Clochette

by Guy de Maupassant

　　

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How strange those old recollections are which haunt us, without our beingable to get rid of them.This one is so very old that I cannot understand how it has clung sovividly and tenaciously to my memory. Since then I have seen so manysinister things, which were either affecting or terrible, that I amastonished at not being able to pass a single day without the face ofMother Bellflower recurring to my mind's eye, just as I knew herformerly, now so long ago, when I was ten or twelve years old.She was an old seamstress who came to my parents' house once a week,every Thursday, to mend the linen. My parents lived in one of thosecountry houses called chateaux, which are merely old houses with gableroofs, to which are attached three or four farms lying around them.The village, a large village, almost a market town, was a few hundredyards away, closely circling the church, a red brick church, black withage.Well, every Thursday Mother Clochette came between half-past six andseven in the morning, and went immediately into the linen-room and beganto work. She was a tall, thin, bearded or rather hairy woman, for shehad a beard all over her face, a surprising, an unexpected beard, growingin improbable tufts, in curly bunches which looked as if they had beensown by a madman over that great face of a gendarme in petticoats. Shehad them on her nose, under her nose, round her nose, on her chin, on hercheeks; and her eyebrows, which were extraordinarily thick and long, andquite gray, bushy and bristling, looked exactly like a pair of mustachesstuck on there by mistake.She limped, not as lame people generally do, but like a ship at anchor.When she planted her great, bony, swerving body on her sound leg, sheseemed to be preparing to mount some enormous wave, and then suddenly shedipped as if to disappear in an abyss, and buried herself in the ground.Her walk reminded one of a storm, as she swayed about, and her head,which was always covered with an enormous white cap, whose ribbonsfluttered down her back, seemed to traverse the horizon from north tosouth and from south to north, at each step.I adored Mother Clochette. As soon as I was up I went into the linen-room where I found her installed at work, with a foot-warmer under herfeet. As soon as I arrived, she made me take the foot-warmer and situpon it, so that I might not catch cold in that large, chilly room underthe roof."That draws the blood from your throat," she said to me.She told me stories, whilst mending the linen with her long crookednimble fingers; her eyes behind her magnifying spectacles, for age hadimpaired her sight, appeared enormous to me, strangely profound, double.She had, as far as I can remember the things which she told me and bywhich my childish heart was moved, the large heart of a poor woman. Shetold me what had happened in the village, how a cow had escaped from thecow-house and had been found the next morning in front of Prosper Malet'swindmill, looking at the sails turning, or about a hen's egg which hadbeen found in the church belfry without any one being able to understandwhat creature had been there to lay it, or the story of Jean-Jean Pila'sdog, who had been ten leagues to bring back his master's breeches which atramp had stolen whilst they were hanging up to dry out of doors, afterhe had been in the rain. She told me these simple adventures in such amanner, that in my mind they assumed the proportions of never-to-be-forgotten dramas, of grand and mysterious poems; and the ingeniousstories invented by the poets which my mother told me in the evening, hadnone of the flavor, none of the breadth or vigor of the peasant woman'snarratives.Well, one Tuesday, when I had spent all the morning in listening toMother Clochette, I wanted to go upstairs to her again during the dayafter picking hazelnuts with the manservant in the wood behind the farm.I remember it all as clearly as what happened only yesterday.On opening the door of the linen-room, I saw the old seamstress lying onthe ground by the side of her chair, with her face to the ground and herarms stretched out, but still holding her needle in one hand and one ofmy shirts in the other. One of her legs in a blue stocking, the longerone, no doubt, was extended under her chair, and her spectacles glistenedagainst the wall, as they had rolled away from her.I ran away uttering shrill cries. They all came running, and in a fewminutes I was told that Mother Clochette was dead.I cannot describe the profound, poignant, terrible emotion which stirredmy childish heart. I went slowly down into the drawing-room and hidmyself in a dark corner, in the depths of an immense old armchair, whereI knelt down and wept. I remained there a long time, no doubt, for nightcame