The Works of Guy de Maupassant, Volume 3 (of 8) eBook
Guy de Maupassant
It was a woman, who was already saying her prayers
and he gave the responses as well as he could, from
his boyish recollections, and was somewhat agitated
by the delicious scent that emanated from her half-raised
veil and from her bodice; but at her first words he
started so, that he almost fainted. He had recognized
his wife’s voice, and it felt to him as if his
seat were studded with sharp nails, that the sides
of the confessional were closing in on him, and as
if the air were growing rarified.
He now collected himself, however, and regaining his
self-possession, he listened to what she had to say
with increasing curiosity, and with some uncertain,
and necessary interruptions. The young woman sighed,
was evidently keeping back something, spoke about
her unhappiness, her melancholy life, her husband’s
neglect, the temptations by which she was surrounded,
and which she found it so difficult to resist; her
conscience seemed to be burdened by an intolerable
weight, though she hesitated to accuse herself directly.
And in a low voice, with unctuous and coaxing tones,
and mastering himself, Champdelin said:
“Courage, my child; tell me everything; the
divine mercy is infinite; tell me all, without hesitation.”
Then, all at once, she told him everything that was
troubling her; how passion and desire had thrown her
into the arms of one of her husband’s best friends,
the exquisite happiness that they felt when they met
every day, his delightful tenderness, which she could
no longer resist, the sin which was her joy, her only
object, her consolation, her dream. She grew
excited, sobbed, seemed enervated and worn out, as
if she were still burning from her lover’s kisses,
hardly seemed to know what she was saying, and begged
for temporary absolution from her sins; but then Champdelin,
in his exasperation, and unable to restrain himself
any longer, interrupted her in a furious voice:
“Oh! no! Oh! no; this is not at all funny
... keep such sort of things to yourself, my dear!”
* * * *
*
Poor little Madame de Champdelin nearly went out of
her mind with fright and astonishment, and they are
now waiting for the decree which will break their
chains and let them part.
WAS IT A DREAM?
“I had loved her madly! Why does one love?
Why does one love? How queer it is to see only
one being in the world, to have only one thought in
one’s mind, only one desire in the heart, and
only one name on the lips; a name which comes up continually,
which rises like the water in a spring, from the depths
of the soul, which rises to the lips, and which one
repeats over and over again which one whispers ceaselessly,
everywhere, like a prayer.
“I am going to tell you our story, for love
only has one, which is always the same. I met
her and loved her; that is all. And for a whole
year I have lived on her tenderness, on her caresses,
in her arms, in her dresses, on her words, so completely
wrapped up, bound, imprisoned in everything which
came from her, that I no longer knew whether it was
day or night, if I was dead or alive, on this old earth
of ours, or elsewhere.
