Ги де Мопассан
Complete Original Short Stories of Guy De Maupassant
A QUEER NIGHT IN PARIS
Mattre Saval, notary at Vernon, was passionately fond of music. Although still young he was already bald; he was always carefully shaven, was somewhat corpulent as was suitable, and wore a gold pince-nez instead of spectacles. He was active, gallant and cheerful and was considered quite an artist in Vernon. He played the piano and the violin, and gave musicals where the new operas were interpreted.
He had even what is called a bit of a voice; nothing but a bit, very little bit of a voice; but he managed it with so much taste that cries of “Bravo!” “Exquisite!” “Surprising!” “Adorable!” issued from every throat as soon as he had murmured the last note.
He subscribed to a music publishing house in Paris, and they sent him the latest music, and from time to time he sent invitations after this fashion to the elite of the town:
“You are invited to be present on Monday evening at the house of M. Saval, notary, Vernon, at the first rendering of ‘Sais.’”
A few officers, gifted with good voices, formed the chorus. Two or three lady amateurs also sang. The notary filled the part of leader of the orchestra with so much correctness that the bandmaster of the 190th regiment of the line said of him, one day, at the Cafe de l’Europe.
“Oh! M. Saval is a master. It is a great pity that he did not adopt the career of an artist.”
When his name was mentioned in a drawing-room, there was always somebody found to declare: “He is not an amateur; he is an artist, a genuine artist.”
And two or three persons repeated, in a tone of profound conviction:
“Oh! yes, a genuine artist,” laying particular stress on the word “genuine.”
Every time that a new work was interpreted at a big Parisian theatre M. Saval paid a visit to the capital.
Now, last year, according to his custom, he went to hear Henri VIII. He then took the express which arrives in Paris at 4:30 P.M., intending to return by the 12:35 A.M. train, so as not to have to sleep at a hotel. He had put on evening dress, a black coat and white tie, which he concealed under his overcoat with the collar turned up.
As soon as he set foot on the Rue d’Amsterdam, he felt himself in quite jovial mood. He said to himself:
“Decidedly, the air of Paris does not resemble any other air. It has in it something indescribably stimulating, exciting, intoxicating, which fills you with a strange longing to dance about and to do many other things. As soon as I arrive here, it seems to me, all of a sudden, that I have taken a bottle of champagne. What a life one can lead in this city in the midst of artists! Happy are the elect, the great men who make themselves a reputation in such a city! What an existence is theirs!”
And he made plans; he would have liked to know some of these celebrated men, to talk about them in Vernon, and to spend an evening with them from time to time in Paris.
But suddenly an idea struck him. He had heard allusions to little cafes in the outer boulevards at which well-known painters, men of letters, and even musicians gathered, and he proceeded to go up to Montmartre at a slow pace.
He had two hours before him. He wanted to look about him. He passed in front of taverns frequented by belated bohemians, gazing at the different faces, seeking to discover the artists. Finally, he came to the sign of “The Dead Rat,” and, allured by the name, he entered.
Five or six women, with their elbows resting on the marble tables, were talking in low tones about their love affairs, the quarrels of Lucie and Hortense, and the scoundrelism of Octave. They were no longer young, were too fat or too thin, tired out, used up. You could see that they were almost bald; and they drank beer like men.
M. Saval sat down at some distance from them and waited, for the hour for taking absinthe was at hand.
A tall young man soon came in and took a seat beside him. The landlady called him M. “Romantin.” The notary quivered. Was this the Romantin who had taken a medal at the last Salon?
The young man made a sign to the waiter.
“You will bring up my dinner at once, and then carry to my new studio, 15 Boulevard de Clichy, thirty bottles of beer, and the ham I ordered this morning. We are going to have a housewarming.”
M. Saval immediately ordered dinner. Then, he took off his overcoat, so that his dress suit and his white tie could be seen. His neighbor did not seem to notice him. He had taken up a newspaper, and was reading it. M. Saval glanced sideways at him, burning with the desire to speak to him.
Two young men entered, in red vests and with peaked beards, in the fashion of Henry III. They sat down opposite Romantin.
The first of the pair said:
“Is it for this evening?”
Romantin pressed his hand.
“I believe you, old chap, and everyone will be there. I have Bonnat, Guillemet, Gervex, Beraud, Hebert, Duez, Clairin, and Jean-Paul Laurens. It will be a stunning affair! And women, too! Wait till you see! Every actress without exception – of course I mean, you know, all those who have nothing to do this evening.”
