Guy de Maupassant - The Works of Guy de Maupassant, Volume II (of 8)

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THE WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT

VOLUME II

Monsieur Parent and Other Stories

Copyright, 1909, by
Bigelow, Smith & Co.

CONTENTS

MONSIEUR PARENT

THE FATHER

A VAGABOND

USELESS BEAUTY

FLY

THE MAD WOMAN

THAT PIG OF A MORIN

THE WOODEN SHOES

A NORMANDY JOKE

A COCK CROWED

JULOT'S OPINION

MADEMOISELLE

THE MOUNTEBANKS

THE SEQUEL TO A DIVORCE

THE MAN WITH THE DOGS

THE CLOWN

BABETTE

SYMPATHY

THE DEBT

AN ARTIST

MADEMOISELLE FIFI

THE STORY OF A FARM GIRL

MAMMA STIRLING

LILIE LALA

MADAME TELLIER'S ESTABLISHMENT

THE BANDMASTER'S SISTER

FALSE ALARM

WIFE AND MISTRESS

MAD

AN UNFORTUNATE LIKENESS

THE NEW SENSATION

MONSIEUR PARENT

I

Little George was making hills of sand in one of the walks; he took it
up with both his hands, made it into a pyramid, and then put a chestnut
leaf on the top, and his father, sitting on an iron chair was looking at
him with concentrated and affectionate attention, and saw nobody but him
in that small public garden which was full of people. All along the
circular road other children were occupied in the same manner, or else
were indulging in childish games, while nursemaids were walking two and
two, with their bright cap ribbons floating behind them, and carrying
something wrapped up in lace, on their arms, and little girls in short
petticoats and bare legs were talking seriously together, during the
intervals of trundling their hoops.

The sun was just disappearing behind the roofs of the _Rue
Saint-Lazare_, but still shed its rays obliquely on that little
over-dressed crowd. The chestnut trees were lighted up with its yellow
rays, and the three fountains before the lofty porch of the church, had
the appearance of liquid silver.

Monsieur Parent looked at his son sitting in the dusk, he followed his
slightest movements with affection, but accidentally looking up at the
church clock, he saw that he was five minutes late, so he got up, took
the child by the arm and shook his dress which was covered with sand,
wiped his hands and led him in the direction of the _Rue Blanche_, and
he walked quickly, so as not to get in after his wife, but as the child
could not keep up with him, he took him up and carried him, though it
made him pant when he had to walk up the steep street. He was a man of
forty, turning gray already, rather stout, and had married, a few years
previously, a young woman whom he dearly loved, but who now treated him
with the severity and authority of an all-powerful despot. She found
fault with him continually for everything that he did, or did not do,
reproached him bitterly for his slightest acts, his habits, his simple
pleasures, his tastes, his movements and walk, and for having a round
stomach and a placid voice.

He still loved her, however, but above all he loved the child which he
had had by her, and George, who was now three, had become the greatest
joy, and had preoccupation of his heart. He himself had a modest private
fortune, and lived without doing anything on his twenty thousand francs
a year, and his wife, who had been quite portionless, was constantly
angry at her husband's inactivity.

At last he reached his house, put down the child, wiped his forehead and
walked upstairs, and when he got to the second floor, he rang. An old
servant who had brought him up, one of those mistress-servants who are
the tyrants of families, opened the door to him, and he asked her
anxiously: "Has Madame come in yet?" The servant shrugged her shoulders:
"When have you ever known Madame to come home at half past six,
Monsieur?" And he replied with some embarrassment: "Very well; all the
better; it will give me time to change my things, for I am very hot."

The servant looked at him with angry and contemptuous pity, and
grumbled: "Oh! I can see that well enough, you are covered with
perspiration, Monsieur. I suppose you walked quickly and carried the
child, and only to have to wait until half past seven, perhaps, for
Madame. I have made up my mind not to have it ready at the time. Shall
get it for eight o'clock, and if you have to wait, I cannot help it;
roast meat ought not to be burnt!" Monsieur Parent, however, pretended
not to hear, but only said: "All right! all right. You must wash
George's hands, for he has been making sand pits. I will go and change
my clothes; tell the maid to give the child a good washing."

