AI-Generated Graded Readers Masaru Uchida, Gifu University Publication webpage: https://www1.gifu-u.ac.jp/~masaru/a1/ai-generated_graded_readers.html Publication date: April 25, 2026 About This Edition This book is a simplified English adaptation created for extensive reading practice. The text was translated from French into English and simplified using ChatGPT for intermediate English learners as part of an educational project. Target reading level: CEFR A2-B1 This edition aims to support fluency development through accessible vocabulary, expanded narration, and improved readability while preserving the original story structure. Content Note This adaptation is based on a historical literary work. It may contain expressions, attitudes, or depictions that some readers may consider inappropriate or offensive by today’s standards. Such elements have been retained or reflected where necessary in order to preserve the historical and literary character of the original work. Source Text Original work: Boule de Suif; La Parure; Le Horla; Une Partie de campagne; La Maison Tellier; Aux Champs; La Ficelle; Mademoiselle Fifi; Le Papa de Simon Author: Guy de Maupassant Language: French Source: Project Gutenberg https://www.gutenberg.org/ Full text available at: https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/45119/pg45119.txt (Œuvres complètes, Volume 01) https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/46387/pg46387.txt (Œuvres complètes, Volume 03) https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/51266/pg51266.txt (Œuvres complètes, Volume 06) https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/55167/pg55167.txt (Œuvres complètes, Volume 10) https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/57567/pg57567.txt (Œuvres complètes, Volume 14) https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/67158/pg67158.txt (Œuvres complètes, Volume 18) https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/11596/pg11596.txt (La Maison Tellier) https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/4788/pg4788.txt (Mademoiselle Fifi) The original text is in the public domain. Copyright and Use This simplified edition is intended for educational and non-commercial use only. The source text is provided by Project Gutenberg under its public domain policy. Users should refer to the Project Gutenberg License for full terms: https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html This adaptation was generated with the assistance of artificial intelligence and edited for readability and educational purposes. Disclaimer This edition is an educational adaptation and is not affiliated with or endorsed by Project Gutenberg.

　　 
Guy de Maupassant, Selected Short Stories by Guy de Maupassant (Simplified Edition, Adapted and Simplified from French by ChatGPT)

CONTENTS

Ball of Fat [Boule de Suif]
The Necklace [La Parure]
The Horla [Le Horla]
A Country Excursion [Une Partie de campagne]
La Maison Tellier
In the Fields [Aux Champs]
The Piece of String [La Ficelle]
Mademoiselle Fifi
Simon’s Papa [Le Papa de Simon]



Ball of Fat [Boule de Suif]

Part 1: Occupied Rouen

　　For several days, broken parts of the French army had passed through Rouen. They did not look like a real army anymore. The men had long dirty beards, torn coats, and tired faces. They walked without flags and without order, as if their legs still moved but their minds had stopped. When they stopped, many of them almost fell down from weakness. Some were peaceful men who had been made soldiers for the war, and some were young men who could feel brave one minute and afraid the next. Here and there, a few real soldiers still marched among them, but they too looked beaten and lost.
　　Other fighting groups also passed through the town. They had proud names, names about revenge, death, and courage, but they often looked more like wild men than heroes. Their leaders had once sold cloth, grain, soap, or other things in shops. Now they wore weapons, belts, and officer’s signs, and they spoke loudly about saving France. They talked about great plans for the war, but sometimes they were afraid of their own men. Some of those men were brave, but some were rough, hungry, and ready to steal. Everyone said the same thing: the Prussians were coming into Rouen.
　　The National Guard had also returned home. For two months, these local soldiers had moved very carefully through the woods near the town. Sometimes they had even shot at their own guards by mistake. If a rabbit moved in the bushes, they prepared for battle. But now their guns, their uniforms, and their brave look had suddenly disappeared. The last French soldiers crossed the Seine and moved away toward another road. Behind them walked the general, sad and helpless, between two officers. He could do nothing with these tired and broken men, so he too left Rouen.
　　After that, a deep silence fell over the town. People waited in fear, and the fear was almost worse than the enemy itself. The shops were shut, the streets were empty, and the houses looked dead. Sometimes one person hurried along close to a wall, as if the stones could protect him. Fat shopkeepers, who had become soft from a quiet life and good meals, shook with fear inside their homes. They were afraid that even a kitchen knife or a cooking tool might be taken for a weapon. At last, because waiting was so painful, some people almost wished the enemy would come and end the waiting.
　　The next afternoon, the first Prussian horsemen came through the town very fast. Soon after, dark lines of soldiers came down from the hill and along the roads. The three groups met near the town hall, and then the German army began to fill the streets. Their hard steps sounded on the stones, and sharp orders in a strange language rose between the silent houses. Behind the closed shutters, frightened eyes watched them. These men now held the town, the money, and the lives of the people, because that is what war gave them. In the dark rooms, the people felt that the old order of life had fallen apart.
　　Soon small groups of soldiers knocked at the doors and entered the houses. The invasion had become an occupation. The beaten people now had a new duty: they had to be polite to the winners. At first this was terrible, but after some time the first fear grew weaker. In many homes, a Prussian officer sat at the family table and ate dinner. Some officers were polite and even said they felt sorry for France. The families were thankful for such words, because a polite officer might protect them later. It was safer to smile in private, even if people did not greet the foreign soldiers warmly in the street.
　　Little by little, Rouen began to look almost normal again. The French people still did not go out much, but Prussian soldiers moved everywhere. Their officers walked proudly through the streets with their weapons, yet they did not seem much more proud than French officers had seemed before the war. Still, something had changed in the air. It was hard to name, but everyone felt it. It was like a strange smell, the smell of invasion. It entered houses, shops, and public squares. It even seemed to change the taste of food. People felt as if they were far from home, in a dangerous foreign land.
　　The Prussians demanded money, and they demanded a great deal of it. The people of Rouen paid, because many of them were rich. But a rich Norman merchant suffers deeply when even a small part of his money passes into another man’s hand. Outside the town, along the river, fishermen sometimes found the bodies of German soldiers in the water. Some had been killed in secret, far from the light of battle and far from public praise. These were small, hidden acts of revenge. They were dangerous, but no one spoke of them aloud. Hatred of the foreign soldier had armed a few men who were ready to die for France.
　　At the same time, the occupation was not as terrible as people had feared. The Prussians had not done all the awful things that rumor had described. So the merchants became a little braver, and business began to wake again in their hearts. Some of them had important interests in Le Havre, where the French army still held the town. They wanted to reach that port by going first to Dieppe and then by sea. They used the help of German officers they had come to know. At last, they received permission from the German general to leave Rouen.
　　A large coach with four horses was ordered for the journey. Ten people wrote down their names at the coach office. They decided to leave on Tuesday morning before sunrise, so that no crowd would gather to watch them go. For some days, the cold had made the ground hard. Then, on Monday afternoon, heavy black clouds came from the north, and snow began to fall. It fell all evening and all night without stopping. By half past four in the morning, the travelers came together in the yard of the Hôtel de Normandie. They were still sleepy, and they shook with cold under their heavy wraps.
　　In the dark, it was hard to see anyone clearly. The thick winter clothes made every body look round and shapeless. Two men knew each other and began to speak, and then a third man joined them. “I am taking my wife,” one said. “So am I,” said another. “And I too,” said the third. One of them added that he did not plan to return to Rouen. If the Prussians moved toward Le Havre, he would go on to England. The others had much the same plan, because they were the same kind of men and had the same kind of fear.
　　Still, the coach was not ready. From time to time, a stable boy came out of a dark door with a small lamp, then disappeared again. Horses stamped in the straw and dirt. A man’s voice could be heard at the back of the yard, speaking to the animals and swearing at them. The bells on the harness made a light sound, then a clearer and steadier sound as the work continued. Suddenly a door closed, and all noise stopped. The travelers stood still in the falling snow. White flakes came down without a break, covering shoulders, hats, and bags. In the sleeping town, the soft sound of snow seemed to fill the whole world.
　　The stable boy came back with his lamp and led out a sad-looking horse. He tied it to the coach and walked around it slowly, checking the harness with one hand while the other held the light. Then he looked at the frozen travelers and said, “Why do you not get into the coach? At least you will be under cover there.” They seemed not to have thought of it before. At once, they hurried forward. The three men helped their wives into the best seats at the back and then climbed in after them. Other dark, wrapped shapes followed and took the remaining places without speaking.
　　The floor of the coach was covered with straw, and their feet sank into it. The women in the back had brought small copper foot-warmers with burning charcoal inside. They lit them and spoke quietly for a while about how useful they were, saying things they already knew well. At last, the coach was ready, with six horses instead of four because the snow would make the road hard. A voice outside called, “Is everyone inside?” A voice from inside answered, “Yes.” Then the coach began to move, and the travelers left Rouen behind them.

Part 2: The Coach in the Snow

　　The coach moved very slowly through the white morning. The road had almost disappeared under the snow, and the horses had to pull hard at every step. From time to time, one of them slipped, and the driver shouted from his seat. Inside the coach, no one could see much through the small windows, because the glass was covered with frost. The travelers sat close together, wrapped in coats, shawls, and heavy scarves. Their bodies touched, but their minds remained far apart.
　　As the light grew stronger, they began to see one another more clearly. Monsieur Loiseau, a wine seller, was small, active, and full of tricks. He had made money by buying bad wine and selling it as better wine, and many people knew his jokes and his sharp tongue. His wife was tall, strong, and hard-faced, with the look of a woman who watched every coin. She spoke little, but her eyes counted everything. Together they seemed like two people who could always find profit, even in trouble.
　　Near them sat Monsieur Carré-Lamadon and his young wife. He owned cotton mills, was important in trade, and liked to be close to every government that could help him. His wife was small, pretty, and quiet, with the soft manner of a woman used to admiration. She was respected in good society, though people also whispered about her beauty and the officers who liked her. Beside them were the Comte and Comtesse de Bréville, who belonged to the old noble class. Their name, their manners, and their calm voices made the others treat them with care.
　　The two nuns sat silently together. They held their rosaries and moved their lips in prayer. One had a rough face, marked by illness and hard work; the other looked weaker, with a pale face and tired eyes. They were going to help wounded soldiers and seemed ready for pain, cold, and long duty. Cornudet sat near them, with his great red beard and his free, proud air. He was known in Rouen as a strong republican, a man who talked against rulers and loved to speak of freedom.
　　Last of all, there was Boule de Suif. Her real name was Élisabeth Rousset, but everyone knew her by that other name. She was short, round, fresh-looking, and full of life, with dark eyes and a small mouth. Because of her work, the respectable women had already judged her before she spoke. They looked at her with cold dislike, though they were sitting beside her in the same coach and leaving the same frightened town. She noticed their looks, but she said nothing and kept her face calm.
　　The coach went on, but it went so slowly that the travelers soon began to worry. They had expected to stop for breakfast at an inn after a short time. But the snow was deep, the wheels sank, and the horses became tired. Villages did not appear when they should have appeared, and the white fields seemed to go on forever. By late morning, everyone was hungry. Still, no one wanted to be the first to complain, because each person hoped to look stronger and better prepared than the others.
　　Around noon, hunger had become serious. The cold made their bodies need food, and the shaking of the coach made them feel weaker. Monsieur Loiseau tried to joke, but even his jokes sounded thin. Cornudet had a small bottle of rum in his pocket and offered it to the others. Most refused with stiff faces, but Loiseau accepted a little and said it warmed the body and fooled the stomach. Then he made a rough joke about eating the fattest person in the coach, and everyone understood that he meant Boule de Suif. The well-bred passengers pretended not to hear, while Cornudet smiled under his beard.
　　The hours passed, and the plain still stretched around them. At last, about three o’clock, Boule de Suif bent down and pulled a large basket from under her seat. A white cloth covered it, and when she lifted the cloth, the smell of good food filled the coach. She took out a plate, a silver cup, and a large dish of chicken in rich sauce. There were also small rolls, fruit, cakes, cheese, ham, and bottles of wine. She had prepared enough food for several days, because she had known that travel in wartime could not be trusted.
　　At first she began to eat quietly by herself. Every eye turned toward her. The smell of the chicken moved through the coach and made the others suffer more than before. The women who had despised her now hated her because she had food and they had none. Loiseau could not hide his desire. He looked at the chicken again and again, then said that some people were wise enough to think of everything. Boule de Suif raised her head and asked, in a simple voice, “Would you like some?” He answered at once that it was hard to go without food since morning, and he accepted.
　　Loiseau spread a newspaper over his knees so he would not dirty his clothes. He took a piece of chicken with his knife and began to eat with clear pleasure. The others watched him, and a deep unhappy sigh seemed to pass through the coach. Boule de Suif then offered food to the two nuns. They accepted at once, after a few soft words of thanks, and ate quickly with their eyes lowered. Cornudet also accepted, and soon newspapers were opened across knees like a small table. The sound of eating filled the coach, and the smell of wine, meat, and bread seemed warmer than the foot-warmers.
　　Madame Loiseau resisted for a while, but hunger was stronger than pride. Her husband asked Boule de Suif if he might give his wife a little, and Boule de Suif smiled and passed the dish. Then the pretty Madame Carré-Lamadon became very pale. Her eyes closed, her head fell forward, and she fainted from hunger. Her husband cried for help, and everyone was confused. The older nun lifted the young woman’s head and put a little wine from Boule de Suif’s cup between her lips. After a moment, the young woman opened her eyes and said weakly that she felt better.
　　This settled the matter for the remaining passengers. Boule de Suif, red with shyness, looked toward the Comte, the Comtesse, and the Carré-Lamadons. She began to say that perhaps she might offer them some food too, then stopped because she feared an insult. Loiseau spoke loudly and said that, in such a situation, all people were like brothers and sisters and must help one another. The others still hesitated, because none of them wanted to be first. Then the Comte used his grand, polite voice and said, “We accept with thanks, madame.” After that, pride fell away, and they all ate well.
　　Once they had accepted her food, they had to speak to her. At first their words were careful, but soon they became warmer, because she behaved with kindness and good sense. The Comtesse and Madame Carré-Lamadon were especially polite in the smooth way of women used to society. Madame Loiseau remained colder, but she ate more than anyone. They spoke of the war, of Prussian cruelty, and of brave French soldiers. Then Boule de Suif told them how she had left Rouen. She said she had first planned to stay, because her house was full of food and she would rather feed soldiers than run away without knowing where to go.
　　But when she saw the Prussians in the streets, she could not bear it. She told them that anger had filled her blood and that she had cried with shame all day. She had watched the soldiers from her window and had wanted to throw furniture down on them. Then some came to stay in her house, and she attacked the first one who entered. People had to pull her away by the hair, and after that she had to hide. When she found a chance, she left Rouen, and that was why she was now in the coach. The others praised her greatly, because she had shown a courage that they themselves had not shown.
　　Cornudet listened with a pleased smile, as if her anger belonged to his own political ideas. Then he began to speak in his serious public voice about France, the people, and the bad rulers who had brought disaster. Boule de Suif suddenly became angry, because she still respected the old emperor. Her face grew red, and she told Cornudet that people like him had betrayed France. Harsh words were close to coming from both sides, but the Comte stepped in with calm authority. He said that all sincere opinions deserved respect. The quarrel ended, and the coach continued through the snow, while evening slowly came down over the white road.

Part 3: The Inn at Tôtes

　　The coach still moved forward, but evening came before the travelers reached any safe place. The snow made the road heavy, and the horses were tired from pulling the great coach all day. Inside, the first warmth of the shared meal had passed. The passengers had eaten together and spoken together, but the old distance between them slowly returned. Each person sat again inside his or her own worries. Outside, the white fields grew darker, and the road seemed to go on without end.
　　At last the coach reached a small village. The travelers hoped they could stop there, eat, sleep, and forget the long day. But the driver did not stop for long. He had orders to go on to Tôtes, and the horses, though slow, had to continue. The passengers felt bitter disappointment, but no one could change the order. The coach moved again into the night, and the wheels made a dull sound in the snow.
　　The dark became deeper. The road was no longer a clear line, only a pale path between darker shapes. Sometimes the coach leaned to one side, and the women gave small cries of fear. The men tried to look calm, but they too held the seats with both hands when the wheels slipped. The horses breathed heavily, and clouds of steam rose from them in the cold air. The driver shouted, pulled the reins, and spoke to them as if they were stubborn children.
　　Everyone was hungry again by the time lights appeared ahead. The village of Tôtes seemed very small and very still under the snow. The coach entered the village street with a slow, tired roll. At the door of the inn stood a German soldier with a gun. This sight made all the travelers silent at once. They had left Rouen to escape the occupation, but the occupation had reached even this little place.
　　The coach stopped before the inn. The door opened, and cold air rushed inside. A voice outside ordered the travelers to get down. They stepped out one by one, stiff from sitting so long and weak from hunger. The women held their skirts above the dirty snow, and the men tried to help them while also watching the soldier. The light from the inn door fell on faces that were pale with cold and fear.
　　The travelers entered the large kitchen of the inn. It was warm, smoky, and full of the smell of food, wood, and wet clothes. A German officer soon appeared and asked to see their travel papers. He looked at the paper signed by the general, where each name, age, and position had been written. Then he looked slowly at the people in front of him, comparing their faces with the paper. His look was cold and exact, as if he were checking goods, not human beings.
　　No one spoke while he read. Monsieur Loiseau tried to stand easily, but his eyes moved quickly from the paper to the officer’s face. Monsieur Carré-Lamadon held himself with the careful pride of a rich man who does not want trouble. The Comte looked calm, because his whole life had taught him to look calm before people in power. Boule de Suif stood among them, tired and red from the cold, but she did not lower her head. At last the officer said shortly that it was all right, and he went away.
　　Everyone breathed more freely after he left. They had been afraid without saying so. Now they wanted only supper and beds. They ordered food, and the inn servants began to move about slowly, as if nothing in the world were urgent. Since the meal would take some time, the travelers went to look at their rooms. The rooms opened onto a long passage, and at the end of the passage was a glass door with a number on it.
　　The innkeeper himself appeared before they could sit down to supper. His name was Follenvie, and he was a fat man who had once dealt in horses. He breathed badly, and his chest made many small noises when he spoke. His voice seemed to scrape his throat before it came out. He looked around the room and asked, “Mademoiselle Élisabeth Rousset?” Boule de Suif started and turned toward him.
　　“That is me,” she said. Her face had changed at once. She did not know why she was being called, but she understood that nothing good came from a German officer in an occupied inn. Follenvie said, “Mademoiselle, the Prussian officer wants to speak to you at once.” She looked at him with surprise. “To me?” she asked. “Yes,” he answered, “if you are Mademoiselle Élisabeth Rousset.”
　　For a moment she was confused and silent. Then her face became firm. “That may be,” she said, “but I will not go.” The words fell into the room like a stone. Everyone moved a little, turned a little, or looked at someone else. The travelers did not know the reason for the order, but they were already afraid of what her refusal might cause. They had reached the inn with difficulty, and they did not want new trouble.
　　The Comte came close to her with his most polite manner. He spoke gently, but his words carried pressure. He said she was wrong to refuse, because her refusal could bring serious problems not only for herself but for all of them. Stronger people, he said, should not be resisted when one was in their power. Perhaps the officer only wanted to ask about a forgotten form or some small detail in the papers. His voice was calm, and this made his warning sound even stronger.
　　The others joined him. They asked her to go, then pressed her, then almost scolded her. They all wanted to appear reasonable, but fear was behind every word. Madame Carré-Lamadon spoke softly, as if to calm a difficult child. The Comtesse added a few kind words, and even Madame Loiseau looked at Boule de Suif as if the whole safety of the party now depended on her good sense. Cornudet watched with his pipe near his beard, but he did not stop them. The two nuns lowered their eyes and waited.
　　At last Boule de Suif gave in. Her mouth tightened, and her eyes showed anger, not fear. “I am doing it for you,” she said. The Comtesse took her hand and answered that they thanked her. Boule de Suif left the kitchen and followed the innkeeper. After she had gone, the others remained standing for a moment, embarrassed and uneasy. They had persuaded her, but now they felt the shame of having persuaded her.
　　No one sat down to supper. They waited for her return, and every small sound from the passage made them look toward the door. Some of them imagined that they themselves might be called next. In their minds, they prepared polite words, low bows, and careful answers for the Prussian officer. They were angry at being controlled, but they were more afraid than angry. The smell of supper came from the kitchen, yet hunger had become mixed with worry.
　　After about ten minutes, Boule de Suif came back. She was breathing hard, and her face was very red, as if anger had almost choked her. Her hands shook, and she could hardly speak. At last she said broken words about the shameful man and the dirty Prussian. She was so angry that the others did not dare question her at once. They understood only that the meeting had gone badly. No one yet knew exactly what the officer had asked of her, but the air in the room had already changed.

Part 4: Waiting and Pressure

　　After Boule de Suif came back from the officer, the travelers did not know what to think. They wanted to ask questions, but her anger was so strong that they were afraid to touch it. The supper was served, and they ate because they were hungry, but no one was happy. The plates made small sounds on the table, and every sound seemed too loud. From time to time, someone looked at Boule de Suif, then looked away. The Prussian officer had not come down, but he seemed to be present in the room all the same.
　　They went to bed with troubled minds and woke early the next morning with a new hope. Perhaps the strange trouble of the night before had passed. Perhaps the officer had only wished to frighten them. But when they came downstairs, the horses were still in the stable, and the driver could not be found. The coach stood outside, useless and silent in the snow. The travelers looked at it as people look at a locked door when they have no key.
　　They asked questions, and at last Follenvie appeared with his heavy breathing and rough voice. He said that the officer would not allow them to leave. He had been told clearly that the travelers could not go until the officer gave the order. This answer made everyone anxious. They could not understand why they were being kept there. The inn seemed suddenly smaller, darker, and more like a prison.
　　The Comte decided that they must speak to the officer in a proper way. He sent his card, and Monsieur Carré-Lamadon added his name and titles, because he too wanted to appear important. Loiseau went with them, though he had no title to add. Cornudet was asked to join them, but he refused proudly. He said he did not want any personal contact with Germans. Then he went back to the fire and asked for another beer.
　　The three men were taken upstairs to the best room of the inn. The Prussian officer received them without rising from his chair. He sat with his feet near the fire, smoking a long pipe and wearing a bright dressing gown that looked stolen from some rich house. He did not greet them and did not try to be polite. He only waited, as if their visit were already a waste of his time. The three Frenchmen stood before him, cold inside with anger and fear.
　　The Comte spoke first. He said they wished to leave and had permission from the German general to go to Dieppe. The officer answered simply that they could not go. The Comte asked, with great politeness, why they were being stopped. The officer answered that he did not want them to leave. That was all. The Comte tried once more, speaking of the signed paper and their good conduct, but the officer repeated that he did not want it. Then he told them to go downstairs.
　　When the three men returned, the news spread quickly through the inn. The afternoon became heavy and unhappy. Everyone stayed in the kitchen because there was nowhere else to go. They guessed many things and understood nothing. Perhaps they were being held as hostages. Perhaps they would be taken away as prisoners. Perhaps a great sum of money would be demanded. At the thought of money, the richest travelers became the most frightened.
　　Loiseau took off his watch and chain and hid them in his pocket. Others began to think how they might pretend to be poorer than they were. The women sat with tight faces, listening to the men speak in low, anxious voices. Outside, the snow lay over the village like a white wall, and the road to Dieppe seemed farther away than ever. As night came, their fear grew with the darkness. The lamp was lit, and its small yellow circle made the kitchen seem even more closed.
　　Because there were still two hours before dinner, Madame Loiseau suggested a card game. It would pass the time, and any movement was better than sitting with the same thoughts. The others agreed, and even Cornudet joined after putting out his pipe. For a while, the game helped them forget their fear. Cards moved from hand to hand, coins were placed on the table, and eyes followed the play with serious attention. Boule de Suif even won at once, which made Loiseau look at her with a sharp little smile.
　　But just as they were ready to sit down for dinner, Follenvie came back into the room. His voice was rough and flat as he repeated the officer’s message. The Prussian officer wanted to know whether Mademoiselle Élisabeth Rousset had changed her mind. Boule de Suif stood still, very pale at first, and then suddenly deep red. Anger rose in her so strongly that for a few seconds she could not speak. Then she cried that Follenvie must tell the Prussian she would never agree, never, never.
　　This time the others could not remain silent. They came around her and pressed her to tell them what the officer wanted. At first she refused, because the matter was shameful and private. But their questions grew stronger, and her own anger broke through. At last she cried, “What does he want? He wants me to go to his room and be with him.” No one laughed, and no one blamed her at that moment. Their anger turned at once against the officer.
　　Cornudet struck his glass down so hard that it broke. The Comte spoke with disgust and said such men behaved like old barbarians. The women were especially warm toward Boule de Suif. Madame Carré-Lamadon and the Comtesse showed her pity, and even Madame Loiseau seemed to stand with her for a time. The two nuns lowered their heads and said nothing. For that evening, all the travelers seemed united in resistance, as if the officer had insulted each one of them.
　　Still, they ate dinner when the first storm of anger had passed. They spoke little, because each mind was full of the same problem. The ladies went upstairs early. The men stayed below and invited Follenvie to play cards with them, hoping they could learn more from him. But he cared only about the game. Each time they tried to ask a clever question, he told them to watch the cards. His breathing whistled in his chest, and he seemed more interested in winning a small trick than in freeing ten travelers.
　　The next morning they rose early again. Their hope was weaker now, but still alive. Yet the horses remained in the stable, and the driver was still not ready. They walked around the coach with angry, useless faces. At lunch, the mood was dark. Something had changed in the night. They no longer felt only anger at the officer. Quietly, almost without admitting it to themselves, they had begun to feel anger toward Boule de Suif.
　　It seemed to them that she could have gone secretly to the officer during the night. Then they would have found the coach ready in the morning, and no one would have needed to know anything. This thought was ugly, but it grew in their minds because it served their comfort. They did not say it clearly at first. They only became colder toward her. The women hardly spoke to her, and the men avoided her eyes. Boule de Suif felt the change and became silent.
　　In the afternoon, the Comte suggested a walk through the village. Everyone wrapped up carefully and went out, except Cornudet, who stayed by the fire, and the two nuns, who spent much of their time at church or with the priest. The cold bit their noses and ears, and every step on the frozen road hurt their feet. The open country around them looked empty and dead under the snow. Soon they turned back, because the walk gave them no pleasure and no escape.
　　As they walked, Loiseau asked suddenly whether that woman was going to keep them much longer in this miserable place. The Comte answered more carefully. He said that no one could demand such a painful sacrifice from a woman, and that the offer should come from her. Monsieur Carré-Lamadon then said that if the French army came by way of Dieppe, there might be fighting in Tôtes. This frightened the others. Loiseau suggested escaping on foot, but the Comte said that was impossible in the snow, especially with their wives. They would be caught at once and brought back as prisoners.
　　Then the Prussian officer appeared at the end of the street. His uniform made a hard dark line against the white snow. He walked carefully, with his knees a little apart, as soldiers do when they do not want to dirty their polished boots. He bowed to the ladies as he passed and looked at the men with open scorn. Boule de Suif turned red to her ears. The married women felt humiliated to be seen with her by the very man who had treated her in this way. When they returned to the inn, their silence was colder than before.

