A Widow

by Guy de Maupassant

　　

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This story was told during the hunting season at the Chateau Baneville.The autumn had been rainy and sad. The red leaves, instead of rustlingunder the feet, were rotting under the heavy downfalls.The forest was as damp as it could be. From it came an odor of must, ofrain, of soaked grass and wet earth; and the sportsmen, their backshunched under the downpour, mournful dogs, with tails between their legsand hairs sticking to their sides, and the young women, with theirclothes drenched, returned every evening, tired in body and in mind.After dinner, in the large drawing-room, everybody played lotto, withoutenjoyment, while the wind whistled madly around the house. Then theytried telling stories like those they read in books, but no one was ableto invent anything amusing. The hunters told tales of wonderful shotsand of the butchery of rabbits; and the women racked their brains forideas without revealing the imagination of Scheherezade. They were aboutto give up this diversion when a young woman, who was idly caressing thehand of an old maiden aunt, noticed a little ring made of blond hair,which she had often seen, without paying any attention to it.She fingered it gently and asked, "Auntie, what is this ring? It looksas if it were made from the hair of a child."The old lady blushed, grew pale, then answered in a trembling voice: "Itis sad, so sad that I never wish to speak of it. All the unhappiness ofmy life comes from that. I was very young then, and the memory hasremained so painful that I weep every time I think of it."Immediately everybody wished to know the story, but the old lady refusedto tell it. Finally, after they had coaxed her for a long time, sheyielded. Here is the story:"You have often heard me speak of the Santeze family, now extinct. Iknew the last three male members of this family. They all died in thesame manner; this hair belongs to the last one. He was thirteen when hekilled himself for me. That seems strange to you, doesn't it?"Oh! it was a strange family--mad, if you will, but a charming madness,the madness of love. From father to son, all had violent passions whichfilled their whole being, which impelled them to do wild things, drovethem to frantic enthusiasm, even to crime. This was born in them, justas burning devotion is in certain souls. Trappers have not the samenature as minions of the drawing-room. There was a saying: 'Aspassionate as a Santeze.' This could be noticed by looking at them.They all had wavy hair, falling over their brows, curly beards and largeeyes whose glance pierced and moved one, though one could not say why."The grandfather of the owner of this hair, of whom it is the lastsouvenir, after many adventures, duels and elopements, at about sixty-five fell madly in love with his farmer's daughter. I knew them both.She was blond, pale, distinguished-looking, with a slow manner oftalking, a quiet voice and a look so gentle that one might have taken herfor a Madonna. The old nobleman took her to his home and was soon socaptivated with her that he could not live without her for a minute.His daughter and daughter-in-law, who lived in the chateau, found thisperfectly natural, love was such a tradition in the family. Nothing inregard to a passion surprised them, and if one spoke before them ofparted lovers, even of vengeance after treachery, both said in the samesad tone: 'Oh, how he must have suffered to come to that point!' That wasall. They grew sad over tragedies of love, but never indignant, evenwhen they were criminal."Now, one day a young man named Monsieur de Gradelle, who had beeninvited for the shooting, eloped with the young girl."Monsieur de Santeze remained calm as if nothing had happened, but onemorning he was found hanging in the kennels, among his dogs."His son died in the same manner in a hotel in Paris during a journeywhich he made there in 1841, after being deceived by a singer from theopera."He left a twelve-year-old child and a widow, my mother's sister. Shecame to my father's house with the boy, while we were living atBertillon. I was then seventeen."You have no idea how wonderful and precocious this Santeze child was.One might have thought that all the tenderness and exaltation of thewhole race had been stored up in this last one. He was always dreamingand walking about alone in a great alley of elms leading from the chateauto the forest. I watched from my window this sentimental boy, who walkedwith thoughtful steps, his hands behind his back, his head bent, and attimes stopping to raise his eyes as if he could see and understand thingsthat were not comprehensible at his age."Often, after dinner on clear evenings, he would say to me: 'Let us gooutside and dream, cousin.' And we would go outside together in thepark. He would stop quickly before a clearing where the white vapor ofthe moon lights the woods, and he would press my hand, saying: 'Look!look! but you don't understand me; I feel it. If you understood me, weshould be happy. One must love to know! I would laugh and then kissthis child, who loved me madly."Often, after dinner, he would sit on my mother's knees. 