A True Story
A gale was blowing out of doors; the autumn wind moaned and careered round the house, one of those winds which kill the last leaves and carry them off into the clouds.
The shooting-party were finishing their dinner, still in their boots, flushed, animated, and inflamed. They were Normans, of a class between the nobles and the yeomen, half country-squires, half peasants, rich and strong, capable of breaking the horns of the bulls when they catch hold of them at fairs.
All day long they had been shooting over the land of Maître Blondel, the mayor of Éparville, and were now at their meal round the large table, in the sort of half farmhouse, half country-seat owned by their host.
They spoke as ordinary men shout, laughed like wild beasts roaring, and drank like cisterns, their legs outstretched, their elbows on the tablecloth, their eyes shining beneath the flame of the lamps, warmed by a huge fire which cast blood-coloured gleams over the ceiling; they were talking of shooting and of dogs. But they had reached the period when other ideas come into the heads of half-drunk men, and all eyes were turned on a sturdy, plump-cheeked girl who was carrying the great dishes of food in her red hands.
Suddenly a hefty fellow, named Séjour, who, after studying for the Church, had become a veterinary surgeon, and looked after all the animals in the locality, exclaimed:
“By Gad, Blundel, there’s no flies on that filly you’ve got there!”
There was a resounding laugh. Then an old nobleman, Monsieur de Vernetot, who had lost caste through taking to drink, lifted up his voice:
“Once upon a time I had a funny affair with a girl like that. I really must tell you the tale. Whenever I think of it, it reminds me of Mirza, the bitch I sold to the Comte d’Haussonnel: she returned every day as soon as she was unchained, she found it so hard to leave me. In the end I grew angry, and asked the comte to keep her chained up. Well, do you know what the poor beast did? She died of grief.
“But, to return to my maid, here’s the story.
“I was twenty-five at the time, and was living a bachelor life on my Villebon estate. When a man’s young, you know, and has money, and bores himself to tears every evening after dinner, he keeps his eyes open on every side.
“I soon discovered a young thing in service with Déboultot of Canville. You knew Déboultot, Blondel, didn’t you? In short, the hussy took my fancy to such an extent that one day I went off to see her master, and suggested a bit of business to him. He was to let me have his servant, and I was to sell him my black mare, Cocote, which he’d been wanting for close on two years. He gave me his hand, with a ‘Put it there, Monsieur de Varnetot.’ The bargain was struck, the little girl came to my house, and I myself took my mare to Canville and let her go for three hundred crowns.
“At first everything went swimmingly. No one suspected anything; the only thing was that Rose loved me a little too much for my liking. She wasn’t of the common stock, I tell you. There was no ordinary blood in her veins; it must have come from some other girl who went wrong with her master.
“In short, she adored me. It was all coaxing and billing and cooing, and calling me pet names as if I were her little dog; so many pretty loving ways that I began to think rather seriously.
“I said to myself: ‘This musn’t go on, or I’ll let myself be caught.’ But I’m not easily caught, I’m not. I’m not the sort of fellow to be wheedled with a couple of kisses. In fact, my eyes were very much open, when she told me that she was in the family way.
“Crash! Bang! It was as though someone had fired a couple of shots into my chest. And she kissed me, kissed me and laughed and danced, fairly off her head with delight! I said nothing the first day, but I reasoned it out at night. ‘Well, that’s that,’ I thought, ‘but I must avoid the worst and cut her adrift; it’s high time.’ You see, my father and mother were at Barneville, and my sister, who was the wife of the Marquis d’Yspare, at Rollebec, two leagues from Villebon. I couldn’t take any chances.
“But how was I to extricate myself? If she left the house, suspicions would be aroused, and people would talk. If I kept her, the cat would soon be out of the bag; and besides, I could not let her go like that.
“I spoke about it to my uncle, the Baron de Créteuil, an old buck who had had more than one such experience, and asked him for a word of advice. He replied calmly:
“ ‘You must get her married, my boy.’
“I jumped.
“ ‘Get her married, Uncle! But to whom?’
“He quietly shrugged his shoulders:
“ ‘Anyone you like; that’s your business, and not mine. If you’re not a fool, you can always find someone.’
“I thought over this advice for a good week, and ended by saying to myself: ‘My uncle’s quite right.’
“So I began to rack my brains and search for a man; when one evening the justice of the peace, with whom I had been dining, told me:
“ ‘Old Mother Paumelle’s son has just been up to his larks again; he’ll come to a bad end, will that boy. It’s true enough that like father like son.’
