Complete Original Short Stories of Guy De MaupassantMaupassant, Guy de
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Complete Original Short Stories of Guy De Maupassant
Maupassant, Guy de
French fiction -- Translations into English; Short stories, French -- Translations into English
At the end of about an hour he heard a rustling, peeped out quickly, and
caught sight of Boule de Suif, looking more rotund than ever in a
dressing-gown of blue cashmere trimmed with white lace. She held a
candle in her hand, and directed her steps to the numbered door at the
end of the corridor. But one of the side doors was partly opened, and
when, at the end of a few minutes, she returned, Cornudet, in his shirt-
sleeves, followed her. They spoke in low tones, then stopped short.
Boule de Suif seemed to be stoutly denying him admission to her room.
Unfortunately, Loiseau could not at first hear what they said; but
toward the end of the conversation they raised their voices, and he
caught a few words. Cornudet was loudly insistent.
“How silly you are! What does it matter to you?” he said.
She seemed indignant, and replied:
“No, my good man, there are times when one does not do that sort of
thing; besides, in this place it would be shameful.”
Apparently he did not understand, and asked the reason. Then she lost
her temper and her caution, and, raising her voice still higher, said:
“Why? Can't you understand why? When there are Prussians in the house!
Perhaps even in the very next room!”
He was silent. The patriotic shame of this wanton, who would not suffer
herself to be caressed in the neighborhood of the enemy, must have
roused his dormant dignity, for after bestowing on her a simple kiss he
crept softly back to his room. Loiseau, much edified, capered round the
bedroom before taking his place beside his slumbering spouse.
Then silence reigned throughout the house. But soon there arose from
some remote part—it might easily have been either cellar or attic—a
stertorous, monotonous, regular snoring, a dull, prolonged rumbling,
varied by tremors like those of a boiler under pressure of steam.
Monsieur Follenvie had gone to sleep.
As they had decided on starting at eight o'clock the next morning, every
one was in the kitchen at that hour; but the coach, its roof covered
with snow, stood by itself in the middle of the yard, without either
horses or driver. They sought the latter in the stables, coach-houses
and barns —but in vain. So the men of the party resolved to scour the
country for him, and sallied forth. They found themselves in the square,
with the church at the farther side, and to right and left low-roofed
houses where there were some Prussian soldiers. The first soldier they
saw was peeling potatoes. The second, farther on, was washing out a
barber's shop. Another, bearded to the eyes, was fondling a crying
infant, and dandling it on his knees to quiet it; and the stout peasant
women, whose men-folk were for the most part at the war, were, by means
of signs, telling their obedient conquerors what work they were to do:
chop wood, prepare soup, grind coffee; one of them even was doing the
washing for his hostess, an infirm old grandmother.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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