Short Fiction

listened, while he leaned on the bed, with his eyes on his mother’s face. And the motionless corpse seemed happy.

Sister Eulalie, interrupting herself, said: “We ought to put them into the grave with her, to make a winding-sheet of them, and bury them with her.”

And then she took up another packet, on which the descriptive word did not appear.

And in a loud tone she began: “My adored one, I love you to distraction. Since yesterday I have been suffering like a damned soul burned by the recollection of you. I feel your lips on mine, your eyes under my eyes, your flesh under my flesh. I love you! I love you! You have made me mad! My arms open! I pant with an immense desire to possess you again. My whole body calls out to you, wants you. I have kept in my mouth the taste of your kisses.”

The magistrate rose up; the nun stopped reading. He snatched the letter from her, and sought for the signature. There was none, save under the words, “He who adores you,” the name “Henry.” Their father’s name was René. So then he was not the man.

Then, the son, with rapid fingers, fumbled in the packet of letters took another of them, and read: “I can do without your caresses no longer.”

And, standing up, with the severity of a judge passing sentence, he gazed at the impassive face of the dead woman.

The nun, straight as a statue, with teardrops standing at each corner of her eyes, looked at her brother, waiting to see what he meant to do. Then he crossed the room, slowly reached the window, and looked out thoughtfully into the night.

When he turned back, Sister Eulalie, her eyes now quite dry, still remained standing near the bed, with a downcast look.

He went over to the drawer and flung in the letters which he had picked up from the floor. Then he drew the curtains round the bed.

And when the dawn made the candles on the table look pale, the son rose from his armchair, and without even a parting glance at the mother whom he had separated from them and condemned, he said slowly:

“Now, my sister, let us leave the room.”

Dreams

Five old friends had been dining together, an author, a doctor, and three wealthy bachelors of independent means.

All available topics of conversation had been exhausted, and that feeling of weariness which heralds the breaking up of such a gathering was already settling upon those present. One of the party, who for five minutes had been silently contemplating the lighted Boulevard, with its noise and bustle, suddenly remarked:

“The days seem long when one has nothing to do from morning till night.”

“And the nights also,” added his neighbour. “I hardly sleep at all, amusements bore me and conversation is always the same. I never come across a new idea, and before talking to anybody I always have to struggle with a violent desire to remain quite silent and not listen to anyone. I don’t know what to do in the evenings.”

“I would give anything,” the third idler said, “for some means of spending even two pleasant hours every day.”

The author, who had just thrown his overcoat over his arm, came towards them and said:

“Anybody who could find a new vice and could pass it on to his fellow-creatures, even though it might shorten life by half, would do a far greater service to humanity than anyone who might discover a means of securing perpetual health and youth.”

The doctor began to laugh, and, biting off the end of his cigar, he said:

“Yes, but it is not found so easily as that. Ever since the beginning of the world the problem has been vigorously attacked. Primitive man instantly attained perfection in that line, but we can scarcely equal him.”

One of the three idlers murmured:

“What a pity!”

A moment later he added:

“If only one could sleep, could sleep well, without feeling too warm or too cold, sleep with that exhaustion which comes from an evening of intense fatigue, sleep without dreaming!”

“Why without dreaming?” inquired his neighbour.

“Because dreams are not always pleasant,” the other replied, “because they are always strange, improbable and incoherent, and while asleep we cannot even enjoy the best ones to the full. You must dream while awake.”

“Who prevents you from doing so?” asked the author.

The doctor threw away his cigar.

“My dear fellow, daydreaming requires the exercise of great willpower, and therefore leaves one very tired. Now one of the most delightful things in the world is a real dream⁠—the mind wandering through pleasant visions⁠—but it must come naturally, not under painful stimulation, and it should be accompanied by complete physical comfort. That kind of dream I can offer you, if you will promise not to abuse it.”

The author shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh, yes,” he said, “I know all about that; hashish, opium, green jain, the Paradis Artificiels. I have read Baudelaire’s books and I have even tasted his famous drug, which made me very ill.”

The doctor sat down again.

“No, I mean ether, simply ether; and I might add that you literary men ought to use it sometimes.”

The three rich men came nearer, and one of them asked him to explain its effect.

“Let us come down to facts,” the doctor replied; “I am leaving medicine and morality out of the question; I am only concerned at the moment with pleasure. You are indulging every day in excesses which are shortening your lives. I will bring a new sensation to your notice, possibly only for men of intelligence⁠—that is to say, of considerable intelligence⁠—dangerous, like everything which overexcites us, but none the less exquisite. I should add that a certain amount of preparation is required, that is to say, it is necessary to become accustomed to it, in order to experience to the full the singular effects of ether.

“They are different from the effects of hashish, opium and morphine, and they cease as soon as you stop inhaling it, while