“This Mother Paumelle was a sly old thing whose own youth had left something to be desired. For a crown she would assuredly have sold her soul, and her lout of a son into the bargain.
“I went to find her, and, very carefully, I made her understand the situation.
“As I was becoming embarrassed in my explanations, she suddenly asked me:
“ ‘And what are you going to give the girl?’
“She was a cunning old thing, but I was no fool, and had made all my preparations.
“I had just three little bits of land away out near Sasseville, which were let out from my three Villebon farms. The farmers were always complaining that they were a long way off; to make a long story short, I had taken back these three fields, six acres in all, and, as my peasants were making an outcry about it, I let them all off their dues in poultry until the end of each lease. By this means I put the business through all right. Then I bought a strip of land from my neighbour, Monsieur d’Aumonté, and had a cottage built on it, all for fifteen hundred francs. In this way I made a little bit of property which did not cost me much, and I gave it to the girl as a dowry.
“The old woman protested: this was not enough; but I held to it, and we parted without settling anything.
“Early next morning the lad came to see me. I had almost forgotten what he looked like. When I saw him, I was reassured; he wasn’t so bad for a peasant; but he looked a pretty dirty scoundrel.
“He took a detached view of the affair, as though he had come to buy a cow. When we had come to terms, he wanted to see the property, and off we went across the fields. The rascal kept me out there a good three hours; he surveyed the land, measured it, and took up sods and crushed them in his hands, as though he were afraid of being cheated over the goods. The cottage was not yet roofed, and he insisted on slate instead of thatch, because it required less upkeep!
“Then he said to me:
“ ‘But what about the furniture? You’re giving that!’
“ ‘Certainly not,’ I protested; ‘it’s very good of me to give you the farm.’
“ ‘Not half,’ he sniggered; ‘a farm and a baby.’
“I blushed in spite of myself.
“ ‘Come,’ he continued, ‘you’ll give the bed, a table, the dresser, three chairs, and the crockery, or there’s nothing doing.’
“I consented.
“And back we went. He had not yet said a word about the girl. But suddenly he asked, with a cunning, worried air:
“ ‘But if she died, who would the stuff go to?’
“ ‘Why, to you, of course,’ I replied.
“That was all he had wanted to find out that morning. He promptly offered me his hand with a gesture of satisfaction. We were agreed.
“But, oh! I had some trouble to convince Rose, I can tell you. She grovelled at my feet, sobbed and repeated: ‘It’s you who suggest this, you! you!’ She held out for more than a week, in spite of my reasoning and my entreaties. Women are silly things; once love gets into their heads, they can’t understand anything. Common sense means nothing to them: love before all, all for love!
“At last I grew angry and threatened to turn her out. At that she gradually yielded, on condition that I allowed her to come and see me from time to time.
“I myself led her to the altar, paid for the ceremony, and gave the wedding breakfast. I did the thing in style. Then it was: ‘Good night, children!’ I went and spent six months with my brother in Touraine.
“When I returned, I learnt that she had come to the house every week and asked for me. I hadn’t been back an hour when I saw her coming with a brat in her arms. Believe me or not, as you like, but it meant something to me to see that little mite. I believe I even kissed it.
“As for the mother, she was a ruin, a skeleton, a shadow. Thin, and grown old. By God, marriage didn’t suit her!
“ ‘Are you happy?’ I inquired mechanically.
“At that she began to cry like a fountain, hiccuping and sobbing, and exclaimed:
“ ‘I can’t, I can’t do without you, now! I’d rather die! I can’t!’
“She made the devil of a noise. I consoled her as best I could, and led her back to the gate.
“I found out that her husband beat her, and that the old harpy of a mother-in-law made life hard for her.
“Two days later she came back again; she took me in her arms and grovelled on the ground.
“ ‘Kill me, but I won’t go back there any more,’ she implored. Exactly what Mirza would have said if she had spoken!
“All this fuss was beginning to get on my nerves, and I cleared out for another six months. When I returned … when I returned, I learnt that she had died three weeks before, after having come back to the house every Sunday … still just like Mirza. The child too had died eight days later.
“As for the husband, the cunning rascal, he came into the inheritance. He’s done well for himself since, so it seems; he’s a town councillor now.”
Then Monsieur de Varnetot added with a laugh:
“Anyhow, I made his fortune for him.”
And Monsieur Séjour, the veterinary surgeon, raising a glass of brandy to his lips, gravely concluded the story with:
“Say what you like, but there’s no place in this world for that sort of woman!”