Abandoned

by Guy de Maupassant

　　"I really think you must be mad, my dear, to go for a country walk insuch weather as this. You have had some very strange notions for thelast two months. You drag me to the seaside in spite of myself, when youhave never once had such a whim during all the forty-four years that wehave been married. You chose Fecamp, which is a very dull town, withoutconsulting me in the matter, and now you are seized with such a rage forwalking, you who hardly ever stir out on foot, that you want to take acountry walk on the hottest day of the year. Ask d'Apreval to go withyou, as he is ready to gratify all your whims. As for me, I am goingback to have a nap."Madame de Cadour turned to her old friend and said:"Will you come with me, Monsieur d'Apreval?"He bowed with a smile, and with all the gallantry of former years:"I will go wherever you go," he replied."Very well, then, go and get a sunstroke," Monsieur de Cadour said; andhe went back to the Hotel des Bains to lie down for an hour or two.As soon as they were alone, the old lady and her old companion set off,and she said to him in a low voice, squeezing his hand:"At last! at last!""You are mad," he said in a whisper. "I assure you that you are mad.Think of the risk you are running. If that man--"She started."Oh! Henri, do not say that man, when you are speaking of him.""Very well," he said abruptly, "if our son guesses anything, if he hasany suspicions, he will have you, he will have us both in his power.You have got on without seeing him for the last forty years. What is thematter with you to-day?"They had been going up the long street that leads from the sea to thetown, and now they turned to the right, to go to Etretat. The white roadstretched in front of him, then under a blaze of brilliant sunshine, sothey went on slowly in the burning heat. She had taken her old friend'sarm, and was looking straight in front of her, with a fixed and hauntedgaze, and at last she said:"And so you have not seen him again, either?""No, never.""Is it possible?""My dear friend, do not let us begin that discussion again. I have awife and children and you have a husband, so we both of us have much tofear from other people's opinion."She did not reply; she was thinking of her long past youth and of manysad things that had occurred. How well she recalled all the details oftheir early friendship, his smiles, the way he used to linger, in orderto watch her until she was indoors. What happy days they were, the onlyreally delicious days she had ever enjoyed, and how quickly they wereover!And then--her discovery--of the penalty she paid! What anguish!Of that journey to the South, that long journey, her sufferings, herconstant terror, that secluded life in the small, solitary house on theshores of the Mediterranean, at the bottom of a garden, which she did notventure to leave. How well she remembered those long days which shespent lying under an orange tree, looking up at the round, red fruit,amid the green leaves. How she used to long to go out, as far as thesea, whose fresh breezes came to her over the wall, and whose small wavesshe could hear lapping on the beach. She dreamed of its immense blueexpanse sparkling under the sun, with the white sails of the smallvessels, and a mountain on the horizon. But she did not dare to gooutside the gate. Suppose anybody had recognized her!And those days of waiting, those last days of misery and expectation!The impending suffering, and then that terrible night! What misery shehad endured, and what a night it was! How she had groaned and screamed!She could still see the pale face of her lover, who kissed her hand everymoment, and the clean-shaven face of the doctor and the nurse's whitecap.And what she felt when she heard the child's feeble cries, that wail,that first effort of a human's voice!And the next day! the next day! the only day of her life on which she hadseen and kissed her son; for, from that time, she had never even caught aglimpse of him.And what a long, void existence hers had been since then, with thethought of that child always, always floating before her. She had neverseen her son, that little creature that had been part of herself, evenonce since then; they had taken him from her, carried him away, and hadhidden him. All she knew was that he had been brought up by somepeasants in Normandy, that he had become a peasant himself, had marriedwell, and that his father, whose name he did not know, had settled ahandsome sum of money on him.How often during the last forty years had she wished to go and see himand to embrace him! She could not imagine to herself that he had grown!She always thought of that small human atom which she had held in herarms and pressed to her bosom for a day.How often she had said to M. d'Apreval: "I cannot bear it any longer;I must go and see him."But he had always stopped her and kept her from going. She would beunable to restrain