. One idea alone possessed him: a duel. But this idea aroused in him as yet no emotion of any kind. He had done what he was bound to do; he had proved himself to be what he ought to be. He would be talked about, СКАЧАТЬ