The landlord of the establishment came across.
“Do you often have this housewarming?”
The painter replied:
“I believe you, every three months, each quarter.”
M. Saval could not restrain himself any longer, and in a hesitating voice said:
“I beg your pardon for intruding on you, monsieur, but I heard your name mentioned, and I would be very glad to know if you really are M. Romantin, whose work in the last Salon I have so much admired?”
The painter answered:
“I am the very person, monsieur.”
The notary then paid the artist a very well-turned compliment, showing that he was a man of culture.
The painter, gratified, thanked him politely in reply.
Then they chattered. Romantin returned to the subject of his house-warming, going into details as to the magnificence of the forthcoming entertainment.
M. Saval questioned him as to all the men he was going to receive, adding:
“It would be an extraordinary piece of good fortune for a stranger to meet at one time so many celebrities assembled in the studio of an artist of your rank.”
Romantin, vanquished, replied:
“If it would be agreeable to you, come.”
M. Saval accepted the invitation with enthusiasm, reflecting:
“I shall have time enough to see Henri VIII.”
Both of them had finished their meal. The notary insisted on paying the two bills, wishing to repay his neighbor’s civilities. He also paid for the drinks of the young fellows in red velvet; then he left the establishment with the painter.
They stopped in front of a very long, low house, the first story having the appearance of an interminable conservatory. Six studios stood in a row with their fronts facing the boulevards.
Romantin was the first to enter, and, ascending the stairs, he opened a door, and lighted a match and then a candle.
They found themselves in an immense apartment, the furniture of which consisted of three chairs, two easels, and a few sketches standing on the ground along the walls. M. Saval remained standing at the door somewhat astonished.
The painter remarked:
“Here you are! we’ve got to the spot; but everything has yet to be done.”
Then, examining the high, bare apartment, its ceiling disappearing in the darkness, he said:
“We might make a great deal out of this studio.”
He walked round it, surveying it with the utmost attention, then went on:
“I know someone who might easily give a helping hand. Women are incomparable for hanging drapery. But I sent her to the country for to-day in order to get her off my hands this evening. It is not that she bores me, but she is too much lacking in the ways of good society. It would be embarrassing to my guests.”
He reflected for a few seconds, and then added:
“She is a good girl, but not easy to deal with. If she knew that I was holding a reception, she would tear out my eyes.”
M. Saval had not even moved; he did not understand.
The artist came over to him.
“Since I have invited you, you will assist ma about something.”
The notary said emphatically:
“Make any use of me you please. I am at your disposal.”
Romantin took off his jacket.
“Well, citizen, to work!’ We are first going to clean up.”
He went to the back of the easel, on which there was a canvas representing a cat, and seized a very worn-out broom.
“I say! Just brush up while I look after the lighting.”
M. Saval took the broom, inspected it, and then began to sweep the floor very awkwardly, raising a whirlwind of dust.
Romantin, disgusted, stopped him: “Deuce take it! you don’t know how to sweep the floor! Look at me!”
And he began to roll before him a heap of grayish sweepings, as if he had done nothing else all his life. Then, he gave bark the broom to the notary, who imitated him.
In five minutes, such a cloud of dust filled the studio that Rormantin asked:
“Where are you? I can’t see you any longer.”
M. Saval, who was coughing, came near to him. The painter said:
“How would you set about making a chandelier?”
The other, surprised, asked:
“What chandelier?”
“Why, a chandelier to light the room – a chandelier with wax-candles.”
The notary did not understand.
He answered: “I don’t know.”
The painter began to jump about, cracking his fingers.
“Well, monseigneur, I have found out a way.”
Then he went on more calmly:
“Have you got five francs about you?”
M. Saval replied:
“Why, yes.”
The artist said: “Well! you’ll go out and buy for me five francs’ worth of wax-candles while I go and see the cooper.”
And he pushed the notary in his evening coat into the street. At the end of five minutes, they had returned, one of them with the wax-candles and the other with the hoop of a cask. Then Romantin plunged his hand into a cupboard, and drew forth twenty empty bottles, which he fixed in the form of a crown around the hoop.
He then went downstairs to borrow a ladder from the janitress, after having explained that he had made interest with the old woman by painting the portrait of her cat, exhibited on the easel.
