But he could find no opening; had no pretext, and
he waited for some fortunate circumstance, with his
heart ravaged, and his mind topsy-turvy. The
night passed, and the pretty girl still slept, while
Morin was meditating his own fall. The day broke
and soon the first ray of sunlight appeared in the
sky, a long, clear ray which shone on the face of
the sleeping girl, and woke her, so she sat up, looked
at the country, then at Morin and smiled. She
smiled like a happy woman, with an engaging and bright
look, and Morin trembled. Certainly that smile
was intended for him, it was a discreet invitation,
the signal which he was waiting for. That smile
meant to say: “How stupid, what a ninny,
what a dolt, what a donkey you are, to have sat there
on your seat like a post all night.
“Just look at me, am I not charming? And
you have sat like that for the whole night, when you
have been alone with a pretty woman, you great simpleton!”
She was still smiling as she looked at him, she even
began to laugh; and he lost his head, trying to find
something suitable to say, no matter what. But
he could think of nothing, nothing, and then, seized
with a coward’s courage, he said to himself:
“So much the worse, I will risk everything,”
and suddenly, without the slightest warning, he went
towards her, his arms extended, his lips protruding,
and seizing her in his arms, he kissed her.
She sprang up with a bound, crying out: “Help!
Help!” and screaming with horror, and then
she opened the carriage door, and waved her arm out,
mad with terror, and trying to jump out, while Morin,
who was almost distracted, and feeling sure that she
would throw herself out, held her by the skirt and
stammered: “Oh! Madame!... Oh!
Madame!”
The train slackened speed, and then stopped.
Two guards rushed up at the young woman’s frantic
signals, who threw herself into their arms, stammering:
“That man wanted ... wanted ... to ... to ...”
And then she fainted.
They were at Mauze station, and the gendarme on duty
arrested Morin. When the victim of his brutality
had regained her consciousness, she made her charge
against him, and the police drew it up. The poor
linen-draper did not reach home till night, with a
prosecution hanging over him, for an outrage to morals
in a public place.
At that time I was editor of the Fanal des Charentes,
and I used to meet Morin every day at the Cafe
du Commerce, and the day after his adventure he
came to see me, as he did not know what to do.
I did not hide my opinion from him, but said to him:
“You are no better than a pig. No decent
man behaves like that.”
He cried. His wife had given him a beating, and
he foresaw his trade ruined, his name dragged through
the mire and dishonored, his friends outraged and
taking no more notice of him. In the end he excited
my pity, and I sent for my colleague Rivet, a bantering,
but very sensible little man, to give us his advice.