And he went into his own room, and as soon as he got in he locked the
door, so as to be alone, quite alone. He was so used now to being abused
and badly treated, that he never thought himself safe, except when he
was locked in. He no longer ventured even to think, reflect and reason
with himself, unless he had guarded himself against her looks and
insinuations, by locking himself in. Having thrown himself into a chair,
in order to rest for a few minutes before he put on clean linen, he
remembered that Julie was beginning to be a fresh danger in the house.
She hated his wife, that was quite plain, but she hated his friend Paul
Limousin still more, who had continued to be the familiar and intimate
friend of the house, after having been the inseparable companion of his
bachelor days, which is very rare. It was Limousin who acted as a buffer
between his wife and himself, and who defended him ardently, and even
severely, against her undeserved reproaches, against crying scenes, and
against all the daily miseries of his existence.

But now for six months, Julie had constantly been saying things against
her mistress, and repeated twenty times a day: "If I were you, Monsieur,
I should not allow myself to be led by the nose like that. Well, well...
There, ... everyone according to his nature." And one day, she had even
ventured to be insolent to Henriette, who, however, merely said to her
husband, at night: "You know, the next time she speaks to me like that,
I shall turn her out of doors." But she, who feared nothing; seemed to
be afraid of the old servant, and Parent attributed her mildness to her
consideration for the old domestic who had brought him up, and who had
closed his mother's eyes. Now, however, it was finished, matters could
not go on like that much longer, and he was frightened at the idea of
what was going to happen. What could he do? To get rid of Julie seemed
to him to be such a formidable thing to do, that he hardly ventured to
think of it, but it was just as impossible to uphold her against his
wife, and before another month now, the situation would become
unbearable between the two. He remained sitting there, with his arms
hanging down, vaguely trying to discover some means to set matters
straight, but without success, and he said to himself: "It is only lucky
that I have George ... without him I should be very miserable."

Then he thought he would consult Limousin, but the recollection of the
hatred that existed between his friend and the servant made him fear
lest the former should advise him to turn her away, and again he was
lost in doubts and unhappy uncertainty. Just then the clock struck
seven, and he started up. Seven o'clock, and he had not even changed his
clothes yet! Then nervous and breathless, he undressed, put on a clean
shirt, and hastily finished his toilet, as if he had been expected in
the next room for some event of extreme importance, went into the
drawing-room, happy at having nothing to fear. He glanced at the
newspaper, went and looked out of the window, and then sat down on the
sofa again, when the door opened, and the boy came in, washed, brushed
and smiling, and Parent took him up in his arms and kissed him
passionately; then he tossed him into the air, and held him up to the
ceiling, but soon sat down again, as he was tired with all his efforts,
and taking George onto his knee, he made him ride a cock-horse, and the
child laughed and clapped his hands, and shouted with pleasure, as his
father did also, for he laughed until his big stomach shook, for it
amused him almost more than it did the child.

He loved him with all the heart of a weak, resigned, ill-used man. He
loved with mad bursts of affection, with caresses and with all the
bashful tenderness which was hidden in him, and which had never found an
outlet, even at the early period of his married life, for his wife had
always shown herself cold and reserved. Just then, however, Julie came
to the door, with a pale face and glistening eyes, and she said in a
voice which trembled with exasperation: "It is half past seven,
Monsieur." Parent gave an uneasy and resigned look at the clock and
replied: "Yes, it certainly is half past seven." "Well, my dinner is
quite ready, now."

Seeing the storm which was coming, he tried to turn it aside. "But did
you not tell me when I came in that it would not be ready before eight?"
"Eight! what are you thinking about? You surely do not mean to let the
child dine at eight o'clock? It would ruin his stomach. Just suppose
that he only had his mother to look after him! She cares a great deal
about her child. Oh! yes, we will speak about her; she is a mother. What
a pity it is that there should be any mothers like her!"

Parent thought it was time to cut short a threatened scene, and so he
said: "Julie, I will not allow you to speak like that of your mistress.
You understand me, do you not? Do not forget it for the future."

The old servant, who was nearly choked with surprise, turned round and
went out, slamming the door so violently after her, that the lusters on
the chandelier rattled, and for some seconds it sounded as if a number
of little invisible bells were ringing in the drawing room.

George who was surprised at first, began to clap his hands merrily, and
blowing out his cheeks, he gave a great _boum_ with all the strength of
his lungs, to imitate the noise of the door banging. Then his father
began to tell him stories, but his mind was so preoccupied that he every
moment lost the thread of his story, and the child, who could not
understand him, opened his eyes wide, in astonishment.

