The Works of Guy de Maupassant, Volume 3Maupassant, Guy de
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The Works of Guy de Maupassant, Volume 3
Maupassant, Guy de
French fiction -- Translations into English; Short stories, French -- Translations into English
The doctor stopped, and his eyes suddenly filled with tears, as these
former troubles came back to his mind, and then in a hoarse voice, he
went on, full of horror of what he was going to relate:
"For months he scaled the garden wall, and holding his breath and
listening for the slightest noise, like a burglar who is going to break
into a house, he went in by the servants' entrance, which she had left
open, went barefoot down a long passage and up the broad staircase,
which creaked occasionally, to the second story, where his mistress's
room was, and stopped there nearly the whole night.
"One night, when it was darker than usual, and he was making haste lest
he should be later than the time agreed on, the officer knocked up
against a piece of furniture in the ante-room and upset it. It so
happened that the girl's mother had not gone to sleep yet, either
because she had a sick headache, or else because she had sat up late
over some novel, and frightened at that unusual noise which disturbed
the silence of the house, she jumped out of bed, opened the door, saw
some one, indistinctly, running away and keeping close to the wall, and,
immediately thinking that there were burglars in the house, she aroused
her husband and the servants by her frantic screams. The unfortunate man
knew what he was about, and seeing into what a terrible fix he had got,
and preferring to be taken for a common thief to dishonoring his adored
mistress and to betraying the secret of their guilty love, he ran into
the drawing-room, felt en the tables and what-nots, filled his pockets
at random with valuable gew-gaws, and then cowered down behind the grand
piano, which barred up a corner of a large room.
"The servants who had run in with lighted candles, found him, and
overwhelming him with abuse, seized him by the collar and dragged him,
panting and appearing half dead with shame and terror, to the nearest
police station. He defended himself with intentional awkwardness when he
was brought up for trial, kept up his part with the most perfect
self-possession, and without any signs of the despair and anguish that
he felt in his heart, and condemned and degraded and made to suffer
martyrdom in his honor as a man and as a soldier, he did not protest,
but went to prison as one of those criminals whom society gets rid of,
like noxious vermin.
"He died there of misery and of bitterness of spirit, with the name of
the fair-haired idol, for whom he had sacrificed himself, on his lips,
as if it had been an ecstatic prayer, and he entrusted his will to the
priest who administered extreme unction to him, and requested him to
give it to me. In it, without mentioning anybody, and without in the
least lifting the veil, he at last explained the enigma, and cleared
himself of those accusations, the terrible burden of which he had borne
until his last breath.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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