Part 5: The Sacrifice

　　The next morning, the travelers came downstairs with tired faces and angry hearts. No one had slept well, and no one wanted another day in the inn. The women spoke almost no words to Boule de Suif, and the men looked at her as if she alone had made the snow, the war, and the officer. Then the church bell began to ring through the cold air. It was not for a funeral or a warning. It was for a baptism.
　　Boule de Suif heard the bell and became strangely moved. She had a child somewhere near Yvetot, being cared for by peasants, and she almost never thought of him. But the sound of the bell touched something soft and hidden in her. She asked if she might go to the church. The others agreed at once, because any time away from her was now a comfort to them. She went with the two nuns, walking slowly through the snow toward the sound of the bell.
　　The church was poor and cold, but it gave her a deep feeling of peace. The small baby, the white cloth, the serious priest, and the quiet people all entered her heart. She watched everything with wet eyes and a full chest. The older nun spoke to her kindly and told her why they were traveling. They were going to Le Havre to care for many wounded soldiers, and every day of delay might cost lives. Then the nun added that when a person did something difficult for a good reason, God would understand the heart behind it.
　　Boule de Suif said nothing, but the nun’s words stayed with her. She did not want to think about the officer. She did not want to think about the coach, the cold looks, or the waiting travelers. Yet all these thoughts came together inside her and would not leave. When she returned to the inn, her face still showed the feeling of the church. The Comtesse asked her softly, “Was the baptism beautiful?” Boule de Suif answered with warmth and described the baby, the people, and the church. Then she said, “It is good to pray sometimes.”
　　Until lunch, the ladies were kind to her again. Their kindness was careful and useful, not free. They wanted to soften her, win her trust, and make her easier to guide. Madame Carré-Lamadon spoke gently. The Comtesse smiled with a quiet sadness, as if she understood all women and all pain. Even Madame Loiseau held back her hard words, though her eyes still looked sharp.
　　At the table, the real attack began. No one spoke directly of the Prussian officer at first. Instead, they talked about duty, courage, and the great acts of women in history. They named women who had used their beauty to save people, stop enemies, or help their country. The stories were told in a polite way, with soft voices and careful words. But the meaning was clear. They wanted Boule de Suif to understand that a woman could become almost heroic by giving up what she did not want to give.
　　The men joined in with serious faces. The Comte spoke like a man making a noble speech, but every noble word pushed Boule de Suif toward the same shameful end. Monsieur Carré-Lamadon agreed and said that in war, people often had to accept painful needs. Loiseau tried to be clever, but his words were rougher and showed too much of what he really thought. The women looked down at their plates when the talk became too plain. Still, no one stopped it, because all of them wanted the same thing.
　　Boule de Suif listened without answering. She understood very well what they were doing. They had praised her courage when she fed them. They had praised her anger when she spoke against the Prussians. Now they were using praise to push her into the officer’s room. The two nuns seemed lost in thought and did not appear to hear, but their silence helped the others. By saying nothing, they left Boule de Suif alone among people who had already judged her duty for her.
　　In the afternoon, they left her to think. But their way of speaking to her changed. Before, when they wanted her food or needed her good will, they had called her “madame.” Now they called her “mademoiselle,” as if they wished to lower her place again. No one said why, but she felt the change. The small word touched her like a hand pushing her down. She sat apart, heavy and silent, while the others waited for her resistance to weaken.
　　When the soup was served that evening, Follenvie came in again. His breathing was loud in the quiet room, and everyone knew his message before he spoke. He said, “The Prussian officer asks whether Mademoiselle Élisabeth Rousset has changed her mind.” Boule de Suif looked at him and answered dryly, “No, monsieur.” Follenvie went away. For a short moment, the room felt colder than before.
　　But at dinner, the group’s proud resistance grew weak. The pretty Madame Carré-Lamadon looked pale, and her eyes shone in a strange way when people spoke of the officer. The men went aside and talked in low voices. Loiseau, angry and impatient, said they should hand Boule de Suif over to the enemy and finish the matter. The Comte rejected that rough plan, but not the purpose behind it. “We must persuade her,” he said. Then the plan became more polite, and therefore more dangerous.
　　They began to work together like people preparing an attack on a town. Each person had a part. One would speak of duty, another of kindness, another of the poor wounded soldiers waiting for the nuns. The women would use soft words and sad looks. The men would speak of danger, delay, and the need to leave. Cornudet stayed apart from this secret plan. He did not join them, but he also did not save her.
　　Boule de Suif came back into the room without being heard. The Comte gave a small warning sound, and everyone stopped speaking. For a few seconds, no one knew what to say. Then they began again, more gently than before. The Comtesse asked about the baptism, Madame Carré-Lamadon spoke of the nuns’ mission, and the others slowly returned to the same idea. Boule de Suif answered little. Her face showed that she was tired of fighting all of them at once.
　　That evening, after more words, more pressure, and more false kindness, she gave way. No one said loudly that she had agreed, but everyone understood it. The atmosphere changed at once, as if a locked window had opened. The men became lively, and the women looked relieved. They did not look at Boule de Suif too directly. Their good feeling was not for her; it was for themselves.
　　The dinner that followed became almost cheerful. Champagne was ordered, and glasses were filled. Loiseau made jokes, and this time people laughed. The Comte smiled more freely, and Monsieur Carré-Lamadon seemed to breathe again. The women became bright and talkative, as if the shame of the evening belonged to someone far away. Cornudet alone looked dark. He seemed angry, but his anger did not help Boule de Suif.
　　Later, Loiseau told a story from the passage outside the rooms. He had seen Cornudet try to speak privately with Boule de Suif, and she had refused him because the Prussian officer was in the next room. At first the story made the room cold. Then Loiseau laughed, and the others began to laugh too. The laughter grew large and cruel. They laughed because Cornudet had failed, and because the whole situation now seemed funny to them. Their laughter covered the fact that they had all taken part in the same wrong.
　　When they went to bed, the inn did not become quiet at once. In the dark passage, there were small sounds, soft steps, and thin lines of light under doors. The champagne had made people restless. Some whispered, some moved about, and sleep came late. Boule de Suif had done what they wanted, and the coach would be ready in the morning. But no one went to her door to thank her.

Part 6: The Road to Dieppe 　

　　The next morning, bright winter sun shone on the snow. The white road, the roofs, and the fields all seemed to throw light back into the sky. In front of the inn, the coach stood ready at last, with the horses already harnessed. The driver sat high on his seat, wrapped in his thick coat and smoking his pipe. Around the horses, white pigeons walked slowly in the dirty snow and picked at the warm straw and manure. The travelers came out with cheerful faces, because the long prison of the inn was over.
　　Everyone seemed busy and happy. Bags were tied, blankets were placed, and food was packed for the rest of the journey. The men spoke loudly, and the women gave quick orders to the servants. They had all been waiting for this moment, and now they wanted to leave before anything could change again. But Boule de Suif had not yet come down. For a few minutes, no one spoke of her. They behaved as if she were only a late package, not the person who had made their departure possible.
　　At last she appeared at the door. She looked shy, tired, and ashamed, as if she had been struck and had not yet found her balance again. She came toward the others with small steps and a lowered face. But as soon as she came near, they all turned away from her at the same time. The movement was so clear that she stopped for a moment. The Comte, with a cold and noble air, took his wife by the arm and moved her away, as if Boule de Suif might dirty her by standing too close.
　　Boule de Suif stood still, amazed. Then she gathered her courage and went toward Madame Carré-Lamadon. In a low voice, she said, “Good morning, madame.” The young woman answered with only a small nod and a hard look, like a woman who felt herself pure and insulted. No one offered Boule de Suif a hand. No one thanked her. No one even looked at her directly.
　　They all climbed into the coach in a hurry. Boule de Suif entered last, without help, and took the same seat she had used before. Madame Loiseau looked at her from far away and said loudly enough for her husband to hear, “I am glad I am not sitting beside her.” The words were not meant to be private. They were meant to hurt. Boule de Suif heard them and sat very still, with her hands folded in her lap.
　　The heavy coach began to move again. For a while, no one spoke. The wheels struck the hard road under the snow, and the windows shook in their frames. Boule de Suif did not dare lift her eyes. She felt anger and shame together. These people had pushed her toward the Prussian officer, had used kind words, grand words, and holy words to make her yield. Now that they were free, they treated her as if she alone had done something wrong.
　　Soon the Comtesse broke the silence. She turned toward Madame Carré-Lamadon and began to speak about a woman they both knew in society. The name sounded clean, safe, and high-class after the dirty fear of the inn. Madame Carré-Lamadon answered eagerly, and the two women began to praise this friend. They said she was charming, educated, artistic, and full of fine taste. Their voices were soft and polite, as if nothing painful had happened. Boule de Suif listened, and the difference between their smooth words and their cruel behavior made her heart grow heavier.
　　The men also began to talk. Monsieur Carré-Lamadon and the Comte spoke about business, money, payments, prices, and future markets. Their words rose now and then above the sound of the wheels. Loiseau found an old pack of cards from the inn and began a game with his wife. The two nuns took out their rosaries and made the sign of the cross. Their lips moved quickly in prayer, and from time to time they kissed a small religious medal. Cornudet sat silent and thoughtful, his large beard resting on his coat.
　　After several hours on the road, hunger returned. Loiseau was the first to say it. He put away the cards and told his wife that it was time to eat. Madame Loiseau opened a package and took out cold meat. She cut it carefully into thin slices, and the two of them began to eat. The smell of food moved through the coach. Then the Comtesse suggested that the others should do the same, and the provisions prepared for the two rich couples were opened.
　　Soon everyone had food. There was meat, cheese, bread, sausage, and other good things wrapped in paper. The nuns took out a round sausage that smelled strongly of garlic. Cornudet searched in the wide pockets of his coat and found hard-boiled eggs and a piece of bread. He broke the shells and ate without speaking. Small yellow pieces of egg fell into his beard like tiny stars. All around Boule de Suif, mouths opened and closed calmly, as they had done on the first day when she had fed them.
　　But this time no one offered her anything. In the rush and pain of the morning, she had brought no food. Her basket was empty, and her mind had been too troubled to think of the journey. She watched them eat, and anger rose in her until she almost could not breathe. On the first day, they had looked at her food with hungry eyes, and she had shared it with all of them. Now they had full packages, full hands, and full mouths, but not one person remembered her kindness. Not one person said, “Would you like some?”
　　At first she tried to master herself. She told herself that she would not cry before them. She looked at the white road outside and pressed her lips together. But the smell of food, the sound of chewing, and the cold silence around her were too much. Her shame came back, then her anger, then a deeper pain that seemed to fill her whole body. She felt dirty because they had made her feel dirty. She felt alone among people who had used her and then thrown her away.
　　Cornudet suddenly began to whistle. At first the sound was low and slow, and the others paid little attention. Then the tune became clear. It was the song of France, the song of war and freedom. The proud notes filled the coach while the people who had praised sacrifice sat there with food in their hands. No one liked hearing it now. The song made their silence seem ugly, and it made their comfort seem shameful.
　　Loiseau tried to joke, but the tune went on. Madame Loiseau became angry and said that Cornudet was insulting decent people. The Comte and Monsieur Carré-Lamadon looked cold and annoyed, but they said nothing useful. The women lowered their eyes and seemed busy with their food or their wraps. Cornudet continued to whistle, hard and steady, as if he were blowing judgment into the small closed space of the coach. Outside, the snow-covered country passed slowly by.
　　Boule de Suif could hold back no longer. Large tears came into her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. She did not sob loudly at first. Her shoulders only moved a little, and her breath came unevenly. Then her tears became stronger, and small broken sounds escaped her. No one comforted her. No one touched her hand. The coach rolled on toward Dieppe, carrying the full, silent, respectable people and the woman who had saved them, while Cornudet’s song rose again and again above her tears.



The Necklace [La Parure]

Part 1: Mathilde’s Dream

　　Mathilde Loisel was a pretty and charming young woman. But she had been born into a simple family, the family of office workers. She had no money, no rich future, and no way to meet a rich and important man. So she married a small clerk who worked in the Ministry of Public Instruction. Her husband was kind and honest, but he was not rich, and his life was small. To him, their home was good enough. To Mathilde, it felt like a mistake made by life itself.
　　She had to live simply because she could not live beautifully. This made her deeply unhappy. She felt that she had been born for soft rooms, fine clothes, shining lights, and quiet words from important men. She looked at her poor rooms and suffered. The old chairs, the plain walls, the worn cloth, and the small table hurt her more than real hunger might have hurt another person. Many women in her place would not even have noticed such things, but Mathilde noticed them every day.
　　When she saw the young servant girl who did the work of the house, sadness rose inside her. The servant’s plain dress and tired hands reminded Mathilde that her own home was poor. Then her mind left the little rooms around her and entered another world. She imagined a silent hall with rich cloth on the walls. She imagined tall lamps, deep chairs, and servants sleeping in the warm air because the house was so comfortable. She imagined rooms where every object was fine and costly.
　　In her dreams, she saw great sitting rooms covered in old silk. She saw small tables holding beautiful things that were worth more than all she owned. She saw smaller rooms too, warm and sweet-smelling, made for quiet talks in the afternoon. In those rooms, famous men would come and speak softly. Other women would wish to be in her place. Other women would wish to receive one look from the men who smiled at her.
　　But then she opened her eyes and saw her real life. At dinner, she sat before a round table covered with a cloth that had already been used for three days. Her husband lifted the cover from the dish and was pleased. “Ah, good soup,” he said. “There is nothing better than that.” He truly meant it. His face shone with simple comfort, and he was happy with the warm food before him. Mathilde, however, thought of beautiful dinners, silver dishes, and gentle voices speaking across flowers and candlelight.
　　She imagined fine food served on beautiful plates. She imagined soft words, smiles, and little signs of admiration. She imagined herself wearing a lovely dress and sitting among people who knew how to look, speak, and move. In her dream, every small thing had grace. In her real life, everything seemed heavy and dull. Her husband ate with honest pleasure, but she felt as if she were far away from the life that should have been hers.
　　She had no fine dresses and no jewels. These were the things she loved most, yet she had none of them. She felt that she was made to be admired, loved, and desired. She wanted to please people, to be envied, and to be followed by eyes when she entered a room. But she could not go into society because she had nothing to wear there. So she stayed at home, and the more she stayed at home, the more bitter her dreams became.
　　She had one rich friend from school, Madame Forestier. Sometimes she went to visit her. But after each visit, Mathilde came home more unhappy than before. Madame Forestier’s house showed her the life she wanted and did not have. The visit gave her a little taste of beauty, and then it was taken away again. She would return to her poor rooms and cry for a long time, from anger, pain, and hopeless longing.
　　Her husband did not fully understand this suffering. He loved her in his quiet way and wanted to make her happy. He worked, came home, ate, and thought that peace was a good thing. He did not dream of great rooms or high society. He did not feel shame before their simple furniture. Because of this, he could not see how every plain object in the house pressed on Mathilde’s heart.
　　One evening, he came home with a pleased look on his face. He held a large envelope in his hand. There was pride in his smile, because he believed he had brought something wonderful. He had worked to get this invitation, and he thought his wife would be delighted. He placed the envelope before her, almost like a gift. “Look,” he said. “Here is something for you.”
　　Mathilde opened the envelope quickly. Inside was an invitation to an evening party at the Ministry. The Minister of Public Instruction and his wife were asking Monsieur and Madame Loisel to come to their house for a formal evening. It was exactly the kind of event Mathilde had dreamed about. It was a door into the world of fine clothes, shining rooms, and important people. Her husband watched her face, waiting for joy.
　　But joy did not come. Mathilde read the invitation, and her face changed. Her husband’s smile faded a little as he watched her. He had expected bright eyes, warm thanks, perhaps even a cry of pleasure. Instead, she held the paper as if it had hurt her. The beautiful door had opened, but she saw at once that she could not pass through it as she was.
　　She threw the invitation onto the table. Her husband stared at her, surprised and hurt. He did not understand how a thing that seemed so good could bring such pain. “What is wrong?” he asked. “I thought you would be happy.” Mathilde looked at him with sorrow and anger together. For him, the invitation was an honor. For her, it was a cruel reminder that she had no dress, no jewels, and no place in the world she desired.
　　The little room seemed smaller than ever. The table, the lamp, the used cloth, and the plain walls all stood around her like witnesses. Her husband had brought her a chance to enter the life of her dreams, but he had also shown her the truth of her poverty. She could not feel thankful. She could only feel the sharp pain of wanting beauty and having nothing with which to meet it. The invitation lay between them, bright with promise and heavy with shame.

Part 2: The Ball and the Loss

　　Mathilde looked at her husband with angry eyes. “What do you want me to wear?” she asked. Monsieur Loisel had not thought about this question at all. To him, the invitation itself was the important thing. He said, in a weak voice, that she could wear the dress she wore to the theater. It seemed nice enough to him. But as soon as he said this, he saw tears come into her eyes and roll slowly down her cheeks.
　　He became frightened and unhappy. “What is wrong?” he asked again and again. Mathilde made a great effort to control herself. She dried her face and spoke in a calm voice, but the calmness was hard and cold. She said that she had no proper dress and therefore could not go to the party. He should give the invitation to another man whose wife had better clothes.
　　Monsieur Loisel was deeply disappointed. He had imagined his wife smiling, thanking him, and perhaps loving him more for this gift. Instead, she was almost refusing the invitation. He sat beside her and tried to think. At last he asked how much a simple but suitable dress would cost. He said it could be a dress she could wear again for other evenings. His voice was careful, because money was always a serious matter in their little home.
　　Mathilde thought for a few seconds. She was not only thinking about the dress. She was also thinking about the largest sum she could ask for without making him refuse at once. At last she said, slowly and with hesitation, that perhaps four hundred francs would be enough. Monsieur Loisel grew a little pale. He had been saving exactly that amount to buy a gun, because he wanted to go hunting with friends during the summer. But he loved her, and he wanted peace. “Very well,” he said. “I will give you four hundred francs. But try to get a beautiful dress.”
　　The dress was made, and the day of the party came nearer. Yet Mathilde was not happy. Her husband noticed that she had become silent and worried again. One evening, he asked what was wrong now, because her dress was ready. She answered that she was troubled because she had no jewel, not even one small stone, to wear with it. She said she would look poor among rich women, and this shame seemed worse to her than not going at all.
　　Her husband tried to help in the simple way he understood. He said she could wear fresh flowers. In winter, he said, flowers would look very fine, and two or three lovely roses would cost only a little. But Mathilde did not agree. To her, flowers were not enough. She said there was nothing more humiliating than looking poor in the middle of rich women. Then Monsieur Loisel suddenly had an idea. He told her to visit Madame Forestier and ask to borrow some jewels from her.
　　Mathilde gave a cry of joy. She had not thought of this, and the idea seemed to open the door again. The next day, she went to her friend’s house and explained her trouble. Madame Forestier listened kindly and then went to a large mirror-fronted cupboard. She took out a jewel box, opened it, and placed it before Mathilde. “Choose, my dear,” she said. The words seemed magical to Mathilde, because for once she could touch the world she had always wanted.
　　First she saw bracelets. Then she saw a pearl necklace and a gold cross with bright stones. She tried them on before the mirror, took them off, put them on again, and could not decide. Each one made her feel richer than she had ever felt. Still, she asked if there was anything else. Madame Forestier told her to search, because she did not know what would please her most. Then, in a black satin box, Mathilde found a shining diamond necklace.
　　Her heart began to beat very fast. Her hands trembled as she lifted the necklace and placed it around her neck. The stones shone against her dress, and suddenly she saw the woman she had always wanted to be. She stood before the mirror and could hardly move. After a moment, in a voice full of fear and desire, she asked if she could borrow that necklace, only that one. Madame Forestier said yes at once. Mathilde kissed her friend with wild happiness and hurried away with the treasure.
　　The night of the party arrived. Mathilde was a great success. She was prettier than the other women, full of grace, smiles, and joy. Men looked at her, asked her name, and wished to be introduced to her. Important young men from the Ministry wanted to dance with her, and even the Minister noticed her. For several hours, she lived inside the dream that had filled her mind for so long.
　　She danced with deep pleasure. She thought of nothing except the music, the lights, the eyes turned toward her, and the feeling of victory. Her beauty seemed to carry her above her ordinary life. She forgot the small rooms, the old chairs, the soup at the plain table, and the servant girl. She forgot her husband sleeping in a small empty room after midnight with three other tired men. In that shining world, she felt that she had finally become her true self.
　　At about four in the morning, she was ready to leave. Her husband came with the simple wraps he had brought for her shoulders. They were ordinary clothes, the clothes of their real life, and they looked poor beside her beautiful dress. Mathilde felt the difference at once. She was afraid the other women, wrapped in rich furs, would see her and understand her poverty. So she hurried away, trying to escape before anyone noticed.
　　Monsieur Loisel tried to stop her. He told her to wait inside because the street was cold and he would call a cab. But she did not listen. She ran down the stairs, and he had to follow her. Outside, they found no cab waiting. They walked through the cold streets, calling to drivers they saw far away, but none came to them. At last, near the river, they found an old night cab, the kind that seemed too poor and shameful to appear during the day.
　　The cab took them back to their home in the Rue des Martyrs. They climbed the stairs sadly and slowly. For Mathilde, the beautiful evening was finished. For her husband, the next day had already begun in his mind, because he had to be at work by ten o’clock. In their room, Mathilde took off the poor wrap before the mirror. She wanted to see herself one last time in the glory of the dress and the diamonds.
　　Suddenly she gave a cry. The necklace was no longer around her neck. Her husband, who had already begun to undress, turned toward her in alarm. She could hardly speak. At last she said that Madame Forestier’s necklace was gone. Monsieur Loisel jumped up in terror. He said it was impossible, and together they began to search everywhere.
　　They looked in the folds of her dress, in the folds of the wrap, in the pockets, and around the room. They found nothing. He asked if she had still had it when they left the party. She said yes, because she had touched it in the entrance hall of the Ministry. He said that if it had fallen in the street, they would have heard it. Then it must be in the cab. But neither of them had looked at the number of the cab. They stood facing each other, pale and lost, unable to think clearly.
　　At last Monsieur Loisel dressed again. He said he would walk over the whole way they had taken, to see if he could find it. Then he went out into the cold morning. Mathilde stayed in her evening dress, too weak to go to bed. She sat on a chair without fire, without movement, and almost without thought. Around her, the little room had returned. The dream was over, and in its place stood a disaster greater than anything she had imagined.

Part 3: Ten Years for Nothing

　　Monsieur Loisel returned at about seven in the morning. His face was gray, and his clothes were wet from the cold streets. He had found nothing. He had walked back over the whole way from the Ministry to their house. He had gone to the police, to the newspaper offices, and to the cab companies. He had offered a reward. But no one had seen the necklace, and no one had brought it back.
　　Mathilde listened to him without moving. She still wore her evening dress, and the dress looked sad now in the pale morning light. Her hair was falling down, and the joy of the ball had disappeared from her face. Her husband told her what they must do first. They must write to Madame Forestier and say that the clasp of the necklace had broken and that they were having it repaired. This would give them a little time.
　　Mathilde wrote the letter as he spoke. Her hand shook, but she wrote each word carefully. It was their first lie, and it came because they were afraid. After the letter was sent, they waited. For a week, they hoped each day that the necklace would be found. Each evening destroyed that hope a little more.
　　At the end of the week, Monsieur Loisel looked like an older man. Trouble had put years on his face in only a few days. He said that they had to replace the necklace. There was no other choice. They took the empty box and went to the jeweler whose name was inside it. But the jeweler checked his books and said he had not sold that necklace. He had only sold the box.
　　Then they went from shop to shop. They looked at many necklaces and tried to remember the exact shape, size, and light of the lost one. Both of them were sick with fear and grief. At last, in a shop at the Palais-Royal, they found a diamond necklace that looked almost the same. It was priced at forty thousand francs, but the jeweler said he would sell it for thirty-six thousand.
　　They asked him not to sell it for three days. They also made an agreement: if they found the lost necklace before the end of February, the jeweler would buy this new one back for thirty-four thousand francs. Monsieur Loisel had eighteen thousand francs from his father. For the rest, he had to borrow. He went to many people, asking a thousand francs from one, five hundred from another, and smaller sums wherever he could get them.
　　He signed papers and made dangerous promises. He borrowed from hard lenders and from people who asked for high interest. He risked all his future without knowing whether he could ever pay. The fear of poverty stood before him like a dark wall. Still, he went back to the shop and placed thirty-six thousand francs on the counter. Then he took the new necklace.
　　Mathilde carried it to Madame Forestier. Her heart beat hard as she gave back the box. Madame Forestier looked a little annoyed and said, “You should have returned it sooner. I might have needed it.” Mathilde felt cold with fear. But Madame Forestier did not open the box. If she had opened it, she might have noticed the change. She might have thought Mathilde was a thief.
　　After that, Mathilde learned the terrible life of poor people. She accepted it suddenly and bravely, because the great debt had to be paid. They sent away the servant girl. They left their apartment and rented a small room under the roof. The room was narrow, hot in summer, cold in winter, and far above the street. Mathilde, who had dreamed of rich rooms and soft chairs, now lived close to the sky like a servant.
　　She did all the heavy work of the home. She washed the dishes and hurt her hands on greasy pots and pans. She washed dirty clothes and cloths, then hung them on a line to dry. Every morning she carried the rubbish down to the street and carried water up the stairs. At each floor she had to stop and breathe, because the water was heavy and the stairs seemed endless.
　　She dressed like a poor woman and went out with a basket on her arm. She went to the fruit seller, the grocer, and the butcher. She argued over every coin. Some sellers spoke rudely to her, and she answered loudly because she had to protect the little money she had. The young woman who had wanted admiration now fought in shops for a few cents.
　　Each month they had to pay one debt and renew another. Monsieur Loisel worked at his office during the day. In the evening, he kept accounts for a shopkeeper. Often at night, he copied pages for a few coins a page. He became tired, thin, and silent. Their whole life became work, debt, and fear of the next payment.
　　This life lasted ten years. At the end of ten years, they had paid everything. They had paid the money they borrowed, the interest, and the interest upon the interest. Nothing was left from their youth except memory. Mathilde now looked old. She had become strong, hard, and rough, like a woman from a poor household who has fought every day for bread.
　　Her hair was badly done, her skirts were not straight, and her hands were red from work. She spoke loudly and washed floors with large amounts of water. But sometimes, when her husband was at the office, she sat near the window and thought of that evening long ago. She saw again the bright rooms, the music, the smiles, and the men who had looked at her with admiration. She asked herself what would have happened if she had not lost the necklace. Life can change because of one small thing.
　　One Sunday, when all the debts had been paid, Mathilde went for a walk to rest from the week’s work. She walked along the Champs-Élysées and saw a woman with a child. It was Madame Forestier. She was still young, still beautiful, and still fresh-looking. Mathilde stopped. For a moment she was afraid to speak, because she herself had changed so much. Then she thought that everything was paid now, so she could tell the truth.
　　She went up to her and said, “Good morning, Jeanne.” Madame Forestier did not know her. She was surprised that this poor woman spoke to her so warmly. Mathilde smiled sadly and said, “You do not know me? I am Mathilde Loisel.” Madame Forestier cried out in surprise. She said that Mathilde had changed very much, and Mathilde answered that she had lived through hard days because of her.
　　Then Mathilde told her the whole story. She told her about the lost necklace, the new necklace, the money, the debt, and the ten years of work. She spoke almost with pride, because the terrible life was now finished. Madame Forestier took both her hands. Her face had become pale with shock. “Oh, my poor Mathilde,” she said. “My necklace was not made of real diamonds. It was worth only five hundred francs.”



