The Works of Guy de Maupassant, Volume 4 (of 8) eBook
Guy de Maupassant
“Good heavens! she is ... a woman, like so many
others. Does anybody know what makes them act,
what makes them love, what makes them follow, or throw
over a man? One certainly does know, occasionally;
but often one does not, and sometimes one is in doubt.
Why did she run away with that repulsive brute?
Why? Perhaps, because the wind had been blowing
regularly from the South, for a month; that was enough;
a breath of wind! Does she know, do they know,
even the cleverest of them, why they act? No
more than a weather-cock that turns with the wind.
An imperceptible breeze, makes the iron, brass, zinc,
or wooden arrow revolve, just in the same manner as
some imperceptible influence, some undiscernible impression
moves the female heart, and urges it on to resolutions,
and it does not matter whether they belong to town
or country, the suburbs or the desert.
“They can then feel, provided that they reason
and understand, why they have done one thing rather
than another, but, for the moment, they do not know,
for they are the playthings of their own sensibility,
the thoughtless, giddy-headed slaves of events, of
their surroundings, of chance meetings, and of all
the sensations with which their soul and their body
trembles!”
Monsieur Auballe had risen, and, after walking up
and down the room once or twice, he looked at me,
and said, with a smile:—
“That is love in the desert!”
“Suppose she were to come back?” I asked
him.
“Horrid girl!” he replied.
“But I should be very glad if she did return
to me.”
“And you would pardon the shepherd?”
“Good heavens, yes! With women, one must
always pardon ... or else pretend not to see things.”
A FAMILY AFFAIR
The Neuilly steam-tram had just passed the Porte
Maillot, and was going along the broad avenue
that terminates at the Seine. The small engine
that was attached to the car whistled to warn any obstacle
to get out of its way, sent out its steam, and panted
like a person out of breath from running does, and
its pistons made a rapid noise, like iron legs that
were running. The oppressive heat of the end of
a July day lay over the whole city, and from the road,
although there was not a breath of wind stirring,
there arose a white, chalky, opaque, suffocating, and
warm dust, which stuck to the moist skin, filled the
eyes, and got into the lungs, and people were standing
in the doors of their houses in search of a little
air.
The windows of the steam-tram were down, and the curtains
fluttered in the wind, and there were very few passengers
inside, because on such warm days people preferred
the top or the platforms. Those few consisted
of stout women in strange toilets, of those shopkeepers’
wives from the suburbs, who made up for the distinguished
looks which they did not possess, by ill-timed dignity;
of gentlemen who were tired of the office, with yellow-faces,