When he returned with the ladder, he said to M. Saval:
“Are you active?”
The other, without understanding, answered:
“Why, yes.”
“Well, you just climb up there, and fasten this chandelier for me to the ring of the ceiling. Then, you put a wax-candle in each bottle, and light it. I tell you I have a genius for lighting up. But off with your coat, damn it! You are just like a Jeames.”
The door was opened brusquely. A woman appeared, her eyes flashing, and remained standing on the threshold.
Romantin gazed at her with a look of terror.
She waited some seconds, crossing her arms over her breast, and then in a shrill, vibrating, exasperated voice said:
“Ha! you dirty scoundrel, is this the way you leave me?”
Romantin made no reply. She went on:
“Ha! you scoundrel! You did a nice thing in parking me off to the country. You’ll soon see the way I’ll settle your jollification. Yes, I’m going to receive your friends.”
She grew warmer.
“I’m going to slap their faces with the bottles and the wax-candles – ”
Romantin said in a soft tone:
“Mathilde – ”
But she did not pay any attention to him; she went on:
“Wait a little, my fine fellow! wait a little!”
Romantin went over to her, and tried to take her by the hands.
“Mathilde – ”
But she was now fairly under way; and on she went, emptying the vials of her wrath with strong words and reproaches. They flowed out of her mouth like, a stream sweeping a heap of filth along with it. The words pouring forth seemed struggling for exit. She stuttered, stammered, yelled, suddenly recovering her voice to cast forth an insult or a curse.
He seized her hands without her having noticed it. She did not seem to see anything, so taken up was she in scolding and relieving her feelings. And suddenly she began to weep. The tears flowed from her eyes, but this did not stop her complaints. But her words were uttered in a screaming falsetto voice with tears in it and interrupted by sobs. She commenced afresh twice or three times, till she stopped as if something were choking her, and at last she ceased with a regular flood of tears.
Then he clasped her in his arms and kissed her hair, affected himself.
“Mathilde, my little Mathilde, listen. You must be reasonable. You know, if I give a supper-party to my friends, it is to thank these gentlemen for the medal I got at the Salon. I cannot receive women. You ought to understand that. It is not the same with artists as with other people.”
She stammered, in the midst of her tears:
“Why didn’t you tell me this?”
He replied:
“It was in order not to annoy you, not to give you pain. Listen, I’m going to see you home. You will be very sensible, very nice; you will remain quietly waiting for me in bed, and I’ll come back as soon as it’s over.”
She murmured:
“Yes, but you will not begin over again?”
“No, I swear to you!”
He turned towards M. Saval, who had at last hooked on the chandelier:
“My dear friend, I am coming back in five minutes. If anyone arrives in my absence, do the honors for me, will you not?”
And he carried off Mathilde, who kept drying her eyes with her handkerchief as she went along.
Left to himself, M. Saval succeeded in putting everything around him in order. Then he lighted the wax-candles, and waited.
He waited for a quarter of an hour, half an hour, an hour. Romantin did not return. Then, suddenly there was a dreadful noise on the stairs, a song shouted out in chorus by twenty mouths and a regular march like that of a Prussian regiment. The whole house was shaken by the steady tramp of feet. The door flew open, and a motley throng appeared – men and women in file, two and two holding each other by the arm and stamping their heels on the ground to mark time, advanced into the studio like a snake uncoiling itself. They howled:
“Come, and let us all be merry,
Pretty maids and soldiers gay!”
M. Saval, thunderstruck, remained standing in evening dress under the chandelier. The procession of revellers caught sight of him, and uttered a shout:
“A Jeames! A Jeames!”
And they began whirling round him, surrounding him with a circle of vociferations. Then they took each other by the hand and went dancing about madly.
He attempted to explain:
“Messieurs – messieurs – mesdames – ”
But they did not listen to him. They whirled about, they jumped, they brawled.
At last, the dancing ceased. M. Saval said:
“Gentlemen – ”
A tall young fellow, fair-haired and bearded to the nose, interrupted him:
“What’s your name, my friend?”
The notary, quite scared, said:
“I am M. Saval.”
A voice exclaimed:
“You mean Baptiste.”
A woman said:
“Let the poor waiter alone! You’ll end by making him get angry. He’s paid to wait on us, and not to be laughed at by us.”