The Horla [Le Horla]

Part 1: A Happy House by the Seine

　　8 May. What a beautiful day this has been. I spent the whole morning lying on the grass in front of my house. Above me stood the great plane tree that covers the house, protects it, and gives it shade. I love this land because my roots are here. My family lived and died here before me, and because of that I feel tied to the earth, the food, the words, the voices of the people, and even the smell of the air.
　　I love the house where I grew up. From my windows, I can see the Seine flowing past my garden. It is a wide, strong river, going from Rouen toward Le Havre, and many boats pass along it. To the left, far away, lies Rouen, with its blue roofs and many church towers. On clear mornings, the bells ring from the city, and the sound comes to me through the air. Sometimes the bells sound near, and sometimes they seem very far away, as the wind rises and falls.
　　This morning, everything seemed full of peace. Around eleven o’clock, a long line of ships passed before my gate. A small steam boat pulled them along, working hard and throwing thick smoke into the sky. First came two English ships with red flags. Then came a beautiful Brazilian ship with three masts. It was white, clean, shining, and so pleasing to the eye that I lifted my hand and greeted it, though I do not know why I did so.
　　11 May. For several days I have had a little fever. I feel ill, or perhaps I should say I feel sad. I do not understand how happiness can change so quickly into fear and weakness. Sometimes I wake with joy in me, ready to sing. Then I walk by the water for a short time and come home heavy with sadness, as if some trouble is waiting for me inside the house. Why does this happen? I cannot tell.
　　Perhaps the air around us is full of powers that we cannot see. Perhaps the shape of clouds, the color of the day, or the look of ordinary things can touch the mind and change it. We pass through the world, but we do not truly know what touches us. We see without really seeing. We hear without understanding. A small change in the air, in light, or in our body may be enough to turn a happy man into a sad one.
　　The world of invisible things is deep and strange. Our senses are poor tools. Our eyes cannot see things that are too small, too large, too near, or too far. Our ears do not hear the world itself; they only change movements in the air into sound. Our smell is weaker than a dog’s, and our taste can hardly know the age of wine. If we had other senses, perhaps we would discover many things around us that are hidden now.
　　16 May. I am truly ill. Last month I was so well, but now I have a terrible fever. It is not only in my body. It is also in my mind. I feel a danger near me all the time. I feel as if some misfortune is coming, or as if death itself is walking toward me. Perhaps this is only the first sign of an illness that I do not yet understand. Perhaps something has begun in my blood and body, and my mind already feels it.
　　18 May. I have been to see my doctor because I can no longer sleep. He examined me and said my pulse was fast. He said my eyes were too wide and my nerves were too active. But he found no clear sign of a dangerous illness. He told me to take cold water treatment and medicine to calm my nerves. I obeyed him, because there was nothing else to do. Still, I came home with the same fear in me.
　　25 May. There is no change. My state is truly strange. As evening comes near, a fear that I cannot understand enters me. It is as if the night hides some terrible threat for me alone. I eat dinner quickly and try to read, but I cannot understand the words. Soon I can hardly see the letters. Then I walk back and forth in my sitting room, held by a fear that I cannot master, the fear of sleep and the fear of my bed.
　　Around ten o’clock, I go up to my room. As soon as I enter, I lock the door twice and push the bolts into place. I am afraid, but of what? Until now, I feared nothing. I open my cupboards. I look under the bed. I listen. I listen again. What am I listening for? It is strange that a small trouble in the body, perhaps only a nerve or a rush of blood, can make the happiest man sad and the bravest man afraid.
　　Then I go to bed and wait for sleep as a man might wait for an executioner. I fear its coming. My heart beats, my legs shake, and my whole body moves under the warm bedclothes. At last I fall suddenly into sleep, as if I were falling into deep still water. I do not feel sleep come gently, as I once did. It seems hidden near me, watching for its chance to take my head, close my eyes, and destroy me for a time.
　　I sleep for two or three hours. Then a dream comes, or rather a nightmare. I know that I am lying in my bed and that I am asleep. I know it clearly. But I also feel that someone is coming near me. Someone looks at me, touches me, climbs onto my bed, kneels on my chest, takes my throat in both hands, and presses hard to choke me.
　　I try to fight, but I am held by the terrible weakness that comes in dreams. I want to cry out, but I cannot. I want to move, but I cannot. I try with all my strength to turn, to push away the being that is crushing me and taking my breath, but I cannot do it. Then suddenly I wake, wild with fear and covered with sweat. I light a candle at once. I am alone.
　　After this attack, which now comes every night, I finally sleep quietly until morning. But the quiet sleep does not comfort me. I know that night will return, and with it the same fear. The house I loved so much now feels changed after sunset. The room is the same, the bed is the same, the doors and walls are the same, yet something in my mind waits and trembles. I do not know whether the danger is outside me or inside me, and that not knowing is the worst part of all.

Part 2: Fear in the Body

　　2 June. My condition has become worse again. What is happening to me? The medicine does nothing, and the cold water treatment does nothing. Today, I tried to tire my body, though my body is already tired enough. I went for a walk in the forest of Roumare. At first, the fresh air seemed to help me. It was soft and light, and it smelled of grass and leaves. I felt, for a short time, as if new blood had entered my body and new strength had entered my heart.
　　I took a wide hunting path through the forest. Then I turned toward La Bouille by a narrow path between two lines of very tall trees. Their tops met above me and made a thick green roof. It was almost black under that roof, though the day was bright outside the forest. Suddenly, a shiver passed through me. It was not a shiver of cold. It was a strange shiver of fear.
　　I began to walk faster. I was uneasy because I was alone in the wood. I was afraid without a reason, and that made the fear even more foolish and more painful. Then, all at once, I felt that someone was following me. It seemed that someone was walking just behind me, very close, so close that he might touch my back. I turned around quickly. I was alone.
　　Behind me, I saw only the straight wide path. It was empty, high, and terrible in its emptiness. In front of me, the same path went on and on, almost without end. Both ways looked the same. Both ways frightened me. I closed my eyes, though I do not know why. Then I began to turn round and round on one foot, very fast, like a child’s toy. I nearly fell. When I opened my eyes again, the trees seemed to dance, and the ground seemed to move.
　　I had to sit down. Then a strange thing happened in my mind. I no longer knew which way I had come. The idea was absurd, but it was true. I did not know where I was, though I had walked there only a short time before. I looked at the paths and the trees, but they gave me no answer. At last, I chose the side to my right and began to walk. After some time, I came back to the great path that had first brought me into the middle of the forest.
　　3 June. Last night was horrible. I have decided to leave my house for several weeks. A short journey may restore me. Perhaps the house itself is bad for me now. Perhaps my mind has become too full of the same walls, the same rooms, and the same silent nights. I need other roads, other faces, and another sky. I must go away before fear becomes the master of me.
　　2 July. I have returned. I am cured. I made a charming journey, and it has done me good. I visited Mont Saint-Michel, which I had never seen before. What a sight it is when one arrives near evening at Avranches. The town stands on a hill, and someone took me to the public garden at the end of the town. There I gave a cry of surprise.
　　Before me lay an immense bay. It seemed to stretch farther than sight could follow, between two distant shores fading into mist. In the middle of that great yellow bay, under a sky full of gold and light, rose a strange dark hill from the sand. The sun had just gone down, and the edge of the sky was still bright with fire. Against that bright sky stood the shape of the rock, with the great building on its top. It looked almost unreal, like something from a dream.
　　At dawn, I went toward it. The sea was low, as it had been the evening before. As I walked nearer, I watched the wonderful abbey grow larger before me. After several hours of walking, I reached the huge block of stone that carries the little town and the great church. I climbed the steep narrow street and entered the beautiful old building. It was like a city made for God, full of low rooms under heavy stone roofs and high galleries held by thin columns. It was made of stone, yet it seemed almost light.
　　The towers, stairs, arches, and strange stone figures rose into the sky. Some figures looked like animals, some like devils, and some like flowers from a bad dream. Everything seemed at once heavy and delicate. When I reached the top, I said to the monk who was guiding me, “Father, you must be very happy here.” He answered simply, “There is a great deal of wind, monsieur.” Then we stood together and watched the sea come in. It ran over the sand and covered it little by little, like a shining coat of steel.
　　The monk began to tell me stories. They were old stories of the place, legends that people had repeated for many years. One of them struck me deeply. The people of the Mont say that at night, voices can be heard speaking out on the sand. Then two goats can be heard crying, one with a strong voice and one with a weak voice. People who do not believe the story say these are only sea birds. Their cries can sound like animals or like human voices.
　　But late fishermen swear they have seen something else. They say that, between two tides, near the town that stands far from the world, an old shepherd walks over the sand. His head is never seen because it is covered by his cloak. Before him he drives two strange animals. One is a male goat with the face of a man, and the other is a female goat with the face of a woman. Both have long white hair. They speak together in an unknown language, quarrel loudly, and then suddenly stop speaking and cry like goats.
　　I asked the monk, “Do you believe this?” He said in a low voice, “I do not know.” I answered, “If there were other beings on earth besides us, how could we not know them already? How could you not have seen them? How could I not have seen them?” He replied, “Do we see even a very small part of what exists? Look at the wind. It is one of the strongest powers in nature. It knocks down men, destroys houses, pulls up trees, lifts the sea into mountains of water, breaks cliffs, and throws ships onto rocks. It kills, it cries, it whistles, and it roars. Have you seen it? Can you see it? Yet it exists.”
　　I said nothing after that. His words were simple, but they stopped me. Perhaps he was wise, or perhaps he was only foolish in a serious way. I could not be sure. But I had often thought something like this myself. The invisible world may be close to us, touching us at every moment, while our eyes see nothing. This thought did not frighten me then as it had frightened me at home. In that great place, with the sea rising and the wind moving around the stone walls, it seemed almost natural.

Part 3: The Invisible Power 　

　　3 July. I slept badly again. There must be some unhealthy power in this place, because my coachman is suffering in the same way as I am. When I came home yesterday, I noticed that he looked strangely pale. I asked him what was wrong. He answered that he could no longer rest, because his nights were eating his days. Since I left the house, he said, this trouble had held him like a spell.
　　The other servants are well, so I do not know what to think. Still, I am afraid that the same evil is taking hold of me again. I had believed myself cured after my journey, but that belief now seems weak. My house, which I love, has begun again to feel dangerous. The rooms are quiet, the garden is bright, and the river moves as before, but something hidden seems to wait under all these familiar things.
　　4 July. I am certainly ill again. My old nightmares have returned. Last night, I felt someone crouching on me. Its mouth was on my mouth, and it was drinking my life from between my lips. Yes, it was drawing life from my throat as a leech draws blood. Then it rose, satisfied, and I woke so bruised, broken, and empty that I could not move.
　　If this continues for a few more days, I will leave again. I cannot stay here if sleep becomes a battle every night. I fear my bed before I enter it. I fear the hour when the candle goes out. I fear the silence after the house becomes still. Most of all, I fear the moment when my own will disappears and something else seems to enter the room.
　　5 July. Have I lost my reason? What happened last night was so strange that my mind becomes confused when I think of it. As I now do every evening, I locked my door. Then I became thirsty and drank half a glass of water. I noticed, by chance, that the water bottle on my table was full up to its glass stopper. After that, I went to bed and fell into one of my terrible sleeps.
　　About two hours later, I woke with a shock. I felt like a man who has been attacked in his sleep and wakes with death already near him. I could hardly breathe. I was covered with fear and did not understand anything. Then thirst came back to me. I lit a candle and went to the table where the water bottle stood.
　　I lifted the bottle and bent it over my glass. Nothing came out. It was empty, completely empty. At first I did not understand. Then a terrible fear struck me, and I had to sit down. I stood up again quickly and looked around the room. Then I sat down once more, shaking before that clear empty bottle.
　　Who had drunk the water? I must have done it. It could only be me. Then perhaps I walk in my sleep. Perhaps I live another secret life at night and know nothing of it in the morning. Perhaps there are two beings inside us, one that thinks and one that obeys in the dark. Or perhaps some unknown and invisible being uses our body when our mind is asleep.
　　Who can understand my fear? I was awake, reasonable, and alone in my room, yet I was staring at water that had disappeared while I slept. I did not dare go back to bed. I sat there until morning with the candle burning low. The daylight came little by little through the window, but it did not bring peace. It only showed me the empty bottle more clearly.
　　6 July. I am becoming mad. Again, the whole bottle of water was drunk during the night. Or rather, I drank it. But was it truly me? Was it me? Who else could it be? My God, who will save me from this fear?
　　10 July. I have made strange tests. I am certainly mad, and yet the facts remain. On the night of 6 July, before going to bed, I placed wine, milk, water, bread, and strawberries on my table. In the morning, all the water was gone, and a little of the milk was gone. Nothing had touched the wine, the bread, or the strawberries.
　　On 7 July, I did the same test again, and the result was the same. On 8 July, I removed the water and milk. Nothing was touched. On 9 July, I put only water and milk on the table. I wrapped the bottles in white cloth and tied the stoppers carefully. Then I rubbed my lips, my beard, and my hands with black powder, so that I would leave marks if I moved in the night.
　　Sleep took me with its usual power, and the terrible waking followed. I had not moved. There were no marks on my sheets. I ran to the table. The white cloths around the bottles were clean. My hands trembled as I untied them. All the water had been drunk, and all the milk had been drunk. I cannot bear this. I am leaving for Paris at once.
　　12 July. Paris. I must have lost my mind during the last few days. My tired imagination must have played with me. Or perhaps I truly walk in my sleep. Or perhaps I was under one of those strange influences that people call suggestion. In any case, I was close to madness, and twenty-four hours in Paris have been enough to make me steady again.
　　Yesterday I went out, made visits, and breathed new life through the streets. In the evening, I went to the Théâtre-Français and saw a play by Alexandre Dumas fils. The quick strong mind in that play finished my cure. Solitude is dangerous for a working mind. We need people around us, people who think and speak. When we are alone too long, we fill the empty air with ghosts.
　　I came back to my hotel very cheerful, walking along the boulevards among the crowd. I thought of my fears with a kind of shame and laughter. Last week, I had believed that an invisible being lived under my roof. How weak the human mind is. When we cannot explain one small thing, we do not simply say, “I do not understand.” Instead, we make dark mysteries and terrible powers.
　　14 July. It is the day of the Republic. I walked through the streets, and the flags and small explosions amused me like a child. Still, it is foolish to be happy on a fixed date because the government says so. People are like a herd. One day they are patient, another day they are violent. Someone tells them to celebrate, and they celebrate. Someone tells them to fight, and they go to fight. We are not sure of anything in this world, yet people obey words and ideas as if they were stone.
　　16 July. Yesterday I saw things that troubled me deeply. I had dinner at the house of my cousin, Madame Sablé. Her husband commands a cavalry regiment in Limoges. Two young women were also there, and one was married to Doctor Parent. He is very interested in nervous illnesses and in the strange experiments now being made with hypnotism and suggestion. He told us about surprising results found by English doctors and by doctors from Nancy.
　　What he said sounded so strange that I said I did not believe it. He answered that we were close to discovering one of nature’s great secrets. Since human beings first began to think, he said, they have felt that invisible mysteries are near them. In older times, this fear made stories about spirits, fairies, ghosts, and gods. But now, he said, science has begun to touch the real power behind some of these mysteries. He called it magnetism, hypnotism, suggestion, and other names.
　　My cousin smiled because she did not believe him either. Then Doctor Parent asked if she would let him try to put her to sleep. She agreed and sat in an armchair. He looked fixedly at her for a long time. I felt troubled as I watched. Her eyes became heavy, her mouth tightened, and her breathing changed. After about ten minutes, she was asleep.
　　The doctor told me to sit behind her. Then he placed a visiting card in her hands and told her it was a mirror. He asked what she saw in it. She said she saw me. He asked what I was doing. She said I was twisting my mustache, and that was true. Then she said I was taking a photograph from my pocket, and that too was true. She described the photograph, though she could not see it with ordinary eyes.
　　The women were frightened and cried that the experiment should stop. But the doctor gave my sleeping cousin an order. He told her that the next morning at eight o’clock she would come to my hotel and ask me to lend her five thousand francs for her husband. Then he woke her. I went back to my hotel troubled and doubtful. I wondered whether the doctor had tricked us with a hidden mirror, as stage magicians do stranger things.
　　This morning, at about half past eight, my servant woke me and said that Madame Sablé wished to see me at once. She came in very disturbed and asked me for five thousand francs. She said her husband needed the money. I questioned her, and she suffered greatly, but she held to the idea that she must have it that day. Then I understood. She was obeying the order given in her sleep.
　　I went to Doctor Parent, and he came with me to my cousin’s house. She was lying down, tired from the struggle. He put her to sleep again and told her that her husband no longer needed the money and that she would forget the request. When she woke, I offered her the money, but she did not understand what I meant. She denied everything and almost became angry. I have just returned, and I cannot eat. This experiment has shaken me too deeply.
　　19 July. Many people to whom I told this story have laughed at me. I no longer know what to think. A wise man says only one word before such things: perhaps.
　　21 July. I dined at Bougival and spent the evening at the boatmen’s dance. Now I feel that everything depends on place and mood. To believe in the supernatural at the island of La Grenouillère would be complete madness. But on the top of Mont Saint-Michel, or in India, the same belief might seem possible. We are terribly influenced by what surrounds us. I will return home next week.

Part 4: The Name Horla

　　30 July. I have been back in my house since yesterday. Everything is well. I walk through the rooms without fear, and the garden looks friendly again. Perhaps the journey, the city, the people, and the movement of ordinary life have truly helped me. I want to believe that the strange sickness has passed.
　　2 August. Nothing new has happened. The weather is beautiful. I spend my days watching the Seine flow past my garden. The water moves slowly, carrying boats, light, and shadows toward the sea. Sometimes I feel almost calm, as if my old life has returned.
　　4 August. There have been quarrels among my servants. They say that glasses are broken at night inside the cupboards. The valet accuses the cook, the cook accuses the laundry woman, and she accuses the others. No one knows who is guilty. I listen to them, and I try to smile, but the old fear touches me again.
　　6 August. This time, I am not mad. I have seen it. I have seen it with my own eyes, and now I cannot doubt. I am still cold in my fingers and in my bones. I am still afraid as I write these words.
　　I was walking at two o’clock in the afternoon, in full sunlight, among my rose bushes. The autumn roses had begun to bloom. I stopped before one strong rose bush that carried three beautiful flowers. Then, quite near me, I saw the stem of one rose bend, as if an invisible hand had twisted it. It broke, as if that same hand had picked it.
　　Then the red flower rose into the air. It followed the curve that an arm would make when lifting a flower toward a mouth. It stayed there, alone, hanging in the clear air, a red spot three steps from my eyes. I threw myself toward it to catch it. My hands found nothing, and the flower disappeared.
　　At first I became angry with myself. A serious and reasonable man has no right to see such things. I told myself that it must be a vision, a sickness of the eyes or the brain. But then I turned back to the rose bush. The broken stem was there, fresh and wet, between the two flowers that remained.
　　I went back into the house with my mind broken open by fear. Now I am certain, as certain as I am that day follows night. There is near me an invisible being. It drinks water and milk. It can touch things, take them, and move them. So it must have a body of some kind, though my senses cannot find it. It lives under my roof as I do.
　　7 August. I slept peacefully. It drank the water from my bottle, but it did not trouble my sleep. Today, while I walked in bright sunlight by the river, I began to ask myself if I was mad. This was not a weak doubt like before. It was a clear and terrible doubt. I have seen mad people who could speak wisely about everything except one point. On that one point, their reason fell apart.
　　Perhaps I am like them. Perhaps I am clear-minded in everything except this one strange belief. Perhaps a small part of my brain no longer works correctly, the part that tells true things from false visions. In dreams we accept impossible events because the judging part of the mind is asleep. Perhaps, while I am awake, that judging part has fallen asleep in me only for this one matter.
　　I thought about this as I followed the river. The sun covered the water with light, and the earth seemed sweet. I loved the swallows moving quickly above the river. I loved the grass along the bank, moving softly in the air. Life seemed good, and for a short time I wanted to live simply, without fear.
　　But little by little, a strange uneasiness entered me. It felt as if a hidden force were stopping me and calling me back. I had the painful need to return, as one returns when a loved person is sick at home and one fears bad news. I went back against my own will. There was no letter, no message, and no visible trouble, but I felt more disturbed than if I had seen another impossible thing.
　　8 August. Last night was terrible. It did not show itself, but I felt it near me. I felt it watching me, looking into me, entering my thoughts, and ruling me. It is more frightening when it hides than when it makes its presence known by strange signs. Still, I slept.
　　9 August. Nothing happened, but I am afraid. 10 August. Nothing happened. What will happen tomorrow? 11 August. Still nothing, but I cannot stay in this house with this fear and this thought living inside my soul. I will leave.
　　12 August, ten o’clock at night. All day I wanted to go away, but I could not. I wanted to do the easiest thing in the world: go out, get into my carriage, and ride to Rouen. I could not do it. Why could I not do it? The door was open, the road was there, and yet my will was not mine.
　　13 August. When certain illnesses attack the body, all its springs seem broken. The muscles lose strength, the bones feel soft, and the flesh seems weak like water. I feel this now, but in my moral life, not in my body. I have no strength, no courage, and no power over myself. I cannot even set my own will in motion. I cannot will; someone else wills for me, and I obey.
　　14 August. I am lost. Someone owns my soul and rules it. Someone orders my acts, my movements, and my thoughts. I am no longer anything inside myself. I am only a frightened slave watching the things that I myself do. I want to go out, but I cannot. He does not want it, and so I stay, shaking, in the chair where he holds me.
　　I want only to stand up, just to believe for one second that I am still master of myself. But I cannot. I am fixed to my chair, and my chair seems fixed to the floor. Then suddenly I must go to the end of the garden, pick strawberries, and eat them. I do it. I pick the strawberries, and I eat them. My God, if there is a God, save me from this suffering.
　　15 August. Now I understand how my poor cousin was ruled when she came to ask me for five thousand francs. A strange will had entered her, like another soul, a ruling soul inside her own. Is the world coming to an end? Who is the invisible being that rules me? What is this unknown wanderer from a race above ours?
　　So invisible beings exist. But why have they not shown themselves clearly since the beginning of the world? I have never read anything like what has happened in my house. If only I could leave. If only I could go away and never return. I would be saved, but I cannot.
　　16 August. Today I escaped for two hours, like a prisoner who suddenly finds the door of his cell open. I felt, all at once, that I was free and that he was far away. I ordered the carriage at once and went to Rouen. What joy it was to say to a man who obeyed me, “Go to Rouen.” For a moment, my voice, my order, and my life belonged to me again.
　　I stopped at the library and asked for a great book by Doctor Hermann Herestauss about unknown beings in ancient and modern times. Then, when I got back into my carriage, I wanted to say, “To the station.” I wanted to leave and escape forever. But I shouted, so loudly that people turned to look at me, “Home.” Then I fell back on the seat, sick with fear. He had found me and taken me again.
　　17 August. What a night. Yet perhaps I should be glad. Until one in the morning, I read the book by Hermann Herestauss. He tells the history of all the invisible beings that human beings have feared or imagined around them. But none of them is like the one that haunts me. It is as if human beings have always felt that a new being would come, stronger than we are, and have made ghosts and spirits from that fear.
　　After reading, I sat beside my open window to cool my head in the night air. There was no moon, but the stars trembled in the dark sky. I thought of the worlds above us and wondered who lives there. What do they know that we do not know? What can they do that we cannot do? Perhaps one day a being from far away will come to earth and rule us, as stronger peoples have ruled weaker peoples.
　　I fell asleep for about forty minutes. Then I opened my eyes without moving, woken by a strange feeling. At first I saw nothing. Then I thought I saw a page of the open book turn by itself on my table. No wind had entered the room.
　　I waited, surprised and frozen. After a few minutes, another page rose and fell over the first, as if a finger had turned it. My chair looked empty, but I understood that he was there, sitting in my place and reading. With a wild jump, like an animal attacking its master, I rushed forward to seize him. But before I reached the chair, it fell backward, the table shook, the lamp fell and went out, and the window closed as if someone had escaped into the night.
　　So he had fled. He had been afraid, afraid of me. Then one day, tomorrow or later, I may catch him and crush him to the floor. Do dogs not sometimes bite and kill their masters? I too may have my hour.
　　18 August. I have thought all day. Yes, I will obey him. I will follow his pushes, do what he wants, and make myself humble, weak, and submissive. He is stronger than I am. But an hour will come.
　　19 August. I know. I know everything. Today I read in a scientific journal about a strange madness in the province of San-Paulo in Brazil. People there are leaving their houses and villages because they believe invisible beings are following and ruling them. These beings drink their life during sleep, and they also drink water and milk without touching other food. Doctors and scholars have gone there to study the matter and advise the government.
　　Then I remembered the beautiful Brazilian ship that passed before my windows on 8 May. I remember how white and happy it looked. The Being was on that ship, coming from the land where its race was born. It saw me. It saw my white house beside the river, and it came from the ship to the shore.
　　Now I know. The rule of man is finished. The thing that old peoples feared, the thing that priests and magicians tried to name in the dark, has truly come at last. Doctors have already touched a little of its power without understanding what they were doing. They called it magnetism, hypnotism, and suggestion, and they played with it like children playing with a dangerous fire.
　　The new master has come. Its name came to me as if it were crying the word into my ear, though I could hardly hear it. Horla. Yes, the Horla. That is its name, and it has come. The vulture ate the dove, the wolf ate the sheep, the lion ate the wild bull, and man killed the lion. Now the Horla will make man his servant, his thing, and his food. Yet even an animal sometimes turns against its master. I must know it, touch it, see it, and kill it.

