original short stories-8-第25章

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He　felt　himself　carried；　cast　toward　her　by　a　strong　impulse　of　his　heart
and　body。　　He　would　have　liked　to　squeeze　her；　strangle　her；　eat　her；
make　her　part　of　himself。　　And　he　trembled　with　impotence；　impatience；
rage；　to　think　she　did　not　belong　to　him　entirely；　as　if　they　were　one
being。

People　gossiped　about　it　in　the　countryside。　　They　said　they　were
engaged。　　He　had；　besides；　asked　her　if　she　would　be　his　wife；　and　she
had　answered　〃Yes。〃

They；　were　waiting　for　an　opportunity　to　talk　to　their　parents　about　it。

But；　all　at　once；　she　stopped　coming　to　meet　him　at　the　usual　hour。　　He
did　not　even　see　her　as　he　wandered　round　the　farm。　　He　could　only　catch
a　glimpse　of　her　at　mass　on　Sunday。　　And　one　Sunday；　after　the　sermon；
the　priest　actually　published　the　banns　of　marriage　between　Victoire…
Adelaide　Martin　and　Josephin…Isidore　Vallin。

Benoist　felt　a　sensation　in　his　hands　as　if　the　blood　had　been　drained
off。　　He　had　a　buzzing　in　the　ears；　and　could　hear　nothing；　and　presently
he　perceived　that　his　tears　were　falling　on　his　prayer　book。

For　a　month　he　stayed　in　his　room。　　Then　he　went　back　to　his　work。

But　he　was　not　cured；　and　it　was　always　in　his　mind。　　He　avoided　the
roads　that　led　past　her　home；　so　that　he　might　not　even　see　the　trees　in
the　yard；　and　this　obliged　him　to　make　a　great　circuit　morning　and
evening。

She　was　now　married　to　Vallin；　the　richest　farmer　in　the　district。
Benoist　and　he　did　not　speak　now；　though　they　had　been　comrades　from
childhood。

One　evening；　as　Benoist　was　passing　the　town　hall；　he　heard　that　she　was
enceinte。　　Instead　of　experiencing　a　feeling　of　sorrow；　he　experienced；
on　the　contrary；　a　feeling　of　relief。　　It　was　over；　now；　all　over。　　They
were　more　separated　by　that　than　by　her　marriage。　　He　really　preferred
that　it　should　be　so。

Months　passed；　and　more　months。　　He　caught　sight　of　her；　occasionally；
going　to　the　village　with　a　heavier　step　than　usual。　　She　blushed　as　she
saw　him；　lowered　her　head　and　quickened　her　pace。　　And　he　turned　out　of
his　way　so　as　not　to　pass　her　and　meet　her　glance。

He　dreaded　the　thought　that　he　might　one　morning　meet　her　face　to　face；
and　be　obliged　to　speak　to　her。　　What　could　he　say　to　her　now；　after　all
he　had　said　formerly；　when　he　held　her　hands　as　he　kissed　her　hair　beside
her　cheeks？　　He　often　thought　of　those　meetings　along　the　roadside。　　She
had　acted　horridly　after　all　her　promises。

By　degrees　his　grief　diminished；　leaving　only　sadness　behind。　　And　one
day　he　took　the　old　road　that　led　past　the　farm　where　she　now　lived。
He　looked　at　the　roof　from　a　distance。　　It　was　there；　in　there；　that　she
lived　with　another！　　The　apple　trees　were　in　bloom；　the　cocks　crowed　on
the　dung　hill。　　The　whole　dwelling　seemed　empty；　the　farm　hands　had　gone
to　the　fields　to　their　spring　toil。　　He　stopped　near　the　gate　and　looked
into　the　yard。　　The　dog　was　asleep　outside　his　kennel；　three　calves　were
walking　slowly；　one　behind　the　other；　towards　the　pond。　　A　big　turkey　was
strutting　before　the　door；　parading　before　the　turkey　hens　like　a　singer
at　the　opera。

Benoist　leaned　against　the　gate　post　and　was　suddenly　seized　with　a
desire　to　weep。　　But　suddenly；　he　heard　a　cry；　a　loud　cry　for　help　coming
from　the　house。　　He　was　struck　with　dismay；　his　hands　grasping　the　wooden
bars　of　the　gate；　and　listened　attentively。　　Another　cry；　a　prolonged；
heartrending　cry；　reached　his　ears；　his　soul；　his　flesh。　　It　was　she　who
was　crying　like　that！　　He　darted　inside；　crossed　the　grass　patch；　pushed
open　the　door；　and　saw　her　lying　on　the　floor；　her　body　drawn　up；　her
face　livid；　her　eyes　haggard；　in　the　throes　of　childbirth。

He　stood　there；　trembling　and　paler　than　she　was；　and　stammered：

〃Here　I　am；　here　I　am；　Martine！〃

She　replied　in　gasps：

〃Oh；　do　not　leave　me；　do　not　leave　me；　Benoist！〃

He　looked　at　her；　not　knowing　what　to　say；　what　to　do。　　She　began　to　cry
out　again：