Parent never took his eyes off the clock; he thought he could see the
hands move, and he would have liked to have stopped them, until his
wife's return. He was not vexed with her for being late, but he was
frightened, frightened of her and of Julie, frightened at the thought of
all that might happen. Ten minutes more, would suffice to bring about an
irreparable catastrophe, explanations and acts of violence that he did
not dare to picture to himself. The mere idea of a quarrel, of their
loud voices, of insults flying through the air like bullets, the two
women standing face to face, looking at each other and flinging abuse at
one another, made his heart beat, and his tongue as parched as if he had
been walking in the sun, and made him as limp as a rag, so limp that he
no longer had the strength to lift up the child, and to dance him on his
knee.

Eight o'clock struck, the door opened once more and Julie came in again.
She had lost her look of exasperation, but now she put on an air of cold
and determined resolution, which was still more formidable. "Monsieur,"
she said, "I served your mother until the day of her death, and I have
attended to you from your birth until now, and I think it may be said
that I am devoted to the family." She waited for a reply, and Parent
stammered: "Why yes, certainly, my good Julie." She continued: "You know
quite well that I have never done anything for the sake of money, but
always for your sake; that I have never deceived you nor lied to you,
that you have never had to find fault with me..." "Certainly, my good
Julie." "Very well, then, Monsieur, it cannot go on any longer like
this. I have said nothing, and left you in your ignorance, out of
respect and liking for you, but it is too much, and everyone in the
neighborhood is laughing at you. Everybody knows about it, and so I must
tell you also, although I do not like to repeat it. The reason why
Madame comes in at any time she chooses is, that she is doing abominable
things."

He seemed stupefied, and not to understand, and could only stammer out:
"Hold your tongue, you know I have forbidden you ..." But she
interrupted him with irresistible resolution. "No, Monsieur, I must tell
you everything, now. For a long time Madame has been doing wrong with
Monsieur Limousin, I have seen them kiss scores of times behind the
doors. Ah! you may be sure that if Monsieur Limousin had been rich,
Madame would never have married Monsieur Parent. If you remember how the
marriage was brought about, you would understand the matter from
beginning to end." Parent had risen, and stammered out, deadly pale:
"Hold your tongue hold your tongue or ..." She went on, however: "No, I
mean to tell you everything. She married you from interest, and she
deceived you from the very first day. It was all settled between them
beforehand. You need only reflect for a few moments to understand it,
and then, as she was not satisfied with having married you, as she did
not love you, she has made your life miserable, so miserable that it has
almost broken my heart when I have seen it ..."

He walked up and down the room with his hands clenched, repeating: "Hold
your tongue ... hold your tongue ..." for he could find nothing else to
say; the old servant, however, would not yield; she seemed resolved on
everything, but George, who had been at first astonished, and then
frightened at those angry voices, began to utter shrill screams, and
remained behind his father, and he roared with his face puckered up and
his mouth open.

His son's screams exasperated Parent and filled him with rage and
courage. He rushed at Julie with both arms raised, ready to strike
her, and exclaiming: "Ah! you wretch! you will send the child out of
his senses." He was already touching her, when she said: "Monsieur, you
may beat me if you like, me who reared you, but that will not prevent
your wife from deceiving you, or alter the fact that your child is not
yours ..." He stopped suddenly, and let his arms fall, and he remained
standing opposite to her, so overwhelmed that he could understand
nothing more, and she added: "You need only look at the child to know
who is its father! He is the very image of Monsieur Limousin, you need
only look at his eyes and forehead, why, a blind man could not be
mistaken in him...."

But he had taken her by the shoulders, and was now shaking her with
all his might, while he said: "Viper ... viper! Go out the room,
viper! ... go out, or I shall kill you! ... Go out! Go out! ..."

And with a desperate effort he threw her into the next room. She fell
onto the table which was laid for dinner, breaking the glasses, and
then, getting up, she put it between her master and herself, and while
he was pursuing her, in order to take hold of her again, she flung
terrible words at him: "You need only go out this evening after dinner,
and come in again immediately ... and you will see! ... you will see
whether I have been lying! Just try it ... and you will see." She had
reached the kitchen door and escaped, but he ran after her, up the back
stairs to her bedroom into which she had locked herself, and knocking
at the door, he said! "You will leave my house this very instant." "You
may be certain of that, Monsieur," was her reply. "In an hour's time I
shall not be here any longer."

