Original Short Stories — Volume 08Maupassant, Guy de
General
Original Short Stories — Volume 08
Maupassant, Guy de
Short stories, French -- Translations into English
“For ten years nothing was heard from Uncle Jules; but as time went on
my father's hope grew, and my mother, also, often said:
“'When that good Jules is here, our position will be different. There is
one who knew how to get along!'
“And every Sunday, while watching the big steamers approaching from
the horizon, pouring out a stream of smoke, my father would repeat his
eternal question:
“'What a surprise it would be if Jules were on that one! Eh?'
“We almost expected to see him waving his handkerchief and crying:
“'Hey! Philippe!'
“Thousands of schemes had been planned on the strength of this expected
return; we were even to buy a little house with my uncle's money--a
little place in the country near Ingouville. In fact, I wouldn't swear
that my father had not already begun negotiations.
“The elder of my sisters was then twenty-eight, the other twenty-six.
They were not yet married, and that was a great grief to every one.
“At last a suitor presented himself for the younger one. He was a clerk,
not rich, but honorable. I have always been morally certain that Uncle
Jules' letter, which was shown him one evening, had swept away the young
man's hesitation and definitely decided him.
“He was accepted eagerly, and it was decided that after the wedding the
whole family should take a trip to Jersey.
“Jersey is the ideal trip for poor people. It is not far; one crosses
a strip of sea in a steamer and lands on foreign soil, as this little
island belongs to England. Thus, a Frenchman, with a two hours' sail,
can observe a neighboring people at home and study their customs.
“This trip to Jersey completely absorbed our ideas, was our sole
anticipation, the constant thought of our minds.
“At last we left. I see it as plainly as if it had happened yesterday.
The boat was getting up steam against the quay at Granville; my father,
bewildered, was superintending the loading of our three pieces of
baggage; my mother, nervous, had taken the arm of my unmarried sister,
who seemed lost since the departure of the other one, like the last
chicken of a brood; behind us came the bride and groom, who always
stayed behind, a thing that often made me turn round.
“The whistle sounded. We got on board, and the vessel, leaving the
breakwater, forged ahead through a sea as flat as a marble table. We
watched the coast disappear in the distance, happy and proud, like all
who do not travel much.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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