Original Short Stories – Volume 11. Guy de Maupassant

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ monsieur, last December one of our chimneys caught fire, and caused at least five hundred francs’ damage; M. Oreille made no claim on the company, and so it is only just that it should pay for my umbrella now.”

      The manager, guessing that she was telling a lie, said, with a smile:

      “You must acknowledge, madame, that it is very surprising that M. Oreille should have asked no compensation for damages amounting to five hundred francs, and should now claim five or six francs for mending an umbrella.”

      She was not the least put out, and replied:

      “I beg your pardon, monsieur, the five hundred francs affected M. Oreille’s pocket, whereas this damage, amounting to eighteen francs, concerns Mme. Oreille’s pocket only, which is a totally different matter.”

      As he saw that he had no chance of getting rid of her, and that he would only be wasting his time, he said resignedly:

      “Will you kindly tell me how the damage was done?”

      She felt that she had won the victory, and said:

      “This is how it happened, monsieur: In our hall there is a bronze stick and umbrella stand, and the other day, when I came in, I put my umbrella into it. I must tell you that just above there is a shelf for the candlesticks and matches. I put out my hand, took three or four matches, and struck one, but it missed fire, so I struck another, which ignited, but went out immediately, and a third did the same.”

      The manager interrupted her to make a joke.

      “I suppose they were government matches, then?”

      She did not understand him, and went on:

      “Very likely. At any rate, the fourth caught fire, and I lit my candle, and went into my room to go to bed; but in a quarter of an hour I fancied that I smelt something burning, and I have always been terribly afraid of fire. If ever we have an accident it will not be my fault, I assure you. I am terribly nervous since our chimney was on fire, as I told you; so I got up, and hunted about everywhere, sniffing like a dog after game, and at last I noticed that my umbrella was burning. Most likely a match had fallen between the folds and burned it. You can see how it has damaged it.”

      The manager had taken his cue, and asked her: “What do you estimate the damage at?”

      She did not know what to say, as she was not certain what value to put on it, but at last she replied:

      “Perhaps you had better get it done yourself. I will leave it to you.”

      He, however, naturally refused.

      “No, madame, I cannot do that. Tell me the amount of your claim, that is all I want to know.”

      “Well, I think that – Look here, monsieur, I do not want to make any money out of you, so I will tell you what we will do. I will take my umbrella to the maker, who will re-cover it in good, durable silk, and I will bring the bill to you. Will that suit you, monsieur?”

      “Perfectly, madame; we will settle it so. Here is a note for the cashier, who will repay you whatever it costs you.”

      He gave Mme. Oreille a slip of paper, who took it, got up and went out, thanking him, for she was in a hurry to escape lest he should change his mind.

      She went briskly through the streets, looking out for a really good umbrella maker, and when she found a shop which appeared to be a first-class one, she went in, and said, confidently:

      “I want this umbrella re-covered in silk, good silk. Use the very best and strongest you have; I don’t mind what it costs.”

      BELHOMME’S BEAST

      The coach for Havre was ready to leave Criquetot, and all the passengers were waiting for their names to be called out, in the courtyard of the Commercial Hotel kept by Monsieur Malandain, Jr.

      It was a yellow wagon, mounted on wheels which had once been yellow, but were now almost gray through the accumulation of mud. The front wheels were very small, the back ones, high and fragile, carried the large body of the vehicle, which was swollen like the belly of an animal. Three white horses, with enormous heads and great round knees, were the first things one noticed. They were harnessed ready to draw this coach, which had something of the appearance of a monster in its massive structure. The horses seemed already asleep in front of the strange vehicle.

      The driver, Cesaire Horlaville, a little man with a big paunch, supple nevertheless, through his constant habit of climbing over the wheels to the top of the wagon, his face all aglow from exposure to the brisk air of the plains, to rain and storms, and also from the use of brandy, his eyes twitching from the effect of constant contact with wind and hail, appeared in the doorway of the hotel, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Large round baskets, full of frightened poultry, were standing in front of the peasant women. Cesaire Horlaville took them one after the other and packed them on the top of his coach; then more gently, he loaded on those containing eggs; finally he tossed up from below several little bags of grain, small packages wrapped in handkerchiefs, pieces of cloth, or paper. Then he opened the back door, and drawing a list from his pocket he called:

      “Monsieur le cure de Gorgeville.”

      The priest advanced. He was a large, powerful, robust man with a red face and a genial expression. He hitched up his cassock to lift his foot, just as the women hold up their skirts, and climbed into the coach.

      “The schoolmaster of Rollebose-les-Grinets.”

      The man hastened forward, tall, timid, wearing a long frock coat which fell to his knees, and he in turn disappeared through the open door.

      “Maitre Poiret, two seats.”

      Poiret approached, a tall, round-shouldered man, bent by the plow, emaciated through abstinence, bony, with a skin dried by a sparing use of water. His wife followed him, small and thin, like a tired animal, carrying a large green umbrella in her hands.

      “Maitre Rabot, two seats.”

      Rabot hesitated, being of an undecided nature. He asked:

      “You mean me?”

      The driver was going to answer with a jest, when Rabot dived head first towards the door, pushed forward by a vigorous shove from his wife, a tall, square woman with a large, round stomach like a barrel, and hands as large as hams.

      Rabot slipped into the wagon like a rat entering a hole.

      “Maitre Caniveau.”

      A large peasant, heavier than an ox, made the springs bend, and was in turn engulfed in the interior of the yellow chest.

      “Maitre Belhomme.”

      Belhomme, tall and thin, came forward, his neck bent, his head hanging, a handkerchief held to his ear as if he were suffering from a terrible toothache.

      All these people wore the blue blouse over quaint and antique coats of a black or greenish cloth, Sunday clothes which they would only uncover in the streets of Havre. Their heads were covered by silk caps at high as towers, the emblem of supreme elegance in the small villages of Normandy.

      Cesaire Horlaville closed the door, climbed up on his box and snapped his whip.

      The СКАЧАТЬ