Original Short Stories — Volume 04Maupassant, Guy de
General
Original Short Stories — Volume 04
Maupassant, Guy de
Short stories, French -- Translations into English
And then two gentlemen appeared in evening dress, and wearing the ribbon
of an order. Padoie rushed up to them.
“Oh, judge--he is crazy, he is crazy. He was sent to us as a
convalescent. You can see that he is crazy.”
Varajou was sitting up now, and not being able to understand it all, he
guessed that he had committed some monstrous folly. Then he rose, and
turning to his brother-in-law, said:
“What house is this?”
But Padoie, becoming suddenly furious, stammered out:
“What house--what--what house is this? Wretch--scoundrel--villain--what
house, indeed? The house of the judge--of the judge of the Supreme
Court--of the Supreme Court--of the Supreme Court--Oh, oh--rascal!
--rascal!--rascal!”
THE DIAMOND NECKLACE
The girl was one of those pretty and charming young creatures who
sometimes are born, as if by a slip of fate, into a family of clerks.
She had no dowry, no expectations, no way of being known, understood,
loved, married by any rich and distinguished man; so she let herself be
married to a little clerk of the Ministry of Public Instruction.
She dressed plainly because she could not dress well, but she was
unhappy as if she had really fallen from a higher station; since with
women there is neither caste nor rank, for beauty, grace and charm take
the place of family and birth. Natural ingenuity, instinct for what is
elegant, a supple mind are their sole hierarchy, and often make of women
of the people the equals of the very greatest ladies.
Mathilde suffered ceaselessly, feeling herself born to enjoy all
delicacies and all luxuries. She was distressed at the poverty of
her dwelling, at the bareness of the walls, at the shabby chairs, the
ugliness of the curtains. All those things, of which another woman of
her rank would never even have been conscious, tortured her and made
her angry. The sight of the little Breton peasant who did her humble
housework aroused in her despairing regrets and bewildering dreams. She
thought of silent antechambers hung with Oriental tapestry, illumined
by tall bronze candelabra, and of two great footmen in knee breeches who
sleep in the big armchairs, made drowsy by the oppressive heat of the
stove. She thought of long reception halls hung with ancient silk, of
the dainty cabinets containing priceless curiosities and of the little
coquettish perfumed reception rooms made for chatting at five o'clock
with intimate friends, with men famous and sought after, whom all women
envy and whose attention they all desire.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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