The Child

by Guy de Maupassant

　　

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Lemonnier had remained a widower with one child. He had loved his wifedevotedly, with a tender and exalted love, without a slip, during theirentire married life. He was a good, honest man, perfectly simple,sincere, without suspicion or malice.He fell in love with a poor neighbor, proposed and was accepted. He wasmaking a very comfortable living out of the wholesale cloth business, andhe did not for a minute suspect that the young girl might have acceptedhim for anything else but himself.She made him happy. She was everything to him; he only thought of her,looked at her continually, with worshiping eyes. During meals he wouldmake any number of blunders, in order not to have to take his eyes fromthe beloved face; he would pour the wine in his plate and the water inthe salt-cellar, then he would laugh like a child, repeating:"You see, I love you too much; that makes me crazy."She would smile with a calm and resigned look; then she would look away,as though embarrassed by the adoration of her husband, and try to makehim talk about something else; but he would take her hand under the tableand he would hold it in his, whispering:"My little Jeanne, my darling little Jeanne!"She sometimes lost patience and said:"Come, come, be reasonable; eat and let me eat."He would sigh and break off a mouthful of bread, which he would then chewslowly.For five years they had no children. Then suddenly she announced to himthat this state of affairs would soon cease. He was wild with joy. Heno longer left her for a minute, until his old nurse, who had brought himup and who often ruled the house, would push him out and close the doorbehind him, in order to compel him to go out in the fresh air.He had grown very intimate with a young man who had known his wife sincechildhood, and who was one of the prefect's secretaries. M. Duretourwould dine three times a week with the Lemonniers, bringing flowers tomadame, and sometimes a box at the theater; and often, at the end of thedinner, Lemonnier, growing tender, turning towards his wife, wouldexplain: "With a companion like you and a friend like him, a man iscompletely happy on earth."She died in childbirth. The shock almost killed him. But the sight ofthe child, a poor, moaning little creature, gave him courage.He loved it with a passionate and sorrowful love, with a morbid love inwhich stuck the memory of death, but in which lived something of hisworship for the dead mother. It was the flesh of his wife, her beingcontinued, a sort of quintessence of herself. This child was her verylife transferred to another body; she had disappeared that it mightexist, and the father would smother it in with kisses. But also, thischild had killed her; he had stolen this beloved creature, his life wasat the cost of hers. And M. Lemonnier would place his son in the cradleand would sit down and watch him. He would sit this way by the hour,looking at him, dreaming of thousands of things, sweet or sad. Then,when the little one was asleep, he would bend over him and sob.The child grew. The father could no longer spend an hour away from him;he would stay near him, take him out for walks, and himself dress him,wash him, make him eat. His friend, M. Duretour, also seemed to love theboy; he would kiss him wildly, in those frenzies of tenderness which arecharacteristic of parents. He would toss him in his arms, he would trothim on his knees, by the hour, and M. Lemonnier, delighted, would mutter:"Isn't he a darling? Isn't he a darling?"And M. Duretour would hug the child in his arms and tickle his neck withhis mustache.Celeste, the old nurse, alone, seemed to have no tenderness for thelittle one. She would grow angry at his pranks, and seemed impatient atthe caresses of the two men. She would exclaim:"How can you expect to bring a child up like that? You'll make a perfectmonkey out of him."Years went by, and Jean was nine years old. He hardly knew how to read;he had been so spoiled, and only did as he saw fit. He was willful,stubborn and quick-tempered. The father always gave in to him and lethim have his own way. M. Duretour would always buy him all the toys hewished, and he fed him on cake and candies. Then Celeste would growangry and exclaim:"It's a shame, monsieur, a shame. You are spoiling this child. But itwill have to stop; yes, sir, I tell you it will have to stop, and beforelong, too."M. Lemonnier would answer, smiling:"What can you expect? I love him too much, I can't resist him; you mustget used to it."Jean was delicate, rather. The doctor said that he was anaemic,prescribed iron, rare meat and broth.But the little fellow loved only cake and refused all other nourishment;and the father, in despair, stuffed him with cream-puffs and chocolateeclairs.One evening, as they were sitting down to supper, Celeste brought on thesoup with an air of authority and an assurance which