Part 5: Fire and the Last Thought

　　19 August. It may be possible to kill him. I must not think only of fear now. I must think like a hunter watching a dangerous animal. He lives in my house, he follows me, and he takes my life little by little. But he also has needs. He drinks, he reads, he moves, and perhaps he can be trapped. If he has entered this world, then perhaps this world can hurt him.
　　I lit my two lamps and all the candles on the mantelpiece. I made the room as bright as day, though I knew that light alone could not show him to me. Before me stood my old oak bed with its posts. To the right was the fireplace, and to the left was the door, which I had locked carefully after leaving it open for a long time to draw him in. Behind me stood the tall mirror cupboard that I used every day when I shaved, dressed, and looked at myself from head to foot.
　　I pretended to write, because I wanted to deceive him. I felt that he was watching me too. Suddenly, I was certain that he was reading over my shoulder. He was there, close to my ear, so close that I could almost feel him touch me. I stood up with my hands stretched out and turned so quickly that I nearly fell. The room was full of light, but in the mirror I saw nothing of myself.
　　The mirror was empty, clear, deep, and bright. I stood before it, but my image was not there. I could see the whole glass from top to bottom, and it showed only light. I stared at it like a madman and did not dare move. I knew that he was between the mirror and me. His unseen body had swallowed my reflection.
　　Then, little by little, I began to appear again. First I saw myself far away in a kind of mist, as if I were under water. The mist moved slowly from one side to the other, and my shape became clearer with every second. It was like the end of an eclipse, when the hidden light returns. The thing that covered me had no clear edge, only a thick transparency that became thinner and thinner. At last, I saw myself completely, as I do every day. I had seen him.
　　20 August. How can I kill him? I cannot touch him. Poison? No, he would see me put it in the water, and perhaps our poisons would do nothing to his unseen body. A knife, a gun, a rope, all these belong to our poor human world. He is not like us. Yet he has a body of some kind, because he hides my reflection, drinks, moves things, and reads. I must find a way to close him in, and then the house itself must become the weapon.
　　21 August. I sent for a locksmith from Rouen. I ordered iron shutters for my room, like those on the lower windows of some houses in Paris, where people fear thieves. I also ordered a strong iron door. I told him I wanted protection from robbers. He believed me, or at least he acted as if he believed me. He measured everything, and I watched him with a calm face, though inside I was burning with my secret plan.
　　10 September. Rouen, Hôtel Continental. It is done. It is done, but is he dead? My hands still shake as I write. My mind goes back again and again to the same minutes, and I see every movement, every light, and every flame. Yesterday, after the locksmith had finished his work, I sent all my servants away from the house. I told them to visit friends in the village and not to return until late. I wanted the house empty, silent, and ready.
　　When evening came, I went up to my room as usual. I left the door open for a while, as if I had no fear. I sat at my table, with the lamps burning, and pretended to read. I waited for him. I felt him come. The air changed, and that silent pressure entered the room, the pressure I know too well. I did not move. I let him enter fully, and I let him believe that I was weak, obedient, and without suspicion.
　　Then I stood up slowly and walked out as if I were going to another room. The moment I was outside, I pulled the iron door shut and locked it. I had him. I had locked him inside. My heart struck my chest so hard that I could hardly breathe. I ran downstairs, taking the key with me. Then I went from room to room, opened the lower doors, and prepared the fire. I had planned everything, and now my hands worked faster than thought.
　　I went outside and looked at the house. It stood calm in the night, white and silent beside the garden and the river. For a moment, I loved it again. It was the house of my childhood, the house of my family, the house that had held my whole life. Then I remembered the being upstairs, closed inside my room, reading perhaps, waiting perhaps, not yet knowing that I had become his enemy. I threw fire into the places I had prepared and watched the first flames take hold.
　　The fire grew quickly. A window broke with a sharp sound, and a tongue of flame shot out. Then another window broke. Soon the whole lower part of the house was a terrible fire. I stood back in the garden, unable to move, staring like a man at a great sacrifice. I thought, “He is in there. He is my prisoner. The new master, the Horla, is burning.”
　　Then a horrible cry cut through the night. It was a woman’s cry, high, sharp, and full of terror. Two attic windows opened at the same time, and I saw faces, wild with fear, and arms waving in the smoke. I had forgotten my servants. I had forgotten the living people who slept under my roof. Horror struck me so hard that I began to run toward the village, shouting, “Help! Help! Fire! Fire!”
　　People were already coming. I met them on the road, then turned and ran back with them. But the house was now only one great burning mass. The flames lit the whole earth around it. The roof suddenly fell in between the walls, and a volcano of fire rose up into the sky. Through the open windows, I saw only a deep red furnace. Men were burning there, and with them, perhaps, he was burning too.
　　Dead? Perhaps. But was he dead? Could the same things that kill our bodies kill his body? His body had let daylight pass through it. His body had no shape that my hands could seize. If he feared fire, why had he come from that other world stronger than ours? Perhaps time alone can touch him. Perhaps he cannot die before his own day, his own hour, and his own minute.
　　No. No. Without doubt, he is not dead. Man can die from anything, at any moment, by accident, illness, fire, water, or fear. After man has come the Horla, the being that may not die until its true time has come. I burned my house, and I burned my servants, but perhaps I did not burn him. If he lives, he will return. Then there is only one thing left. I must kill myself.



A Country Excursion [Une Partie de campagne]

Part 1: The Dufours Go to the Country

　　For five months, the Dufour family had planned a day in the country. They would go outside Paris and have lunch there on the name day of Madame Dufour, whose first name was Pétronille. They had waited for this trip with great excitement. So, on the chosen morning, everyone got up very early. It was to be a simple day, but in their minds it had become a great family event.
　　Monsieur Dufour had borrowed the milkman’s little cart and drove it himself. The cart had two wheels and was very clean. It had a roof held up by four iron posts, and curtains could be tied to the sides, but they had lifted them so they could see the view. Only the back curtain moved in the wind like a small flag. Monsieur Dufour sat proudly in front, holding the reins and feeling almost like a man of the open road.
　　Madame Dufour sat beside her husband. She wore a bright cherry-colored silk dress, which made her look very pleased with herself and with the day. Behind them, on two chairs, sat an old grandmother and a young girl. The girl was Henriette, the daughter of the family. At the very back, because there was no seat left, a young man with yellow hair lay stretched out, and only his head could be seen. He was part of the party too, but he looked more like extra luggage than a guest.
　　They followed the Champs-Élysées and passed through the city gate at Porte Maillot. Then, at last, they began to look at the land outside Paris. For them, this was already the country. When they reached the bridge at Neuilly, Monsieur Dufour cried, “Here is the country at last!” At these words, Madame Dufour became deeply moved by nature. She looked around with soft eyes, as if the trees and fields had opened only for her.
　　At the round place near Courbevoie, they were struck with wonder by the wide view. Far away on the right, they could see Argenteuil and its church tower. Above it were the hills of Sannois and the Moulin d’Orgemont. On the left, the aqueduct of Marly stood against the sky, and on the far horizon one could see the high land near Louveciennes. The whole family admired everything, because each distant place seemed beautiful simply because it was not Paris.
　　Monsieur Dufour pointed out the places he knew, or thought he knew. He named towns, hills, and roads with a serious voice. Madame Dufour listened with respect, though she understood little of the map in his mind. The grandmother said small words of surprise from time to time. Henriette looked more quietly, but her eyes stayed open and bright. The fresh morning, the open sky, and the wide space touched her more deeply than she could say.
　　The road went on. They passed houses, gardens, fields, and little groups of trees. The cart shook over the road, and the horse moved at its slow steady pace. Dust rose lightly behind them. Sometimes Madame Dufour held her hat with one hand and laughed because the wind pushed at her face. Monsieur Dufour was cheerful and important, happy to command the horse, the family, and the day.
　　They wanted to find a good place to eat. But this was not easy. One place looked too poor, another too close to the road, another not pretty enough. Madame Dufour looked carefully at each inn and was slow to decide. She wanted trees, a view, and something that felt truly like the country. Monsieur Dufour began to grow impatient, because the morning was passing and lunch was becoming a serious matter.
　　At last, a man who passed by told them the name of the place. It was Bezons. Soon the cart stopped before a small country restaurant. Monsieur Dufour read the sign aloud. It said that Restaurant Poulin served fish stews and fried fish, and that it had private rooms, small garden places, and swings. These words sounded very inviting. He turned to his wife and asked if this place would finally satisfy her.
　　Madame Dufour read the sign in her turn. Then she looked at the house for a long time. It was a white country inn standing by the road. Through the open door, they could see the bright metal of the counter, and two workers in Sunday clothes stood before it. The place seemed simple, but it had life, shade, and the promise of food. At last Madame Dufour said that it was good, and besides, there was a view.
　　The cart entered a large piece of land behind the inn. Big trees grew there, and beyond them lay the towpath beside the Seine. The river was very close, though a road separated the garden from the water. The family climbed down. Monsieur Dufour jumped first, then opened his arms to receive his wife. The step was high, and Madame Dufour had some difficulty getting down with dignity.
　　The country air had already made Monsieur Dufour playful. As his wife stepped down, he pinched her leg quickly, then took her under the arms and lowered her heavily to the ground. She touched her silk dress with her hand to remove the dust and looked around at the place. She was about thirty-six years old, large, full-bodied, and cheerful to see. Her tight corset made her breathe with difficulty, but she still seemed happy to be there. The bright dress, the warm day, and the green trees gave her the air of a woman ready to enjoy herself.
　　Henriette came down next. She put one hand on her father’s shoulder and jumped lightly by herself. The yellow-haired young man climbed down by putting one foot on the wheel, then helped Monsieur Dufour bring down the grandmother. The horse was unharnessed and tied to a tree. Then the cart fell forward, with its two shafts on the ground. The men took off their coats, washed their hands in a pail of water, and went to join the ladies, who had already found the swings.
　　Henriette tried to swing standing up, but she could not make herself go very high. Her light dress moved around her, and she laughed a little with effort and surprise. Madame Dufour also took a swing and enjoyed the movement like a child. The grandmother watched with a careful face, both pleased and worried. All around them were trees, shade, dust, sun, and the soft sound of the river nearby. The day in the country had truly begun, and for a little while the family felt that ordinary life had been left far behind.

Part 2: Lunch by the River

　　Henriette kept trying to swing higher. She stood on the narrow board and held the ropes above her head. At first the swing moved only a little, and she laughed because she could not make it obey her. Then, little by little, she found the rhythm. Her feet pushed, her arms tightened, and the swing began to carry her forward and back under the trees. The air touched her face, and her hat suddenly flew off behind her.
　　She was a strong and pretty girl, with dark eyes, dark hair, and a warm color in her face. The movement of the swing made her dress rise and fall around her. She did not seem to notice the two men from the inn who were watching and laughing. She was too happy with the speed, the wind, and the new feeling of the country. For her, this was not only a game. It was as if the whole day had begun to lift her away from ordinary life.
　　Madame Dufour sat on the other swing and called to her husband. “Cyprien, come and push me. Please come and push me,” she said again and again. Monsieur Dufour came at last, rolled up his sleeves like a man beginning hard work, and put his whole body into the task. He pushed her with great effort, and she held the ropes tightly. Her large body shook with each movement, but she enjoyed the strange flying feeling. Soon, however, the swing went too high for her courage.
　　Each time she came down, she gave a loud cry. The cries brought village children running toward the garden. Soon small heads appeared beyond the hedge, and laughing faces looked through the leaves. Madame Dufour saw them only as moving shapes, because the swing carried her up and down too quickly. She was half frightened and half pleased. At last she begged to stop, while Monsieur Dufour laughed and wiped his face.
　　A servant came from the inn, and the family ordered lunch. Madame Dufour spoke with an important air, as if she had often ordered meals in the country. She asked for fried fish from the Seine, rabbit, salad, and dessert. Monsieur Dufour added wine and a bottle of Bordeaux. Henriette, still bright from the swing, said that they would eat on the grass. The words sounded simple, but to her they felt full of pleasure.
　　While they waited, the grandmother became interested in the house cat. She bent down, held out her hand, and called it by sweet names. The cat stayed very near, as if it liked the attention, but it never allowed her to touch it. It walked slowly around the trees, rubbed itself against the trunks, lifted its tail, and purred with quiet pride. The grandmother followed it with great care, and each time she almost reached it, the cat moved away. This small game seemed to please both of them.
　　Then the young man with yellow hair began to walk around the grounds. He looked into corners, behind trees, and near the sheds, as if he had discovered a new world. Suddenly he called out that there were fine boats nearby. Everyone went to look. Under a small wooden shelter hung two long rowing boats. They were narrow, clean, shining, and beautifully made, almost like pieces of fine furniture.
　　The family stood before the boats with respect. They looked so light and quick that anyone would want to see them on the river. One could imagine them passing close to the green banks on a warm evening, under trees whose branches touched the water. One could imagine the reeds shaking softly and small blue birds flying like bright flashes along the shore. Henriette looked at the boats in silence. She felt that the river was calling from beyond the road.
　　Monsieur Dufour studied the boats like a man who understood such things. “Ah, yes, those are fine,” he said seriously. He told them that he too had rowed when he was young. He moved his arms as if he were pulling oars and said that, with a boat like that, he had once beaten Englishmen in races near Joinville. His words grew warmer as he spoke. He even said that with such a boat he could row six leagues in an hour without hurrying, though no one knew whether this was true.
　　At that moment, the servant appeared again at the entrance and said that lunch was ready. Everyone hurried toward the best place in the garden, because Madame Dufour had already chosen it in her mind. It was the only place where the sun did not fall too strongly. But when they reached it, they found two young men already eating there. They were stretched out on chairs, almost lying down, and they looked as if they were very much at home.
　　These two young men were clearly the owners of the boats. They wore the clothes of rowers, and the sun had darkened their faces. Their arms were bare, strong, and brown, and their light shirts showed bodies made firm by exercise. They did not look like workers bent by the same hard movement every day. They moved with an easy strength that came from games, water, and open air. At first they watched the arriving family with amusement.
　　The two rowers saw Madame Dufour first and smiled at each other. Then they saw Henriette, and their look changed. There was quick interest in their eyes, and in one moment the ordinary garden became more lively. One of them said softly to the other that they should give up their place, because it would help them make friends. The other stood up at once. He held his red-and-black cap in his hand and politely offered the ladies the shaded place. The family accepted, and the meeting that would change the day began there, beside the lunch table, under the trees, with the river shining nearby.

Part 3: The Boats and the Wood 　

　　The family accepted the rowers’ offer with many thanks and many small excuses. To make the meal feel more like a real country lunch, they sat on the grass instead of using a table and chairs. The two young men carried their own plates a little farther away and began to eat again. Their bare brown arms moved easily in the sunlight. Henriette tried not to look at them, but the sight troubled her a little. Madame Dufour looked more openly, with the free curiosity of a woman who was pleased by strong young men.
　　Madame Dufour sat heavily on the grass with her legs folded under her. She moved again and again, saying that ants were troubling her. Monsieur Dufour had become less cheerful because of the two strangers and their polite confidence. He tried to find a comfortable position on the ground, but he never found one. The yellow-haired young man ate in silence, like a very hungry animal. The grandmother sat stiffly, careful of her clothes and of her place in the family scene.
　　Madame Dufour wanted to be friendly because the rowers had given up the shaded place. She said to one of them, “It is a very beautiful day, monsieur.” He answered politely and asked if she often came to the country. She said that she came only once or twice a year to breathe the air. Then he told her that he slept there every night. This seemed wonderful to the family, because they lived closed in by shops, streets, and city air.
　　The young man began to describe his life by the river. He spoke of morning water, evening light, rowing, swimming, and sleeping under a wide sky. His words were simple, but to these city people they sounded almost poetic. They had wanted grass and open air all year from behind their counter and their narrow rooms. Henriette lifted her eyes and looked at the rower. Monsieur Dufour, moved in spite of himself, said, “That is a life.” Then he remembered the meal and asked his wife if she wanted more rabbit.
　　Madame Dufour turned again toward the young men and looked at their arms. “Do you never feel cold like that?” she asked. Both rowers laughed and began to tell stories about their hard open-air life. They spoke of long rowing trips, cold baths after being hot, and nights out in mist and wind. Then they struck their chests to show how strong they were. Monsieur Dufour said they looked solid, but he no longer spoke of his old victories over English rowers. Henriette now looked at them from the side, and the yellow-haired young man began to cough because he had drunk badly.
　　The heat became very strong. The river shone like fire, and the wine made everyone’s head lighter. Monsieur Dufour had a loud hiccup and opened his waistcoat. Madame Dufour loosened her dress little by little because she could hardly breathe. The apprentice with yellow hair swung his pale head happily and drank glass after glass. The grandmother felt a little drunk but kept herself very straight and proper. Henriette showed almost nothing, except that her eyes became brighter and her dark cheeks grew more pink.
　　Coffee finished the meal and made them noisier. Someone suggested singing, and each person sang a small song while the others clapped with great excitement. Then they got up with difficulty. The two women stood in the air, dizzy and warm, while the two men tried to do exercises on the rings in the garden. They were heavy, red-faced, and clumsy, and they could not lift themselves properly. Their shirts kept coming out of their trousers like loose white flags. The rowers watched them with amusement but did not laugh too openly.
　　By this time, the two boats had been put into the water. The rowers came back politely and offered to take the ladies for a ride on the river. Madame Dufour cried out to her husband, asking if she could go. Monsieur Dufour looked at her with the slow face of a man who had drunk too much and did not quite understand. Then one rower came near him with two fishing lines in his hand. The hope of catching small fish woke him at once. He agreed to everything and soon sat in the shade under the bridge, his feet hanging over the river, beside the yellow-haired young man, who fell asleep near him.
　　One rower took Madame Dufour. As he moved away, he called that he was going to the little wood on the island. The other boat went more slowly. Henri was rowing, but he looked at Henriette so much that he forgot to use all his strength. She sat in the steering seat and let herself enjoy the soft movement of the water. Her thoughts grew quiet, and her body felt light. The heat, the wine, the river, and the young man’s eyes all seemed to come together around her.
　　She became very red and breathed quickly. The trees along the bank seemed to bow as the boat passed them. A vague wish for happiness moved through her, though she did not know what she wanted. The burning day pressed down on the empty country, and she was alone on the water with a young man who thought she was beautiful. For a long time, neither of them could speak. Their silence made them feel even more strongly what was happening inside them.
　　At last Henri made an effort and asked her name. “Henriette,” she said. He smiled and answered that his own name was Henri. Hearing their own voices calmed them a little, and they began to look at the river bank. The other boat had stopped and seemed to be waiting. The rower in it shouted that they would meet in the wood, but first he would go farther because Madame Dufour was thirsty. Then he bent over his oars and disappeared very quickly along the water.
　　A deep sound had been growing nearer for some time. The river itself seemed to tremble. Henriette asked what they were hearing. Henri told her that it was the waterfall from the dam at the end of the island. While he was explaining, another sound came through the noise of the falling water. It was the song of a bird, clear but distant. Henri listened and said that the nightingales were singing in the daytime because the females were sitting on their eggs.
　　Henriette had never heard a nightingale before. The idea filled her with a soft dream of love, music, and secret meetings under trees. Henri told her not to make noise. He said they could get out in the wood and sit close to the bird. The boat seemed to slide by itself. Soon trees appeared on the island, and the bank was so low that they could see into the thick bushes. Henri tied the boat, offered his arm to Henriette, and led her under the branches.
　　They bent down and entered a hidden place full of leaves, reeds, and climbing plants. Henri laughed and called it his private room. Above their heads, the bird continued to sing with all its strength. The notes rose, fell, trembled, and seemed to travel over the river and the fields. They sat close together and did not speak, because they did not want to frighten it away. Slowly, Henri put his arm around Henriette’s waist. She moved his hand away, but without real anger, as if she were still listening more to the bird than to herself.
　　The song filled her heart until tears came into her eyes. She felt sudden dreams of happiness and tenderness, and she cried without knowing why. Henri held her more closely, and now she no longer pushed him away. Then, far off, someone called, “Henriette!” Henri whispered that she should not answer because the bird would fly away. She did not answer. After a time, he kissed her, and at first she resisted with a sudden movement of fear and anger. But the heat, the song, the silence, and her own confused desire were stronger than her resistance, and she gave back the kiss.
　　Everything around them was still. The nightingale began to sing again, first slowly and then with more and more force. A soft wind moved the leaves, and the deep sounds of the wood seemed to hide the two young people from the world. When they came out from the green place, both were very pale. The blue sky seemed darker to them, and the burning sun no longer felt bright. They walked quickly side by side without speaking or touching, as if something had made them strangers.
　　From time to time, Henriette called for her mother. There was movement under a bush, and Henri thought he saw a white skirt being pulled down quickly. Then Madame Dufour appeared, very red, bright-eyed, and a little confused. Her rower had a face full of laughter that he could not completely hide. Madame Dufour took his arm with a tender air, and they all went back to the boats. Henri walked ahead beside Henriette, still silent, and thought he heard behind him the sound of a large kiss being smothered.
　　At last they returned to Bezons. Monsieur Dufour was sober again and impatient to leave. The yellow-haired young man was eating one last piece of food before getting back into the cart. The horse was already harnessed in the yard, and the grandmother was already seated, worried that night might catch them on the road. They all shook hands. The Dufour family went away, and the rowers called, “Good-bye!” From the cart, the only answer was a sigh and a tear.

Part 4: Memory and Return

　　The Dufour family went away along the road, and the sound of the cart grew weaker little by little. The horse moved slowly, as if the long hot day had tired it too. The grandmother sat stiffly, still afraid of the open country at night. Monsieur Dufour held the reins with a serious face, proud again because he was taking his family safely back to Paris. The yellow-haired young man sat in his old place, full and sleepy, with the slow comfort of a man who had eaten well.
　　Henriette sat quietly in the cart and looked behind her. The inn, the trees, the swings, and the river were already moving away into distance. She could still hear the voices of the rowers calling good-bye, but they seemed to come from another life. A sigh rose from her chest before she could stop it, and one tear came into her eye. She did not know what name to give to her sadness. The country had opened something in her, and now the city was closing around her again before she had understood it.
　　Her mother was also silent for some time. She sat with a soft heavy look, as if the warm air and the river had left a dream inside her body. Then she began to speak about the lunch, the fish, the swings, and the fine young men who had owned the boats. Monsieur Dufour answered in short words, because he was still a little annoyed by the whole day. He liked the memory of his fishing lines more than the memory of the rowers. The yellow-haired young man said almost nothing, but from time to time he smiled to himself with no clear reason.
　　Paris slowly returned around them. First came houses standing alone, then long streets, then shops, carts, dust, and people. The green light of the river and the trees disappeared from their eyes. The family became again what they had been that morning: a small shop family from the city, tired after a holiday. Yet something did not return with them. For Henriette, a part of the day stayed behind in the hidden green place, under the leaves, beside the singing bird.
　　The days after that passed like ordinary days. The shop had to be opened, customers had to be served, and small things had to be sold and counted. Monsieur Dufour spoke proudly of the trip to some people, as if he had led a great travel party through wild country. Madame Dufour told the story too, but she spoke most warmly about the two rowers and the lunch under the trees. Henriette listened when the others talked, but she said very little. The memory was not something she could put into common words at the counter.
　　Two months later, Henri happened to pass along the Rue des Martyrs. He was walking without any special purpose when his eyes stopped on a sign over a shop door. The sign said that Dufour was a hardware dealer. At once the whole summer day came back to him: the river, the hot air, the nightingale, and Henriette’s pale face when they returned from the wood. He stood in the street for a moment, not sure whether he should enter. Then desire and sadness pushed him through the door.
　　Inside, he saw Madame Dufour behind the counter. She looked larger than before, rounder and more settled in her shop life. Around her were nails, tools, pans, ropes, and many small iron things. She recognized him at once and greeted him with great warmth. There were many polite words, many small cries of surprise, and much pleasure at meeting again. For a few minutes they spoke of the weather, the old country trip, and the good lunch they had shared near the river.
　　Then Henri asked the question that had brought him in. He tried to make his voice natural. “And Mademoiselle Henriette?” he asked. “How is she?” Madame Dufour answered easily that Henriette was very well. Then she added that Henriette was married. The word struck Henri so suddenly that he could say only, “Ah.” He felt a tight pain in his chest, though he had never had any right to expect anything else.
　　After a moment, he asked who the husband was. Madame Dufour answered that it was the young man who had been with them that day, the one with yellow hair. He was taking over the business. Henri said that he understood perfectly. But he felt strangely sad, more sad than he thought reasonable. He had known Henriette only for one summer day, yet that day had remained in him like a secret wound.
　　He was already moving toward the door when Madame Dufour called him back. Her face changed, and a little color came into it. In a shy voice, she asked about his friend, the other rower. Henri answered that his friend was well. Madame Dufour told him to give the young man her greetings. Then, blushing more deeply, she added that if he ever passed that way, he should come to see them. She said it would give her great pleasure. Henri promised that he would tell him, though he did not know whether he would.
　　Henri left the shop feeling heavy and confused. The street was noisy around him, full of carts, shop signs, and people walking quickly. Yet he heard again the water near Bezons and the bird in the leaves. He thought of Henriette married to the yellow-haired man, standing behind the counter one day as her mother now stood. The thought made him sad, but he could not say exactly why. Perhaps he was sad for her, perhaps for himself, or perhaps for the beautiful day that could never return.
　　A year passed. One very hot Sunday, the memory of the country trip suddenly came back to Henri with unusual force. It was not a weak memory, but a living one. He saw every detail clearly: the shaded place at the inn, the boats under the wooden shelter, Henriette’s face in the boat, and the hidden green room in the wood. The desire to see that place again became so strong that he could not resist it. He went alone to the island and walked toward the old spot.
　　When he entered the hidden place, he stopped in surprise. Henriette was there. She was sitting on the grass with a sad air, and beside her lay her husband, the yellow-haired young man, still in his shirt sleeves. He was asleep with deep honest stupidity, sleeping carefully and fully, as if sleep were his best talent. Henriette saw Henri and became so pale that he thought she might faint. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
　　Then they began to talk naturally, almost as if nothing had happened between them. Their words were simple and quiet. They spoke like people who meet by chance and must hide too much under ordinary sentences. The sleeping husband breathed heavily beside them, and the hot air stood still under the leaves. The place was the same, yet everything had changed. The memory of the first day stood between them, living and painful.
　　Henri told her that he loved this place very much. He said that he came there often on Sundays to rest and to think about many memories. He tried to speak lightly, but his eyes did not leave her face. Henriette looked at him for a long time. Her look was serious, open, and full of the sadness she could not say before her husband. Then she said, “I think about it every evening.”
　　Those words told him everything. They told him that the day had not passed away for her either. It had stayed in her life, hidden under marriage, shop work, family duty, and ordinary hours. For a short time, they remained there in silence, with the past around them like warm air. Then her husband woke and yawned. “Come, my dear,” he said. “I think it is time for us to go.”



