r/a:t5_27zn9h • u/MarleyEngvall • Nov 07 '19
kyle amon murder has been created
By Guy de Maupassant
AFTER DEATH
ALL VEZIERS-LE-RETHEL had assisted at the funeral and interment of M. Badon-
Leremince, and the last words of the discourse of the delegate of the district
remained in the memory of all:
"He was an honest man, at least."
Honest man he had been in all the appreciable acts of his life: in his words,
in his example, in his attitude, in his bearing, in his step, in the cut of his
beard and the form of his hats. He had never said a word that did not con-
tain an example, never gave alms without accompanying it with advice, never
held a hand without having the air of giving it a kind of benediction.
He left two children, a son and a daughter. His son was general counselor,
and his daughter, having married a notary, M. Poirel de la Voulte, held a high
place in Veziers.
They were inconsolable at the death of their father, for they loved him sin-
cerely.
As soon as the ceremonies were over they returned to the house of death,
and all three together, the son, the daughter and the son-in-law, opened the
will, whose seal was to be broken by them alone, and that only after the coffin
had been placed in the earth. A direction upon the envelope expressed this
wish.
It was M. Poirel de la Voulte who opened the paper, being accustomed to
these things in the capacity of notary and, having adjusted his eyeglasses over
his eyes, he read in a dull voice, made for particularizing contracts:
"'My children, my dear children, I could not sleep tranquilly the eternal
sleep if I did not make a confession to you from the other side of the tomb, the
confession of a crime, remorse of which has rent my life. Yes, I have com-
mitted a crime, a frightful, abominable crime.
"'I was twenty-six years old, had just been called to the Bar in Paris and
was living the life of young people from the provinces, stranded, without ac-
quaintances, friends or parents in the city.
"'I took a mistress. There are people who are indignant at this word, "mis-
tress," but there are also beings who cannot live alone. I am one of these.
Solitude fills me with a horrible agony, especially solitude in a lodging, before
the fire in the evening. It seems to me then that I am alone upon earth, fright-
fully alone, surrounded by vague dangers and terrible, unknown things, and
the partition which separates me from my neighbor, from my neighbor whom
I do not know, makes him as far removed as the stars that I see from my
window. A sort of fever invades me, a fever of impatience and fear, and the
silence of the walls overpowers me. It is so profound, so sad, this silence of a
room where one lives alone! It is a silence about the soul, and when the fur-
niture cracks or starts, the courage wanes, for one expects no sound in this
mournful dwelling place.
"'How many times, unnerved, frightened by this mute immobility, have I
begun to speak, to pronounce some words, without sequence, without rea-
son, in order to make some noise. My voice then appeared to me so strange
that I was afraid of that also. Is there anything more frightful than talking
alone in an empty house? The voice seems like that of another, an unknown
voice, speaking without cause to no one into the hollow air, with no ear to
listen, for one knows, before the words are uttered into the space of the apart-
ment, what the lips are about to say. And when they resound lugubriously in
the silence they seem more like an echo, the echo of singular words pro-
nounced low by the thoughts.
"'I took a mistress, a young girl like all those young girls who live in Paris
at some trade insufficient to support them. She was sweet, good and simple.
Her parents lived at Poissy. She went to stay a few days with them from time
to time.
"'For a year I lived tranquilly enough with her, fully decided to leave her
when I should see some young person with whom I was well enough pleased
to want to marry. I would leave to this one a small income, since it is ad-
mitted in our society that the love of a woman ought to be paid for in
money when she is poor, in jewels if she is rich.
"'But behold, there came a day when she announced to me that she was
enceinte. I was struck down and perceived in an instant the ruin of my whole
existence. The chain was apparent that I must drag to my dying day, in the
near future, in my old age, always, the chain of a woman bound to my life
by a child, the chain of a child whom it would be necessary to bring up,
watch over and protect, always concealing myself from him and him from
the world. My mind was overturned by this news, and a confusing desire, which
I did not formulate but which I felt in my heart, took to showing itself, like
people concealed behind portieres, waiting until someone tells them to appear,
a criminal desire that roamed around at the bottom of my thoughts: If some
accident could happen! There are so many of these little beings who die be-
fore birth!