'Come, auntie,'he would say, 'tell me some love-stories.' And my mother, as a joke,would tell him all the old legends of the family, all the passionateadventures of his forefathers, for thousands of them were current, sometrue and some false. It was their reputation for love and gallantrywhich was the ruin of every one of these-men; they gloried in it and thenthought that they had to live up to the renown of their house."The little fellow became exalted by these tender or terrible stories,and at times he would clap his hands, crying: 'I, too, I, too, know howto love, better than all of them!'"Then, he began to court me in a timid and tender manner, at which everyone laughed, it was, so amusing. Every morning I had some flowers pickedby him, and every evening before going to his room he would kiss my handand murmur: 'I love you!'"I was guilty, very guilty, and I grieved continually about it, and Ihave been doing penance all my life; I have remained an old maid--or,rather, I have lived as a widowed fiancee, his widow."I was amused at this childish tenderness, and I even encouraged him.I was coquettish, as charming as with a man, alternately caressing andsevere. I maddened this child. It was a game for me and a joyousdiversion for his mother and mine. He was twelve! think of it! Whowould have taken this atom's passion seriously? I kissed him as often ashe wished; I even wrote him little notes, which were read by ourrespective mothers; and he answered me by passionate letters, which Ihave kept. Judging himself as a man, he thought that our loving intimacywas secret. We had forgotten that he was a Santeze."This lasted for about a year. One evening in the park he fell at myfeet and, as he madly kissed the hem of my dress, he kept repeating: 'Ilove you! I love you! I love you! If ever you deceive me, if ever youleave me for another, I'll do as my father did.' And he added in ahoarse voice, which gave me a shiver: 'You know what he did!'"I stood there astonished. He arose, and standing on the tips of histoes in order to reach my ear, for I was taller than he, he pronounced myfirst name: 'Genevieve!' in such a gentle, sweet, tender tone that Itrembled all over. I stammered: 'Let us return! let us return!' He saidno more and followed me; but as we were going up the steps of the porch,he stopped me, saying: 'You know, if ever you leave me, I'll killmyself.'"This time I understood that I had gone too far, and I became quitereserved. One day, as he was reproaching me for this, I answered: 'Youare now too old for jesting and too young for serious love. I'll wait.'"I thought that this would end the matter. In the autumn he was sent toa boarding-school. When he returned the following summer I was engagedto be married. He understood immediately, and for a week he became sopensive that I was quite anxious."On the morning of the ninth day I saw a little paper under my door as Igot up. I seized it, opened it and read: 'You have deserted me and youknow what I said. It is death to which you have condemned me. As I donot wish to be found by another than you, come to the park just where Itold you last year that I loved you and look in the air.'"I thought that I should go mad. I dressed as quickly as I could and ranwildly to the place that he had mentioned. His little cap was on theground in the mud. It had been raining all night. I raised my eyes andsaw something swinging among the leaves, for the wind was blowing a gale."I don't know what I did after that. I must have screamed at first, thenfainted and fallen, and finally have run to the chateau. The next thingthat I remember I was in bed, with my mother sitting beside me."I thought that I had dreamed all this in a frightful nightmare.I stammered: 'And what of him, what of him, Gontran?' There was noanswer. It was true!"I did not dare see him again, but I asked for a lock of his blond hair.Here--here it is!"And the old maid stretched out her trembling hand in a despairinggesture. Then she blew her nose several times, wiped her eyes andcontinued:"I broke off my marriage--without saying why. And I--I always haveremained the--the widow of this thirteen-year-old boy." Then her headfell on her breast and she wept for a long time.As the guests were retiring for the night a large man, whose quiet shehad disturbed, whispered in his neighbor's ear: "Isn't it unfortunate to,be so sentimental?"

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