He then went slowly downstairs again, holding on to the banister, so as
not to fall, and went back to the drawing-room, where little George was
sitting on the floor, crying; he fell into a chair, and looked at the
child with dull eyes. He understood nothing, be knew nothing more, he
felt dazed, stupefied, mad, as if he had just fallen on his head, and he
scarcely even remembered the dreadful things the servant had told him.
Then, by degrees his reason grew clearer like muddy water, and the
abominable revelation began to work in his heart.

Julie had spoken so clearly, with so much force, assurance and
sincerity, that he did not doubt her good faith, but he persisted in not
believing her penetration. She might have been deceived, blinded by her
devotion to him, carried away by unconscious hatred for Henriette.
However, in measure as he tried to reassure and to convince himself, a
thousand small facts recurred to his recollection, his wife's words,
Limousin's looks, a number of unobserved, almost unseen trifles, her
going out late, their simultaneous absence, and even some almost
insignificant, but strange gestures, which he could not understand, now
assumed an extreme importance for him and established a connivance
between them. Everything that had happened since his engagement, surged
through his over-excited brain, in his misery, and he obstinately went
through his five years of married life, trying to recollect every detail
month by month, day by day, and every disquieting circumstance that he
remembered stung him to the quick like a wasp's sting.

He was not thinking of George any more, who was quiet now and on the
carpet, but seeing that no notice was being taken of him the boy began
to cry. Then his father ran up to him, took him into his arms, and
covered him with kisses. His child remained to him at any rate! What did
the rest matter? He held him in his arms and pressed his lips onto his
light hair, and relieved and composed, he whispered: "George, ... my
little George, ... my dear little George ..." But he suddenly remembered
what Julie had said! ... Yes! she had said that he was Limousin's
child... Oh! It could not be possible, surely! He could not believe it,
could not doubt, even for a moment, that he was his own child. It was
one of those low scandals which spring from servants' brains! And he
repeated: "George ... my dear little George." The youngster was quiet
again, now that his father was fondling him.

Parent felt the warmth of the little chest penetrate to his through
their clothes, and it filled him with love, courage and happiness; that
gentle heat soothed him, fortified him and saved him. Then he put the
small, curly head away from him a little and looked at it
affectionately, still repeating: "George! ... Oh! my little George! ..."
But suddenly he thought, "Suppose he were to resemble Limousin, ...
after all!"

There was something strange working within him, a fierce feeling, a
poignant and violent sensation of cold in his whole body, in all his
limbs, as if his bones had suddenly been turned to ice. Oh! if he were
to resemble Limousin and he continued to look at George, who was
laughing now. He looked at him with haggard, troubled eyes, and he tried
to discover whether there was any likeness in his forehead, in his nose,
mouth or cheeks. His thoughts wandered like they do when a person is
going mad, and his child's face changed in his eyes, and assumed a
strange look, and unlikely resemblances.

Julie had said: "A blind man could not be mistaken in him." There must,
therefore, be something striking, an undeniable likeness! But what? The
forehead? Yes, perhaps, Limousin's forehead, however, was narrower. The
mouth then? But Limousin wore a beard, and how could any one verify the
likeness between the fat chin of the child, and the hairy chin of that
man?

Parent thought: "I cannot see anything now, I am too much upset;
I could not recognize anything at present ... I must wait; I must
look at him well to-morrow morning, when I am getting up." And
immediately afterwards he said to himself: "But if he is like me,
I shall be saved! saved!" And he crossed the drawing-room in two strides,
to examine the child's face by the side of his own in the looking-glass.
He had George on his arm, so that their faces might be close together,
and he spoke out loud almost without knowing it. "Yes ... we have the
same nose ... the same nose ... perhaps, but that is not sure ... and
the same look ... But no, he has blue eyes ... Then good heavens! I shall
go mad ... I cannot see anything more ... I am going mad!..."

He went away from the glass to the other end of the drawing-room, and
putting the child into an easy chair, he fell into another and began to
cry; and he sobbed so violently that George, who was frightened at
hearing him, immediately began to scream.

The hall bell rang, and Parent gave a bound as if a bullet had gone
through him. "There she is," he said ... "What shall I do? ..." And he
ran and locked himself up in his room, so at any rate to have time to
bathe his eyes. But in a few moments another ring at the bell made him
jump again, and he remembered that Julie had left, without the housemaid
knowing it, and so nobody would go to open the door. What was he to do?
He went himself, and suddenly he felt brave, resolute, ready for
dissimulation and the struggle. The terrible blow had matured him in a
few moments, and then he wished to know the truth, he wished it with the
rage of a timid man, and with the tenacity of an easy-going man, who has
been exasperated.