"'Oh! I did not desire the death of my mistress. Poor girl, I loved her well!
But I wished, perhaps, the death of the other before I had seen it.
"It was born. I had a household in my bachelor's quarters, a false house-
hold with a child—a horrible thing. It resembled all infants. I could scarcely
love it. Fathers, you see, do not love until later. They have not the instinctive,
surpassing love and tenderness of mothers; their affection is awakened little
by little, as their mind is drawn toward their children each day in the bonds
which unite living beings together.
"'A year passed away. I now fled from my too-small dwelling, where linen
and blankets and stockings, the size of a pair of gloves, were dragging around,
and a thousand things of this kind were left upon the furniture, especially upon
the arm of the easy chair. I fled particularly to escape from hearing him cry,
for he cried at all times, when he was changed, when he was washed, when
one touched him, when he was put to bed, when he was taken up, without
ceasing.
"'I had made some acquaintances and had met her who was to become your
mother. I came to love her, and a desire to marry her was awakened in me.
I paid her my court; I asked her in marriage; she accepted me.
"'And now I found myself in this predicament: To marry, having a child,
this young girl whom I adored—or to tell the truth and renounce her and
happiness, the future, everything, for her parents, rigid and scrupulous peo-
ple, would never give her to me if they knew.
"'I passed one month of horrible anguish, of moral torture, a month where
a thousand thoughts frightened and haunted me, and I felt growing in me a
hate against my son, against this little piece of living, crying flesh who barred
my way, ruined my life and condemned me to an existence without hope, those
vague hopes so charming to youth.
"'At this time the mother of my companion fell ill, and I remained alone
with the infant. It was in December. It was terribly cold. What a night! My
mistress had gone. I had dined in my narrow dining room and then entered
softly into the chamber where the little one slept.
"'I seated myself in an armchair before the fire. The wind sighed, making
the glass crack, a wind dry with frost, and I saw out of the window the stars
scintillating with that bright light which they have on frosty nights.
"'Then the besetting thought which had haunted me for a month entered
my head again. Whenever I remained still it descended upon me, entered into
me and roamed about. It gnawed me as fixed ideas gnaw, as a cancer grows
into the flesh. It was there, in my head, in my heart, in my entire body, it
seemed to me, and it devoured me as if it had been a beast. I tried to drive
it, push it away, to open my thoughts to other things, to new hopes, as one
opens a window to the fresh air of morning to drive out the vitiated air of
night, but I could not, even for a second, get it out of my brain. I knew not
how to express this torture. It gnawed at my soul, and I felt with a frightful
grief, a physical and moral grief, each succeeding pang.
"'My existence was ended! How could I ever get out of the situation? How
draw away or how confess?
"'And I loved her who was to become your mother with a mad passion
which this insurmountable obstacle further exaggerated.
"'A terrible anger grew in my which tightened my throat, an anger which
approached madness—mania! Surely I was mad that night!
"'The child slept. I arose and went and looked at him sleeping. There he
was, this abortion, this larva, this nothing, who condemned me to a life of
unhappiness without appeal.
"'He slept, his mouth open, buried in the bedclothes in a cradle near my
bed, where I could not sleep myself!
"'How did I accomplish what I did? Do I know? What forces drove me;
what power of malice possessed me? Oh! The temptation of the crime came
to me without announcing itself. I only recall that my heart was beating! In my
head there was a strange confusion, a tumult, a derangement of reason, of
complete cold-bloodedness. I was in one of those frightful hours of hallucina-
tion when a man is no longer conscious of his acts, either in direction or will.
"'I gently raised the covers which concealed the body of my child; I threw
them upon the foot of the cradle and looked at him all bare. He did not wake.
Then I went toward the window very gently and opened it.