on. Suddenly somebody came in with a lamp, without seeing me,however, and I heard my father and mother talking with the medical man,whose voice I recognized.He had been sent for immediately, and he was explaining the causes of theaccident, of which I understood nothing, however. Then he sat down andhad a glass of liqueur and a biscuit.He went on talking, and what he then said will remain engraved on my minduntil I die! I think that I can give the exact words which he used."Ah!" said he, "the poor woman! She broke her leg the day of my arrivalhere, and I had not even had time to wash my hands after getting off thediligence before I was sent for in all haste, for it was a bad case, verybad."She was seventeen, and a pretty girl, very pretty! Would any onebelieve it? I have never told her story before, and nobody except myselfand one other person who is no longer living in this part of the countryever knew it. Now that she is dead, I may be less discreet."Just then a young assistant-teacher came to live in the village; he wasa handsome, well-made fellow, and looked like a non-commissioned officer.All the girls ran after him, but he paid no attention to them, partlybecause he was very much afraid of his superior, the schoolmaster, oldGrabu, who occasionally got out of bed the wrong foot first."Old Grabu already employed pretty Hortense who has just died here, andwho was afterwards nicknamed Clochette. The assistant master singled outthe pretty young girl, who was, no doubt, flattered at being chosen bythis impregnable conqueror; at any rate, she fell in love with him, andhe succeeded in persuading her to give him a first meeting in the hay-loft behind the school, at night, after she had done her day's sewing."She pretended to go home, but instead of going downstairs when she leftthe Grabus' she went upstairs and hid among the hay, to wait for herlover. He soon joined her, and was beginning to say pretty things toher, when the door of the hay-loft opened and the schoolmaster appeared,and asked: 'What are you doing up there, Sigisbert?' Feeling sure thathe would be caught, the young schoolmaster lost his presence of mind andreplied stupidly: 'I came up here to rest a little amongst the bundles ofhay, Monsieur Grabu.'"The loft was very large and absolutely dark, and Sigisbert pushed thefrightened girl to the further end and said: 'Go over there and hideyourself. I shall lose my position, so get away and hide yourself.'"When the schoolmaster heard the whispering, he continued: 'Why, you arenot by yourself?' 'Yes, I am, Monsieur Grabu!' 'But you are not, for youare talking.' 'I swear I am, Monsieur Grabu.' 'I will soon find out,' theold man replied, and double locking the door, he went down to get alight."Then the young man, who was a coward such as one frequently meets, losthis head, and becoming furious all of a sudden, he repeated: 'Hideyourself, so that he may not find you. You will keep me from making aliving for the rest of my life; you will ruin my whole career. Do hideyourself!' They could hear the key turning in the lock again, andHortense ran to the window which looked out on the street, opened itquickly, and then said in a low and determined voice: 'You will come andpick me up when he is gone,' and she jumped out."Old Grabu found nobody, and went down again in great surprise, and aquarter of an hour later, Monsieur Sigisbert came to me and related hisadventure. The girl had remained at the foot of the wall unable to getup, as she had fallen from the second story, and I went with him to fetchher. It was raining in torrents, and I brought the unfortunate girl homewith me, for the right leg was broken in three places, and the bones hadcome trough the flesh. She did not complain, and merely said, withadmirable resignation: 'I am punished, well punished!'"I sent for assistance and for the work-girl's relatives and told them a,made-up story of a runaway carriage which had knocked her down and lamedher outside my door. They believed me, and the gendarmes for a wholemonth tried in vain to find the author of this accident."That is all! And I say that this woman was a heroine and belonged tothe race of those who accomplish the grandest deeds of history."That was her only love affair, and she died a virgin. She was a martyr,a noble soul, a sublimely devoted woman! And if I did not absolutelyadmire her, I should not have told you this story, which I would nevertell any one during her life; you understand why."The doctor ceased. Mamma cried and papa said some words which I did notcatch; then they left the room and I remained on my knees in the armchairand sobbed, whilst I heard a strange noise of heavy footsteps andsomething knocking against the side of the staircase.They were carrying away Clochette's body.

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