Then, M. Saval noticed that each guest had brought his own provisions. One held a bottle of wine, and the other a pie. This one had a loaf of bread, and one a ham.
The tall, fair young fellow placed in his hands an enormous sausage, and gave orders:
“Here, go and arrange the sideboard in the corner over there. Put the bottles at the left and the provisions at the right.”
Saval, getting quite distracted, exclaimed: “But, messieurs, I am a notary!”
There was a moment’s silence and then a wild outburst of laughter. One suspicious gentleman asked:
“How came you to be here?”
He explained, telling about his project of going to the opera, his departure from Vernon, his arrival in Paris, and the way in which he had spent the evening.
They sat around him to listen to him; they greeted him with words of applause, and called him Scheherazade.
Romantin did not return. Other guests arrived. M. Saval was presented to them so that he might begin his story over again. He declined; they forced him to relate it. They seated and tied him on one of three chairs between two women who kept constantly filling his glass. He drank; he laughed; he talked; he sang, too. He tried to waltz with his chair, and fell on the ground.
From that moment, he forgot everything. It seemed to him, however, that they undressed him, put him to bed, and that he was nauseated.
When he awoke, it was broad daylight, and he lay stretched with his feet against a cupboard, in a strange bed.
An old woman with a broom in her hand was glaring angrily at him. At last, she said:
“Clear out, you blackguard! Clear out! What right has anyone to get drunk like this?”
He sat up in bed, feeling very ill at ease. He asked:
“Where am I?”
“Where are you, you dirty scamp? You are drunk. Take your rotten carcass out of here as quick as you can – and lose no time about it!”
He wanted to get up. He found that he was in no condition to do so. His clothes had disappeared. He blurted out:
“Madame, I – Then he remembered. What was he to do? He asked:
“Did Monsieur Romantin come back?”
The doorkeeper shouted:
“Will you take your dirty carcass out of this, so that he at any rate may not catch you here?”
M. Saval said, in a state of confusion:
“I haven’t got my clothes; they have been taken away from me.”
He had to wait, to explain his situation, give notice to his friends, and borrow some money to buy clothes. He did not leave Paris till evening. And when people talk about music to him in his beautiful drawing-room in Vernon, he declares with an air of authority that painting is a very inferior art.
VOLUME VI
THAT COSTLY RIDE
The household lived frugally on the meager income derived from the husband’s insignificant appointments. Two children had been born of the marriage, and the earlier condition of the strictest economy had become one of quiet, concealed, shamefaced misery, the poverty of a noble family – which in spite of misfortune never forgets its rank.
Hector de Gribelin had been educated in the provinces, under the paternal roof, by an aged priest. His people were not rich, but they managed to live and to keep up appearances.
At twenty years of age they tried to find him a position, and he entered the Ministry of Marine as a clerk at sixty pounds a year. He foundered on the rock of life like all those who have not been early prepared for its rude struggles, who look at life through a mist, who do not know how to protect themselves, whose special aptitudes and faculties have not been developed from childhood, whose early training has not developed the rough energy needed for the battle of life or furnished them with tool or weapon.
His first three years of office work were a martyrdom.
He had, however, renewed the acquaintance of a few friends of his family – elderly people, far behind the times, and poor like himself, who lived in aristocratic streets, the gloomy thoroughfares of the Faubourg Saint-Germain; and he had created a social circle for himself.
Strangers to modern life, humble yet proud, these needy aristocrats lived in the upper stories of sleepy, old-world houses. From top to bottom of their dwellings the tenants were titled, but money seemed just as scarce on the ground floor as in the attics.
Their eternal prejudices, absorption in their rank, anxiety lest they should lose caste, filled the minds and thoughts of these families once so brilliant, now ruined by the idleness of the men of the family. Hector de Gribelin met in this circle a young girl as well born and as poor as himself and married her.
They had two children in four years.
For four years more the husband and wife, harassed by poverty, knew no other distraction than the Sunday walk in the Champs-Elysees and a few evenings at the theatre (amounting in all to one or two in the course of the winter) which they owed to free passes presented by some comrade or other.
But in the spring of the following year some overtime work was entrusted to Hector de Gribelin by his chief, for which he received the large sum of three hundred francs.
The day he brought the money home he said to his wife:
“My dear Henrietta, we must indulge in some sort of festivity – say an outing for the children.”