and to master herself; their son would guess it andtake advantage of her, blackmail her; she would be lost."What is he like?" she said."I do not know. I have not seen him again, either.""Is it possible? To have a son and not to know him; to be afraid of himand to reject him as if he were a disgrace! It is horrible."They went along the dusty road, overcome by the scorching sun, andcontinually ascending that interminable hill."One might take it for a punishment," she continued; "I have never hadanother child, and I could no longer resist the longing to see him, whichhas possessed me for forty years. You men cannot understand that. Youmust remember that I shall not live much longer, and suppose I shouldnever see him, never have seen him! . . . Is it possible? How couldI wait so long? I have thought about him every day since, and what aterrible existence mine has been! I have never awakened, never, do youunderstand, without my first thoughts being of him, of my child. How ishe? Oh, how guilty I feel toward him! Ought one to fear what the worldmay say in a case like this? I ought to have left everything to go afterhim, to bring him up and to show my love for him. I should certainlyhave been much happier, but I did not dare, I was a coward. How I havesuffered! Oh, how those poor, abandoned children must hate theirmothers!"She stopped suddenly, for she was choked by her sobs. The whole valleywas deserted and silent in the dazzling light and the overwhelming heat,and only the grasshoppers uttered their shrill, continuous chirp amongthe sparse yellow grass on both sides of the road."Sit down a little," he said.She allowed herself to be led to the side of the ditch and sank down withher face in her hands. Her white hair, which hung in curls on both sidesof her face, had become tangled. She wept, overcome by profound grief,while he stood facing her, uneasy and not knowing what to say, and hemerely murmured: "Come, take courage."She got up."I will," she said, and wiping her eyes, she began to walk again with theuncertain step of an elderly woman.A little farther on the road passed beneath a clump of trees, which hid afew houses, and they could distinguish the vibrating and regular blows ofa blacksmith's hammer on the anvil; and presently they saw a wagonstanding on the right side of the road in front of a low cottage, and twomen shoeing a horse under a shed.Monsieur d' Apreval went up to them."Where is Pierre Benedict's farm?" he asked."Take the road to the left, close to the inn, and then go straight on;it is the third house past Poret's. There is a small spruce fir close tothe gate; you cannot make a mistake."They turned to the left. She was walking very slowly now, her legsthreatened to give way, and her heart was beating so violently that shefelt as if she should suffocate, while at every step she murmured, as ifin prayer:"Oh! Heaven! Heaven!"Monsieur d'Apreval, who was also nervous and rather pale, said to hersomewhat gruffly:"If you cannot manage to control your feelings, you will betray yourselfat once. Do try and restrain yourself.""How can I?" she replied. "My child! When I think that I am going tosee my child."They were going along one of those narrow country lanes betweenfarmyards, that are concealed beneath a double row of beech trees ateither side of the ditches, and suddenly they found themselves in frontof a gate, beside which there was a young spruce fir."This is it," he said.She stopped suddenly and looked about her. The courtyard, which wasplanted with apple trees, was large and extended as far as the smallthatched dwelling house. On the opposite side were the stable, the barn,the cow house and the poultry house, while the gig, the wagon and themanure cart were under a slated outhouse. Four calves were grazing underthe shade of the trees and black hens were wandering all about theenclosure.All was perfectly still; the house door was open, but nobody was to beseen, and so they went in, when immediately a large black dog came out ofa barrel that was standing under a pear tree, and began to barkfuriously.There were four bee-hives on boards against the wall of the house.Monsieur d'Apreval stood outside and called out:"Is anybody at home?"Then a child appeared, a little girl of about ten, dressed in a chemiseand a linen, petticoat, with dirty, bare legs and a timid and cunninglook. She remained standing in the doorway, as if to prevent any onegoing in."What do you want?" she asked."Is your father in?""No.""Where is he?""I don't know.""And your mother?""Gone after the cows.""Will she be back soon?""I don't know."Then suddenly the lady, as if she feared that her companion might forceher to return, said quickly:"I shall not go without having seen him.""We will wait for him, my dear friend."As they turned away, they saw a peasant woman coming toward the house,carrying two tin pails, which appeared to be heavy and which glistenedbrightly in the