The Complete Works: Short Stories, Novels, Plays, Poetry, Memoirs and more. Guy de Maupassant

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      Some children were playing about in the dusty paths. They were fair little things with long hair, and they were making little mounds of sand with the greatest gravity and careful attention, to crush them at once by stamping on them.

      It was one of those gloomy days with Pierre when we pry into every corner of our souls and shake out every crease.

      “All our endeavours are like the labours of those babies,” thought he. And then he wondered whether the wisest thing in life were not to beget two or three of these little creatures and watch them grow up with complacent curiosity. A longing for marriage breathed on his soul. A man is not so lost when he is not alone. At any rate, he has some one stirring at his side in hours of trouble or of uncertainty; and it is something only to be able to speak on equal terms to a woman when one is suffering.

      Then he began thinking of women. He knew very little of them, never having had any but very transient connections as a medical student, broken off as soon as the month’s allowance was spent, and renewed or replaced by another the following month. And yet there must be some very kind, gentle, and comforting creatures among them. Had not his mother been the good sense and saving grace of his own home? How glad he would be to know a woman, a true woman!

      He started up with a sudden determination to go and call on Mme. Rosemilly. But he promptly sat down again. He did not like that woman. Why not? She had too much vulgar and sordid common sense; besides, did she not seem to prefer Jean? Without confessing it to himself too bluntly, this preference had a great deal to do with his low opinion of the widow’s intellect; for, though he loved his brother, he could not help thinking him somewhat mediocre and believing himself the superior. However, he was not going to sit there till nightfall; and as he had done on the previous evening, he anxiously asked himself: “What am I going to do?”

      At this moment he felt in his soul the need of a melting mood, of being embraced and comforted. Comforted — for what? He could not have put it into words; but he was in one of these hours of weakness and exhaustion when a woman’s presence, a woman’s kiss, the touch of a hand, the rustle of a petticoat, a soft look out of black or blue eyes, seem the one thing needful, there and then, to our heart. And the memory flashed upon him of a little barmaid at a beer-house, whom he had walked home with one evening, and seen again from time to time.

      So once more he rose, to go and drink a bock with the girl. What should he say to her? What would she say to him? Nothing, probably. But what did that matter? He would hold her hand for a few seconds. She seemed to have a fancy for him. Why, then, did he not go to see her oftener?

      He found her dozing on a chair in the beer-shop, which was almost deserted. Three men were drinking and smoking with their elbows on the oak tables; the bookkeeper in her desk was reading a novel, while the master, in his shirtsleeves, lay sound asleep on a bench.

      As soon as she saw him the girl rose eagerly, and coming to meet him, said:

      “Good-day, monsieur — how are you?”

      “Pretty well; and you?”

      “I — oh, very well. How scarce you make yourself!”

      “Yes. I have very little time to myself. I am a doctor, you know.”

      “Indeed! You never told me. If I had known that — I was out of sorts last week and I would have sent for you. What will you take?”

      “A bock. And you?”

      “I will have a bock, too, since you are willing to treat me.”

      She had addressed him with the familiar tu, and continued to use it, as if the offer of a drink had tacitly conveyed permission. Then, sitting down opposite each other, they talked for a while. Every now and then she took his hand with the light familiarity of girls whose kisses are for sale, and looking at him with inviting eyes she said:

      “Why don’t you come here oftener? I like you very much, sweetheart.”

      He was already disgusted with her; he saw how stupid she was, and common, smacking of low life. A woman, he told himself, should appear to us in dreams, or such a glory as may poetize her vulgarity.

      Next she asked him:

      “You went by the other morning with a handsome fair man, wearing a big beard. Is he your brother?”

      “Yes, he is my brother.”

      “Awfully good-looking.”

      “Do you think so?”

      “Yes, indeed; and he looks like a man who enjoys life, too.”

      What strange craving impelled him on a sudden to tell this tavern-wench about Jean’s legacy? Why should this thing, which he kept at arm’s length when he was alone, which he drove from him for fear of the torment it brought upon his soul, rise to his lips at this moment? And why did he allow it to overflow them as if he needed once more to empty out his heart to some one, gorged as it was with bitterness?

      He crossed his legs and said:

      “He has wonderful luck, that brother of mine. He had just come into a legacy of twenty thousand francs a year.”

      She opened those covetous blue eyes of hers very wide.

      “Oh! and who left him that? His grandmother or his aunt?”

      “No. An old friend of my parents’.”

      “Only a friend! Impossible! And you — did he leave you nothing?”

      “No. I knew him very slightly.”

      She sat thinking some minutes; then, with an odd smile on her lips, she said:

      “Well, he is a lucky dog, that brother of yours, to have friends of this pattern. My word! and no wonder he is so unlike you.”

      He longed to slap her, without knowing why; and he asked with pinched lips: “And what do you mean by saying that?”

      She had put on a stolid, innocent face.

      “O — h, nothing. I mean he has better luck than you.”

      He tossed a franc piece on the table and went out.

      Now he kept repeating the phrase: “No wonder he is so unlike you.”

      What had her thought been, what had been her meaning under those words? There was certainly some malice, some spite, something shameful in it. Yes, that hussy must have fancied, no doubt, that Jean was Marechal’s son. The agitation which came over him at the notion of this suspicion cast at his mother was so violent that he stood still, looking about him for some place where he might sit down. In front of him was another cafe. He went in, took a chair, and as the waiter came up, “A bock,” he said.

      He felt his heart beating, his skin was gooseflesh. And then the recollection flashed upon him of what Marowsko had said the evening before. “It will not look well.” Had he had the same thought, the same suspicion as this baggage? Hanging his head over the glass, he watched the white froth as the bubbles rose and burst, asking himself: “Is it possible that such a thing should be believed?”

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