And after a long discussion it was decided that they should go and lunch one day in the country.
“Well,” cried Hector, “once will not break us, so we’ll hire a wagonette for you, the children and the maid. And I’ll have a saddle horse; the exercise will do me good.”
The whole week long they talked of nothing but the projected excursion.
Every evening, on his return from the office, Hector caught up his elder son, put him astride his leg, and, making him bounce up and down as hard as he could, said:
“That’s how daddy will gallop next Sunday.”
And the youngster amused himself all day long by bestriding chairs, dragging them round the room and shouting:
“This is daddy on horseback!”
The servant herself gazed at her master with awestruck eyes as she thought of him riding alongside the carriage, and at meal-times she listened with all her ears while he spoke of riding and recounted the exploits of his youth, when he lived at home with his father. Oh, he had learned in a good school, and once he felt his steed between his legs he feared nothing – nothing whatever!
Rubbing his hands, he repeated gaily to his wife:
“If only they would give me a restive animal I should be all the better pleased. You’ll see how well I can ride; and if you like we’ll come back by the Champs-Elysees just as all the people are returning from the Bois. As we shall make a good appearance, I shouldn’t at all object to meeting some one from the ministry. That is all that is necessary to insure the respect of one’s chiefs.”
On the day appointed the carriage and the riding horse arrived at the same moment before the door. Hector went down immediately to examine his mount. He had had straps sewn to his trousers and flourished in his hand a whip he had bought the evening before.
He raised the horse’s legs and felt them one after another, passed his hand over the animal’s neck, flank and hocks, opened his mouth, examined his teeth, declared his age; and then, the whole household having collected round him, he delivered a discourse on the horse in general and the specimen before him in particular, pronouncing the latter excellent in every respect.
When the rest of the party had taken their seats in the carriage he examined the saddle-girth; then, putting his foot in the stirrup, he sprang to the saddle. The animal began to curvet and nearly threw his rider.
Hector, not altogether at his ease, tried to soothe him:
“Come, come, good horse, gently now!”
Then, when the horse had recovered his equanimity and the rider his nerve, the latter asked:
“Are you ready?”
The occupants of the carriage replied with one voice:
“Yes.”
“Forward!” he commanded.
And the cavalcade set out.
All looks were centered on him. He trotted in the English style, rising unnecessarily high in the saddle; looking at times as if he were mounting into space. Sometimes he seemed on the point of falling forward on the horse’s mane; his eyes were fixed, his face drawn, his cheeks pale.
His wife, holding one of the children on her knees, and the servant, who was carrying the other, continually cried out:
“Look at papa! look at papa!”
And the two boys, intoxicated by the motion of the carriage, by their delight and by the keen air, uttered shrill cries. The horse, frightened by the noise they made, started off at a gallop, and while Hector was trying to control his steed his hat fell off, and the driver had to get down and pick it up. When the equestrian had recovered it he called to his wife from a distance:
“Don’t let the children shout like that! They’ll make the horse bolt!”
They lunched on the grass in the Vesinet woods, having brought provisions with them in the carriage.
Although the driver was looking after the three horses, Hector rose every minute to see if his own lacked anything; he patted him on the neck and fed him with bread, cakes and sugar.
“He’s an unequal trotter,” he declared. “He certainly shook me up a little at first, but, as you saw, I soon got used to it. He knows his master now and won’t give any more trouble.”
As had been decided, they returned by the Champs-Elysees.
That spacious thoroughfare literally swarmed with vehicles of every kind, and on the sidewalks the pedestrians were so numerous that they looked like two indeterminate black ribbons unfurling their length from the Arc de Triomphe to the Place de la Concorde. A flood of sunlight played on this gay scene, making the varnish of the carriages, the steel of the harness and the handles of the carriage doors shine with dazzling brilliancy.
An intoxication of life and motion seemed to have invaded this assemblage of human beings, carriages and horses. In the distance the outlines of the Obelisk could be discerned in a cloud of golden vapor.
As soon as Hector’s horse had passed the Arc de Triomphe he became suddenly imbued with fresh energy, and, realizing that his stable was not far off, began to trot rapidly through the maze of wheels, despite all his rider’s efforts to restrain him.
The carriage was now far behind. When the horse arrived opposite the Palais de l’Industrie he saw a clear field before him, and, turning to the right, set off at a gallop.