La Maison Tellier

Part 1: The House in Fécamp

　　Every evening, at about eleven o’clock, men went to the Maison Tellier as simply as they might go to a café. Usually there were six or eight of them, and they were almost always the same men. They were not wild young men looking for trouble, but respectable men of the town: shopkeepers, business owners, and some younger men from good families. They drank a small glass, joked a little with the women, or talked seriously with Madame Tellier. Everyone called her simply Madame, and everyone treated her with respect.
　　Most of the men went home before midnight. Some of the younger ones sometimes stayed later, but even then the house kept a quiet, almost family-like air. It was a small yellow house at the corner of a street behind the church of Saint-Étienne. From its windows, one could see the harbor, full of ships being unloaded. One could also see the wide salt marsh called the Retenue and, farther away, the gray old chapel on the hill of the Virgin.
　　Madame Tellier came from a good peasant family in the department of Eure. She had accepted her business as calmly as another woman might accept work as a dressmaker or a shopkeeper. In the country places of Normandy, people did not always judge such work in the same way as people in large towns did. A peasant might say, “It is a good business,” and send a daughter to run such a house as easily as to run a school for young ladies. Madame herself did not seem ashamed. She managed everything with a steady mind and a practical heart.
　　The house had first belonged to an old uncle. Madame and her husband had once kept an inn near Yvetot, but when this house came to them, they decided that the business in Fécamp would bring more money. So one morning they left their old inn and came to take charge of the place. The business had not been going well without real masters. But Monsieur and Madame Tellier were honest, friendly, and careful, and the people in the house soon liked them.
　　Monsieur Tellier died two years later from a sudden illness. His new life had made him soft, inactive, and very fat, and his body could not bear it. After his death, many of the regular visitors wished Madame would choose one of them. But people said that she was perfectly correct in her private life. Even the women who lived with her had never discovered anything against her.
　　Madame was tall, large, and pleasant to look at. Because the house was often closed against the outside light, her skin had become pale and smooth, with a soft shine. Around her forehead she wore a little line of false curled hair, which made her look younger than her strong body suggested. She was almost always cheerful, and her open face made people feel welcome. Yet she still had a certain modesty in her manner, and rough words shocked her a little.
　　If a badly brought-up young man called her house by a crude name, she became angry. She did not like dirtiness in speech, even though her business was not an ordinary one. She treated the women under her roof almost like friends, but she often said that they were not exactly of the same kind as she was. In this way, she kept both closeness and distance. She could be kind without forgetting that she was the mistress of the house.
　　Sometimes during the week, Madame rented a carriage and took some of her women out into the country. They went to the grass beside the little river that flowed through the valley of Valmont. There they ran, laughed, played like schoolgirls, and seemed drunk with fresh air. They ate cold meat on the grass and drank cider. When they returned at night, they were happily tired, and in the carriage they kissed Madame as if she were a very good mother.
　　The house had two entrances. At the corner was a small dark café for common people and sailors. Two of the women worked mostly for this part of the house. They served wine and beer with the help of a young waiter named Frédéric. He was blond, without a beard, and as strong as an ox. The tables shook, the glasses were thick, and the voices below were often loud and rough.
　　The other three women belonged mostly to the upstairs room. They were kept for the better customers, unless the upstairs room was empty and someone was needed below. This better room was called the Salon of Jupiter. Its walls were covered with blue paper, and a large picture hung there. The room was reached by a turning stair and a narrow door that opened onto the street. Above that door, a small lamp shone all night behind a little iron guard.
　　The building was old and a little damp. It had a faint smell of wet walls and old wood. Sometimes a breath of perfume passed through the passage, and sometimes, when a door downstairs opened, the loud cries from the café burst through the whole house like thunder. Then the men upstairs made uneasy faces. They did not want to think too clearly about the people drinking below them.
　　Madame stayed mostly in the upstairs room with the regular visitors, who spoke to her as to a trusted friend. She liked hearing the news of the town, and the men brought it to her each evening. Her serious talk gave rest from the foolish joking of the three women. The men who came there were often large, comfortable, middle-aged men. Their evening pleasure was not a wild one. It was a safe, quiet, regular habit, like drinking one glass after dinner.
　　The three women upstairs were called Fernande, Raphaële, and Rosa la Rosse. Fernande was the tall blond one. She was large, soft, and came from the country. Her fair hair was thin and pale, and her face still had little brown marks from the sun. She had the look of a farm girl who had been placed in silk and ribbons without becoming fully changed by them.
　　Raphaële came from Marseille and had lived in seaports. She was thin, with high cheekbones and strong dark hair arranged carefully on her forehead. Her face was striking rather than gentle, and her eyes would have been beautiful if one had not been marked. She dressed and carried herself as if she were playing a part that men expected from her. She had learned how to be looked at.
　　Rosa la Rosse was short, round, lively, and always moving. She sang from morning to night in a rough voice, sometimes silly songs and sometimes sentimental ones. She told long stories that meant very little, and she stopped speaking only to eat. Then she stopped eating only to speak again. Her laugh broke out everywhere in the house, in bedrooms, in the attic, in the café, and often for no clear reason at all.
　　Downstairs were Louise, called Cocote, and Flora, called Balançoire because she limped a little. Louise often dressed like Liberty, with a colored belt, while Flora dressed in a bright Spanish style, with small copper pieces moving in her red hair. They looked like kitchen girls dressed for a holiday show. The sailors called them “the two Pumps,” and they were known around the harbor. Between all five women there was a jealous peace, but Madame’s good sense and endless good humor usually kept real quarrels away.
　　The Maison Tellier was the only house of its kind in the little town, and it was visited faithfully. Madame had made it so proper, so orderly, and so friendly that people spoke of it with a strange kind of respect. The regular visitors tried hard to please her, and they felt proud when she showed one of them special kindness. If they met during the day in business, they said, “See you tonight, at the place you know,” as naturally as other men might say, “See you at the café after dinner.” In short, the Maison Tellier had become a part of the town’s life, and very few people missed the usual evening visit.

Part 2: The Closed Door

　　One evening, near the end of May, Monsieur Poulin arrived first at the Maison Tellier. He was a wood merchant and had once been mayor of the town. He came with the calm step of a man who expected the same welcome he received every week. But when he reached the door, he stopped. The little lamp above the entrance was not shining, and no sound came from inside the house. The place looked closed, cold, and dead.
　　He knocked softly at first. Then he knocked harder. No one answered. He listened at the door, then looked up at the dark windows, but the house gave no sign of life. Slowly, and with a troubled heart, he walked back toward the market square. There he met Monsieur Duvert, the ship owner, who was going to the same place. The two men returned together, but their second attempt had no better result.
　　Just then, a loud noise broke out near them. They went around the corner and saw a crowd of French and English sailors in front of the café entrance. The sailors were beating the closed shutters with their fists and shouting angrily. Monsieur Poulin and Monsieur Duvert were respectable men, and they did not want to be seen in such a scene. They began to move away quickly, hoping no one had noticed them.
　　A soft sound stopped them. It was Monsieur Tournevau, the fish salter, calling to them from the shadows. They told him that the house was closed, and the news struck him almost like a personal disaster. He was married, had children, and was closely watched at home. Because of this, he came only on Saturday, for what he called reasons of safety. This was exactly his Saturday, and now the whole week seemed lost to him.
　　The three men made a long turn toward the quay, because they did not want to pass too openly before the closed house. On the way, they met young Monsieur Philippe, the banker’s son, who was also a regular visitor. They also found Monsieur Pimpesse, the tax collector. All five men returned by another street for one last try. But the sailors were now almost attacking the house, throwing stones and howling at the shut shutters. The five upstairs clients turned back as fast as they could and began to wander through the streets.
　　Soon they met Monsieur Dupuis, the insurance agent, and Monsieur Vasse, a judge in the commercial court. The group became larger, but this did not make it happier. They walked down to the sea wall and sat in a line on the stone edge. Before them, the dark sea broke against the rocks. White foam appeared on the tops of the waves, shone for one second in the darkness, and vanished. The sad men watched the water without pleasure.
　　After they had sat there for some time, Monsieur Tournevau said, “This is not cheerful.” Monsieur Pimpesse answered that it certainly was not. Then they all got up and began to walk again. They passed along the street under the hill, crossed the wooden bridge over the Retenue, passed near the railway, and returned to the market square. Their disappointment had made them sharp-tempered. Soon Monsieur Pimpesse and Monsieur Tournevau began to argue about a mushroom that one of them said he had found in the area.
　　The argument might have become a fight if the others had not stopped them. Monsieur Pimpesse went away in anger. Almost at once, another quarrel began between Monsieur Poulin and Monsieur Dupuis. They argued about the tax collector’s salary and the extra money he might be able to make. Angry words flew on both sides. Then a storm of shouting came from the street, and the sailors appeared again, arm in arm, two by two, like a wild procession. The respectable men hid in a doorway until the noisy group passed toward the abbey.
　　The sound slowly died away like a storm moving into the distance. Monsieur Poulin and Monsieur Dupuis, still angry with each other, went home without saying good-night. The four remaining men walked again, almost without meaning to, toward the Maison Tellier. It was still closed, silent, and impossible to enter. A calm, stubborn drunk man was tapping gently on the café shutters. From time to time, he called in a low voice for Frédéric, the waiter. When no one answered, he sat down on the step and decided to wait.
　　The men were just about to leave when the sailors returned once more. The French sailors were singing the Marseillaise, and the English sailors were singing Rule Britannia. They all rushed at the walls, shouted, and then flowed away again toward the quay. There a fight began between the sailors of the two nations. In the fight, one Englishman had his arm broken, and one Frenchman had his nose split open. The drunk man, left alone at the door, began to cry like a child who has been refused something.
　　At last the respectable men separated and went home. Little by little, the troubled town became quiet again. From time to time, voices rose somewhere in the distance and then died away. Only Monsieur Tournevau still wandered through the streets. He was deeply unhappy because he had to wait until the next Saturday. He could not understand why the police allowed such a useful public place to close without warning.
　　The next morning, the reason became known. Madame Tellier had a brother named Joseph Rivet, a carpenter in a village called Virville. His daughter Constance was twelve years old and was making her first communion that year. Joseph had invited his sister to come for the ceremony, and Madame had accepted because the child was her goddaughter. Joseph hoped that if he treated his sister very well, she might one day leave something to the girl, since Madame had no children.
　　Joseph was not troubled by his sister’s business. In his village, no one knew exactly what she did in Fécamp. People only said that Madame Tellier was a lady from Fécamp, and they supposed she had private money. Fécamp and Virville were far apart for country people. The people of Virville almost never went beyond Rouen, and no one from Fécamp had reason to visit their little village in the middle of the plains. So the truth remained safely unknown.
　　As the day of the first communion came near, Madame Tellier had faced a serious problem. She had no second mistress who could take charge of the house. She did not want to leave it even for one day. If she left the women alone, the old jealousies between upstairs and downstairs would surely break out. Also Frédéric would probably get drunk, and when he was drunk, he hit people for almost no reason. In the end, Madame decided to take everyone with her, except Frédéric, whom she set free until the day after next.
　　Joseph agreed to this plan and promised to house the whole group for one night. So on Saturday morning, the eight o’clock express train carried Madame and her women away from Fécamp in a second-class carriage. Until Beuzeville, they were alone and talked like a flock of noisy birds. They were excited by the journey, by the ceremony, and by the thought of seeing a new place. Behind them, the Maison Tellier remained shut, and the men of Fécamp had to spend one long evening without their usual comfort.

Part 3: The Journey to the Village

　　Until Beuzeville, Madame Tellier and her women had the railway carriage to themselves. They talked without stopping, laughing, calling across the seats, and enjoying the journey like schoolgirls on holiday. For once, they were not shut inside the house in Fécamp. They were going to a family ceremony, into open country, under the name of respectability. This gave them all a strange pleasure, as if their bright dresses had made them into different people. Madame watched them with a careful but happy eye, like a captain taking her noisy little army into safe land.
　　At Beuzeville, a peasant couple got into the carriage. The man was old and wore a blue work shirt, a stiff collar, and an ancient tall hat whose hair stood up in strange rough points. In one hand he held a large green umbrella, and in the other he carried a basket from which the frightened heads of three ducks came out. His wife sat opposite him, very straight in her country clothes. She had a sharp nose and a fixed face, and she looked at the ladies as if she had entered a painted church window.
　　The carriage was indeed full of bright colors. Madame was dressed all in blue silk, and over it she wore a red shawl that shone almost too strongly for the eye. Fernande was squeezed into a checked dress, tied so tightly by the others that she could hardly breathe. Raphaële wore a purple dress with gold shining on it, and on her head she had feathers that looked like a nest of birds. Rosa, in a pink skirt with many folds, looked like a very fat child dressed for a fair. Louise and Flora wore strange clothes that seemed made from old curtains, but they carried themselves proudly all the same.
　　As soon as they were no longer alone, the women became serious. They sat straighter and began to speak about proper things, because they wanted the peasant couple to think well of them. Madame helped this change by giving them a look whenever their voices became too loud. The ducks moved their heads from the basket and looked at the shining group with round, nervous eyes. The women soon found the ducks very funny and very sweet. Before long, each woman wanted to touch them, speak to them, or kiss them, as if the ducks too were part of the family visit.
　　At Bolbec, another passenger entered. He was a cheerful-looking man with blond side whiskers, rings on his fingers, and a gold chain across his chest. He put several packages in the rack above his head and smiled at the women. Then he asked, in an easy joking voice, “Are these ladies changing posts?” The question confused the whole group at once. Madame became stiff, Fernande lowered her eyes, Raphaële looked out of the window, and Rosa made a small noise that was half laugh and half anger.
　　The man understood that he had touched something delicate, but he did not seem sorry. He continued to smile with the good humor of a man who likes teasing strangers. Madame answered in a cold, correct voice that they were going to a family first communion. After that, the carriage became quiet for a little while. The peasant woman sat even straighter, full of respect for people who had such important family duties. The blond man only smiled into his beard, as if the answer pleased him more than any other could have done.
　　At the next change, Joseph Rivet was waiting for them. He was Madame’s brother, a carpenter from Virville, and he had come with a small country cart and a white horse. He welcomed his sister loudly and with pride. He was delighted to show everyone that these fine women from Fécamp had come for his daughter’s great day. He helped them climb into the cart one after another, though the cart was too small for so many bright dresses and large bodies.
　　The women were packed together tightly, and this made them laugh at once. Joseph sat in front, holding the reins with high elbows and making small sounds in his throat to encourage the horse. The little white horse moved with a quick, uneven trot. Hats slipped backward, forward, and sideways. Dresses were crushed, shoulders pressed against shoulders, and everyone had to hold the sides of the cart so as not to fall into the road. But the discomfort only made the journey livelier.
　　The country opened out on both sides of the road. Fields of yellow flowers gave off a strong sweet smell that came far on the wind. In the tall rye, blue flowers lifted their small heads, and the women wanted to stop and pick them. Joseph refused to stop, because he wanted to reach home at the proper time. Here and there, whole fields seemed red with poppies, like blood poured over green land. The cart itself, filled with women in blue, red, pink, purple, gold, and other colors, looked like another moving bunch of flowers under the sun.
　　Suddenly Fernande asked Rosa to sing. Rosa began a rough song at once, but Madame stopped her quickly because the words were not proper for a first communion journey. Madame told her to sing something better. Rosa thought for a moment and then began an old song about a grandmother who remembered her youth and the time she had lost. The others joined the refrain, and Madame herself led the singing with serious pleasure.
　　The song made Joseph very happy. He beat time with his foot and struck the horse lightly with the reins. Each time the women shouted the refrain, the white horse seemed to understand the music and broke into a sudden gallop. Then all the women fell into a heap at the back of the cart, laughing and crying out. After a short rush, the horse slowed again, and everyone straightened hats, skirts, and shawls. Then the refrain came again, and the same wild race began again down the dusty road.
　　A little after one o’clock, they reached Joseph Rivet’s house. The women were tired, shaken, pale with hunger, and covered with dust. Madame Rivet rushed out to meet them and kissed each one as she helped her down. She kissed Madame Tellier again and again, because she wanted to keep close to this rich-looking sister-in-law from Fécamp. The meal was served in the carpenter’s workshop, where the benches had been cleared away for the next day’s feast. The smell of fresh-cut wood filled the room and mixed with the smell of food.
　　They ate an omelet, grilled sausage, and good sharp cider. This simple meal brought life back to everyone. Joseph stood with a glass in his hand and made little toasts, while his wife ran in and out, serving, cooking, removing plates, and asking each woman if she had enough. The piles of wood against the walls and the shavings in the corners gave the room a clean, strong smell. It was not the smell of perfume or old damp walls, but the smell of work, country houses, and honest tools.
　　They asked to see little Constance, but she was at church and would not return until evening. So Joseph took the whole group out for a walk through the village. Virville was very small, only one main road with a few houses along it. There was a butcher, a grocer, a carpenter, a café keeper, a shoemaker, and a baker. At the end of the road stood the church, with a little cemetery around it and four great linden trees before the door. Beyond the church, the fields began again.
　　Joseph walked proudly with Madame Tellier on his arm, though he still wore his work clothes. Madame Rivet, moved by Raphaële’s shining dress, placed herself between Raphaële and Fernande. Rosa walked behind with Louise and Flora, and Flora was already tired because of her bad leg. People came to their doors to look. Children stopped playing. A curtain lifted, and a face in a cotton cap appeared. Even an old woman with a crutch crossed herself as if a great procession were passing.
　　As they passed the church, they heard children singing inside. The thin voices rose toward the roof in a hymn for the next day. Madame would not let the women go in, because she did not want to disturb those little angels, as she called them. Joseph then showed them the important farms, the good fields, and the places where cattle brought money. He spoke like a man showing a great estate, though the village remained small and quiet. At last he led his bright flock back to his house.
　　There was not much room for sleeping, so everyone had been placed carefully. Joseph would sleep in the workshop on the wood shavings. His wife would share her bed with Madame Tellier. Fernande and Raphaële would sleep together in the next room. Louise and Flora would lie on a mattress on the kitchen floor, while Rosa would have a small dark room near the stairs, beside the narrow place where Constance would sleep. When the little girl finally came home from church, all the women kissed and hugged her with strong, sudden tenderness, and Constance, quiet and full of the next day’s holy thoughts, let them love her without protest.

Part 4: The Communion

　　The day had been tiring for everyone, so they went to bed soon after dinner. A deep silence covered the little village. It was not like the silence of a town, where one still hears steps, wheels, doors, and voices far away. It was the wide silence of the fields, reaching up to the stars. The women, who were used to the noisy evenings of the house in Fécamp, felt strangely moved by this quiet rest of the sleeping country.
　　When they were in bed two by two, they held each other a little, as if they needed protection from the deep calm around them. Rosa la Rosse was alone in her small dark room near the stairs. She was not used to sleeping alone, and she could not find rest. Then she heard soft crying behind the wooden wall, close to her head. She called gently, and a little voice answered. It was Constance, who was afraid because she was sleeping away from her mother’s room on this important night.
　　Rosa was suddenly happy. She got up quietly, so as not to wake the others, and went to bring the child to her own bed. She put Constance into the warm bed, held her close, kissed her, and cared for her with great tenderness. The little girl became calm, and Rosa herself became calm too. Soon both of them were asleep. Until morning, the child who would receive her first communion rested against the breast of the woman from Madame Tellier’s house.
　　At five o’clock, the church bell rang for the Angelus and woke the women, who usually slept through the whole morning. The village people were already up. Women moved from door to door, carrying stiff white dresses, great candles, and silk ribbons for the children. The sun was already high in a clear blue sky, though near the horizon a little pink of morning still remained. Hens walked before the houses, and roosters answered one another from yard to yard.
　　Carts arrived from nearby villages. They stopped before houses and let down tall Norman women in dark dresses, with shawls crossed over their chests. The men wore blue work shirts over their best coats, or over old green coats with long back pieces. Soon the road was lined with country vehicles of many kinds. Some leaned forward on their shafts, and some stood with their backs low and their fronts high, as if they were tired animals resting after work.
　　Joseph Rivet’s house was full of movement, like a beehive. The women, not yet fully dressed, with their hair down their backs, prepared Constance for the ceremony. The little girl stood on a table and did not move. Madame Tellier gave orders like a general. They washed the child, combed her hair, dressed her in white, fixed the folds of the dress with many pins, and made everything look as fine as possible.
　　When Constance was ready, they told her to sit still and not move. Then the women ran to dress themselves. The little church bell began to ring again. Its thin sound rose into the wide blue sky and seemed almost too small for such a great day. Children began to come out of the houses and walk toward the village school, where they would form the procession. Their parents followed in holiday clothes, moving awkwardly because they were more used to work than ceremony.
　　The little girls seemed to disappear inside clouds of white cloth. The little boys, with shiny hair and black trousers, walked with their legs apart because they did not want to dirty themselves. For a family, it was a great honor to have many relatives around the child on this day. Because of this, Joseph Rivet was very proud. The whole group from Fécamp followed Constance, with Madame at the head. Joseph gave his arm to his sister, his wife walked beside Raphaële, Fernande walked with Rosa, and Louise and Flora followed behind them.
　　Their arrival caused great wonder in the village. At the school, the girls lined up under the care of the nun, and the boys lined up under the teacher. Then the procession began, with a hymn sung in high young voices. The boys went first, then the girls, and behind the girls came the women from Fécamp in their bright clothes. Because the villagers respected these ladies from far away, they made room for them at once. The colored dresses moved behind the white children like a line of fire after snow.
　　When they entered the church, everyone turned to look. People pushed, whispered, and stretched their necks to see the city ladies. Some church women spoke almost aloud, astonished by dresses brighter than the clothes of the church singers. The mayor offered them his bench near the choir. Madame Tellier sat there with her sister-in-law, Fernande, and Raphaële. Rosa, Louise, and Flora sat in the next bench with Joseph.
　　The choir was full of children on their knees, girls on one side and boys on the other. They held long candles, which leaned in many directions like small spears. Three men stood near the music stand and sang in strong voices. A child’s sharper voice answered them from time to time. The old priest, wearing a square black cap, rose now and then, said a few words, and sat down again while the singing started once more.
　　Then a great silence came. Everyone knelt together. The old priest appeared, carrying the holy cup in his hand. Two young servers in red walked before him, and many church singers stood on each side of the choir. A small bell rang in the silence. The service had begun, and the priest moved slowly before the golden tabernacle, praying in his old, shaking voice.
　　Suddenly the Kyrie rose toward the roof from all the voices in the church. It was so strong that the old wooden roof seemed to tremble. The little church was very hot under the sun, and a great emotion held the children, their mothers, and all the people. The priest turned and asked the people to pray. Everyone prayed. The children, waiting for the mystery of the day, were almost weak with fear and joy.
　　Then Rosa, with her face in her hands, suddenly remembered her own mother, her own village church, and her own first communion long ago. She saw herself as a little girl in a white dress. Tears came slowly at first, then more strongly. She tried to hide them with her handkerchief, but a deep sob escaped her. At once Louise and Flora began to cry too, caught by the same old memories. Soon Madame’s eyes became wet, and when she turned, she saw that the whole bench was crying.
　　Tears spread through the church like fire through dry grass. Women, men, old people, and young men in new work shirts all began to weep. The people thought something holy was passing over them. The priest himself became deeply moved. As the children came forward for communion, the sound of crying filled the church. He believed that God had truly come down among his people that morning, and his hands shook as he gave the children the sacred bread.
　　After communion, the priest spoke to the people in a low, broken voice. He thanked them for the greatest joy of his life. He said he had felt God come among them. Then he turned toward Madame Tellier and her women and thanked them especially. He said their faith and tears had warmed every heart in the parish. The women cried again, not knowing whether they felt shame, pride, sorrow, or peace.
　　When the service ended, everyone was eager to leave because the children were tired and hungry. Outside the church, the whole village became noisy at once. Each family rushed to its own child. Constance was taken in the middle of Madame Tellier’s group and kissed by all of them. Rosa held her again and again. Madame took one of the child’s hands, Rosa took the other, and the others lifted the long white dress so it would not drag in the dust.
　　The meal was served in Joseph’s workshop on long boards. The door stood open to the road, and the joy of the village entered with the light. People were eating everywhere, and from every house came voices, laughter, and the sound of glasses. In Joseph’s house, the happiness was still a little quiet because of the strong emotion of the morning. Joseph alone became very merry and drank too much. Madame Tellier kept looking at the time, because they had to catch the afternoon train back to Fécamp.
　　Joseph tried to make them stay until the next day, but Madame would not listen. Business was business, and she did not want the house closed for two nights. After coffee, she ordered the women to get ready quickly and told Joseph to harness the cart. When she later went upstairs, she found Joseph drunk and behaving badly with Rosa, while some of the women laughed and others tried to stop him. Madame became furious, seized her brother by the shoulders, and pushed him out of the room so strongly that he struck the wall.
　　A minute later, they heard him in the yard pouring water over his head. When he came back with the cart, he was calmer. They set out again in the same way as the day before, and the little white horse began its quick dancing trot. Under the burning sun, the women’s joy returned. They laughed at the shaking cart, pushed one another on their chairs, and soon Rosa began to sing. Madame stopped one improper song at once and made her sing a better one about youth, old age, and lost time.
　　The refrain carried everyone away. Joseph beat time with the reins, and each time the women sang the chorus, the white horse broke into a sudden gallop. The cart shook wildly through the dust, and the women fell against one another, laughing like children. At the station, Joseph became tender and said it was a pity they were leaving, because they could have had such fun. Madame answered that everything had its proper time. Then the train whistled, Joseph kissed everyone, and as the carriage moved away, he waved his whip and sang the refrain as loudly as he could.