she did not usuallyhave. She took off the cover and, dipping the ladle into the dish, shedeclared:"Here is some broth such as I have never made; the young one will have totake some this time."M. Lemonnier, frightened, bent his head. He saw a storm brewing.Celeste took his plate, filled it herself and placed it in front of him.He tasted the soup and said:"It is, indeed, excellent."The servant took the boy's plate and poured a spoonful of soup in it.Then she retreated a few steps and waited.Jean smelled the food and pushed his plate away with an expression ofdisgust. Celeste, suddenly pale, quickly stepped forward and forciblypoured a spoonful down the child's open mouth.He choked, coughed, sneezed, spat; howling, he seized his glass and threwit at his nurse. She received it full in the stomach. Then,exasperated, she took the young shaver's head under her arm and beganpouring spoonful after spoonful of soup down his throat. He grew as redas a beet, and he would cough it up, stamping, twisting, choking, beatingthe air with his hands.At first the father was so surprised that he could not move. Then,suddenly, he rushed forward, wild with rage, seized the servant by thethroat and threw her up against the wall stammering:"Out! Out! Out! you brute!"But she shook him off, and, her hair streaming down her back, her eyessnapping, she cried out:"What's gettin' hold of you? You're trying to thrash me because I ammaking this child eat soup when you are filling him with sweet stuff!"He kept repeating, trembling from head to foot:"Out! Get out-get out, you brute!"Then, wild, she turned to him and, pushing her face up against his, hervoice trembling:"Ah!--you think-you think that you can treat me like that? Oh! no. Andfor whom?--for that brat who is not even yours. No, not yours! No, notyours--not yours! Everybody knows it, except yourself! Ask the grocer,the butcher, the baker, all of them, any one of them!"She was growling and mumbling, choked with passion; then she stopped andlooked at him.He was motionless livid, his arms hanging by his sides. After a shortpause, he murmured in a faint, shaky voice, instinct with deep feeling:"You say? you say? What do you say?"She remained silent, frightened by his appearance. Once more he steppedforward, repeating:"You say--what do you say?"Then in a calm voice, she answered:"I say what I know, what everybody knows."He seized her and, with the fury of a beast, he tried to throw her down.But, although old, she was strong and nimble. She slipped under his arm,and running around the table once more furious, she screamed:"Look at him, just look at him, fool that you are! Isn't he the livingimage of M. Durefour? just look at his nose and his eyes! Are yours likethat? And his hair! Is it like his mother's? I tell you that everyoneknows it, everyone except yourself! It's the joke of the town! Look athim!"She went to the door, opened it, and disappeared.Jean, frightened, sat motionless before his plate of soup.At the end of an hour, she returned gently, to see how matters stood.The child, after doing away with all the cakes and a pitcher full ofcream and one of syrup, was now emptying the jam-pot with his soup-spoon.The father had gone out.Celeste took the child, kissed him, and gently carried him to his roomand put him to bed. She came back to the dining-room, cleared the table,put everything in place, feeling very uneasy all the time.Not a single sound could be heard throughout the house. She put her earagainst's her master's door. He seemed to be perfectly still. She puther eye to the keyhole. He was writing, and seemed very calm.Then she returned to the kitchen and sat down, ready for any emergency.She slept on a chair and awoke at daylight.She did the rooms as she had been accustomed to every morning; she sweptand dusted, and, towards eight o'clock, prepared M. Lemonnier'sbreakfast.But she did not dare bring it to her master, knowing too well how shewould be received; she waited for him to ring. But he did not ring.Nine o'clock, then ten o'clock went by.Celeste, not knowing what to think, prepared her tray and started up withit, her heart beating fast.She stopped before the door and listened. Everything was still. Sheknocked; no answer. Then, gathering up all her courage, she opened thedoor and entered. With a wild shriek, she dropped the breakfast traywhich she had been holding in her hand.In the middle of the room, M. Lemonnier was hanging by a rope from a ringin the ceiling. His tongue was sticking out horribly. His right slipperwas lying on the ground, his left one still on his foot. An upturnedchair had rolled over to the bed.Celeste, dazed, ran away shrieking. All the neighbors crowded together.The physician declared that he had died at about midnight.A letter addressed to M. Duretdur was found on the table of the suicide.It contained these words:"I leave and entrust the child to you!"

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