Madame Hermet

by Guy de Maupassant

Crazy people attract me. They live in a mysterious land of weird dreams,in that impenetrable cloud of dementia where all that they have witnessedin their previous life, all they have loved, is reproduced for them in animaginary existence, outside of all laws that govern the things of thislife and control human thought.For them there is no such thing as the impossible, nothing is improbable;fairyland is a constant quantity and the supernatural quite familiar.The old rampart, logic; the old wall, reason; the old main stay ofthought, good sense, break down, fall and crumble before theirimagination, set free and escaped into the limitless realm of fancy, andadvancing with fabulous bounds, and nothing can check it. For themeverything happens, and anything may happen. They make no effort toconquer events, to overcome resistance, to overturn obstacles. By asudden caprice of their flighty imagination they become princes,emperors, or gods, are possessed of all the wealth of the world, all thedelightful things of life, enjoy all pleasures, are always strong, alwaysbeautiful, always young, always beloved! They, alone, can be happy inthis world; for, as far as they are concerned, reality does not exist.I love to look into their wandering intelligence as one leans over anabyss at the bottom of which seethes a foaming torrent whose source anddestination are both unknown.But it is in vain that we lean over these abysses, for we shall neverdiscover the source nor the destination of this water. After all, it isonly water, just like what is flowing in the sunlight, and we shall learnnothing by looking at it.It is likewise of no use to ponder over the intelligence of crazy people,for their most weird notions are, in fact, only ideas that are alreadyknown, which appear strange simply because they are no longer under therestraint of reason. Their whimsical source surprises us because we donot see it bubbling up. Doubtless the dropping of a little stone intothe current was sufficient to cause these ebullitions. Neverthelesscrazy people attract me and I always return to them, drawn in spite ofmyself by this trivial mystery of dementia.One day as I was visiting one of the asylums the physician who was myguide said:"Come, I will show you an interesting case."And he opened the door of a cell where a woman of about forty, stillhandsome, was seated in a large armchair, looking persistently at herface in a little hand mirror.As soon as she saw us she rose to her feet, ran to the other end of theroom, picked up a veil that lay on a chair, wrapped it carefully roundher face, then came back, nodding her head in reply to our greeting."Well," said the doctor, "how are you this morning?"She gave a deep sigh."Oh, ill, monsieur, very ill. The marks are increasing every day."He replied in a tone of conviction:"Oh, no; oh, no; I assure you that you are mistaken."She drew near to him and murmured:"No. I am certain of it. I counted ten pittings more this morning,three on the right cheek, four on the left cheek, and three on theforehead. It is frightful, frightful! I shall never dare to let any onesee me, not even my son; no, not even him! I am lost, I am disfiguredforever."She fell back in her armchair and began to sob.The doctor took a chair, sat down beside her, and said soothingly in agentle tone:"Come, let me see; I assure you it is nothing. With a slightcauterization I will make it all disappear."She shook her head in denial, without speaking. He tried to touch herveil, but she seized it with both hands so violently that her fingerswent through it.He continued to reason with her and reassure her."Come, you know very well that I remove those horrid pits every time andthat there is no trace of them after I have treated them. If you do notlet me see them I cannot cure you.""I do not mind your seeing them," she murmured, "but I do not know thatgentleman who is with you.""He is a doctor also, who can give you better care than I can."She then allowed her face to be uncovered, but her dread, her emotion,her shame at being seen brought a rosy flush to her face and her neck,down to the collar of her dress. She cast down her eyes, turned her faceaside, first to the right; then to the left, to avoid our gaze andstammered out:"Oh, it is torture to me to let myself be seen like this! It ishorrible, is it not? Is it not horrible?"I looked at her in much surprise, for there was nothing on her face, nota mark, not a spot, not a sign of one, nor a scar.She turned towards me, her eyes still lowered, and said:"It was while taking care of my son that I caught this fearful disease,monsieur. I saved him, but I am disfigured. I sacrificed my