An old woman wearing an apron was crossing the road in leisurely fashion. She happened to be just in Hector’s way as he arrived on the scene riding at full speed. Powerless to control his mount, he shouted at the top of his voice:
“Hi! Look out there! Hi!”
She must have been deaf, for she continued peacefully on her way until the awful moment when, struck by the horse’s chest as by a locomotive under full steam, she rolled ten paces off, turning three somersaults on the way.
Voices yelled:
“Stop him!”
Hector, frantic with terror, clung to the horse’s mane and shouted:
“Help! help!”
A terrible jolt hurled him, as if shot from a gun, over his horse’s ears and cast him into the arms of a policeman who was running up to stop him.
In the space of a second a furious, gesticulating, vociferating group had gathered round him. An old gentleman with a white mustache, wearing a large round decoration, seemed particularly exasperated. He repeated:
“Confound it! When a man is as awkward as all that he should remain at home and not come killing people in the streets, if he doesn’t know how to handle a horse.”
Four men arrived on the scene, carrying the old woman. She appeared to be dead. Her skin was like parchment, her cap on one side and she was covered with dust.
“Take her to a druggist’s,” ordered the old gentleman, “and let us go to the commissary of police.”
Hector started on his way with a policeman on either side of him, a third was leading his horse. A crowd followed them – and suddenly the wagonette appeared in sight. His wife alighted in consternation, the servant lost her head, the children whimpered. He explained that he would soon be at home, that he had knocked a woman down and that there was not much the matter. And his family, distracted with anxiety, went on their way.
When they arrived before the commissary the explanation took place in few words. He gave his name – Hector de Gribelin, employed at the Ministry of Marine; and then they awaited news of the injured woman. A policeman who had been sent to obtain information returned, saying that she had recovered consciousness, but was complaining of frightful internal pain. She was a charwoman, sixty-five years of age, named Madame Simon.
When he heard that she was not dead Hector regained hope and promised to defray her doctor’s bill. Then he hastened to the druggist’s. The door way was thronged; the injured woman, huddled in an armchair, was groaning. Her arms hung at her sides, her face was drawn. Two doctors were still engaged in examining her. No bones were broken, but they feared some internal lesion.
Hector addressed her:
“Do you suffer much?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Where is the pain?”
“I feel as if my stomach were on fire.”
A doctor approached.
“Are you the gentleman who caused the accident?”
“I am.”
“This woman ought to be sent to a home. I know one where they would take her at six francs a day. Would you like me to send her there?”
Hector was delighted at the idea, thanked him and returned home much relieved.
His wife, dissolved in tears, was awaiting him. He reassured her.
“It’s all right. This Madame Simon is better already and will be quite well in two or three days. I have sent her to a home. It’s all right.”
When he left his office the next day he went to inquire for Madame Simon. He found her eating rich soup with an air of great satisfaction.
“Well?” said he.
“Oh, sir,” she replied, “I’m just the same. I feel sort of crushed – not a bit better.”
The doctor declared they must wait and see; some complication or other might arise.
Hector waited three days, then he returned. The old woman, fresh-faced and clear-eyed, began to whine when she saw him:
“I can’t move, sir; I can’t move a bit. I shall be like this for the rest of my days.”
A shudder passed through Hector’s frame. He asked for the doctor, who merely shrugged his shoulders and said:
“What can I do? I can’t tell what’s wrong with her. She shrieks when they try to raise her. They can’t even move her chair from one place to another without her uttering the most distressing cries. I am bound to believe what she tells me; I can’t look into her inside. So long as I have no chance of seeing her walk I am not justified in supposing her to be telling lies about herself.”
The old woman listened, motionless, a malicious gleam in her eyes.
A week passed, then a fortnight, then a month. Madame Simon did not leave her armchair. She ate from morning to night, grew fat, chatted gaily with the other patients and seemed to enjoy her immobility as if it were the rest to which she was entitled after fifty years of going up and down stairs, of turning mattresses, of carrying coal from one story to another, of sweeping and dusting.
Hector, at his wits’ end, came to see her every day. Every day he found her calm and serene, declaring:
“I can’t move, sir; I shall never be able to move again.”
Every evening Madame de Gribelin, devoured with anxiety, said:
“How is Madame Simon?”
And every time he replied with a resignation born of despair:
“Just the same; no change whatever.”