Part 5: Not Every Day Is a Holiday

　　The train carried Madame Tellier and her women back toward Fécamp in the evening light. They were tired from the church, the meal, the cart, and the long day, but they were not sad. The country air had changed them for a little while. Their faces looked fresher, and their eyes had the soft brightness of women who had cried and laughed in the same day. Even Madame, who always thought of business, seemed warmer and more generous than usual.
　　When they reached Fécamp, the town already seemed to know that they had returned. The news moved quickly through the streets, as such news always does in a small place. The men who had suffered the closed door the night before prepared to come back as soon as the proper hour arrived. Downstairs, sailors and workers also learned that the café would open again. The yellow house, silent for one night, was about to become alive once more.
　　Frédéric had returned too, and he opened the lower room with his usual heavy strength. The tables were set straight, the bottles were ready, and the small lamp outside began to shine again. Louise and Flora went back to their place in the café, but their hearts were still full of the village road and the church music. They served the sailors as before, yet from time to time they looked toward the stair, wishing they too could stay upstairs. The whole house seemed to carry the smell of fresh air under its old smell of damp wood and perfume.
　　Upstairs, Madame received the regular visitors with unusual joy. She smiled more than usual and spoke to everyone as if she were welcoming family after a long absence. The men were also moved, though they did not say it plainly. They had discovered, by losing the house for one night, how much they needed it. Each one felt that the little room, the blue walls, the old furniture, and Madame’s large cheerful face had become necessary parts of his life.
　　Monsieur Philippe came early, full of good humor and ready to spend money. Monsieur Vasse arrived with his serious face, but his eyes became brighter when Madame spoke to him. Monsieur Pimpesse came in as if nothing had happened, though the memory of his lonely walk the night before still made him bitter. Monsieur Dupuis, Monsieur Poulin, and the others followed. Everyone wanted to make up for the lost evening.
　　The women were in the same mood. Raphaële seemed to be in a private talk with Monsieur Dupuis, the insurance agent. She ended the talk by saying, in a soft and playful voice, that this evening she would agree to what he wanted. Then she turned alone in a quick waltz through the room and cried that this evening everything was possible. Her words filled the room with laughter and excitement. It was clear that the day in the village had not made them less lively, but more alive.
　　Suddenly the door opened, and Monsieur Tournevau appeared. A great cry rose from everyone. “Long live Tournevau!” they shouted, because he had been the saddest man in Fécamp the night before. Raphaële, who was still turning, went straight into his arms. He caught her with a powerful movement and lifted her from the floor as if she weighed nothing. Without saying a word, he carried her through the room and disappeared with her toward the stairs, while everyone clapped and laughed.
　　Rosa was busy with Monsieur Poulin. She kissed him again and again and pulled his two side whiskers to keep his head straight. Then, seeing what Tournevau had done, she told Poulin to do the same. The old man stood up, fixed his waistcoat, and followed her with a slow but willing step. As he went, his hand searched in the pocket where he kept his money. This made the others laugh even more, because everyone understood his serious little movement.
　　Fernande and Madame were now left with four men. Monsieur Philippe cried that he would pay for champagne and told Madame to send for three bottles. Fernande put her arms around him and begged him to make them dance. He went to the old small piano in the corner and sat down before it. The instrument seemed half asleep, but under his fingers it gave out a tired, crying waltz. The music was not beautiful, yet it was enough.
　　Fernande took Monsieur Pimpesse, and Madame allowed Monsieur Vasse to take her in his arms. The two couples began to turn around the room, slowly at first and then with more pleasure. Monsieur Vasse had once danced in good society, and he tried to show his old skill. He bowed, stepped carefully, and moved with a serious grace that pleased Madame very much. She looked at him with a soft eye, the kind of eye that says yes without using words.
　　Frédéric brought the champagne. The first cork flew out with a loud sound, and everyone cried with pleasure. Monsieur Philippe changed the music and began a quadrille. The four dancers performed it in a proper way, with bows, turns, and little formal movements, as if they were in a respectable ballroom. After that, they drank. The wine made the room warmer, louder, and brighter.
　　Then Monsieur Tournevau came back, very happy and very proud of himself. He said that he did not know what was wrong with Raphaële, but she was perfect that evening. Someone gave him a glass, and he emptied it at once. He looked at the champagne with respect and said that this was real luxury. Then Monsieur Philippe began a fast polka, and Tournevau seized Raphaële again so strongly that her feet hardly touched the floor.
　　Monsieur Pimpesse and Monsieur Vasse began again with fresh energy. From time to time, a couple stopped near the fireplace to drink a glass of sparkling wine. Then they returned to the dance, red-faced and laughing. The whole evening seemed ready to go on forever. Suddenly Rosa opened the door a little, holding a candle. Her hair was down, her feet were in slippers, and she was wearing only her night clothes. Her face was bright red, and she cried that she wanted to dance too.
　　Raphaële asked what had become of her old man. Rosa laughed and said he was already asleep, because he always slept quickly. Then she seized Monsieur Dupuis, who had no partner and was sitting on the sofa. The polka began again at once. Soon the bottles were empty, but this did not stop anyone. Tournevau said he would pay for another, Vasse said the same, and Dupuis joined them. Everyone clapped, because the evening had now become a real ball.
　　Even Louise and Flora came upstairs from time to time. They ran up quickly, danced one turn of a waltz, and then ran back to the café below, where their customers were growing impatient. Each time they left, their hearts were heavy with regret. Upstairs there was music, champagne, and laughter. Downstairs there were rough voices, beer, and work. For once, the higher room seemed to them like a paradise that they could only enter for a minute.
　　At midnight they were still dancing. Sometimes one of the women disappeared, and when someone looked for her as a partner, one of the men was missing too. Monsieur Philippe made a joke when Monsieur Pimpesse came back with Fernande. He asked where they had been. Pimpesse answered that they had gone to see Monsieur Poulin sleeping. The joke had great success, and after that everyone used the same words. One after another, the men went to see Monsieur Poulin sleeping, always with one of the women.
　　Madame closed her eyes to many things that night. She had long quiet talks in corners with Monsieur Vasse, as if they were settling the last details of an agreement already made. Her face shone with good humor and generosity. The tears of the morning, the church, the child in white, the village meal, the shaking cart, and the champagne of the evening had all mixed in her heart. She was mistress of the house again, but for one night she was also almost like a happy guest in her own salon.
　　At one o’clock, the two married men, Monsieur Tournevau and Monsieur Pimpesse, said they had to leave. They asked to pay what they owed. Madame counted only the champagne, and even that she counted at six francs a bottle instead of the usual ten. The men looked at her in surprise, because such generosity was not her ordinary business custom. Madame stood before them, bright, large, and pleased with herself. Then she answered, with a shining face, “Not every day is a holiday.”



In the Fields [Aux Champs]

Part 1: Two Poor Families

　　Two small cottages stood side by side at the foot of a hill, not far from a little town where people came to take the waters. The two homes were poor, low, and rough, but the land around them was good. The two peasant families worked hard in the fields from morning until night. Each family had four children. Before the two doors, the children moved about all day in the dust, like a little crowd of small animals.
　　The oldest children in each house were about six years old, and the youngest were about fifteen months old. The marriages had happened at nearly the same time, and the births had followed at nearly the same time too. Because of this, the children of the two houses had grown together almost like one large family. They played together, fought together, fell down together, and cried together. Their faces, hands, and clothes were often so dirty that even their own mothers had trouble knowing which child was which at first glance.
　　The two fathers confused them even more. The eight names moved around in their heads and mixed together. When one father wanted to call a child, he often shouted two or three wrong names before he found the right one. The children did not care much. They came if the voice sounded angry enough, and they stayed away if they thought they could escape. Life was rough, noisy, and simple.
　　The first cottage, coming from the direction of Rolleport, belonged to the Tuvache family. They had three girls and one boy. The other cottage belonged to the Vallin family. They had one girl and three boys. The two houses were almost the same in poverty, in noise, and in the smell of smoke, earth, and soup. The adults worked, the children grew, and each day looked very much like the day before.
　　They lived on soup, potatoes, and open air. In the morning at seven, at noon, and again at six in the evening, the two mothers gathered their children for food. It was almost like farmers calling geese to be fed. The children sat in order of age before a wooden table that had been made smooth by many years of use. The smallest child could hardly lift his mouth above the edge of the table.
　　Each child received a deep plate filled with bread softened in the water where potatoes had been cooked. In the same dish there might be a little cabbage and a few onions. They ate until they were full, which did not always take long, because their stomachs were used to little. The mothers fed the youngest children by hand, pushing the soft food into their mouths. On Sundays there was sometimes a little meat in the soup, and that was a feast. On those days, the fathers stayed longer at the table and said that they could live like that every day.
　　In August, one afternoon, a light carriage suddenly stopped before the two cottages. A young woman was driving it herself. Beside her sat a man, her husband. The young woman looked down at the group of children rolling and moving in the dust. At once her face changed with pleasure and pain. “Oh, look, Henri,” she said. “Look at all those children. How pretty they are, all moving together like that.”
　　Her husband did not answer. He was used to this kind of cry from her, and it always hurt him. They had no children. Every time she admired another person’s child, he felt the admiration as a quiet reproach, though perhaps she did not mean it so. He sat still in the carriage, patient and sad, while she looked with shining eyes at the little dirty crowd before the cottages. The children stopped their games and stared at the fine carriage and the fine lady.
　　The young woman spoke again, more strongly. She said she had to kiss them. Then her eyes fixed on one of the two youngest children, a little boy from the Tuvache family. He had blond curls made stiff and dirty by dust and earth. She cried that she wanted one like him. Before her husband could stop her, she jumped down from the carriage and ran toward the children.
　　The children were frightened and interested at the same time. Some moved back, while others stood still and stared. The lady took the little Tuvache boy into her arms and lifted him up. He did not understand this sudden attack of love. He moved his small hands, trying to free himself from the kisses that covered his dirty cheeks, his dusty hair, and his little fingers. But the lady held him tightly and kissed him again and again, as if he were something she had lost and found at last.
　　The mothers watched from near the doors. They were surprised, but they did not yet see anything dangerous in the scene. A rich lady kissing a poor child was strange, but it was also flattering. The little boy, however, soon began to struggle more strongly, because he wanted to return to the dust and the other children. The lady laughed, kissed him once more, and put him down. Then she climbed back into the carriage, and the horse went away at a fast trot.
　　The next week, the carriage returned. This time the young woman did not only stop for a moment. She came down, sat on the ground among the children, and took the little boy into her arms again. She had cakes in her pockets and gave them to him. She also gave sweets to all the other children, because she did not want them to feel left out. Soon the children accepted her as part of their games, and she played with them almost like a girl herself.
　　Her husband waited in the light carriage, holding himself quietly and patiently. He watched her with a tired tenderness. Perhaps he wished to please her, or perhaps he had given up trying to stop her when children were near. She laughed, spoke to the children, cleaned one small face with her handkerchief, and then dirtied the handkerchief at once. The poor families looked on with increasing wonder. This rich woman had no reason to come there, yet she came back as if the place had become important to her.
　　After that, she returned again. She learned the parents’ names and spoke to them. She came not once, but many times, always with pockets full of sweets and small coins. The children began to know her carriage from far away. As soon as they saw it on the road, they ran toward it, crying out with pleasure. The little Tuvache boy was still her favorite, and she took him first whenever she arrived.
　　Her name was Madame Henri d’Hubières. Her husband was Monsieur Henri d’Hubières. They were rich, childless, and lonely in a way that the two peasant families could not fully understand. To the peasants, children were mouths to feed, hands that would later work, and part of the heavy order of life. To Madame d’Hubières, they seemed like warm living treasures. She looked at them with desire, as poor people might look at gold.
　　One morning, Madame d’Hubières came again, but this time her husband got down from the carriage with her. The children ran to her as usual, because they knew the smell of sweets and the feel of coins in her hand. But she did not stop to play with them. Her face was serious, and she seemed nervous. Without taking the little boy in her arms, she walked straight toward the Tuvache cottage. Monsieur d’Hubières followed her, and together they entered the poor house, where the father and mother were working near the fire.

Part 2: The Child Who Is Given Away

　　Inside the Tuvache cottage, the father and mother stood up in surprise. They had been splitting wood for the soup, and the sudden entrance of the rich couple made them uneasy. They offered chairs, because poor people still knew how to be polite before people with money. Madame d’Hubières sat down with a trembling face. Her husband remained calmer, but he too looked serious, as if they had come to ask for something very large.
　　Madame d’Hubières tried to speak first. Her voice broke, and she stopped more than once before the words came. She said that she and her husband had no children and were very lonely. Then she said that she wanted to take their little boy with her and keep him as her own. The Tuvaches stared at her without understanding at first. The words were so strange that they did not enter their minds at once.
　　At last the mother understood. Her face became hard. “You want to take Charlot from us?” she asked. “No, surely not.” Madame d’Hubières began to cry, and her husband spoke in her place. He said his wife had explained badly. They did not want to steal the child. They wanted to adopt him, bring him up, give him a good education, and make him their heir if all went well.
　　Monsieur d’Hubières spoke like a man used to legal papers and clear promises. If they later had children of their own, Charlot would still share with them. If he did not grow as they hoped, he would at least receive twenty thousand francs when he became an adult. That money would be placed in his name with a notary. Also, because the parents were giving up something precious, the d’Hubières would pay them one hundred francs every month until they died. He asked if they understood.
　　The Tuvache mother had risen to her feet, burning with anger. “You want us to sell Charlot?” she cried. “No, that is not something you ask of a mother.” Her husband said nothing, but he stood beside her and nodded again and again. His face was grave and slow, but his answer was the same as hers. They were poor, but at that moment poverty did not win.
　　Madame d’Hubières lost control and began to sob. She turned to her husband like a spoiled child whose wish had never before been refused. “They do not want to, Henri,” she said through her tears. “They do not want to.” Her husband tried once more. He spoke of the child’s future, his happiness, his education, and the rich life waiting for him. But the peasant woman cut him off. She said the matter was finished, thought about, and refused, and she told them to leave and never come back with such a shameful request.
　　As Madame d’Hubières went out, she remembered that there was another little boy of the same age next door. Through her tears, she asked whether the other small child belonged to them too. Father Tuvache answered that he did not. He belonged to the neighbors, the Vallins. Then he went back inside, where his wife’s angry voice was still rising. The rich couple crossed the few steps between the two poor houses.
　　The Vallins were at the table, eating slowly. They had slices of bread and a little butter placed in a plate between them. They rubbed the bread carefully over the butter, trying to make a small amount last. When the rich visitors entered, the Vallins stopped eating and stared. The same request was made again, but this time Monsieur d’Hubières spoke more carefully. He used gentler words, more explanations, and more signs of respect.
　　At first the Vallins shook their heads. Giving away a child was not a common thing, and even poor people do not say yes at the first word. But when they heard about the hundred francs a month, their faces changed. They looked at each other. They did not speak for a long time. Their minds were working hard, measuring one child against money, food, security, and the future of the others.
　　At last the woman asked her husband what he thought. The man spoke slowly, with the serious air of someone making a wise judgment. He said that the offer was not to be despised. Madame d’Hubières began again at once, trembling with hope. She spoke of the child’s happiness and of the fine position he might have later. The Vallin father listened, then asked whether the monthly payment would be promised before a notary.
　　Monsieur d’Hubières answered that of course it would be done before a notary, as soon as the next day. The Vallin woman remained thoughtful. Then she said that one hundred francs was not enough to lose the child. In a few years, he would be able to work and bring help to the family. If they were to give him up, they must receive one hundred and twenty francs a month. Her voice was firm now, because she had found the number in her heart and meant to hold it.
　　Madame d’Hubières looked at her husband. He hesitated only a little. Then he agreed. The woman asked whether there would be one hundred and twenty francs every month until the death of both parents. He said yes. She asked again whether it would all be written down. He said yes again. The bargain was now almost made, and everyone in the room felt it.
　　The little boy, Jean Vallin, did not understand anything. He stood near the table with bread in his hand and butter on his mouth. Madame d’Hubières took him up, kissed him, and held him as if he were already hers. He twisted in her arms and looked back toward the plate, because he wanted more bread. The Vallin mother watched him with a troubled face. She was not without feeling, but the money had already entered the house like a strong wind and changed the air.
　　Monsieur d’Hubières gave money in advance. The peasants counted it with serious eyes. The rich couple spoke of the notary, the papers, the next day, and the future. Outside, the Tuvache children were still playing in the dust, and Charlot was among them, safe for the moment because his mother had refused. But in the next house, another child had already begun to belong to someone else.
　　The next day, the papers were signed. The agreement was made properly, with legal words that the peasants hardly understood but trusted because the notary wrote them. The Vallins were promised their monthly payment. Jean was promised a future very different from the muddy ground before the cottage. The d’Hubières were full of joy, especially Madame, who looked at the child with hungry love. The whole thing had moved quickly, as money often makes things move quickly.
　　That evening, Jean was taken away. Madame d’Hubières held him in the carriage and covered him with kisses. He cried at first, because the carriage, the fine clothes, the strange woman, and the movement frightened him. His mother cried too, though she tried not to show too much weakness. His father stood near the wheel with a hard face, already thinking perhaps of the money that would come each month. Then the horse started, and the little boy was carried away from the cottage where he had been born.
　　The Tuvaches stood at their door and watched the carriage go. Mother Tuvache felt proud, angry, and bitter all at once. She had kept her child, and therefore she believed herself better than the neighbors. Soon she began to say so. Whenever she met the Vallins, she accused them of selling their child. Her words were loud, rough, and repeated so often that they became part of the life of the two cottages.
　　After that, the two families no longer lived like one large family. A wall of anger stood between the doors, though no real wall had been built. The Vallins had more money and better food, but they carried the shame that the Tuvaches threw at them every day. The Tuvaches remained poor, but they carried pride like a flag. Charlot grew up hearing that his parents had refused to sell him. Jean was gone, and his empty place at the table became both a wound and a source of money.

Part 3: The Son Who Returns

　　Years passed over the two cottages. The children grew tall, then left the first games of childhood behind them. The little ones who had rolled in the dust became boys and girls with stronger arms and darker faces. They learned to work, to carry, to dig, to watch animals, and to obey rough voices. The two houses still stood side by side under the hill, but the old closeness between the families never returned.
　　The Vallins now had more money than before. Every month, the payment came, and it changed the food on the table, the clothes on their backs, and the look of their house. They did not become rich, but they were no longer as hard pressed as the Tuvaches. This difference was easy to see. Mother Tuvache saw it every day, and because she saw it, she spoke more and more proudly about her own choice.
　　She never let the Vallins forget that they had given away their child. When she met them near the road, at the well, or before the cottages, she threw hard words at them. She said they had sold Jean as one sells a calf or a pig. She said money had eaten their hearts. The Vallins answered less and less, because the shame was old now and because the money still came.
　　Charlot Tuvache grew up with this story always in his ears. From the time he was small, he heard that his parents had refused to sell him. At first this made him proud in a child’s simple way. He thought his mother had loved him more than money, and he liked to hear her say it. But as he became older, he saw the Vallins eating better and living more easily. Then the old story began to sound different.
　　He saw his own poor clothes and his hard life. He saw his mother’s tired hands and his father’s silent back bent over work. He also saw the Vallins counting their money, buying better things, and standing a little higher than before. Little by little, a dark question entered his mind. Had his parents saved him, or had they taken from him a better life?
　　The d’Hubières did not return often, but news sometimes came from far away. People said that Jean was growing well. They said he was being educated and dressed like a young gentleman. They said he did not speak like a peasant child anymore. These stories went from mouth to mouth, and each time Mother Tuvache heard them, she became angry and called the Vallins worse names than before.
　　Then, one day, when the years had made all the children young adults, a fine carriage stopped before the Vallin cottage. A young man stepped down. He was clean, well dressed, and pale from a life that had not been spent under the sun. He looked shy and almost awkward as he came toward the old house. For a moment, the people nearby did not understand who he was. Then someone cried out that Jean Vallin had come back.
　　Inside the Vallin cottage, the old mother was washing something in a bowl. When she saw the young man, she became stiff with surprise. The soap fell from her hand into the water. Her mouth opened, but no words came at first. Then she cried, “Is it you, my child? Is it you, my child?” She went toward him with both arms open, shaking like a woman who has seen a dead person return.
　　Jean took her in his arms and kissed her. “Good morning, Mother,” he said. The old father stood near them, trembling too, though his face kept its usual slow calm. He said only, “So you have come back, Jean?” He spoke almost as if the young man had been away for one month, not for many years. But his hands moved strangely, and his eyes showed that his heart was full.
　　When they had looked at him, touched him, and known him again, they wanted to show him to the whole village. They did not keep him hidden in the house. They led him out proudly, as if he were a prize that had returned to them. They took him to the mayor, to the assistant mayor, to the priest, and to the schoolmaster. Everyone looked at him, spoke to him, and compared him with the poor child who had once left in the rich lady’s arms.
　　Charlot stood on the threshold of the Tuvache cottage and watched him pass. He saw the fine clothes, the smooth face, the careful hands, and the respectful way people greeted him. He saw his own lost possibility walking on the road in front of him. No one had to explain anything. The thought struck him hard and fast. That might have been me.
　　That evening, at supper, Charlot could no longer keep silent. The family sat before the old wooden table, eating their poor soup. His father ate slowly, as usual, saying nothing. His mother moved her spoon in her plate, tired from the day and still proud in her own stubborn way. Then Charlot said, with bitterness in his voice, “You were fools not to let the rich people take the little one from the Vallins.”
　　His mother answered at once, as she had answered for years. She said that they had not wanted to sell their child. Her voice was hard, but it shook a little. The father still said nothing. Charlot looked from one to the other, and the anger that had been growing in him broke loose. He said that it was a terrible thing to be sacrificed in that way.
　　Father Tuvache raised his head angrily. “Are you going to blame us because we kept you?” he asked. Charlot answered brutally that yes, he did blame them. He said they were fools, and that parents like them made their children unhappy. He said they deserved to be left alone. The words struck the old couple harder than a blow.
　　The mother began to cry into her plate. She went on eating her soup, but half of each spoonful fell back because her hand was shaking. She said that people killed themselves raising children, and this was the thanks they received. Charlot did not soften. He said he would rather never have been born than be what he was. When he had seen Jean that afternoon, he said, his blood had turned in his body, because he had seen the man he himself might have become.
　　Then he stood up. He said he could not remain in the house. If he stayed, he would blame them every morning and every night. He would make their life miserable, and the thought would never leave him. He told them he would never forgive them. The two old people sat silent, broken, and wet with tears.
　　Charlot said again that the idea was too hard to bear. It would be better for him to go away and seek his living somewhere else. He walked to the door and opened it. From the next house came the sound of voices, laughter, and celebration. The Vallins were feasting with their returned son.
　　Charlot listened for one second. Then he stamped his foot on the floor and turned back toward his parents. His face was full of anger, pain, and shame. He cried one last insult at them, as if he had to wound them before he could leave. Then he went out and disappeared into the night.