beauty tohim, to my poor child. However, I did my duty, my conscience is at rest.If I suffer it is known only to God."The doctor had drawn from his coat pocket a fine water-color paint brush."Let me attend to it," he said, "I will put it all right."She held out her right cheek, and he began by touching it lightly withthe brush here and there, as though he were putting little points ofpaint on it. He did the same with the left cheek, then with the chin,and the forehead, and then exclaimed:"See, there is nothing there now, nothing at all!"She took up the mirror, gazed at her reflection with profound, eagerattention, with a strong mental effort to discover something, then shesighed:"No. It hardly shows at all. I am infinitely obliged to you."The doctor had risen. He bowed to her, ushered me out and followed me,and, as soon as he had locked the door, said:"Here is the history of this unhappy woman."Her name is Mme. Hermet. She was once very beautiful, a great coquette,very much beloved and very much in-love with life.She was one of those women who have nothing but their beauty and theirlove of admiration to sustain, guide or comfort them in this life. Theconstant anxiety to retain her freshness, the care of her complexion, ofher hands, her teeth, of every portion of body that was visible, occupiedall her time and all her attention.She became a widow, with one son. The boy was brought up as are allchildren of society beauties. She was, however, very fond of him.He grew up, and she grew older. Whether she saw the fatal crisisapproaching, I cannot say. Did she, like so many others, gaze for hoursand hours at her skin, once so fine, so transparent and free fromblemish, now beginning to shrivel slightly, to be crossed with a thousandlittle lines, as yet imperceptible, that will grow deeper day by day,month by month? Did she also see slowly, but surely, increasing tracesof those long wrinkles on the forehead, those slender serpents thatnothing can check? Did she suffer the torture, the abominable torture ofthe mirror, the little mirror with the silver handle which one cannotmake up one's mind to lay down on the table, but then throws down indisgust only to take it up again in order to look more closely, and stillmore closely at the hateful and insidious approaches of old age? Did sheshut herself up ten times, twenty times a day, leaving her friendschatting in the drawing-room, and go up to her room where, under theprotection of bolts and bars, she would again contemplate the work oftime on her ripe beauty, now beginning to wither, and recognize withdespair the gradual progress of the process which no one else had as yetseemed to perceive, but of which she, herself, was well aware. She knowswhere to seek the most serious, the gravest traces of age. And themirror, the little round hand-glass in its carved silver frame, tells herhorrible things; for it speaks, it seems to laugh, it jeers and tells herall that is going to occur, all the physical discomforts and theatrocious mental anguish she will suffer until the day of her death,which will be the day of her deliverance.Did she weep, distractedly, on her knees, her forehead to the ground, andpray, pray, pray to Him who thus slays his creatures and gives them youthonly that he may render old age more unendurable, and lends them beautyonly that he may withdraw it almost immediately? Did she pray to Him,imploring Him to do for her what He has never yet done for any one, tolet her retain until her last day her charm, her freshness and hergracefulness? Then, finding that she was imploring in vain an inflexibleUnknown who drives on the years, one after another, did she roll on thecarpet in her room, knocking her head against the furniture and stiflingin her throat shrieks of despair?Doubtless she suffered these tortures, for this is what occurred:One day (she was then thirty-five) her son aged fifteen, fell ill.He took to his bed without any one being able to determine the cause ornature of his illness.His tutor, a priest, watched beside him and hardly ever left him, whileMme. Hermet came morning and evening to inquire how he was.She would come into the room in the morning in her night wrapper,smiling, all powdered and perfumed, and would ask as she entered thedoor:"Well, George, are you better?"The big boy, his face red, swollen and showing the ravages of fever,would reply:"Yes, little mother, a little better."She would stay in the room a few seconds, look at the bottles ofmedicine, and purse her lips as if she were saying "phew," and then wouldsuddenly exclaim: "Oh, I forgot something very important," and would runout of the room leaving behind her a fragrance of choice toilet perfumes.In