The Complete Works: Short Stories, Novels, Plays, Poetry, Memoirs and more. Guy de MaupassantЧитать онлайн книгу.
of the Bois de Boulogne. It was a breezeless night, one of those stifling nights when the overheated air of Paris fills the chest like the breath of a furnace. A host of carriages bore along beneath the trees a whole population of lovers. They came one behind the other in an unbroken line. George and Madeleine amused themselves with watching all these couples, the woman in summer toilet and the man darkly outlined beside her. It was a huge flood of lovers towards the Bois, beneath the starry and heated sky. No sound was heard save the dull rumble of wheels. They kept passing by, two by two in each vehicle, leaning back on the seat, silent, clasped one against the other, lost in dreams of desire, quivering with the anticipation of coming caresses. The warm shadow seemed full of kisses. A sense of spreading lust rendered the air heavier and more suffocating. All the couples, intoxicated with the same idea, the same ardor, shed a fever about them.
George and Madeleine felt the contagion. They clasped hands without a word, oppressed by the heaviness of the atmosphere and the emotion that assailed them. As they reached the turning which follows the line of the fortification, they kissed one another, and she stammered somewhat confusedly, “We are as great babies as on the way to Rouen.”
The great flood of vehicles divided at the entrance of the wood. On the road to the lake, which the young couple were following, they were now thinner, but the dark shadow of the trees, the air freshened by the leaves and by the dampness arising from the streamlets that could be heard flowing beneath them, and the coolness of the vast nocturnal vault bedecked with stars, gave to the kisses of the perambulating pairs a more penetrating charm.
George murmured, “Dear little Made,” as he pressed her to him.
“Do you remember the forest close to your home, how gloomy it was?” said she. “It seemed to me that it was full of horrible creatures, and that there was no end to it, while here it is delightful. One feels caresses in the breeze, and I know that Sevres lies on the other side of the wood.”
He replied, “Oh! in the forest at home there was nothing but deer, foxes, and wild boars, and here and there the hut of a forester.”
This word, akin to the dead man’s name, issuing from his mouth, surprised him just as if some one had shouted it out to him from the depths of a thicket, and he became suddenly silent, assailed anew by the strange and persistent uneasiness, and gnawing, invincible, jealous irritation that had been spoiling his existence for some time past. After a minute or so, he asked: “Did you ever come here like this of an evening with Charles?”
“Yes, often,” she answered.
And all of a sudden he was seized with a wish to return home, a nervous desire that gripped him at the heart. But the image of Forestier had returned to his mind and possessed and laid hold of him. He could no longer speak or think of anything else and said in a spiteful tone, “I say, Made?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Did you ever cuckold poor Charles?”
She murmured disdainfully, “How stupid you are with your stock joke.”
But he would not abandon the idea.
“Come, Made, dear, be frank and acknowledge it. You cuckolded him, eh? Come, admit that you cuckolded him?”
She was silent, shocked as all women are by this expression.
He went on obstinately, “Hang it all, if ever anyone had the head for a cuckold it was he. Oh! yes. It would please me to know that he was one. What a fine head for horns.” He felt that she was smiling at some recollection, perhaps, and persisted, saying, “Come out with it. What does it matter? It would be very comical to admit that you had deceived him, to me.”
He was indeed quivering with hope and desire that Charles, the hateful Charles, the detested dead, had borne this shameful ridicule. And yet — yet — another emotion, less definite. “My dear little Made, tell me, I beg of you. He deserved it. You would have been wrong not to have given him a pair of horns. Come, Made, confess.”
She now, no doubt, found this persistence amusing, for she was laughing a series of short, jerky laughs.
He had put his lips close to his wife’s ear and whispered: “Come, come, confess.”
She jerked herself away, and said, abruptly: “You are crazy. As if one answered such questions.”
She said this in so singular a tone that a cold shiver ran through her husband’s veins, and he remained dumbfounded, scared, almost breathless, as though from some mental shock.
The carriage was now passing along the lake, on which the sky seemed to have scattered its stars. Two swans, vaguely outlined, were swimming slowly, scarcely visible in the shadow. George called out to the driver: “Turn back!” and the carriage returned, meeting the others going at a walk, with their lanterns gleaming like eyes in the night.
What a strange manner in which she had said it. Was it a confession? Du Roy kept asking himself. And the almost certainty that she had deceived her first husband now drove him wild with rage. He longed to beat her, to strangle her, to tear her hair out. Oh, if she had only replied: “But darling, if I had deceived him, it would have been with yourself,” how he would have kissed, clasped, worshiped her.
He sat still, his arms crossed, his eyes turned skyward, his mind too agitated to think as yet. He only felt within him the rancor fermenting and the anger swelling which lurk at the heart of all mankind in presence of the caprices of feminine desire. He felt for the first time that vague anguish of the husband who suspects. He was jealous at last, jealous on behalf of the dead, jealous on Forestier’s account, jealous in a strange and poignant fashion, into which there suddenly entered a hatred of Madeleine. Since she had deceived the other, how could he have confidence in her himself? Then by degrees his mind became calmer, and bearing up against his pain, he thought: “All women are prostitutes. We must make use of them, and not give them anything of ourselves.” The bitterness in his heart rose to his lips in words of contempt and disgust. He repeated to himself: “The victory in this world is to the strong. One must be strong. One must be above all prejudices.”
The carriage was going faster. It repassed the fortifications. Du Roy saw before him a reddish light in the sky like the glow of an immense forge, and heard a vast, confused, continuous rumor, made up of countless different sounds, the breath of Paris panting this summer night like an exhausted giant.
George reflected: “I should be very stupid to fret about it. Everyone for himself. Fortune favors the bold. Egotism is everything. Egotism as regards ambition and fortune is better than egotism as regards woman and love.”
The Arc de Triomphe appeared at the entrance to the city on its two tall supports like a species of shapeless giant ready to start off and march down the broad avenue open before him. George and Madeleine found themselves once more in the stream of carriages bearing homeward and bedwards the same silent and interlaced couples. It seemed that the whole of humanity was passing by intoxicated with joy, pleasure, and happiness. The young wife, who had divined something of what was passing through her husband’s mind, said, in her soft voice: “What are you thinking of, dear? You have not said a word for the last half hour.”
He answered, sneeringly: “I was thinking of all these fools cuddling one another, and saying to myself that there is something else to do in life.”
She murmured: “Yes, but it is nice sometimes.”
“It is nice — when one has nothing better to do.”
George’s thoughts were still hard at it, stripping life of its poesy in a kind of spiteful anger. “I should be very foolish to trouble myself, to deprive myself of anything whatever, to worry as I have done for some time past.” Forestier’s image crossed his mind without causing any irritation. It seemed to him that they had just been reconciled, that they had become friends again. He wanted to cry out: “Good evening, old fellow.”
Madeleine, to whom this silence was irksome, said: “Suppose we have an ice at Tortoni’s before we go in.”
He glanced at