The Piece of String [La Ficelle]

Part 1: The Piece of String

　　On all the roads around Goderville, peasants and their wives were coming toward the town. It was market day. The men walked slowly, with their whole bodies leaning forward at each long step. Their legs were bent and twisted by years of hard work in the fields. They had pushed plows, cut grain, carried loads, and stood for long hours in mud, rain, and sun.
　　They wore stiff blue work shirts that shone almost like polished cloth. Around the neck and wrists, small white thread designs had been sewn. The shirts swelled out around their thin bodies, as if they were balloons ready to rise into the air. From each blue shape came a head, two arms, and two feet. The men looked rough, tired, and strong in the same moment.
　　Some of them led a cow or a calf by a rope. Their wives walked behind the animals and struck their backs with leafy branches to make them move faster. The women carried large baskets on their arms. From the baskets came the heads of chickens and ducks, looking around with frightened eyes. The women walked with shorter, quicker steps than their husbands, their bodies straight and dry under small shawls pinned across their flat chests.
　　Sometimes a cart passed with a small horse trotting unevenly before it. The cart shook hard over the road, making the people inside jump in their seats. Two men sat side by side in front, and a woman sat at the back, holding the edge with both hands to soften the blows. The wheels struck stones, holes, and hard earth. The whole road was full of movement, noise, animals, and dust.
　　In the square of Goderville, people and animals were mixed together in a thick crowd. Above the moving heads, one could see the horns of cattle, the tall rough hats of rich peasants, and the white caps of the peasant women. Voices rose everywhere, sharp, loud, and restless. Now and then, one deep shout from a cheerful countryman rose above the others. Then the long cry of a cow tied to a wall answered it.
　　The place smelled strongly of stable, milk, manure, hay, and sweat. It was the sharp heavy smell of country people and country animals gathered together. No one there seemed troubled by it. This smell belonged to the market as much as the cries, the carts, and the blue shirts. It filled the square and followed people into the inns.
　　Maître Hauchecorne, from Bréauté, had just arrived in Goderville. He was walking toward the market square with his head a little forward and his back bent. He was an old peasant, careful with money and careful with everything that might be useful. Like many Normans, he believed that nothing should be wasted. Even the smallest object could be kept, saved, repaired, or used one day.
　　As he walked, he saw a little piece of string lying on the ground. It was only a thin piece of cord, dirty from the road. Many people would have stepped over it without seeing it. Hauchecorne, however, stopped at once. His old habit of saving things was stronger than his pain. He bent down slowly and with difficulty, because his body hurt from rheumatism.
　　He picked up the string and began to roll it carefully between his fingers. At that moment, he noticed someone watching him from a doorway. It was Maître Malandain, the harness maker. The two men had quarreled long ago about a halter, and neither had forgiven the other. They were both hard men, and each remembered old injuries as if they had happened yesterday. To be seen by this enemy, bending in the mud for a poor piece of string, suddenly made Hauchecorne ashamed.
　　He quickly hid the string under his blue shirt. Then he pushed it into the pocket of his trousers. But because he did not want Malandain to think that he had seen him hide anything, he pretended to keep looking on the ground. He moved his head from side to side, as if he were searching for something else. Then, when this little false search was finished, he went on toward the market with his painful bent walk.
　　In a few moments, he was lost in the slow noisy crowd. All around him, people were buying, selling, arguing, and looking closely at animals. A peasant touched a cow, stepped back, returned, looked at the seller, and then touched the animal again. He feared being cheated. He wanted to find the trick in the man’s face and the weakness in the beast’s body. The seller, on his side, spoke calmly and waited.
　　The women had placed their great baskets at their feet. They took out chickens and ducks and laid them on the ground, tied by the legs. The birds opened their eyes wide and moved their red combs in fear. The women listened to offers with dry faces and did not lower their prices quickly. Sometimes they let a buyer walk away. Then, just as he was leaving, one of them shouted that she agreed to his price after all.
　　The market went on in this way for a long time. Every sale was a small battle. Every buyer feared paying too much, and every seller feared taking too little. People spoke loudly, then became silent, then spoke loudly again. Hands touched animals, coins, baskets, rope, cloth, and food. Maître Hauchecorne moved among them like all the others, still carrying the little string in his pocket and thinking no more about it.
　　Little by little, the square began to empty. The Angelus rang at noon, and the sound moved over the roofs and above the remaining crowd. People who lived far away went into the inns to eat before beginning the long road home. At Jourdain’s inn, the large room was soon full of diners. The courtyard outside was full too, crowded with carts of every kind, dirty, old, repaired many times, and standing in strange positions like tired animals.
　　Inside, the big fireplace burned strongly and threw heat onto the backs of the people sitting near it. The room was loud with voices, knives, forks, heavy shoes, and chairs scraping over the floor. Men spoke of animals, prices, weather, and crops. Women guarded baskets and bundles beside their feet. Maître Hauchecorne sat among them, ready to eat, rest his painful legs, and enjoy the ordinary talk of market day. At that moment, the little piece of string seemed too small to matter.

Part 2: The Lost Wallet

　　Maître Hauchecorne sat down in Jourdain’s inn with the other market people. The room was hot, noisy, and crowded. Large dishes passed from hand to hand, and people ate with the strong hunger of those who had walked a long way and argued all morning. They spoke of cows, calves, weather, crops, and prices. Hauchecorne ate slowly, resting his old painful body, and for a while he forgot the little piece of string in his pocket.
　　Suddenly the sound of a drum was heard outside. It came nearer through the square, then stopped before the inn door. The room grew quieter, because everyone knew that a public announcement was going to be made. A loud voice called through the open doorway that a black leather wallet had been lost that morning on the road between Beuzeville and Goderville. It belonged to Maître Houlbrèque of Manneville. The wallet contained five hundred francs and important business papers.
　　The voice went on. Anyone who found the wallet must bring it to the mayor’s office or to Maître Houlbrèque. A reward of twenty francs would be given. Then the drum sounded again, moving away through the streets to repeat the news elsewhere. For a moment, the people in the inn spoke of nothing else. Five hundred francs was a large sum. The farmers shook their heads, and the women opened their eyes wide. Some said the owner was unlucky, while others wondered who had found it.
　　Hauchecorne listened like everyone else. He did not feel afraid, because he knew nothing about the wallet. He had picked up only a poor piece of string, and that was still in his pocket. Yet the announcement stayed in his mind for a few minutes, because he had been seen bending in the road. He remembered Malandain’s eyes on him from the doorway. Then he told himself that this was foolish. A piece of string was not a wallet, and every honest man could understand that.
　　The meal began again. People ate, drank, and talked more loudly than before. The heat of the room, the smell of food, and the strong cider made everyone heavy and comfortable. Hauchecorne was finishing his plate when the door opened and a gendarme came in. The uniform silenced the table more quickly than the drum had done. The gendarme looked around the room, asked where Maître Hauchecorne of Bréauté was sitting, and came toward him.
　　Hauchecorne lifted his head in surprise. The gendarme said that the mayor wished to speak to him at once. At first the old man did not move. He thought perhaps he had not heard correctly. Then he stood up, stiff from age and from the wooden bench, and followed the gendarme out. The others watched him go with curious eyes. Some already began to whisper, because in a village market, suspicion grows faster than grass after rain.
　　The mayor of Goderville was waiting in his office. He was also the local notary, a serious man with a large manner and a round body. He sat in an armchair and looked at Hauchecorne as if the old peasant had already been weighed and found dishonest. Papers lay on the table before him. The room was quiet, and this quiet made Hauchecorne more uneasy than the noise of the inn.
　　The mayor spoke in an official voice. He said that Hauchecorne had been seen that morning picking up the wallet lost by Maître Houlbrèque. Hauchecorne opened his mouth, then closed it again. For one moment he could not answer, because the accusation seemed too strange. Then he cried out that he had not even seen the wallet. He gave his word of honor that he knew nothing about it.
　　The mayor looked at him without believing him. He said, “You were seen.” Hauchecorne stared at him. “Seen? Me? Who saw me?” he asked. The mayor answered that Maître Malandain, the harness maker, had seen him. At that name, everything became clear in the old man’s mind. He remembered the doorway, the enemy’s eyes, and his own shame when he had hidden the string.
　　His face became red with anger. He reached quickly into his pocket and pulled out the little piece of cord. “He saw me pick up this,” he said. “Look, monsieur le maire. It was only this little string.” He held it out with his rough fingers, as if the poor object itself could speak for him. The mayor looked at it, but his face did not soften. To him, the string seemed less like proof than like a clever excuse.
　　The mayor shook his head. He said that Maître Malandain was a trustworthy man. He could not believe that such a man had mistaken a piece of string for a wallet. Hauchecorne lifted one hand and swore again that he was telling the truth. He even spat to one side, as country people sometimes did when they wished to show that their word was serious. His voice rose higher and higher. He called on his soul, his honor, and his hope of salvation.
　　But the mayor continued. He said that after picking up the object, Hauchecorne had searched for a long time in the mud. Perhaps, he said, Hauchecorne had been looking for coins that had fallen from the wallet. This new detail almost choked the old man with anger. He cried that people could not tell such lies about an honest man. His words came out broken and hot, because fear had now joined his anger.
　　The mayor sent for Maître Malandain. When the harness maker came, he repeated his story firmly. He said he had seen Hauchecorne bend down and pick something up. He said he had seen him search afterward in the road. Hauchecorne shouted back that it was false, except for the string. The two old enemies began to insult each other, each growing redder and louder than before. For nearly an hour, they fought with words in front of the mayor.
　　Hauchecorne asked to be searched. He turned out his pockets, opened his coat, and showed everything he carried. The gendarme searched him carefully, but found no wallet, no money, and no papers. The little string lay there like a poor joke in the middle of the serious room. Still, the mayor did not say that Hauchecorne was innocent. He only looked troubled, as if the truth had become more difficult, not clearer.
　　At last the mayor let him go. But he warned him that he would report the matter and ask for orders from the law officers. Hauchecorne left the office shaken, furious, and deeply hurt. He had thought that showing the string would be enough. Instead, the string had become part of the accusation. When he stepped back into the street, people were already waiting, full of questions, smiles, and dangerous curiosity.

Part 3: A Truth No One Believes

　　When Maître Hauchecorne came out of the mayor’s office, the news had already spread through the town. People gathered around him at once. Some asked questions with serious faces, and others smiled in a way that hurt more than open anger. They did not look shocked, as honest people might look before a thief. They looked amused, as if they had found a funny story for market day.
　　Hauchecorne began to tell them everything. He told them about the road, the little piece of string, Malandain watching from his doorway, the accusation, and the search in the mayor’s office. He turned his pockets inside out to show that he had nothing. He showed the string again and again. But the more he explained, the more people laughed. Some said, “You old fox,” and walked away smiling.
　　This made him wild with anger. He stopped everyone he knew and even people he hardly knew. He began the story again each time, using the same words, the same gestures, and the same proof. He bent down with his old painful body to show how he had picked up the string. He pointed to his pocket. He held out both empty hands. Still, people did not believe him. Their faces said that a clever Norman could hide the truth better than that.
　　Evening came, and he had to leave Goderville. He started home with three neighbors from his village. On the road, he showed them the exact place where he had picked up the cord. He stopped, bent down, and acted out the whole thing once more. All the way back, he spoke of nothing else. The others listened, answered little, and sometimes looked at one another. Their silence hurt him almost as much as laughter.
　　That night, after he reached Bréauté, he went through the village to tell his story to everyone. He knocked at doors and stopped people in the road. He told the same story in kitchens, by gates, and near stable doors. He hoped that his own neighbors would understand him better. But he found only doubters there too. No one openly called him a thief, but no one gave him the full clear belief he needed.
　　He was ill all night from anger and shame. He could not sleep. He turned in his bed and heard the mayor’s voice, Malandain’s voice, and the laughter of the market people again and again. He had picked up a string, only a string. Yet that poor little thing had become a trap around his honor. By morning, he was weak, but his need to be believed was stronger than before.
　　The next day, at about one o’clock in the afternoon, the wallet was returned to Maître Houlbrèque. A farm servant named Marius Paumelle had found it on the road. He could not read, so he had carried it home and given it to his master. The master then returned the wallet and everything inside it. Soon this new fact spread through the countryside.
　　Hauchecorne heard the news and felt a great joy. Now, he thought, everyone would see that he had told the truth. At once he went out again, visiting people and repeating the whole story, now with the ending added. He felt almost proud. He said that the thing itself had not hurt him so much. What had hurt him was the lie, because nothing harms a man like being blamed for a lie.
　　All that day, he spoke of his adventure. He told it on roads to people passing by. He told it in the inn to people drinking. He told it again after church the next Sunday. He even stopped strangers, because he wanted the whole world to know that he had been right. At first he felt calm. The wallet had been found, and his innocence should have been clear. Yet something still troubled him.
　　People listened, but their eyes were not fully open to belief. Some smiled a little. Some let him finish and then changed the subject. Others looked behind him as if speaking silently with someone else. Hauchecorne began to feel words moving behind his back. He did not hear them clearly, but he felt them. The suspicion had not died. It had only changed shape.
　　The next Tuesday, he went to the market at Goderville for one reason only: he needed to tell his case again. When he passed Malandain’s door, the harness maker began to laugh. Hauchecorne stopped inside himself. Why was the man laughing now, when the wallet had been found? He went on, but the laugh followed him like a bad smell.
　　He began to speak to a farmer from Criquetot. Before he could finish, the man slapped him lightly on the stomach and called him a clever old trickster. Then the farmer turned away. Hauchecorne stood there, speechless and more worried than before. What did that mean? Why was he called clever now, when the truth had already appeared?
　　At Jourdain’s inn, he sat down at the table and started again. He explained the string, the accusation, the search, the wallet, and Marius Paumelle. But a horse dealer from Montivilliers cried that he already knew that string of his. Hauchecorne said, almost stammering, that the wallet had been found. The other man answered that one person could find a thing and another person could return it. In other words, they believed he had given the wallet to a friend and arranged the return.
　　Then Hauchecorne understood everything. They now accused him of a worse trick. They thought he had stolen the wallet, hidden it, and made an accomplice return it so he could escape punishment. He tried to protest, but the whole table began to laugh. He could not finish his meal. He went home through mockery, feeling shame, anger, and confusion so deep that he could hardly breathe.
　　What hurt him most was that he understood the suspicion. As a clever Norman, he was able to imagine just such a trick. He might even have admired it if someone else had done it. Because people knew he was clever and careful, his innocence now seemed impossible to prove. Every argument he made sounded like the argument of a liar. Every oath made people doubt him more. He felt that injustice had struck him in the heart.
　　From that time on, he told the story more and more. Each day he made it longer. He added new reasons, stronger protests, and greater promises before God. Alone in his house, he prepared better ways to explain himself. His mind had only one subject: the string. But the more carefully he spoke, the less people believed him. Behind his back they said, “Those are a liar’s reasons.”
　　He felt this and suffered from it. His body began to fail. He lost strength day by day, because his whole life had become a useless fight to make people believe one small truth. Jokers now asked him to tell “the String” for fun, as people ask an old soldier to tell his battle story. The story that should have cleared him had become entertainment for others. His mind, struck too deeply, began to weaken.
　　Near the end of December, he took to his bed. He had grown thin and worn out, as if the little piece of cord had pulled all life from him. In the first days of January, he died. During the fever of his last hours, he still tried to prove that he was innocent. Again and again, he repeated the same poor words: “A little piece of string... a little piece of string... look, here it is, monsieur le maire.”


Mademoiselle Fifi

Part 1: Officers in the Château

　　Major Graf von Farlsberg, the Prussian commander, sat in a large old armchair in the Château d’Uville. His heavy boots rested on the fine marble of the fireplace. For three months, his spurs had scratched two deep marks into that beautiful stone. The room had once belonged to rich French owners, but now it belonged to the army that had taken it. The Major sat there as if the house, the room, and all the comfort in it had always been his.
　　A cup of coffee stood near him on a small inlaid table. The table was stained with drink, burned by cigars, and cut by his knife. Sometimes, when he was bored, he used the knife to mark letters or little designs on anything near his hand. He had finished reading his letters and the German newspapers brought by his orderly. Then he stood up, threw several large pieces of green wood into the fire, and went to the window. The soldiers had been cutting down the trees in the park little by little to keep themselves warm.
　　Outside, heavy Normandy rain was falling. It did not fall lightly, but came down in thick slanting lines, like a curtain of water. It beat the grass, filled the paths, and made the land shine with mud and water. The river Andelle had swollen and was spreading beyond its banks. The Major stood for a long time looking at the wet lawn and the gray world beyond it. His fingers tapped a German waltz on the window glass.
　　A sound made him turn. Baron von Kelweingstein, his second in command, had entered the room. The Major was a large man, with wide shoulders and a long blond beard that spread over his chest like a fan. He had cold blue eyes and a scar on one cheek from an old war. People said he was brave and not without kindness. He looked solemn, heavy, and proud, like a great military bird.
　　The Baron was very different. He was short, red-faced, fat, and tightly held in his uniform. His red hair had been cut very close, except on the top of his head, where he was already bald. Two front teeth were missing because of a drunken fight long ago, so some of his words came out wet and unclear. He had lived a wild life before this post, and three months in the lonely château had made him angry, bored, and restless.
　　The two men shook hands, and the Major drank his sixth cup of coffee of the morning. The Baron gave his report on the day’s service. There was little to report. Nothing moved but rain, mud, soldiers, and boredom. Then the two officers returned to the window and agreed that life there was not cheerful. The Major could bear it because he was quiet by nature and had left a wife at home. The Baron could not bear it, because he was used to noise, drink, and women.
　　Soon a soldier came to say that lunch was ready. In the dining room, three younger officers were waiting. There was Lieutenant Otto von Grossling, and there were the two second-lieutenants, Fritz Scheuneberg and Markgraf Wilhelm von Eyrik. Wilhelm was a small blond man, thin, proud, and cruel. He was hard on his men and harsh toward the defeated French. He had a pretty, pale face, but something violent burned under it.
　　Since coming to France, the other officers had called him Mademoiselle Fifi. They gave him this name because he dressed and moved in a delicate way, almost like a vain young woman. His waist was narrow, his little mustache was hardly visible, and he liked to use the French words “Fi, fi donc!” whenever he wished to show contempt. He said the words with a slight lisp. The name amused the others, and it seemed to fit him because he mixed softness of manner with a love of cruelty.
　　The dining room of the château showed what these men had done to the house. It was a large noble room, but it looked wounded. Old mirrors were marked by bullet holes. Rich wall hangings had been cut with swords and hung down in torn pieces. Three family portraits on the walls had been given long porcelain pipes. Another portrait, a noble lady in an old frame, had a large black mustache drawn across her face. These changes were not accidents. They were the officers’ amusements.
　　Lunch passed almost in silence. The rain darkened the windows, and the broken room seemed sad, as if it too understood that it had been conquered. The fine wooden floor had become dirty and hard like the floor of a cheap drinking place. The officers ate, drank, and looked around with the dull faces of men who had nothing useful to do. When the meal was finished, they began to smoke.
　　Bottles of brandy and liqueur passed from hand to hand. The men leaned back in their chairs and drank slowly, again and again. Long pipes hung from their mouths, and thick sharp smoke filled the room. They looked as if they were sinking into a heavy, unhappy drunkenness. It was not the drinking of joy. It was the drinking of men who are bored, far from home, and too powerful for the people around them.
　　Mademoiselle Fifi broke his glass almost every few minutes. Each time, a soldier brought him another one without a word. He seemed unable to keep his hands still unless he was destroying something. At last the Baron sat up straight, as if a sudden idea had struck him. He swore and said that they could not go on like this forever. They had to invent some amusement.
　　Otto and Fritz, both heavy-faced and serious, asked what they could invent. The Baron thought for a moment, then said they should arrange an entertainment if the commander allowed it. The Major took the pipe from his mouth and asked what kind of entertainment he meant. The Baron came closer and said he would send old Pflicht to Rouen. Pflicht would bring women, and they would prepare a supper. They had everything needed, he said, and the evening might become pleasant.
　　The Major shrugged and said the Baron was mad. But the other officers had already stood up. They gathered around their commander and begged him to agree. They said the place was too sad, and they needed something to break the long boredom. At last the Major gave in. The Baron immediately sent for Pflicht, an old non-commissioned officer who never smiled and always obeyed orders exactly.
　　Pflicht received the order with his motionless face. He did not ask questions and did not show surprise. A few minutes later, a large military wagon, covered with a cloth roof, left the château at high speed. Four horses pulled it away through the heavy rain toward Rouen. As soon as it was gone, new life seemed to enter the officers. They sat straighter, spoke more quickly, and began to smile. Even the rain, they said, looked less dark than before.
　　But Mademoiselle Fifi still needed something more. His sharp pale eyes searched the room for an object to break. Suddenly he looked at the portrait of the noble lady with the black mustache. He pulled out his revolver and said that she should not see what was coming. Without even rising from his chair, he fired twice. The two bullets struck the painted eyes and destroyed them.
　　Then he cried that they should explode a mine. This was his favorite game. The French owner of the château had left in great haste and had hidden only the silver. The large salon had been full of paintings, fine objects, old vases, small statues, and beautiful pieces from many countries. Very few remained unbroken now. The Major would not allow stealing, but he allowed Mademoiselle Fifi to destroy things for fun, and the others enjoyed watching it.
　　The little officer went into the salon and returned with a small beautiful Chinese teapot. He filled it with gunpowder, put a long piece of burning material through the neck, and ran with it into the next room. Then he hurried back and closed the door. The officers stood up and waited with childish smiles. A moment later, the explosion shook the château, and they all rushed into the salon.
　　Mademoiselle Fifi was the first to enter. He clapped his hands in delight when he saw that the head of a clay statue had been blown off. The others picked up broken pieces, studied the new damage, and laughed over the shapes of the fragments. The Major looked at the ruined room almost like a pleased father. Then he said, in a good-natured voice, that this explosion had been very successful. The smoke became so thick that they had to open the window, and the wet air rushed in, carrying the smell of rain and flood.
　　From the window they could see the church tower in the distance, rising like a gray point through the rain. Since the Germans had come, the church bell had not rung once. The priest, Father Chantavoine, did not refuse to meet the Prussian soldiers or even share food and drink with the commander. But he would not ring the bell. His silence was his protest against the invasion, and the whole village honored him for it.
　　The officers laughed at this quiet resistance. The people obeyed them in almost everything else, so the Major allowed the silent bell to remain silent. Only Mademoiselle Fifi hated it. He often begged to make the bell ring just once, only for fun. The Major always refused him. So the little officer consoled himself by breaking the château. That afternoon, while the rain continued to beat the fields, the men waited for the wagon from Rouen and for the evening they had ordered.

Part 2: Supper in the Damaged House

　　The five officers stayed near the open window for a few more minutes. The damp air came in and touched their faces and beards with a fine cold spray. Outside, the rain still fell hard over the trees, the valley, and the distant church tower. Lieutenant Fritz laughed thickly and said that the ladies would not have fine weather for their journey. This thought amused them. Then they separated, because the Captain had many things to arrange for the evening.
　　When they met again at nightfall, they had changed completely. In the morning they had been bored, heavy, and almost asleep with drink and smoke. Now they looked like men preparing for a review or a party. They had washed, dressed carefully, put scent on themselves, and made their uniforms as fine as possible. The Major’s hair even seemed less gray than before. The Baron had shaved his red face and kept only his mustache, which looked like a small flame under his nose.
　　Although the rain still fell, they kept the window open. From time to time, one of them went to listen. They were like boys waiting for a promised game. At ten minutes past six, the Baron suddenly said that he could hear wheels. They all hurried downstairs. A few moments later, the large military wagon came into the yard, pulled by four horses that were covered with mud almost to their backs. The horses steamed in the rain and breathed hard after their fast journey.
　　Five women got down before the steps of the château. They had been chosen carefully in Rouen by a friend of the Baron. Pflicht had brought a card from the officer, and the business had been arranged without difficulty. The women had not refused to come. They knew they would be well paid, and they had already lived for three months among Prussian soldiers in the occupied town. On the road, they had probably told one another that work was work, and that one must live as well as one could.
　　Soon they were brought into the dining room. The room was now full of light, but the light made the damage look worse. Broken mirrors, torn wall hangings, ruined portraits, and stained floors surrounded the table. Rich dishes, fine silver, and good food had been placed there, some of it found where the owner had hidden it in the wall. The room looked like a noble house changed into a drinking place for robbers after a successful theft.
　　The Baron was full of joy. He took hold of the women as if they were things he knew well and had ordered for use. He kissed them, looked at them closely, smelled their hair and clothes, and judged them with a cheerful practical eye. The three younger officers wanted to choose their own partners at once, but the Baron stopped them. He said that everything must be done properly, according to rank. Even in this kind of pleasure, he wished to keep the order of the army.
　　To prevent quarrels, he made the women stand in a line by height. Then he turned to the tallest one and asked her name in a voice of command. She lifted her head and said, “Pamela.” The Baron announced that Pamela, number one, belonged to the Commander. Then he kissed the second woman, Blondine, for himself. The large Amanda was given to Lieutenant Otto. Eva, called la Tomate because of her red color, was given to Fritz. The smallest one, Rachel, a very young dark-haired woman with black eyes, was given to Mademoiselle Fifi.
　　The women were all pretty in the same general way. Their faces were round, fresh, and marked by the life they lived together. None of them had the quiet look of a woman from a private home. They had learned to smile quickly, laugh loudly, and accept many kinds of men. Yet each had her own small character. Pamela was tall and calm. Blondine looked soft and bright. Amanda was large and heavy. Eva had a warm red face. Rachel was small, sharp, and alive, with eyes that seemed deeper than the others.
　　The young officers wanted to take the women away at once, saying that the ladies might wish to wash after the journey. But the Baron refused. He said they were clean enough for dinner. Also, he feared that if anyone went upstairs and came back, someone might want to change partners, and then there would be trouble. His experience decided the matter. For the moment, there were only many kisses, the kisses of men who were waiting for the meal and for what they expected after it.
　　Suddenly Rachel began to cough. Her eyes filled with tears, and smoke came from her mouth and nose. Mademoiselle Fifi, pretending to kiss her, had blown tobacco smoke into her mouth. She did not shout and did not strike him. She only looked at him with dark anger rising deep inside her eyes. He laughed with delight, pleased that he had hurt her and pleased that she had not yet answered.
　　They sat down to dinner. The Major seemed truly happy and placed Pamela on his right and Blondine on his left. As he opened his napkin, he told the Baron that the idea had been charming. Otto and Fritz behaved with a stiff politeness, almost as if they were sitting beside ladies of good society. Their manners looked strange beside the damaged room and the rough purpose of the evening. The Baron, however, had thrown off all restraint and was already shining with drink and pleasure.
　　He began to make jokes in his broken French. Because of his missing teeth, some words came out wet and unclear. The women did not always understand him, but when he used crude words, they understood at once and laughed loudly. Soon they repeated the badly spoken words after him, making them even sillier and dirtier. The officers laughed too. The soldiers standing behind them remained still and silent, waiting like machines.
　　The first bottles of wine disappeared quickly. The women began to return to their usual noisy ways. They kissed the men on the right and on the left, pinched arms, cried out suddenly, drank from any glass near them, and sang bits of French songs. Sometimes they tried German words they had learned in Rouen, and the officers shouted with pleasure when they heard them. The room became hotter and louder. The fine silver, the broken walls, the uniforms, the painted faces, and the soldiers standing behind the chairs all seemed mixed in one ugly feast.
　　The men became red and excited. They broke plates, shouted over one another, and leaned heavily toward the women beside them. Only the Major kept some control, though even he smiled more than before and drank often. Mademoiselle Fifi had pulled Rachel onto his knees. He kissed her neck, her hair, and her mouth with a hungry, violent air. He held her as if he wanted to crush her into himself.
　　Rachel struggled now and then, but not enough to free herself. She was used to rough men, yet there was something in this young officer that made her hate him. He pinched her through her dress so hard that she cried out. Each cry pleased him, and he laughed in his thin cruel way. Then he held her tighter and kissed her again until he almost lost his breath. The others saw this only as part of the evening’s amusement.
　　Suddenly he bit her lip so deeply that blood ran down her chin and into the top of her dress. Rachel became still. She took a cloth and wiped the blood away slowly. Then she looked straight into his face and said in a low voice, “You will have to pay for that.” He laughed harshly and answered that he would pay. The dinner went on. Soon dessert was served, champagne was opened, and the yellow wine began to shine in the glasses.