the evening she would appear in a decollete dress, in a still greaterhurry, for she was always late, and she had just time to inquire:"Well, what does the doctor say?"The priest would reply:"He has not yet given an opinion, madame."But one evening the abbe replied: "Madame, your son has got the small-pox."She uttered a scream of terror and fled from the room.When her maid came to her room the following morning she noticed at oncea strong odor of burnt sugar, and she found her mistress, with wide-openeyes, her face pale from lack of sleep, and shivering with terror in herbed.As soon as the shutters were opened Mme. Herrnet asked:"How is George?""Oh, not at all well to-day, madame."She did not rise until noon, when she ate two eggs with a cup of tea, asif she herself had been ill, and then she went out to a druggist's toinquire about prophylactic measures against the contagion of small-pox.She did not come home until dinner time, laden with medicine bottles, andshut herself up at once in her room, where she saturated herself withdisinfectants.The priest was waiting for her in the dining-room. As soon as she sawhim she exclaimed in a voice full of emotion:"Well?""No improvement. The doctor is very anxious:"She began to cry and could eat nothing, she was so worried.The next day, as soon as it was light, she sent to inquire for her son,but there was no improvement and she spent the whole day in her room,where little braziers were giving out pungent odors. Her maid said alsothat you could hear her sighing all the evening.She spent a whole week in this manner, only going out for an hour or twoduring the afternoon to breathe the air.She now sent to make inquiries every hour, and would sob when the reportswere unfavorable.On the morning of the eleventh day the priest, having been announced,entered her room, his face grave and pale, and said, without taking thechair she offered him:"Madame, your son is very ill and wishes to see you."She fell on her knees, exclaiming:"Oh, my God! Oh, my God! I would never dare! My God! My God! Helpme!"The priest continued:"The doctor holds out little hope, madame, and George is expecting you!"And he left the room.Two hours later as the young lad, feeling himself dying, again asked forhis mother, the abbe went to her again and found her still on her knees,still weeping and repeating:"I will not . . . . I will not. . . . I am too much afraid . .. . I will not. . . ."He tried to persuade her, to strengthen her, to lead her. He onlysucceeded in bringing on an attack of "nerves" that lasted some time andcaused her to shriek.The doctor when he came in the evening was told of this cowardice anddeclared that he would bring her in himself, of her own volition, or byforce. But after trying all manner of argument and just as he seized herround the waist to carry her into her son's room, she caught hold of thedoor and clung to it so firmly that they could not drag her away. Thenwhen they let go of her she fell at the feet of the doctor, begging hisforgiveness and acknowledging that she was a wretched creature. And thenshe exclaimed: "Oh, he is not going to die; tell me that he is not goingto die, I beg of you; tell him that I love him, that I worship him. . ."The young lad was dying. Feeling that he had only a few moments more tolive, he entreated that his mother be persuaded to come and bid him alast farewell. With that sort of presentiment that the dying sometimeshave, he had understood, had guessed all, and he said: "If she is afraidto come into the room, beg her just to come on the balcony as far as mywindow so that I may see her, at least, so that I may take a farewelllook at her, as I cannot kiss her."The doctor and the abbe, once more, went together to this woman andassured her: "You will run no risk, for there will be a pane of glassbetween you and him."She consented, covered up her head, and took with her a bottle ofsmelling salts. She took three steps on the balcony; then, all at once,hiding her face in her hands, she moaned: "No . . . no . . . Iwould never dare to look at him . . . never. . . . I am too muchashamed . . . too much afraid . . . . No . . . I cannot."They endeavored to drag her along, but she held on with both hands to therailings and uttered such plaints that the passers-by in the streetraised their heads. And the dying boy waited, his eyes turned towardsthat window, waited to die until he could see for the last time thesweet, beloved face, the worshiped face of his mother.He waited long, and night came on. Then he turned over with his face tothe wall and was silent.When day broke he was dead. The day following she was crazy.

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