The Complete Works: Short Stories, Novels, Plays, Poetry, Memoirs and more. Guy de MaupassantЧитать онлайн книгу.
a little while.”
As on the previous day, William carried the child to her, tenderly embracing it as he did so, and placed it upon the pillow. And, as on the previous day, too, when she felt close to her cheek, through the wrappings, the heat of this little stranger’s body, imprisoned in linen, she was suddenly penetrated with a grateful sense of peace.
Then, all at once, the baby began to cry, screaming out in a shrill and piercing voice. “She wants nursing,” said Andermatt.
He rang, and the wet-nurse appeared, a big red woman, with a mouth like an ogress, full of large, shining teeth, which almost terrified Christiane. And from the open body of her dress she drew forth a breast, soft and heavy with milk. And when Christiane beheld her daughter drinking, she felt a longing to snatch away and take back the baby, moved by a certain sense of jealousy. Madame Honorat now gave directions to the wet-nurse, who went off, carrying the baby in her arms. Andermatt, in his turn, went out, and the two women were left alone together.
Christiane did not know how to speak of what tortured her soul, trembling lest she might give way to too much emotion, lose her head, burst into tears, and betray herself. But Madame Honorat began to babble of her own accord, without having been asked a single question. When she had related all the scandalous stories that were circulating through the neighborhood, she came to the Oriol family: “They are good people,” said she, “very good people. If you had known the mother, what a worthy, brave woman she was! She was worth ten women, Madame. The girls take after her, for that matter.” Then, as she was passing on to another topic, Christiane asked: “Which of the two do you prefer, Louise or Charlotte?”
“Oh! for my own part, Madame. I prefer Louise, your brother’s intended wife; she is more sensible, more steady. She is a woman of order. But my husband likes the other better. Men you know, have tastes different from ours.”
She ceased speaking. Christiane, whose strength was giving way, faltered: “My brother has often met his betrothed at your house.”
“Oh! yes, Madame — I believe really every day. Everything was brought about at my house, everything! As for me, 1 let them talk, these young people, I understood the thing thoroughly. But what truly gave me pleasure was when I saw that M. Paul was getting smitten by the younger one.”
Then, Christiane, in an almost inaudible voice: “Is he deeply in love with her?”
“Ah! Madame, is he in love with her? He had lost his head about her some time since. And then, when the Italian — he who ran off with Doctor Cloche’s daughter — kept hanging about the girl a little, it was something worth seeing and watching —
I thought they were going to fight! Ah! if you had seen M. Paul’s eyes. And he looked upon her as if she were a holy Virgin, nothing less — it’s a pleasant thing to see people so much in love as that!”
Thereupon, Christiane asked her about all that had taken place in her presence, about all they had said, about all they had done, about their promenades in the glen of Sans-Souci, where he had so often told her of his love for her. She put unexpected questions, which astonished the fat lady, about matters that nobody would have dreamed of, for she was constantly making comparisons; she recalled a thousand details of what had occurred the year before, all Paul’s delicate gallantries, his thoughtfulness about her, his ingenious devices to please her, all that display of charming attentions and tender anxieties which on the part of a man show an imperious desire to win a woman’s affections; and she wanted to find out whether he had manifested the same affectionate interest toward the other, whether he had commenced afresh this siege of a soul with the same ardor, with the same enthusiasm, with the same irresistible passion.
And every time she recognized a little circumstance, a little trait, one of those nothings which cause such exquisite bliss, one of those disquieting surprises which cause the heart to beat fast, and of which Paul was so prodigal when he loved, Christiane, as she lay prostrate in the bed, gave utterance to a little “Ah!” expressive of keen suffering.
Amazed at this strange exclamation, Madame Honorat declared more emphatically: “Why, yes. ’Tis as I tell you, exactly as I tell you. I never saw a man so much in love!”
“Has he recited verses to her?”
“I believe so indeed, Madame, and very pretty ones, too!”
And, when they had relapsed into silence, nothing more could be heard save the monotonous and soothing song of the nurse as she rocked the baby to sleep in the adjoining room.
Steps were drawing near in the corridor outside. Doctors Mas-Roussel and Latonne had come to visit their patient. They found her agitated, not quite so well as she had been on the previous day.
When they had left, Andermatt opened the door again, and without coming in: “Doctor Black would like to see you. Will you see him?”
She exclaimed, as she raised herself up in the bed: “No — no — I will not — no!”
William came over to her, looking quite astounded: “But listen to me now — it would only be right — it is his due — you ought to!”
She looked, with her wide-open eyes and quivering lips, as if she had lost her reason. She kept repeating in a piercing voice, so loud that it must have penetrated through the walls: “No! — no! — never!” And then, no longer knowing what she said, and pointing with outstretched arm toward Madame Honorat, who was standing in the center of the apartment:
“I do not want her either! — send her away! — 1 don’t want to see her! — send her away!”
Then he rushed to his wife’s side, took her in his arms, and kissed her on the forehead: “My little Christiane, be calm! What is the matter with you?
—— come now, be calm!”
She had by this time lost the power of raising her voice. The tears gushed from her eyes.
“Send them all away,” said she, “and remain alone with me!”
He went across, in a distracted frame of mind, to the doctor’s wife, and gently pushing her toward the door: “Leave us for a few minutes, pray. It is the fever — the milk-fever. I will calm her. I will look for you again by and by.”
When he came back to the bedside Christiane was lying down, weeping quietly, without moving in any way, quite prostrated.
And then, for the first time in his life, he, too, began to weep.
In fact, the milk-fever had broken out during the night, and delirium supervened. After some hours of extreme excitement, the recently delivered woman suddenly began to speak.
The Marquis and Andermatt, who had resolved to remain near her, and who passed the time playing cards, counting the tricks in hushed tones, imagined that she was calling them, and, rising up, approached the bed. She did not see them; she did not recognize them. Intensely pale, on her white pillow, with her fair tresses hanging loose over her shoulders, she was gazing, with her clear blue eyes, into that unknown, mysterious, and fantastic world, in which dwell the insane.
Her hands, stretched over the bedclothes, stirred now and then, agitated by rapid and involuntary movements, tremblings, and starts.
She did not, at first, appear to be talking to anyone, but to be seeing things and telling what she saw. And the things she said seemed disconnected, incomprehensible. She found a rock too high to jump off. She was afraid of a sprain, and then she was not on intimate terms enough with the man who reached out his arms toward her. Then she spoke about perfumes. She was apparently trying to remember some forgotten phrases. “What can be sweeter? This intoxicates one like wine — wine intoxicates the mind, but perfume intoxicates the imagination. With perfume you taste the very essence, the pure essence of things and of the universe — you taste the flowers — the trees — the grass of the fields —— you can even distinguish the soul of the dwellings of olden days which sleeps in the old furniture, the old carpets, and the old curtains.” Then her face contracted as if she had undergone a long spell