Part 3: Rachel’s Knife

　　At dessert, champagne was served, and the mood became wilder. The Major stood up with his glass in his hand. He spoke in the same serious voice he might have used for a toast to an empress. But his words were for the women at the table. He drank to them, and the other officers followed him at once, lifting their glasses, shouting, laughing, and leaning heavily toward their partners.
　　After that, the toasts came one after another. Each officer tried to be funny, and each tried to sound more clever than the one before him. But the drink had made their words thick and rough. Their French became broken, and their jokes became ugly. The women were also very drunk now. Their eyes were heavy, their mouths were loose, and they clapped loudly whenever one of the officers finished speaking.
　　The soldiers behind the chairs still stood in silence. They seemed almost like furniture in the damaged room. The feast had become loud, hot, and shameful, but their faces did not change. Glasses were filled again and again. The candles threw yellow light over the broken mirrors, the torn walls, the fine silver, the red faces, and the spilled wine on the table.
　　Mademoiselle Fifi was more excited than all the others. Rachel still sat near him, but her face had become hard and closed. The cut on her lip still hurt, and the place where he had bitten her was swollen. He watched her with bright cruel eyes, as if he wanted to find a new way to make her suffer. She did not speak to him now. She only looked at the table, her black eyes burning under lowered lids.
　　The Major drank to the women again, and the officers emptied their glasses at once. The women did not protest anymore. They were tired, afraid, and drunk, and they had become silent in the middle of the noise. Even Rachel kept silent. This silence pleased Fifi, because he believed he had broken her pride.
　　Then he filled his champagne glass again and placed it on Rachel’s head. The yellow wine shone above her dark hair. Holding the glass there, he cried that the women of France belonged to the Prussians. For one second, the whole table seemed to stop. Then Rachel jumped up so quickly that the glass fell, broke on the floor, and spilled champagne down through her black hair like a strange yellow baptism.
　　She stood before him, shaking with anger. Her lips trembled, but her voice came out strong enough for everyone to hear. She said that it was not true. The women of France would never belong to them. Fifi sat back in his chair and began to laugh. He tried to speak with a Paris accent and asked her what she herself was doing there, if that was true.
　　At first she did not answer. The question struck her in a place where shame and anger met. Then she understood his meaning fully, and her whole face changed. She cried that she was not a woman of France in the way he meant. She was a woman who sold herself, and that was all a Prussian deserved. The words struck the table more sharply than a thrown glass.
　　Fifi’s face became white with rage. He lifted his hand and slapped her hard across the face. The sound was clear in the room. He was already raising his hand again when Rachel moved faster than anyone expected. Her fingers closed around a small dessert knife on the table. Its blade was short, but it was sharp and bright.
　　No one had time to stop her. She drove the knife into his neck, just at the hollow above his chest. The word he was about to speak stopped inside him. His mouth stayed open, and his eyes became terrible and empty. For one frozen moment, he sat upright, as if he did not understand that death had entered him.
　　Then everyone shouted at once. Chairs fell backward, glasses broke, and the women screamed. Lieutenant Otto tried to rise, but Rachel threw her chair against his legs. He fell heavily to the floor, blocking the others for a few seconds. Rachel ran to the window, opened it before anyone could seize her, and jumped out into the night. The rain was still falling hard, and the darkness swallowed her at once.
　　Inside the room, Mademoiselle Fifi died in two minutes. The little officer who had broken paintings, insulted women, and played with destruction now lay still. His blood spread over his uniform and onto the tablecloth. Otto and Fritz drew their swords and turned toward the four remaining women. They wanted to kill them in their drunken anger, as if the women had all struck the blow.
　　The women fell to their knees and cried for mercy. Pamela, Blondine, Amanda, and Eva were suddenly sober with terror. The Major had great difficulty stopping the two officers. He shouted orders, pushed them back, and brought his military control into the broken feast. At last he had the four frightened women locked in a room under guard. Then he began to organize the search for Rachel as if he were arranging a battle.
　　Fifty men were sent into the park. They had been threatened, so they ran through the rain with fear behind them and darkness before them. Two hundred more searched the woods, the roads, and every house in the valley. The officers believed that Rachel could not get far in such weather. She was alone, wet, and without a coat, and the night was black. The Major was sure they would catch her before morning.
　　The dining table was cleared in a moment and changed into a bed for the dead officer. The four remaining officers stood stiffly near the windows, sober now, with hard military faces. The noise of the feast had disappeared. Only the rain filled the night, falling on the roof, running in the gutters, and dripping from the trees. From time to time, the officers looked out into the dark, searching for movement among the shadows.
　　Suddenly a gunshot sounded far away. Then another shot answered it from another place. For four hours, shots were heard now near, now distant, mixed with rough German calls in the night. The valley seemed full of men hunting one young woman. The rain never stopped, and the dark fields, woods, and roads hid everything. At dawn, the soldiers returned one by one, wet, tired, angry, and empty-handed. Rachel had vanished.

Part 4: The Silent Bell

　　At daybreak, the soldiers returned to the château. They were wet, tired, angry, and ashamed. Two soldiers had been killed in the dark by their own comrades, and three others had been wounded. In the rain, in the night, and in the confusion of the hunt, they had fired at shadows and voices. But Rachel had not been found. She seemed to have disappeared from the earth.
　　After that, fear fell over the whole country. Houses were searched from top to bottom. Soldiers entered barns, cellars, sheds, haylofts, and poor rooms where families stood shaking against the walls. Woods were beaten, fields were crossed, and roads were watched. The Prussians looked everywhere for the young woman with black eyes who had killed one of their officers. But they found no clear trace of her.
　　The German general heard what had happened and ordered that the affair should be kept quiet. He did not want the story to spread through the army. He said soldiers had not come to war in order to have drunken feasts and play with women. The Major was punished by the general, and then the Major punished the officers below him. But punishment did not calm him. He was angry and humiliated, and he wanted revenge on the country around him.
　　To find a reason for strong action, he called Father Chantavoine to the château. The priest came calmly, wearing his old black clothes and his serious face. The Major ordered him to ring the church bell at the burial of Markgraf Wilhelm von Eyrik. Everyone expected the priest to refuse, because for three months he had kept the bell silent. But this time he bowed his head and agreed.
　　The village people were surprised when they heard this. Some thought the priest had become afraid. Others thought that the Germans had threatened him in a way no one knew. But Father Chantavoine gave no explanation. He returned to the church, spoke only to the sexton, and made the preparations. His face remained quiet. It was the quiet face of a man who had his own secret.
　　When the dead officer was carried from the château, soldiers walked before and behind the body with loaded guns. The coffin moved slowly through the village road toward the cemetery. The people watched from behind doors, windows, and garden walls. No one spoke loudly. Then, for the first time since the German arrival, the church bell rang.
　　But the sound did not seem sad. It did not seem like a true death bell. It rang with a strange bright tone, almost a cheerful tone, as if a friendly hand were touching it. The villagers lifted their heads in surprise. The Germans heard only a bell ringing for their officer, but the French people heard something else. They heard a hidden laugh in the tower, a small free voice above their fear.
　　The bell rang again that evening. Then it rang the next day, and the day after that. It rang whenever the Germans wanted it to ring. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, it rang by itself, sending two or three notes into the darkness. The sound woke people in their beds and made them listen with beating hearts. Soon the peasants began to say that the bell was bewitched. No one dared go near the tower except the priest and the sexton.
　　A poor girl was living up there, hidden in fear and loneliness. Father Chantavoine and the sexton were feeding her secretly. It was Rachel. After jumping from the château window, she had run through the rain and darkness until she reached the church. The priest had hidden her in the bell tower, where the soldiers did not think to search carefully. She lived above the village like a trapped bird, close to the bell that had once been silent for France.
　　Her days were long and terrible. She could not come down. She could not speak to anyone except the two men who helped her. She heard the soldiers in the street below, the wheels of carts, the steps of villagers, and sometimes the voices of children. She knew that if the Germans found her, she would be shot. Yet she had not lost courage. She had killed the man who had insulted her and insulted France, and now the whole village, without knowing it clearly, was protected by her hidden presence.
　　At night, the priest or the sexton climbed the narrow stairs with food and water. They spoke little, because sound carried strangely in the tower. Sometimes Rachel asked what was happening outside. The priest answered softly and told her to be patient. The sexton, who was a quiet man, often only nodded and looked at her with pity. Each visit was dangerous for them, but neither man betrayed her.
　　The Germans remained in the district for some time after Fifi’s death. The search became less violent, but it never completely stopped. The officers could not understand how one young woman had escaped from soldiers, dogs, rain, and roads. The Major’s anger slowly became a cold hatred. But the bell kept ringing when ordered, and sometimes it rang alone, as if it were mocking him from above his own power.
　　At last, the German troops left. The village watched them go with silent joy. Doors opened more freely, faces appeared in windows, and people stood in the road after the last soldiers had passed. That evening, Father Chantavoine borrowed the baker’s cart. He climbed into it with Rachel, still hidden under simple clothes, and drove her toward Rouen. The road seemed long, but every turn carried her farther from the tower and from the danger that had held her there.
　　When they reached the gate of Rouen, the priest stopped the cart. He kissed Rachel like a father, and she got down. Then she went quickly back into the city. The woman who kept the house where she had once lived had believed she was dead, so her return seemed almost like a ghost coming back. But Rachel did not remain there for long. Her story had already begun to move secretly among people who loved France.
　　Soon after, a patriot without narrow judgment took her away from that life. He admired her first because of her brave act. Then he loved her for herself. He married her and gave her an honorable place in ordinary society. In the end, the woman whom Fifi had tried to shame became a respected lady, as good as many others and better than some.



Simon’s Papa [Le Papa de Simon]

Part 1: No Papa

　　The noon bell had just finished ringing. The school door opened, and the boys rushed out, pushing one another so they could leave first. Usually, they ran away quickly to eat dinner at home. But that day they did not scatter through the village streets. They stopped a few steps from the school, formed small groups, and began to whisper.
　　That morning, Simon, the son of Blanchotte, had come to school for the first time. All the children had heard about Blanchotte at home. In public, people spoke to her politely enough, but the mothers spoke of her among themselves with a kind of pity mixed with contempt. The children had heard this tone without understanding it. They did not know the whole story, but they had learned that Blanchotte and her son were different.
　　Simon himself was almost unknown to them. He never came out to run in the streets with the other boys. He did not play with them near the river, and he did not join their rough games in the dust. Because of that, they already disliked him a little. Then, that morning, an older boy of fourteen or fifteen had said something that gave their dislike a cruel shape. He had narrowed his eyes like someone who knew a great secret and had told them, “You know Simon? Well, he has no papa.”
　　When Simon appeared at the school door, all the whispering stopped for one short moment. He was seven or eight years old. He was a little pale, very clean, and looked shy and awkward. He began to walk home to his mother, not knowing that the other boys had been waiting for him. The groups moved slowly around him. Their eyes were bright and hard, the eyes of children preparing to do something cruel.
　　Little by little, they closed around him. Soon Simon stood in the middle of a circle and could not pass. He looked from one face to another, surprised and uneasy. He did not understand what they wanted from him. The older boy who had brought the news stood in front of him, proud of the power he already had over the others. He asked, “What is your name?”
　　Simon answered, “Simon.” The older boy looked at him as if this answer were not enough. “Simon what?” he asked. Simon became confused and repeated, “Simon.” The other boy raised his voice. He said that a person was called Simon something, and that Simon alone was not a real name. Simon’s mouth trembled, and he answered for the third time, “My name is Simon.”
　　The boys began to laugh. The older boy turned toward them as if he had proved something important. “You see,” he cried. “He has no papa.” Then a strange silence fell. The boys looked at Simon as if he were not a normal child. To them, a boy with no father seemed almost impossible, like something outside the proper order of the world. They did not understand marriage, shame, or adult judgment, but they felt the contempt their mothers had passed to them.
　　Simon leaned against a tree because he felt he might fall. He was struck by the words as by a terrible disaster. He searched in his mind for an answer, but he found nothing. He wanted to deny the awful thing they were saying. He wanted to stand straight and make them silent. At last, very pale, he cried out wildly, “Yes, I do have one.”
　　The older boy asked at once, “Where is he?” Simon was silent. He did not know what to say. The children began to laugh again, louder now, excited by his weakness. Simon suddenly noticed another little boy near him, a neighbor who lived alone with his mother, just as Simon lived alone with Blanchotte. Simon pointed at him and said, “You do not have a papa either.”
　　The other boy answered proudly, “Yes, I do.” Simon asked, “Where is he?” The boy lifted his head with great importance and said, “He is dead. My papa is in the cemetery.” A sound of approval moved through the group. To these children, having a dead father in the cemetery seemed much better than having no father at all. It gave the other boy a place in the world, while Simon seemed pushed outside it.
　　The boys pressed closer and closer. Many of their own fathers were rough men, men who drank too much, shouted at home, stole small things, or treated their wives badly. Yet those fathers existed, and that was enough for the children. They felt stronger because they were “real” sons with “real” fathers. They pushed against Simon as if they wanted to crush the boy who stood outside their law.
　　One boy close beside Simon suddenly stuck out his tongue and cried, “No papa! No papa!” Simon lost control. He seized the boy’s hair with both hands. He kicked him in the legs again and again, and then bit his cheek with all his strength. At once there was a great struggle. The two boys were pulled apart, but Simon was struck, scratched, pushed, and rolled in the dust while the others shouted and clapped around him.
　　When he stood up again, he brushed his little dirty blouse with his hand without knowing what he was doing. Dust covered him, and his face was marked by tears, anger, and blows. Then someone shouted, “Go and tell your papa.” Those words broke something inside him. The others were stronger than he was. They had beaten him, and he could not answer them, because deep inside he felt that the terrible thing was true.
　　Simon was proud, and for a few seconds he tried not to cry. His throat tightened, and his breath stopped. Then the tears came. He did not cry out at first, but great sobs shook his small body again and again. The sight gave his enemies a fierce joy. Like little savages in a terrible game, they took one another by the hand and began to dance in a circle around him, singing the same cruel words again and again: “No papa! No papa!”
　　Suddenly Simon stopped sobbing. Rage filled him so quickly that it dried his tears for a moment. There were stones near his feet. He bent down, picked them up, and threw them with all his strength at the boys around him. The stones flew into the circle, and the others jumped back with cries of surprise. For a moment, they were no longer laughing. Simon stood there alone, dirty, hurt, and shaking, with the words still burning in his heart.

Part 2: By the River

　　Two or three boys were hit by Simon’s stones and ran away crying. The others saw his wild face and became afraid too. Like all crowds before one person who is truly desperate, they suddenly lost their courage. In a few seconds, the circle broke apart. The boys scattered in every direction, leaving Simon alone in the dust, with his torn blouse, dirty hands, and burning heart.
　　When he found himself alone, the child began to run toward the fields. A clear thought had entered his mind, and it seemed to him like a command. He wanted to drown himself in the river. He remembered that, only eight days before, a poor beggar had thrown himself into the water because he had no money. Simon had been there when people pulled the body out. Usually the beggar had seemed ugly, dirty, and sad, but after death he had looked strangely peaceful, with pale cheeks, a wet beard, and wide calm eyes.
　　Simon remembered the people standing around the dead man. Some had said that he was happy now because he had no more trouble. Others had spoken of the cold water and the deep river with serious voices. Those words came back to Simon now. If a man with no money could go into the water and end his pain, then a boy with no father could perhaps do the same. The thought was simple, terrible, and childish, but it filled him completely.
　　He ran through the grass, still crying. His breath came in short broken sounds. The words “No papa” followed him as if the boys were still behind him, though they were already far away. The fields opened before him, bright and quiet under the afternoon light. The village noises grew weak behind him, and soon he heard only the small sounds of the country. But his grief ran with him and did not become weaker.
　　When he reached the river bank, he stopped. The water moved slowly and shone under the sky. Grasses bent over it, and small insects moved in the air. The place was quiet, and the quiet surprised him. He had come there to die, but the river did not look cruel. It looked calm, soft, and almost friendly. This made him cry harder, because he was only a little boy and still loved beautiful things.
　　He sat down in the grass. His tears fell on his cheeks and on his hands. He looked at the water and tried to think of jumping in. But the bank was green, the sun was warm, and the light moved gently on the river. A small frog jumped near his foot and fell into the water with a quick little sound. Simon stopped crying for one second and watched the circles spread over the surface.
　　Then another frog appeared. It sat still, round and green, with bright eyes. Simon reached out his hand slowly, trying to catch it. The frog jumped away, and he almost forgot his sorrow while he followed it along the bank. He bent forward, stretched his fingers, and missed it again. The small living thing escaped him every time, and its quick movements drew his mind away from death for a few moments.
　　But then the memory returned suddenly. He remembered the school, the circle of boys, the laughter, and the terrible words. His face changed again, and the tears came back. He sat heavily on the grass and repeated in a broken voice that he had no papa. The words seemed even worse when he said them alone. There was no one now to laugh at him, but there was also no one to answer him.
　　He looked again at the river. The water was close, and he tried to imagine himself under it, like the beggar with the wet beard. But his small body was full of fear. He did not know how to die. He only knew that he was unhappy and that the boys had found the place where his life hurt most. He put his head in his arms and sobbed with the full sorrow of a child who believes that the world has ended.
　　At that moment, a large man came along the path near the river. He was a worker, a blacksmith, tall, strong, and broad-shouldered. His name was Philippe Remy. His hands were large and dark from work, and his clothes smelled of iron, smoke, and labor. He was passing by when he heard the child crying. He stopped, looked around, and saw Simon sitting alone by the water.
　　Philippe came closer, but he did not speak harshly. He looked at the boy’s dirty clothes, swollen face, and shaking shoulders. Then he asked gently what was the matter. Simon tried to answer, but his sobs broke the words. Philippe waited. He was used to strong work and hard men, but the sight of this little child crying alone near the river touched him.
　　At last Simon said, with tears in his eyes and in his voice, that the boys had beaten him. He tried to go on, but the shame stopped him. Philippe asked why they had beaten him. Simon answered in pieces, with great pain between the words. “Because... because I have no papa.” Then he cried again, more bitterly than before, as if saying the words had made them true for the second time.
　　Philippe smiled at first, because he did not understand the depth of the wound. “But everyone has one,” he said. Simon shook his head and answered that he did not. Then the man became serious. He knew suddenly who this child must be. He had heard people in the village speak of Blanchotte, though he was still new there and did not know the story well. He understood enough to see that the boy’s grief was not a small thing.
　　“Come,” Philippe said at last. “Do not cry like that, my boy. Come with me to your mother. Someone will give you a papa.” The words were meant kindly, almost lightly, but they entered Simon’s heart like hope. He lifted his head and looked at the big man. Philippe held out his hand. Simon put his small hand into that large blackened hand, and together they left the river.
　　They walked toward the village. Philippe held the child carefully, and his face had become cheerful again. He was not sorry to see Blanchotte, because people said she had once been one of the prettiest girls in the country. Perhaps, deep in his mind, he thought that a young woman who had once made one mistake might not be so cold to a man. This thought made him smile a little as they walked. Simon did not see the smile. He walked beside him, still shaken, but already less alone.
　　They reached a small white house, very clean and quiet. Simon pointed and said that this was his home. Then he cried out, “Maman!” A woman appeared at the door. Philippe stopped smiling at once. He understood, from the first sight of her pale serious face, that this was not a woman with whom a man could joke easily. She stood at the doorway as if she were guarding the house against all men, because one man had already hurt her there.
　　Philippe took off his cap and held it in his hand. He became shy before her, though he was so large and strong. In a careful voice, he said, “Madame, I have brought back your little boy. He was lost near the river.” Blanchotte looked first at the man and then at her child. Simon suddenly ran to his mother, threw his arms around her neck, and began to cry again. He told her that he had wanted to drown himself because the other boys had beaten him, and because he had no papa.
　　A deep red color covered Blanchotte’s face. The child’s words struck her in the very center of her old wound. She held Simon with sudden violence and kissed him again and again, while quick tears ran down her cheeks. Philippe stood near the door, deeply moved and not knowing how to leave. The little white house, the crying mother, and the broken child made him feel that he had stepped into a pain much greater than he had expected.

Part 3: Philippe Remy

　　Blanchotte held Simon in her arms for a long time. Her face was still red, and her eyes were wet, but she tried to become calm before the stranger. Philippe stood at the door with his cap in his hand, looking large and awkward in the little room. He wanted to say something kind, yet he was afraid of saying the wrong thing. The silence was heavy, because all three of them felt the same wound, though each felt it in a different way.
　　At last Philippe spoke to Simon in a cheerful voice. He said the boys at school were fools and that Simon should not listen to them. Then he bent down and looked into the child’s face. “You must be brave,” he said. “A strong boy does not let others break his heart.” Simon looked at him through tears. The big man’s voice was warm, and his large body seemed like a wall against the cruelty of the other boys.
　　Blanchotte thanked Philippe in a low voice. She did not invite him in, but she did not close the door either. Her whole life had taught her to be careful. She knew that people in the village watched everything and turned every small thing into talk. A man standing at her door could become a new story by evening. Still, she could not be cold to the man who had brought back her child from the river.
　　Philippe understood her fear. He did not try to enter farther into the house. He only bowed his head and said that he was glad he had found the boy in time. Then he turned to Simon and told him not to go near the river when he was sad. The river was not a friend for unhappy children, he said. Simon listened seriously, as if these words were a rule given by someone important.
　　Philippe then prepared to leave. But Simon suddenly ran after him and caught his hand. The boy’s face had changed. There was still fear in it, but also a sudden hope. He looked up at the blacksmith and asked, “Will you be my papa?” The question came out quickly, because he feared that if he waited, he would lose courage.
　　Philippe stopped, deeply surprised. For a moment he did not know whether to laugh, cry, or answer. Blanchotte became very pale. She made a movement as if to stop Simon, but no words came. The child held Philippe’s hand with all his strength, waiting for an answer that would save him from tomorrow’s shame. The big man looked first at the mother, then at the child.
　　He tried to make the answer light, because the situation was too serious for him. “Yes, if you like,” he said at last. Simon’s face opened with joy. “What is your name?” he asked at once. Philippe answered, “Philippe Remy.” Simon repeated the name slowly, so that he would remember every part of it. Then he asked, “You are really my papa now?” Philippe, moved more than he wished to show, answered that he was.
　　Simon dried his eyes with the back of his hand. His small body seemed to grow stronger at once. He had a name now, a real name to speak before the boys. Philippe Remy, the blacksmith, was not an empty dream or a dead man in the cemetery. He was alive, strong, and known by everyone. Simon could already imagine saying the name loudly at school.
　　Blanchotte stood still in the doorway. Her face showed shame, fear, and a deep hidden tenderness. Philippe saw this and became embarrassed. He knew that he had promised something to the child without asking the mother. He bowed again and said good evening. Then he walked away, but he walked slowly, because his mind stayed behind him in the little white house.
　　The next day, Simon went back to school. His heart beat hard as he entered the yard. The other boys had not forgotten the day before. They came together again, waiting for another game of cruelty. The older boy smiled first and asked whether Simon had found a papa since yesterday. Some of the boys laughed before Simon even answered.
　　Simon stood very straight. His lips trembled, but he did not cry. “Yes,” he said. “I have one.” The older boy asked, “What is his name?” Simon lifted his head and answered, “Philippe Remy.” The boys were silent for one second. Then one of them laughed and said that this was not true, because Philippe Remy was not his father. Others repeated the doubt, and the cruel circle began again.
　　Simon did not know how to prove his words. He had only the promise of the evening before, and a promise was invisible. The boys pressed him, mocked him, and asked where his papa was. Simon repeated the name again and again, more loudly each time. But the more he repeated it, the more they laughed. At last the older boy struck him, and the fight began again.
　　Simon did not run away this time. He fought with fists, teeth, knees, and all the strength of his little body. He was beaten, but he kept crying, “Philippe Remy is my papa.” The words became almost a battle cry. When school began, his face was swollen and dirty, but his eyes were full of hard pride. He had suffered again, yet he had not taken back the name.
　　That evening, Philippe heard about the fight. The news reached him at the forge while he was working. He stood in the sparks, lifting and lowering his hammer with great force. Each blow fell on the hot iron as if he were striking the boys who had hurt Simon. He said nothing for a long time, but his face became serious. The child’s trust had gone deeper into him than he had expected.
　　Night came, and the sky filled with stars. Philippe washed, shaved, put on a clean shirt, and wore his Sunday blouse. Then he walked to Blanchotte’s house. He knocked at the door, and she appeared on the threshold. She looked troubled when she saw him at that hour. In a sad voice, she said, “It is wrong to come like this after dark, Monsieur Philippe.”
　　He tried to answer, but the words did not come easily. She went on, speaking with pain and dignity. She said he must understand that people should no longer talk about her. She had already suffered enough from talk. Philippe stood before her, confused and moved, but suddenly his heart became clear. “What does that matter,” he said, “if you will be my wife?”
　　No voice answered him. For one second, the little house seemed completely silent. Then Philippe thought he heard someone fall softly inside the room. He entered quickly. Simon, lying in his bed, could not see everything, but he heard the sound of a kiss and some very quiet words from his mother. The child did not understand all of them, but he understood that something wonderful had happened.
　　Suddenly Philippe came to the bed and lifted Simon high in his strong arms. He held him out as if the child weighed nothing. His face was full of joy, pride, and strength. “Tomorrow,” he cried, “tell your schoolmates that your papa is Philippe Remy, the blacksmith. Tell them he will pull the ears of anyone who hurts you.” Simon looked at him with shining eyes and believed every word.
　　The next morning, the schoolroom was full, and the lesson was about to begin. Simon stood up, very pale, with trembling lips. But his voice was clear enough for all the boys to hear. “My papa,” he said, “is Philippe Remy, the blacksmith. He promised that he would pull the ears of anyone who hurt me.” This time no one laughed. Everyone knew Philippe Remy well, and that was a father any boy would have been proud to have.