The Works of Guy de Maupassant, Volume 3. Guy de Maupassant

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      The Jesuit, followed by the superstitious old man, walked three times round the grave; then he remained standing before it, and by the light of the taper, he read a few passages from the Gospel; then he dipped the holy water sprinkler three times into the holy water basin, and sprinkled the grave three times; then both returned to the chapel, knelt down outside it with their faces towards the grave, and began to pray aloud, until at last the Jesuit sprang up, in a species of wild ecstasy, and cried out three times in a shrill voice:

      "Exsurge! Exsurge! Exsurge!"1

      Scarcely had the last word of the exorcism died away, when thick, blue smoke rose out of the grave, which rapidly grew into a cloud, and began to assume the outlines of a human body, until at last a tall, white figure stood behind the grave, and beckoned with its hand.

      "Who art thou?" the Jesuit asked solemnly, while the old man began to cry.

      "When I was alive, I was called Anna Maria B – ," the ghost replied in a hollow voice.

      "Will you answer all my questions?" the priest continued.

      "As far as I can."

      "Have you not yet been delivered from purgatory by our prayers, and all the masses for your soul, which we have said for you?"

      "Not yet, but soon, soon I shall be."

      "When?"

      "As soon as that blasphemer, my son, has been punished."

      "Has that not already happened? Has not your husband disinherited his lost son, and made the Church his heir, in his place?"

      "That is not enough."

      "What must he do besides?"

      "He must deposit his will with the Judicial Authorities, as his last will and testament, and drive the reprobate out of his house."

      "Consider well what you are saying. Must this really be?"

      "It must, or otherwise I shall have to languish in purgatory much longer," the sepulchral voice replied with a deep sigh; but the next moment it yelled out in terror:

      "Oh! Good Lord!" and the ghost began to run away as fast as it could. A shrill whistle was heard, and then another, and the police director laid his hand on the shoulder of the exorcisor, accompanied with the remark:

      "You are in custody."

      Meanwhile, the police sergeant and the policeman, who had come into the churchyard, had caught the ghost, and dragged it forward. It was the sexton, who had put on a flowing, white dress, and who wore a wax mask, which bore striking resemblance to his mother, as the son declared.

      When the case was heard, it was proved that the mask had been very skillfully made from a portrait of the deceased woman. The Government gave orders that the matter should be investigated as secretly as possible, and left the punishment of Father K – to the spiritual authorities, which was a matter of course, at a time when priests were outside the jurisdiction of the Civil Authorities; and it is needless to say that he was very comfortable during his imprisonment, in a monastery in a part of the country which abounded with game and trout.

      The only valuable result of the amusing ghost story was, that it brought about a reconciliation between father and son, and the former, as a matter of fact, felt such deep respect for priests and their ghosts in consequence of the apparition, that a short time after his wife had left purgatory for the last time, in order to talk with him, he turned Protestant.

      CRASH

      Love is stronger than death, and consequently also, than the greatest crash.

      A young, and by no means bad-looking son of Palestine, and one of the barons of the Almanac of the Ghetto, who had left the field covered with wounds in the last general engagement on the Stock Exchange, used to go very frequently to the Universal Exhibition in Vienna in 1873, in order to divert his thoughts, and to console himself amidst the varied scenes, and the numerous objects of attraction there. One day he met a newly married couple in the Russian section, who had a very old coat of arms, but on the other hand, a very modest income.

      This latter circumstance had frequently emboldened the stockbroker to make secret overtures to the delightful little lady; overtures which might have fascinated certain Viennese actresses, but which were sure to insult a respectable woman. The baroness, whose name appeared in the Almanack de Gotha, therefore felt something very like hatred for the man from the Ghetto, and for a long time her pretty little head had been full of various plans of revenge.

      The stockbroker, who was really, and even passionately in love with her, got close to her in the Exhibition buildings, which he could do all the more easily, since the little woman's husband had taken to flight, foreseeing mischief, as soon as she went up to the show-case of a Russian fur dealer, before which she remained standing in rapture.

      "Do look at that lovely fur," the baroness said, while her dark eyes expressed her pleasure; "I must have it."

      But she looked at the white ticket on which the price was marked.

      "Four thousand roubles," she said in despair; "that is about six thousand florins."

      "Certainly," he replied, "but what of that? It is a sum not worth mentioning in the presence of such a charming lady."

      "But my husband is not in a position …"

      "Be less cruel than usual for once," the man from the Ghetto said to the young woman in a low voice, "and allow me to lay this sable skin at your feet."

      "I presume that you are joking."

      "Not I …"

      "I think you must be joking, as I cannot think that you intend to insult me."

      "But, Baroness, I love you…"

      "That is one reason more why you should not make me angry."

      "But …"

      "Oh! I am in such a rage," the energetic little woman said; "I could flog you like Venus in the Fur2 did her slave."

      "Let me be your slave," the Stock Exchange baron replied ardently, "and I will gladly put up with everything from you. Really, in this sable cloak, and with a whip in your hand, you would make a most lovely picture of the heroine of that story."

      The baroness looked at the man for a moment with a peculiar smile.

      "Then if I were to listen to you favorably, you would let me flog you?" she said after a pause.

      "With pleasure."

      "Very well," she replied quickly. "You will let me give you twenty-five cuts with a whip, and I will be yours after the twenty-fifth blow."

      "Are you in earnest?"

      "Fully."

      The man from the Ghetto took her hand, and pressed it ardently to his lips.

      "When may I come?"

      "To-morrow evening at eight o'clock."

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