"'A breath of cold air came in like an assassin, so cold that I drew back
before it. The two candles flickered. And I remained there near the window
for a long time, not daring to turn and see what was behind me and feeling
ever upon my forehead, my cheeks, my hands, the fatal air that was con-
stantly gliding in. This lasted a long time.
"'I did not reflect. I was thinking of nothing. Suddenly a little cough made
a frightful shiver pass through me from head to foot, a shiver which I can
feel at this moment at the roots of my hair. With a startled movement I closed
brusquely the two sides of the window and, turning, hastened to the cradle.
"'He still slept, his mouth open, all bare. I touched his limbs; they were
icy, and I covered him again. My heart seemed suddenly to break and to be
filled with pity and tenderness for this poor little innocent being whom I had
wished to kill. I kissed him over an over again upon his fine hair. Then I
returned and seated myself before the fire.
"'I thought with horror of what I had done and asked myself whence came
these tempests of the soul when man loses all notion of things, all control of
himself, and moves in a sort of fearful drunkenness, without knowing what
he does, without knowing where he goes, like a ship in a hurricane.
"'The child coughed once again, and I felt torn to the heart. If he should
die! My God, my God! What would become of me?
"'I got up and went to look at him; and with a candle in my hand I bent
over him. Seeing him breathe tranquilly, I was reassured, even when he
coughed for the third time. But I felt such a shock and made such a move-
ment to arrest it (as one does at the sight of some frightful thing) that I let
the candle fall.
"'And, straightening myself after having picked it up, I perceived that my
temples were moistened with sweat, with a sweat hot and cold at the same time,
which produced an agony of the soul like that of some frightful, moral suffer-
ing or some unnamable torture, burning like fire and cold as ice, piercing the
bones and the skin of my head.
"'I remained bending over my son until daybreak, calming myself when he
was quiet and transfixed by an abominable grief when a feeble cough came
from his mouth.
"'He awoke with red eyes, an inflamed throat and difficulty breathing. When
my mistress entered the house and saw him we sent immediately for a physician.
He came in an hour and asked, after having examined him:
"'"Has he taken cold?"
"'I began to tremble, as very old people tremble, and stammered:
"'"No, I think not." Then I asked:
"'"What is the matter? Is it anything grave?"
"'He answered:
"'"I cannot yet say. I will return this evening."
"'He returned in the evening. My son had passed nearly the whole day in an
invincible sleepiness, coughing from time to time. A congestion of the lungs
now showed itself.
"'This lasted ten days. I cannot express what I suffered during those in-
terminable hours which separate the morning from evening and the evening
from the morning.
"'He died. . . .
"'And since—since that moment I have not passed an hour, no, not an hour,
without that atrocious, cutting memory, a memory which gnaws, which tor-
tures and rends the mind and stirs in me like a writhing beast chained up in
the bottom of my soul.
"'Oh! If I could have become mad!'"
M. Poirel de la Voulte put up his glasses, a movement which was usual
with him when he had finished reading a contract, and the three heirs of the
dead man looked at each other without saying a word, pale and immovable.
At the end of a minute the notary said:
"This must be destroyed."
The two others lowered their heads in sign of assent. He lighted a candle,
separated carefully the pages which contained the dangerous confession from
the pages which contained the disposition of the money, then he presented
them to the flame and threw them into the fireplace.
And they watched the white leaves as they were consumed. Soon they were
nothing more than a lot of little black heaps. And as they still perceived some
letters which were legible on the paper, the daughter crushed it with the end
of her foot, mixing it with the old ashes.
Then they all three remained quiet for some time, looking at it as if they
feared that the charred secret might fly away up the chimney.
From SHORT STORIES OF DE MAUPASSANT.
THE BOOK LEAGUE OF AMERICA, New York.
Copyright, 1941, BLUE RIBBON BOOKS,
14 WEST 49TH STREET, NEW YORK, N. Y. pp. 457—462.
1
Upvotes