Then the three men, the father and the two sons, tried
to open the door, but it resisted their efforts.
From the empty cow-stall they took a beam to serve
as a battering-ram and hurled it against the door with
all their might. The wood gave way and the boards
flew into splinters. Then the house was shaken
by a loud voice, and inside, behind the side board
which was overturned, they saw a man standing upright,
with his hair falling on his shoulders and a beard
descending to his breast, with shining eyes, and nothing
but rags to cover him. They did not recognize
him, but Louise Hauser exclaimed:
“It is Ulrich, mother.” And her mother
declared that it was Ulrich, although his hair was
white.
He allowed them to go up to him and to touch him,
but he did not reply to any of their questions, and
they were obliged to take him to Loeche, where the
doctors found that he was mad, and nobody ever found
out what had become of his companion.
Little Louise Hauser nearly died that summer of decline,
which the physicians attributed to the cold air of
the mountains.
Original short stories, Vol. 5.
Guy de maupassant
original short stories
Translated by
Albert M. C. McMASTER, B.A.
A. E. Henderson, B.A.
Mme. Quesada and Others
MONSIEUR PARENT
George’s father was sitting in an iron chair,
watching his little son with concentrated affection
and attention, as little George piled up the sand
into heaps during one of their walks. He would
take up the sand with both hands, make a mound of
it, and put a chestnut leaf on top. His father
saw no one but him in that public park full of people.
The sun was just disappearing behind the roofs of
the Rue Saint-Lazare, but still shed its rays obliquely
on that little, overdressed crowd. The chestnut
trees were lighted up by its yellow rays, and the three
fountains before the lofty porch of the church had
the appearance of liquid silver.
Monsieur Parent, accidentally looking up at the church
clock, saw that he was five minutes late. He
got up, took the child by the arm, shook his dress,
which was covered with sand, wiped his hands, and led
him in the direction of the Rue Blanche. He walked
quickly, so as not to get in after his wife, and the
child could not keep up with him. He took him
up and carried him, though it made him pant when he
had to walk up the steep street. He was a man
of forty, already turning gray, and rather stout.
At last he reached his house. An old servant
who had brought him up, one of those trusted servants
who are the tyrants of families, opened the door to
him.
“Has madame come in yet?” he asked anxiously.
The servant shrugged her shoulders:
“When have you ever known madame to come home
at half-past six, monsieur?”
