Minuet

by Guy de Maupassant

　　

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Great misfortunes do not affect me very much, said John Bridelle, an oldbachelor who passed for a sceptic. I have seen war at quite closequarters; I walked across corpses without any feeling of pity. The greatbrutal facts of nature, or of humanity, may call forth cries of horror orindignation, but do not cause us that tightening of the heart, thatshudder that goes down your spine at sight of certain little heartrendingepisodes.The greatest sorrow that anyone can experience is certainly the loss of achild, to a mother; and the loss of his mother, to a man. It is intense,terrible, it rends your heart and upsets your mind; but one is healed ofthese shocks, just as large bleeding wounds become healed. Certainmeetings, certain things half perceived, or surmised, certain secretsorrows, certain tricks of fate which awake in us a whole world ofpainful thoughts, which suddenly unclose to us the mysterious door ofmoral suffering, complicated, incurable; all the deeper because theyappear benign, all the more bitter because they are intangible, all themore tenacious because they appear almost factitious, leave in our soulsa sort of trail of sadness, a taste of bitterness, a feeling ofdisenchantment, from which it takes a long time to free ourselves.I have always present to my mind two or three things that others wouldsurely not have noticed, but which penetrated my being like fine, sharpincurable stings.You might not perhaps understand the emotion that I retained from thesehasty impressions. I will tell you one of them. She was very old, butas lively as a young girl. It may be that my imagination alone isresponsible for my emotion.I am fifty. I was young then and studying law. I was rather sad,somewhat of a dreamer, full of a pessimistic philosophy and did not caremuch for noisy cafes, boisterous companions, or stupid girls. I roseearly and one of my chief enjoyments was to walk alone about eighto'clock in the morning in the nursery garden of the Luxembourg.You people never knew that nursery garden. It was like a forgottengarden of the last century, as pretty as the gentle smile of an old lady.Thick hedges divided the narrow regular paths,--peaceful paths betweentwo walls of carefully trimmed foliage. The gardener's great shears werepruning unceasingly these leafy partitions, and here and there one cameacross beds of flowers, lines of little trees looking like schoolboys outfor a walk, companies of magnificent rose bushes, or regiments of fruittrees.An entire corner of this charming spot was in habited by bees. Theirstraw hives skillfully arranged at distances on boards had theirentrances--as large as the opening of a thimble--turned towards the sun,and all along the paths one encountered these humming and gilded flies,the true masters of this peaceful spot, the real promenaders of thesequiet paths.I came there almost every morning. I sat down on a bench and read.Sometimes I let my book fall on my knees, to dream, to listen to the lifeof Paris around me, and to enjoy the infinite repose of these old-fashioned hedges.But I soon perceived that I was not the only one to frequent this spot assoon as the gates were opened, and I occasionally met face to face, at aturn in the path, a strange little old man.He wore shoes with silver buckles, knee-breeches, a snuff-colored frockcoat, a lace jabot, and an outlandish gray hat with wide brim and long-haired surface that might have come out of the ark.He was thin, very thin, angular, grimacing and smiling. His bright eyeswere restless beneath his eyelids which blinked continuously. He alwayscarried in his hand a superb cane with a gold knob, which must have beenfor him some glorious souvenir.This good man astonished me at first, then caused me the intensestinterest. I watched him through the leafy walls, I followed him at adistance, stopping at a turn in the hedge so as not to be seen.And one morning when he thought he was quite alone, he began to make themost remarkable motions. First he would give some little springs, thenmake a bow; then, with his slim legs, he would give a lively spring inthe air, clapping his feet as he did so, and then turn round cleverly,skipping and frisking about in a comical manner, smiling as if he had anaudience, twisting his poor little puppet-like body, bowing pathetic andridiculous little greetings into the empty air. He was dancing.I stood petrified with amazement, asking myself which of us was crazy, heor I.He stopped suddenly, advanced as actors do on the stage, then bowed andretreated with gracious smiles, and kissing his hand as actors do, histrembling hand, to the two rows of trimmed bushes.Then he continued his walk with a solemn demeanor.After that I never lost sight of him, and each morning he began anew hisoutlandish exercises.I was wildly anxious to speak to him. I decided to risk it, and one day,after greeting him, I said:"It is a beautiful day, monsieur."He bowed."Yes, sir, the weather is just as it used to be."A week later we were friends and I knew his history. He had been adancing master at the opera, in the time of Louis XV. His beautiful canewas a present from the Comte de Clermont. And when we spoke aboutdancing he never stopping talking.One day he said to me:"I married La Castris, monsieur. I will introduce you to her if you wishit, but she does not get here till later. This garden, you see, is ourdelight and our life. It is all that remains of former days. It seemsas though we could not exist if we did not have it. It is old anddistingue, is it not? I seem to breathe an air here that has not changedsince I was young. My wife and I pass all our afternoons here, but Icome in the morning because I get up early."As soon as I had finished luncheon I returned to the Luxembourg, andpresently perceived my friend offering his arm ceremoniously to a veryold little lady dressed in black, to whom he introduced me. It was LaCastris, the great dancer, beloved by princes, beloved by the king,beloved by all that century of gallantry that seems to have left behindit in the world an atmosphere of love.We sat down on a bench. It was the month of May. An odor of flowersfloated in the neat paths; a hot sun glided its rays between the branchesand covered us with patches of light. The black dress of La Castrisseemed to be saturated with sunlight.The garden was empty. We heard the rattling of vehicles in the distance."Tell me," I said to the old dancer, "what was the minuet?"He gave a start."The minuet, monsieur, is the queen of dances, and the dance of queens,do you understand? Since there is no longer any royalty, there is nolonger any minuet."And he began in a pompous manner a long dithyrambic eulogy which I couldnot understand. I wanted to have the steps, the movements, thepositions, explained to me. He became confused, was amazed at hisinability to make me understand, became nervous and worried.Then suddenly, turning to his old companion who had remained silent andserious, he said:"Elise, would you like--say--would you like, it would be very nice ofyou, would you like to show this gentleman what it was?"She turned eyes uneasily in all directions, then rose without saying aword and took her position opposite him.Then I witnessed an unheard-of thing.They advanced and retreated with childlike grimaces, smiling, swingingeach other, bowing, skipping about like two automaton dolls moved by someold mechanical contrivance, somewhat damaged, but made by a cleverworkman according to the fashion of his time.And I looked at them, my heart filled with extraordinary emotions, mysoul touched with an indescribable melancholy. I seemed to see before mea pathetic and comical apparition, the out-of-date ghost of a formercentury.They suddenly stopped. They had finished all the figures of the dance.For some seconds they stood opposite each other, smiling in anastonishing manner. Then they fell on each other's necks sobbing.I left for the provinces three days later. I never saw them again.When I returned to Paris, two years later, the nursery had beendestroyed. What became of them, deprived of the dear garden of formerdays, with its mazes, its odor of the past, and the graceful windings ofits hedges?Are they dead? Are they wandering among modern streets like hopelessexiles? Are they dancing--grotesque spectres--a fantastic minuet in themoonlight, amid the cypresses of a cemetery, along the pathways borderedby graves?Their memory haunts me, obsesses me, torments me, remains with me like awound. Why? I do not know.No doubt you think that very absurd?

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