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

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СКАЧАТЬ followed him with her eyes until he was out of sight. Then she went into the house, distracted with grief.

      He had turned to the right and started to run. Threatening waves overspread the sea, big black clouds were scudding along madly, passing on and followed by others, each of them coming down in a furious downpour. The wind whistled, moaned, laid the grass and the young crops low and carried away big white birds that looked like specks of foam and bore them far into the land.

      The hail which followed beat in the comte’s face, filling his ears with noise and his heart with tumult.

      Down yonder before him was the deep gorge of the Val de Vaucotte. There was nothing before him but a shepherd’s hut beside a deserted sheep pasture. Two horses were tied to the shafts of the hut on wheels. What might not happen to one in such a tempest as this?

      As soon as he saw them the comte crouched on the ground and crawled along on his hands and knees as far as the lonely hut and hid himself beneath the hut that he might not be seen through the cracks. The horses on seeing him became restive. He slowly cut their reins with the knife which he held open in his hand, and a sudden squall coming up, the animals fled, frightened at the hail which rattled on the sloping roof of the wooden hut and made it shake on its wheels.

      The comte then kneeling upright, put his eye to the bottom of the door and looked inside. He did not stir; he seemed to be waiting.

      A little time elapsed and then he suddenly rose to his feet, covered with mud from head to foot. He frantically pushed back the bolt which closed the hut on the outside, and seizing the shafts, he began to shake the hut as though he would break it to pieces. Then all at once he got between the shafts, bending his huge frame, and with a desperate effort dragged it along like an ox, panting as he went. He dragged it, with whoever was in it, toward the steep incline.

      Those inside screamed and banged with their fists on the door, not understanding what was going on.

      When he reached the top of the cliff he let go the fragile dwelling, which began to roll down the incline, going ever faster and faster, plunging, stumbling like an animal and striking the ground with its shafts.

      An old beggar hidden in a ditch saw it flying over his head and heard frightful screams coming from the wooden box.

      All at once a wheel was wrenched off and it fell on its side and began to roll like a ball, as a house torn from its foundations might roll from the summit of a mountain. Then, reaching the ledge of the last ravine, it described a circle, and, falling to the bottom, burst open as an egg might do. It was no sooner smashed on the stones than the old beggar, who had seen it going past, went down toward it slowly amid the rushes, and with the customary caution of a peasant, not daring to go directly to the shattered hut, he went to the nearest farm to tell of the accident.

      They all ran to look at it and raised the wreck of the hut. They found two bodies, bruised, crushed and bleeding. The man’s forehead was split open and his whole face crushed; the woman’s jaw was hanging, dislocated in one of the jolts, and their shattered limbs were soft as pulp.

      “What were they doing in that shanty?” said a woman.

      The old beggar then said that they had apparently taken refuge in it to get out of the storm and that a furious squall must have blown the hut over the cliff. He said he had intended to take shelter there himself, when he saw the horses tied to it, and understood that some one else must be inside. “But for that,” he added in a satisfied tone, “I might have rolled down in it.” Some one remarked: “Would not that have been a good thing?”

      The old man, in a furious rage, said: “Why would it have been a good thing? Because I am poor and they are rich! Look at them now.” And trembling, ragged and dripping with rain, he pointed to the two dead bodies with his hooked stick and exclaimed: “We are all alike when we get to this.”

      The comte, as soon as he saw the hut rolling down the steep slope, ran off at full speed through the blinding storm. He ran in this way for several hours, taking short cuts, leaping across ditches, breaking through the hedges, and thus got back home at dusk, not knowing how himself.

      The frightened servants were awaiting his return and told him that the two horses had returned riderless some little time before, that of Julien following the other one.

      Then M. de Fourville reeled and in a choked voice said: “Something must have happened to them in this dreadful weather. Let every one help to look for them.”

      He started off himself, but he was no sooner out of sight than he concealed himself in a clump of bushes, watching the road along which she whom he even still loved with an almost savage passion was to return dead, dying or maybe crippled and disfigured forever.

      And soon a carriole passed by carrying a strange burden.

      It stopped at the château and passed through the gate. It was that, it was she. But a fearful anguish nailed him to the spot, a fear to know the worst, a dread of the truth, and he did not stir, hiding as a hare, starting at the least sound.

      He waited thus an hour, two hours perhaps. The buggy did not come out. He concluded that his wife was expiring, and the thought of seeing her, of meeting her gaze filled him with so much horror that he suddenly feared to be discovered in his hiding place and of being compelled to return and be present at this agony, and he then fled into the thick of the wood. Then all of a sudden it occurred to him that she perhaps might be needing his care, that no one probably could properly attend to her. Then he returned on his tracks, running breathlessly.

      On entering the château he met the gardener and called out to him, “Well?” The man did not dare answer him. Then M. de Fourville almost roared at him: “Is she dead?” and the servant stammered: “Yes, M. le Comte.”

      He experienced a feeling of immense relief. His blood seemed to cool and his nerves relax somewhat of their extreme tension, and he walked firmly up the steps of his great hallway.

      The other wagon had reached “The Poplars.” Jeanne saw it from afar. She descried the mattress; she guessed that a human form was lying upon it, and understood all. Her emotion was so vivid that she swooned and fell prostrate.

      When she regained consciousness her father was holding her head and bathing her temples with vinegar. He said hesitatingly: “Do you know?” She murmured: “Yes, father.” But when she attempted to rise she found herself unable to do so, so intense was her agony.

      That very night she gave birth to a stillborn infant, a girl.

      Jeanne saw nothing of the funeral of Julien; she knew nothing of it. She merely noticed at the end of a day or two that Aunt Lison was back, and in her feverish dreams which haunted her she persistently sought to recall when the old maiden lady had left “The Poplars,” at what period and under what circumstances. She could not make this out, even in her lucid moments, but she was certain of having seen her subsequent to the death of “little mother.”

       French

XI

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      Jeanne did not leave her room for three months and was so wan and pale that no one thought she would recover. But she picked up by degrees. Little father and Aunt Lison never left her; they had both taken up their abode at “The Poplars.” СКАЧАТЬ