THE COLLECTED NOVELS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT. Guy de Maupassant

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      She arrived about the middle of July, all upset at the idea of this marriage. She brought a quantity of presents which, as they came from her, remained almost unnoticed. On the following day they had forgotten she was there at all.

      But an unusual emotion was seething in her mind, and she never took her eyes off the engaged couple. She interested herself in Jeanne’s trousseau with a singular eagerness, a feverish activity, working like a simple seamstress in her room, where no one came to visit her.

      She was continually presenting the baroness with handkerchiefs she had hemmed herself, towels on which she had embroidered a monogram, saying as she did so: “Is that all right, Adelaide?” And little mother, as she carelessly examined the objects, would reply: “Do not give yourself so much trouble, my poor Lison.”

      One evening, toward the end of the month, after an oppressively warm day, the moon rose on one of those clear, mild nights which seem to move, stir and affect one, apparently awakening all the secret poetry of one’s soul. The gentle breath of the fields was wafted into the quiet drawingroom. The baroness and her husband were playing cards by the light of a lamp, and Aunt Lison was sitting beside them knitting; while the young people, leaning on the window sill, were gazing out at the moonlit garden.

      The linden and the plane tree cast their shadows on the lawn which extended beyond it in the moonlight, as far as the dark wood. Attracted by the tender charm of the night, and by this misty illumination that lighted up the trees and the bushes, Jeanne turned toward her parents and said: “Little father, we are going to take a short stroll on the grass in front of the house.”

      The baron replied, without looking up: “Go, my children,” and continued his game.

      They went out and began to walk slowly along the moonlit lawn as far as the little wood at the end. The hour grew late and they did not think of going in. The baroness grew tired, and wishing to retire, she said:

      “We must call the lovers in.”

      The baron cast a glance across the spacious garden where the two forms were wandering slowly.

      “Let them alone,” he said; “it is so delicious outside! Lison will wait for them, will you not, Lison?”

      The old maid raised her troubled eyes and replied in her timid voice:

      “Certainly, I will wait for them.”

      Little father gave his hand to the baroness, weary himself from the heat of the day.

      “I am going to bed, too,” he said, and went up with his wife.

      Then Aunt Lison rose in her turn, and leaving on the arm of the chair her canvas with the wool and the knitting needles, she went over and leaned on the window sill and gazed out at the night.

      The two lovers kept on walking back and forth between the house and the wood. They squeezed each other’s fingers without speaking, as though they had left their bodies and formed part of this visible poetry that exhaled from the earth.

      All at once Jeanne perceived, framed in the window, the silhouette of the aunt, outlined by the light of the lamp behind her.

      “See,” she said, “there is Aunt Lison looking at us.”

      The vicomte raised his head, and said in an indifferent tone without thinking:

      “Yes, Aunt Lison is looking at us.”

      And they continued to dream, to walk slowly, and to love each other. But the dew was falling fast, and the dampness made them shiver a little.

      “Let us go in now,” said Jeanne. And they went into the house.

      When they entered the drawingroom, Aunt Lison had gone back to her work. Her head was bent over her work, and her fingers were trembling as if she were very tired.

      “It is time to go to bed, aunt,” said Jeanne, approaching her.

      Her aunt turned her head, and her eyes were red as if she had been crying. The young people did not notice it; but suddenly M. de Lamare perceived that Jeanne’s thin shoes were covered with dew. He was worried, and asked tenderly:

      “Are not your dear little feet cold?”

      All at once the old lady’s hands shook so violently that she let fall her knitting, and hiding her face in her hands, she began to sob convulsively.

      The engaged couple looked at her in amazement, without moving. Suddenly Jeanne fell on her knees, and taking her aunt’s hands away from her face, said in perplexity:

      “Why, what is the matter, Aunt Lison?”

      Then the poor woman, her voice full of tears, and her whole body shaking with sorrow, replied:

      “It was when he asked you — are not your — your — dear little feet cold? — no one ever said such things to me — to me — never — never — — “

      Jeanne, surprised and compassionate, could still hardly help laughing at the idea of an admirer showing tender solicitude for Lison; and the vicomte had turned away to conceal his mirth.

      But the aunt suddenly rose, laying her ball of wool on the floor and her knitting in the chair, and fled to her room, feeling her way up the dark staircase.

      Left alone, the young people looked at one another, amused and saddened. Jeanne murmured:

      “Poor aunt!” Julien replied. “She must be a little crazy this evening.”

      They held each other’s hands and presently, gently, very gently, they exchanged their first kiss, and by the following day had forgotten all about Aunt Lison’s tears.

      The two weeks preceding the wedding found Jeanne very calm, as though she were weary of tender emotions. She had no time for reflection on the morning of the eventful day. She was only conscious of a feeling as if her flesh, her bones and her blood had all melted beneath her skin, and on taking hold of anything, she noticed that her fingers trembled.

      She did not regain her self-possession until she was in the chancel of the church during the marriage ceremony.

      Married! So she was married! All that had occurred since daybreak seemed to her a dream, a waking dream. There are such moments, when all appears changed around us; even our motions seem to have a new meaning; even the hours of the day, which seem to be out of their usual time. She felt bewildered, above all else, bewildered. Last evening nothing had as yet been changed in her life; the constant hope of her life seemed only nearer, almost within reach. She had gone to rest a young girl; she was now a married woman. She had crossed that boundary that seems to conceal the future with all its joys, its dreams of happiness. She felt as though a door had opened in front of her; she was about to enter into the fulfillment of her expectations.

      When they appeared on the threshold of the church after the ceremony, a terrific noise caused the bride to start in terror, and the baroness to scream; it was a rifle salute given by the peasants, and the firing did not cease until they reached “The Poplars.”

      After a collation served for the family, the family chaplain, and the priest from Yport, the mayor and the witnesses, who were some of the large farmers of the district, they all walked in the garden. On the СКАЧАТЬ