〃Oh；　oh；　it　is　killing　me。　　Oh；　Benoist！〃

She　writhed　frightfully。

Benoist　was　suddenly　seized　with　a　frantic　longing　to　help　her；　to　quiet
her；　to　remove　her　pain。　　He　leaned　over；　lifted　her　up　and　laid　her　on
her　bed；　and　while　she　kept　on　moaning　he　began　to　take　off　her　clothes；
her　jacket；　her　skirt　and　her　petticoat。　　She　bit　her　fists　to　keep　from
crying　out。　　Then　he　did　as　he　was　accustomed　to　doing　for　cows；　ewes；
and　mares：　he　assisted　in　delivering　her　and　found　in　his　hands　a　large
infant　who　was　moaning。

He　wiped　it　off　and　wrapped　it　up　in　a　towel　that　was　drying　in　front　of
the　fire；　and　laid　it　on　a　bundle　of　clothes　ready　for　ironing　that　was
on　the　table。　　Then　he　went　back　to　the　mother。

He　took　her　up　and　placed　her　on　the　floor　again；　then　he　changed　the
bedclothes　and　put　her　back　into　bed。　　She　faltered：

〃Thank　you；　Benoist；　you　have　a　noble　heart。〃　　And　then　she　wept　a　little
as　if　she　felt　regretful。

He　did　not　love　her　any　longer；　not　the　least　bit。　　It　was　all　over。
Why？　　How？　　He　could　not　have　said。　　What　had　happened　had　cured　him
better　than　ten　years　of　absence。

She　asked；　exhausted　and　trembling：

〃What　is　it？〃

He　replied　calmly：

〃It　is　a　very　fine　girl。〃

Then　they　were　silent　again。　　At　the　end　of　a　few　moments；　the　mother；　in
a　weak　voice；　said：

〃Show　her　to　me；　Benoist。〃

He　took　up　the　little　one　and　was　showing　it　to　her　as　if　he　were　holding
the　consecrated　wafer；　when　the　door　opened；　and　Isidore　Vallin　appeared。

He　did　not　understand　at　first；　then　all　at　once　he　guessed。

Benoist；　in　consternation；　stammered　out：

〃I　was　passing；　I　was　just　passing　by　when　f　heard　her　crying　out；　and　I
camethere　is　your　child；　Vallin！〃

Then　the　husband；　his　eyes　full　of　tears；　stepped　forward；　took　the
little　mite　of　humanity　that　he　held　out　to　him；　kissed　it；　unable　to
speak　from　emotion　for　a　few　seconds；　then　placing　the　child　on　the　bed；
he　held　out　both　hands　to　Benoist；　saying：

〃Your　hand　upon　it；　Benoist。　　From　now　on　we　understand　each　other。　　If
you　are　willing；　we　will　be　a　pair　of　friends；　a　pair　of　friends！〃　　And
Benoist　replied：　〃Indeed　I　will；　certainly；　indeed　I　will。〃






ALL　OVER

Compte　de　Lormerin　had　just　finished　dressing。　　He　cast　a　parting　glance
at　the　large　mirror　which　occupied　an　entire　panel　in　his　dressing…room
and　smiled。

He　was　really　a　fine…looking　man　still；　although　quite　gray。　　Tall；
slight；　elegant；　with　no　sign　of　a　paunch；　with　a　small　mustache　of
doubtful　shade；　which　might　be　called　fair；　he　had　a　walk；　a　nobility；　a
〃chic；〃　in　short；　that　indescribable　something　which　establishes　a
greater　difference　between　two　men　than　would　millions　of　money。　　He
murmured：

〃Lormerin　is　still　alive！〃

And　he　went　into　the　drawing…room　where　his　correspondence　awaited　him。

On　his　table；　where　everything　had　its　place；　the　work　table　of　the
gentleman　who　never　works；　there　were　a　dozen　letters　lying　beside　three
newspapers　of　different　opinions。　　With　a　single　touch　he　spread　out　all
these　letters；　like　a　gambler　giving　the　choice　of　a　card；　and　he　scanned
the　handwriting；　a　thing　he　did　each　morning　before　opening　the
envelopes。

It　was　for　him　a　moment　of　delightful　expectancy；　of　inquiry　and　vague
anxiety。　　What　did　these　sealed　mysterious　letters　bring　him？　　What　did
they　contain　of　pleasure；　of　happiness；　or　of　grief？　　He　surveyed　them
with　a　rapid　sweep　of　the　eye；　recognizing　the　writing；　selecting　them；
making　two　or　three　lots；　according　to　what　he　expected　from　them。　　Here；
friends；　there；　persons　to　whom　he　was　indifferent；　further　on；
strangers。　　The　last　kind　always　gave　him　a　little　uneasiness。　　What　did
they　want　from　him？　　What　hand　had　traced　those　curious　characters　full
of　thoughts；　promises；　or　threats？

This　day　one　letter　in　particular　caught　his　eye。　　It　was　simple；
nevertheless；　without　seeming　to　reveal　anything；　but　he　looked　at　it
uneasily；　with　a　sort　of　chill　at　his　heart。　　He　thought：　〃From　whom　can
it　be？　　I　certainly　know　this　writing；　and　yet　I　can't　identify　it。〃

He　raised　it　to　a　level　with　his　face；　holding　it　delicately　between　two
fingers；　striving　to　read　through　the　envelope；　without　making　up　his
mind　to　open　it。