sunlight.She limped with her right leg, and in her brown knitted jacket, that wasfaded by the sun and washed out by the rain, she looked like a poor,wretched, dirty servant."Here is mamma," the child said.When she got close to the house, she looked at the strangers angrily andsuspiciously, and then she went in, as if she had not seen them. Shelooked old and had a hard, yellow, wrinkled face, one of those woodenfaces that country people so often have.Monsieur d'Apreval called her back."I beg your pardon, madame, but we came in to know whether you could sellus two glasses of milk."She was grumbling when she reappeared in the door, after putting down herpails."I don't sell milk," she replied."We are very thirsty," he said, "and madame is very tired. Can we notget something to drink?"The peasant woman gave them an uneasy and cunning glance and then shemade up her mind."As you are here, I will give you some," she said, going into the house,and almost immediately the child came out and brought two chairs, whichshe placed under an apple tree, and then the mother, in turn, brought outtwo bowls of foaming milk, which she gave to the visitors. She did notreturn to the house, however, but remained standing near them, as if towatch them and to find out for what purpose they had come there."You have come from Fecamp?" she said."Yes," Monsieur d'Apreval replied, "we are staying at Fecamp for thesummer."And then, after a short silence, he continued:"Have you any fowls you could sell us every week?"The woman hesitated for a moment and then replied:"Yes, I think I have. I suppose you want young ones?""Yes, of course.""'What do you pay for them in the market?"D'Apreval, who had not the least idea, turned to his companion:"What are you paying for poultry in Fecamp, my dear lady?""Four francs and four francs fifty centimes," she said, her eyes full oftears, while the farmer's wife, who was looking at her askance, asked inmuch surprise"Is the lady ill, as she is crying?"He did not know what to say, and replied with some hesitation:"No--no--but she lost her watch as we came along, a very handsome watch,and that troubles her. If anybody should find it, please let us know."Mother Benedict did not reply, as she thought it a very equivocal sort ofanswer, but suddenly she exclaimed:"Oh, here is my husband!"She was the only one who had seen him, as she was facing the gate.D'Apreval started and Madame de Cadour nearly fell as she turned roundsuddenly on her chair.A man bent nearly double, and out of breath, stood there, ten-yards fromthem, dragging a cow at the end of a rope. Without taking any notice ofthe visitors, he said:"Confound it! What a brute!"And he went past them and disappeared in the cow house.Her tears had dried quickly as she sat there startled, without a word andwith the one thought in her mind, that this was her son, and D'Apreval,whom the same thought had struck very unpleasantly, said in an agitatedvoice:"Is this Monsieur Benedict?""Who told you his name?" the wife asked, still rather suspiciously."The blacksmith at the corner of the highroad," he replied, and then theywere all silent, with their eyes fixed on the door of the cow house,which formed a sort of black hole in the wall of the building. Nothingcould be seen inside, but they heard a vague noise, movements andfootsteps and the sound of hoofs, which were deadened by the straw on thefloor, and soon the man reappeared in the door, wiping his forehead, andcame toward the house with long, slow strides. He passed the strangerswithout seeming to notice them and said to his wife:"Go and draw me a jug of cider; I am very thirsty."Then he went back into the house, while his wife went into the cellar andleft the two Parisians alone."Let us go, let us go, Henri," Madame de Cadour said, nearly distractedwith grief, and so d'Apreval took her by the arm, helped her to rise, andsustaining her with all his strength, for he felt that she was nearlyfainting, he led her out, after throwing five francs on one of thechairs.As soon as they were outside the gate, she began to sob and said, shakingwith grief:"Oh! oh! is that what you have made of him?"He was very pale and replied coldly:"I did what I could. His farm is worth eighty thousand francs, and thatis more than most of the sons of the middle classes have."They returned slowly, without speaking a word. She was still crying; thetears ran down her cheeks continually for a time, but by degrees theystopped, and they went back to Fecamp, where they found Monsieur deCadour waiting dinner for them. As soon as he saw them, he began tolaugh and exclaimed:"So my wife has had a sunstroke, and I am very glad of it. I reallythink she has lost her head for some time past!"Neither of them replied, and when the husband asked them, rubbing hishands:"Well, I hope that, at least, you have had a pleasant walk?"Monsieur d'Apreval replied:"A delightful walk, I assure you; perfectly delightful."