But nevertheless he trembled! Was it fear? Yes . . . Perhaps he was
still frightened of her? Does one know how much excited cowardice there
often is in boldness? He went to the door with furtive steps, and
stopped to listen; his heart beat furiously, and he heard nothing but
the noise of that dull throbbing in his chest, and George's shrill
voice, who was still crying in the drawing room. Suddenly, however, the
noise of the bell over his head startled him like an explosion; then he
seized the lock, turned the key and opening the door, saw his wife and
Limousin standing before him on the stairs.

With an air of astonishment, which also betrayed a little irritation
she said: "So you open the door now? Where is Julie?" His throat
felt tight, and his breathing was labored and he tried to reply,
without being able to utter a word, so she continued: "Are you
dumb? I asked you where Julie is?" And then he managed to say:
"She ... she ... has ... gone ..." Whereupon his wife began to get
angry. "What do you mean by _gone_? Where has she gone? Why?" By
degrees he regained his coolness, and he felt immense hatred for that
insolent woman who was standing before him, rise up in him: "Yes,
she has gone altogether ... I sent her away ..." "You have sent away
Julie?... Why you must be mad." "Yes, I have sent her away because she
was insolent ... and because, because she was ill-using the child."
"Julie?" "Yes ... Julie." "What was she insolent about?" "About you."
"About me?" "Yes, because the dinner was burnt, and you did not come in."
"And she said ...?" "She said ... offensive things about you ... which
I ought not ... which I could not listen to ..." "What did she say?"
"It is no good repeating them." "I want to hear them." "She said it
was unfortunate for a man like me to be married to a woman like you,
unpunctual, careless, disorderly, a bad mother and a bad wife ..."

The young woman had gone into the anteroom followed by Limousin, who did
not say a word at this unexpected position of things. She shut the door
quickly, threw her cloak onto a chair, and going straight up to her
husband, she stammered out: "You say? ... you say? ... that I am ...?"

He was very pale and calm and replied: "I say nothing, my dear. I am
simply repeating what Julie said to me, as you wanted to know what it
was, and I wish you to remark that I turned her off just on account of
what she said."

She trembled with a violent longing to tear out his beard and scratch
his face. In his voice and manner she felt that he was asserting his
position as master, although she had nothing to say by way of reply, and
she tried to assume the offensive, by saying something unpleasant: "I
suppose you have had dinner?" she asked.

"No, I waited for you." She shrugged her shoulders impatiently. "It is
very stupid of you to wait after half past seven," she said. "You might
have guessed that I was detained, that I had a good many things to do,
visits and shopping."

And then suddenly, she felt that she wanted to explain how she had spent
her time, and she told him in abrupt, haughty words, that having to buy
some furniture in a shop a long distance off, very far off, in the _Rue
de Rennes_, she had met Limousin at past seven o'clock on the _Boulevard
Saint-Germain_, and that then she had gone with him to have something to
eat in a restaurant, as she did not like to go to one by herself,
although she was faint with hunger. That was how she had dined, with
Limousin, if it could be called dining, for they had only had some soup
and half a fowl, as they were in a great hurry to get back, and Parent
replied simply: "Well, you were quite right. I am not finding fault with
you."

Then Limousin, who had not spoken till then, and who had been half
hidden behind Henriette, came forward, and put out his hand, saying:
"Are you very well?" Parent took his hand, and shaking it gently,
replied: "Yes, I am very well." But the young woman had felt a reproach
in her husband's last words. "Finding fault! ... Why do you speak of
finding fault? ... One might think that you meant to imply something."
"Not at all," he replied, by way of excuse. "I simply meant, that I was
not at all anxious although you were late, and that I did not find fault
with you for it." She, however, took the high hand, and tried to find a
pretext for a quarrel. "Although I was late? ... One might really think
that it was one o'clock in the morning, and that I spent my nights away
from home." "Certainly not, my dear. I said _late_, because I could find
no other word. You said you should be back at half past six, and you
returned at half past eight. That was surely being late! I understand it
perfectly well ... I am not at all surprised ... even. But ... but ... I
can hardly use any other word." "But you pronounce them, as if I had
been out all night." "Oh! no, ... oh! no ..."

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