“I was forbidden the house; I begged and prayed
in vain; nothing could move the fair devotee, and
I became ill from grief. Well, last week, her
cousin, Madame d’Arville, who is your cousin
also, sent me word that she should like to see me,
and when I called, she told me on what conditions
I might obtain my pardon, and here they are. I
must bring her a relic, a real, authentic relic of
some virgin and martyr, certified to be such by our
Holy Father, the Pope, and I am going mad from embarrassment
and anxiety.
“I will go to Rome, if needful, but I cannot
call on the Pope unexpectedly, to tell him my stupid
misadventure; and, besides, I doubt whether they allow
private individuals to have relics. Could not
you give me an introduction to some cardinal, or even
to some French prelate who possesses some remains
of a female saint? Or, perhaps, you may have the
precious object she wants in your collection?
“Help me out of my difficulty, my dear Abbe,
and I promise you that I will be converted ten years
sooner than I otherwise should be!
“Madame d’Arville, who takes the matter
seriously, said to me the other day:
“‘Poor Gilberte will never marry.’
“My dear old schoolmate, will you allow your
cousin to die the victim of a stupid piece of subterfuge
on my part? Pray prevent her from being virgin
eleven thousand and one.
“Pardon me, I am unworthy, but I embrace you,
and love you with all my heart.
“Your old friend,
“Henri
fontal.”
Original short stories, Vol. 4.
Guy de maupassant
original short stories
Translated by
Albert M. C. McMASTER, B.A.
A. E. Henderson, B.A.
Mme. Quesada and Others
THE MORIBUND
The warm autumn sun was beating down on the farmyard.
Under the grass, which had been cropped close by the
cows, the earth soaked by recent rains, was soft and
sank in under the feet with a soggy noise, and the
apple trees, loaded with apples, were dropping their
pale green fruit in the dark green grass.
Four young heifers, tied in a line, were grazing and
at times looking toward the house and lowing.
The fowls made a colored patch on the dung-heap before
the stable, scratching, moving about and cackling,
while two roosters crowed continually, digging worms
for their hens, whom they were calling with a loud
clucking.
The wooden gate opened and a man entered. He
might have been forty years old, but he looked at
least sixty, wrinkled, bent, walking slowly, impeded
by the weight of heavy wooden shoes full of straw.
His long arms hung down on both sides of his body.
When he got near the farm a yellow cur, tied at the
foot of an enormous pear tree, beside a barrel which
served as his kennel, began at first to wag his tail
and then to bark for joy. The man cried:
