Short Fiction

can’t understand anything. Common sense means nothing to them: love before all, all for love!

“At last I grew angry and threatened to turn her out. At that she gradually yielded, on condition that I allowed her to come and see me from time to time.

“I myself led her to the altar, paid for the ceremony, and gave the wedding breakfast. I did the thing in style. Then it was: ‘Good night, children!’ I went and spent six months with my brother in Touraine.

“When I returned, I learnt that she had come to the house every week and asked for me. I hadn’t been back an hour when I saw her coming with a brat in her arms. Believe me or not, as you like, but it meant something to me to see that little mite. I believe I even kissed it.

“As for the mother, she was a ruin, a skeleton, a shadow. Thin, and grown old. By God, marriage didn’t suit her!

“ ‘Are you happy?’ I inquired mechanically.

“At that she began to cry like a fountain, hiccuping and sobbing, and exclaimed:

“ ‘I can’t, I can’t do without you, now! I’d rather die! I can’t!’

“She made the devil of a noise. I consoled her as best I could, and led her back to the gate.

“I found out that her husband beat her, and that the old harpy of a mother-in-law made life hard for her.

“Two days later she came back again; she took me in her arms and grovelled on the ground.

“ ‘Kill me, but I won’t go back there any more,’ she implored. Exactly what Mirza would have said if she had spoken!

“All this fuss was beginning to get on my nerves, and I cleared out for another six months. When I returned⁠ ⁠… when I returned, I learnt that she had died three weeks before, after having come back to the house every Sunday⁠ ⁠… still just like Mirza. The child too had died eight days later.

“As for the husband, the cunning rascal, he came into the inheritance. He’s done well for himself since, so it seems; he’s a town councillor now.”

Then Monsieur de Varnetot added with a laugh:

“Anyhow, I made his fortune for him.”

And Monsieur Séjour, the veterinary surgeon, raising a glass of brandy to his lips, gravely concluded the story with:

“Say what you like, but there’s no place in this world for that sort of woman!”

The Burglar

“I tell you, you will not believe it.”

“Well, tell it anyhow.”

“All right, here goes. But first I must tell you that my story is absolutely true in every respect; even if it does sound improbable. The only ones who will not be surprised are the artists, who remember that time of mad pranks, when the habit of practical joking had reached a point where we could not get rid of it even in the most serious circumstances.” The old artist seated himself astride on a chair. We were in the dining room of a hotel at Barbizon.

“Well, we had dined that night at poor Sorieul’s, who is now dead, and who was the worst of us all. There were just three of us, Sorieul, myself, and Le Poittevin, I think, but I am not sure if it was he. I mean, of course, the marine painter, Eugène Le Poittevin, who is also dead, not the landscape painter, who is still alive and full of talent.

“When I say we had dined at Sorieul’s, that means we were tipsy. Le Poittevin alone had kept his head, somewhat light, but still fairly clear. Those were the days when we were young. We had stretched ourselves on the floor of the little room adjoining the studio and were talking extravagantly. Sorieul lay flat on his back, with his feet propped up on a chair, discussing war and the uniforms of the Empire, when, suddenly, he got up, took out of the big wardrobe where he kept his accessories a complete hussar’s uniform and put it on. He then took out a grenadier’s uniform and told Le Poittevin to put it on; but he objected, so we seized him, undressed him, and forced him into an immense uniform in which he was completely lost. I arrayed myself as a cuirassier. After we were ready, Sorieul made us go through a complicated drill. Then he exclaimed: ‘As long as we are troopers let us drink like troopers.’

“We brewed one bowl of punch, drank it, and lit the flame a second time beneath the bowl filled with rum. We were bawling some old camp songs at the top of our voice, when Le Poittevin, who in spite of all the punch had retained his self-control, held up his hand and said: ‘Hush! I am sure I heard someone walking in the studio.’

“ ‘A burglar!’ said Sorieul, staggering to his feet, ‘Good luck!’ And he began the ‘Marseillaise’:

“ ‘Aux armes, citoyens!’

“Then he seized several weapons from the wall and equipped us according to our uniforms. I received a musket and a sabre. Le Poittevin was handed an enormous gun with a bayonet attached. Sorieul, not finding just what he wanted, seized a horse-pistol, stuck it in his belt, and brandishing a battle-axe in one hand, he opened the studio door cautiously. The army advanced into the suspected territory.

“When we were in the middle of the immense room, littered with huge canvases, furniture, and strange, unexpected objects, Sorieul said: ‘I appoint myself general. Let us hold a council of war. You, the cuirassiers, will keep the enemy from retreating⁠—that is, lock the door. You, the grenadiers, will be my escort.’

“I executed my orders and rejoined the troops, who were behind a large screen reconnoitring. Just as I reached it I heard a terrible noise. I rushed up with the candle to investigate the cause of it and this is what I saw. Le Poittevin was piercing the dummy’s breast with his bayonet and Sorieul was splitting his head open with his axe! When the mistake had been discovered