THE COLLECTED NOVELS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT. Guy de MaupassantЧитать онлайн книгу.
I mean Ganache.”
They rose from table and went into the drawingroom, and then outside to mix with the merrymakers. The guests soon left.
They went into the house. They were surprised to see Madame Adelaide sobbing on Julien’s shoulder. Her tears, noisy tears, as if blown out by a pair of bellows, seemed to come from her nose, her mouth and her eyes at the same time; and the young man, dumfounded, awkward, was supporting the heavy woman who had sunk into his arms to commend to his care her darling, her little one, her adored daughter.
The baron rushed toward them, saying: “Oh, no scenes, no tears, I beg of you,” and, taking his wife to a chair, he made her sit down, while she wiped away her tears. Then, turning to Jeanne: “Come, little one, kiss your mother and go to bed.”
What happened then? She could hardly have told, for she seemed to have lost her head, but she felt a shower of little grateful kisses on her lips.
Day dawned. Julien awoke, yawned, stretched, looked at his wife, smiled and asked: “Did you sleep well, darling?”
She noticed that he now said “thou,” and she replied, bewildered, “Why, yes. And you?” “Oh, very well,” he answered. And turning toward her, he kissed her and then began to chat quietly. He set before her plans of living, with the idea of economy, and this word occurring several times, astonished Jeanne. She listened without grasping the meaning of his words, looked at him, but was thinking of a thousand things that passed rapidly through her mind hardly leaving a trace.
The clock struck eight. “Come, we must get up,” he said. “It would look ridiculous for us to be late.” When he was dressed he assisted his wife with all the little details of her toilet, not allowing her to call Rosalie. As they left the room he stopped. “You know, when we are alone, we can now use ‘thou,’ but before your parents it is better to wait a while. It will be quite natural when we come back from our wedding journey.”
She did not go down till luncheon was ready. The day passed like any ordinary day, as if nothing new had occurred. There was one man more in the house, that was all.
V
Four days later the travelling carriage arrived that was to take them to Marseilles.
After the first night Jeanne had become accustomed to Julien’s kisses and caresses, although her repugnance to a closer intimacy had not diminished. She thought him handsome, she loved him. She again felt happy and cheerful.
The farewells were short and without sadness. The baroness alone seemed tearful. As the carriage was just starting she placed a purse, heavy as lead, in her daughter’s hand, saying, “That is for your little expenses as a bride.”
Jeanne thrust the purse in her pocket and the carriage started.
Toward evening Julien said: “How much money did your mother give you in that purse?”
She had not given it a thought, and she poured out the contents on her knees. A golden shower filled her lap: two thousand francs. She clapped her hands. “I shall commit all kinds of extravagance,” she said as she replaced it in the purse.
After travelling eight days in terribly hot weather they reached Marseilles. The following day the Roi-Louis, a little mail steamer which went to Naples by way of Ajaccio, took them to Corsica.
Corsica! Its “maquis,” its bandits, its mountains! The birthplace of Napoleon! It seemed to Jeanne that she was leaving real life to enter into a dream, although wide awake. Standing side by side on the bridge of the steamer, they looked at the cliffs of Provence as they passed swiftly by them. The calm sea of deep blue seemed petrified beneath the ardent rays of the sun.
“Do you remember our excursion in Père Lastique’s boat?” said Jeanne.
Instead of replying, he gave her a hasty kiss on the ear.
The paddle-wheels struck the water, disturbing its torpor, and a long track of foam like the froth of champagne remained in the wake of the boat, reaching as far as the eye could see. Jeanne drank in with delight the odor of the salt mist that seemed to go to the very tips of her fingers. Everywhere the sea. But ahead of them there was something gray, not clearly defined in the early dawn; a sort of massing of strange-looking clouds, pointed, jagged, seemed to rest on the waters.
Presently it became clearer, its outline more distinct on the brightening sky; a large chain of mountains, peaked and weird, appeared. It was Corsica, covered with a light veil of mist. The sun rose behind it, outlining the jagged crests like black shadows. Then all the summits were bathed in light, while the rest of the island remained covered with mist.
The captain, a little sun-browned man, dried up, stunted, toughened and shrivelled by the harsh salt winds, appeared on the bridge and in a voice hoarse after twenty years of command and worn from shouting amid the storms, said to Jeanne:
“Do you perceive it, that odor?”
She certainly noticed a strong and peculiar odor of plants, a wild aromatic odor.
“That is Corsica that sends out that fragrance, madame,” said the captain. “It is her peculiar odor of a pretty woman. After being away for twenty years, I should recognize it five miles out at sea. I belong to it. He, down there, at Saint Helena, he speaks of it always, it seems, of the odor of his native country. He belongs to my family.”
And the captain, taking off his hat, saluted Corsica, saluted down yonder, across the ocean, the great captive emperor who belonged to his family.
Jeanne was so affected that she almost cried.
Then, pointing toward the horizon, the captain said: “Les Sanguinaires.”
Julien was standing beside his wife, with his arm round her waist, and they both looked out into the distance to see what he was alluding to. They at length perceived some pyramidal rocks which the vessel rounded presently to enter an immense peaceful gulf surrounded by lofty summits, the base of which was covered with what looked like moss.
Pointing to this verdant growth, the captain said: “Le maquis.”
As they proceeded on their course the circle of mountains appeared to close in behind the steamer, which moved along slowly in such a lake of transparent azure that one could sometimes see to the bottom.
The town suddenly appeared perfectly white at the end of the gulf, on the edge of the water, at the base of the mountains. Some little Italian boats were anchored in the dock. Four or five rowboats came up beside the Roi-Louis to get passengers.
Julien, who was collecting the baggage, asked his wife in a low tone: “Twenty sous is enough, is it not, to give to the porter?” For a week he had constantly asked the same question, which annoyed her each time. She replied somewhat impatiently: “When one is not sure of giving enough, one gives too much.”
He was always disputing with the hotel proprietors, with the servants, the drivers, the vendors of all kinds, and when, by dint of bargaining, he had obtained a reduction in price, he would say to Jeanne as he rubbed his hands: “I do not like to be cheated.”
She trembled whenever a bill came in, certain beforehand of the remarks that he would make about each item, humiliated at this bargaining, blushing up to the roots of her hair beneath the contemptuous glances of the servants as they looked after her husband, while they held in their hand the meagre tip.
He had a dispute with the boatmen who landed him.
The first tree Jeanne saw was a palm. They went to a great, empty hotel at the corner of an immense square and ordered breakfast.
After an hour’s rest they arranged an itinerary for their trip, and at the end of three days spent in this little town, hidden at the end of the blue gulf, and hot as a furnace enclosed in its curtain of mountains, which keep every breath of air from it, they decided to hire some saddle horses, so as to be able to cross any