The Complete Works: Short Stories, Novels, Plays, Poetry, Memoirs and more. Guy de MaupassantЧитать онлайн книгу.
like herself, pervaded by a sort of intoxication of love? Or else, did he know by experience, alone, that no woman could resist him? She suddenly noticed that he was squeezing her hand, gently at first, and then tighter, tighter, till he almost crushed it. And without moving a muscle of his face, without anyone perceiving it, he said — yes, he certainly said:
“Oh, Jeanne, if you would consent, this would be our betrothal.”
She lowered her head very slowly, perhaps meaning it for “yes.” And the priest, who was still sprinkling the holy water, sprinkled some on their fingers.
The ceremony was over. The women rose. The return was unceremonious. The crucifix had lost its dignity in the hands of the acolyte, who walked rapidly, the crucifix swaying to right and left, or bending forward as though it would fall. The priest, who was not praying now, walked hurriedly behind them; the cantors and the musician with the “serpent” had disappeared by a narrow street, so as to get off their surplices without delay; and the sailors hurried along in groups. One thought prompted their haste, and made their mouths water.
A good breakfast was awaiting them at “The Poplars.”
The large table was set in the courtyard, under the apple trees.
Sixty people sat down to table, sailors and peasants. The baroness in the middle, with a priest at either side of her, one from Yport, and the other belonging to “The Poplars.” The baron seated opposite her on the other side of the table, the mayor on one side of him, and his wife, a thin peasant woman, already aging, who kept smiling and bowing to all around her, on the other.
Jeanne, seated beside her co-sponsor, was in a sea of happiness. She saw nothing, knew nothing, and remained silent, her mind bewildered with joy. Presently she said:
“What is your Christian name?”
“Julien,” he replied. “Did you not know?”
But she made no reply, thinking to herself:
“How often I shall repeat that name!”
When the feast was over, the courtyard was given up to the sailors, and the others went over to the other side of the château. The baroness began to take her exercise, leaning on the arm of the baron and accompanied by the two priests. Jeanne and Julien went toward the wood and walked along one of the mossy paths. Suddenly seizing her hands, the vicomte said:
“Tell me, will you be my wife?”
She lowered her head, and as he stammered: “Answer me, I implore you!” she raised her eyes to his timidly, and he read his answer there.
French
IV
The baron, one morning, entered Jeanne’s room before she was up, and sitting down at the foot of her bed, said:
“M. le Vicomte de Lamare has asked us for your hand in marriage.”
She wanted to hide her face under the sheets.
Her father continued:
“We have postponed our answer for the present.”
She gasped, choking with emotion. At the end of a minute the baron, smiling, added:
“We did not wish to do anything without consulting you. Your mother and I are not opposed to this marriage, but we would not seek to influence you. You are much richer than he is; but, when it is a question of the happiness of a life, one should not think too much about money. He has no relations left. If you marry him, then, it would be as if a son should come into our family; if it were anyone else, it would be you, our daughter, who would go among strangers. The young fellow pleases us. Would he please you?”
She stammered, blushing up to the roots of her hair:
“I am willing, papa.”
And the father, looking into her eyes and still smiling, murmured:
“I half suspected it, young lady.”
She lived till evening in a condition of exhilaration, not knowing what she was doing, mechanically thinking of one thing by mistake for another, and with a feeling of weariness, although she had not walked at all.
Toward six o’clock, as she was sitting with her mother under the plane tree, the vicomte appeared.
Jeanne’s heart began to throb wildly. The young man approached them apparently without any emotion. When he was close beside them, he took the baroness’ hand and kissed her fingers, then raising to his lips the trembling hand of the young girl, he imprinted upon it a long, tender and grateful kiss.
And the radiant season of betrothal commenced. They would chat together alone in the corner of the parlor, or else seated on the moss at the end of the wood overlooking the plain. Sometimes they walked in Little Mother’s Avenue; he, talking of the future, she, with her eyes cast down, looking at the dusty footprints of the baroness.
Once the matter was decided, they desired to waste no time in preliminaries. It was, therefore, decided that the ceremony should take place in six weeks, on the fifteenth of August; and that the bride and groom should set out immediately on their wedding journey. Jeanne, on being consulted as to which country she would like to visit, decided on Corsica where they could be more alone than in the cities of Italy.
They awaited the moment appointed for their marriage without too great impatience, but enfolded, lost in a delicious affection, expressed in the exquisite charm of insignificant caresses, pressure of hands, long passionate glances in which their souls seemed to blend; and, vaguely tortured by an uncertain longing for they knew not what.
They decided to invite no one to the wedding except Aunt Lison, the baron’s sister, who boarded in a convent at Versailles. After the death of their father, the baroness wished to keep her sister with her. But the old maid, possessed by the idea that she was in every one’s way, was useless, and a nuisance, retired into one of those religious houses that rent apartments to people that live a sad and lonely existence. She came from time to time to pass a month or two with her family.
She was a little woman of few words, who always kept in the background, appeared only at mealtimes, and then retired to her room where she remained shut in.
She looked like a kind old lady, though she was only forty-two, and had a sad, gentle expression. She was never made much of by her family as a child, being neither pretty nor boisterous, she was never petted, and she would stay quietly and gently in a corner. She had been neglected ever since. As a young girl nobody paid any attention to her. She was something like a shadow, or a familiar object, a living piece of furniture that one is accustomed to see every day, but about which one does not trouble oneself.
Her sister, from long habit, looked upon her as a failure, an altogether insignificant being. They treated her with careless familiarity which concealed a sort of contemptuous kindness. She called herself Lise, and seemed embarrassed at this frivolous youthful name. When they saw that she probably would not marry, they changed it from Lise to Lison, and since Jeanne’s birth, she had become “Aunt Lison,” a poor relation, very neat, frightfully timid, even with her sister and her brother-in-law, who loved her, but with an uncertain affection verging on indifference, with an unconscious compassion and a natural benevolence.
Sometimes, when the baroness talked of far away things that happened in her youth, she would say, in order to fix a date: “It was the time that Lison had that attack.”
They never said more than that; and this “attack” remained shrouded, as in a mist.
One evening, Lise, who was then twenty, had thrown herself into the water, no one knew why. Nothing in her life, her manner, gave any intimation of this seizure. They fished her out half dead, and her parents, raising their hands in horror, instead of seeking