Short Fiction

park, my friend?” And without replying, but trembling and nervous, he put his arm around her, and immediately they kissed each other. They walked slowly under the almost leafless trees through which the moonbeams filtered, and their love, their desires, their longing for a closer embrace became so vehement, that they almost sank down at the foot of a tree.

The horns were silent, and the tired hounds were sleeping in the kennels. “Let us return,” the young woman said, and they went back.

When they got to the château and before they went in, she said in a weak voice: “I am so tired that I shall go to bed, my friend.” And as he opened his arms for a last kiss, she ran away, saying as a last goodbye: “No.⁠ ⁠… I am going to sleep.⁠ ⁠… Let him who loves me follow me!”

An hour later, when the whole silent château seemed dead, the Baron crept stealthily out of his room, and went and scratched at her door, and as she did not reply, he tried to open it, and found that it was not locked.

She was dreaming as she leaned upon the window-ledge, and he threw himself at her knees, which he kissed madly, through her nightdress. She said nothing, but buried her delicate fingers caressingly in his hair, and suddenly, as if she had formed some great resolution, she whispered with a bold glance: “I shall come back, wait for me.” And stretching out her hand, she pointed with her finger to an indistinct white spot at the end of the room; it was her bed.

Then, in the dark with trembling hands and scarcely knowing what he was doing, he quickly undressed, got into the cool sheets, and stretching himself out comfortably, he almost forgot his love in the pleasure of feeling the linen caress his tired body. She did not return, however, no doubt finding amusement in straining his patience. He closed his eyes with a feeling of exquisite comfort, and reflected peaceably while waiting for what he so ardently desired. But by degrees his limbs grew languid and his thoughts became indistinct and fleeting, until his great fatigue overcame him and he fell asleep.

He slept that unconquerable, heavy sleep of the worn-out hunter, and he slept until daylight; and then, as the window had remained half open, the crowing of a cock suddenly woke him, and the Baron opened his eyes, and feeling a woman’s body against his, finding himself, much to his surprise, in a strange bed, and remembering nothing for a moment, he stammered:

“What? Where am I? What is the matter?”

Then she, who had not been asleep at all, looking at this unkempt man, with red eyes and thick lips, replied in the haughty tone of voice in which she spoke to her husband:

“It is nothing; it is only a cock crowing. Go to sleep again, Monsieur, it has nothing to do with you.”

The Child

After dinner we were talking about an abortion which had recently been committed in the parish. The Baroness grew indignant: “How are such things possible! The girl, seduced by a butcher’s boy, had thrown her child into a pickling vat! Horrible! It had even been proved that the poor little thing was not killed outright.”

The doctor, who was dining at the house that evening, gave us ghastly details with an air of imperturbable calm. Apparently he was amazed at the courage of the wretched mother who, having given birth to the child all alone, had then walked nearly two miles to kill it. “This woman,” he repeated, “has a will of iron! What savage strength she needed to go through the wood at night with her baby crying in her arms! Such moral suffering impresses me. Think of the terror in her soul, of the torture of her heart! How hateful and vile life is! Infamous prejudices, yes, infamous, I say; a false notion of honour which is worse than the crime itself, a whole host of artificial feelings, odious respectability and revolting virtuousness⁠—these are the things that drive to murder and infanticide poor girls who have surrendered to the imperative call of life. What a shame for humanity to have established such morality, and to have made a crime of the natural union of two human beings!”

The Baroness had grown pale with indignation. “Ah, Doctor,” she replied, “so you put vice above virtue, the prostitute above the honest woman! A woman who abandons herself to her shameful instincts is in your eyes the equal of the irreproachable wife who fulfills her duty in the integrity of her conscience!”

The doctor, who had seen many of life’s sores in his long career, stood up and said with emphasis:

“You are talking, Madame, about matters of which you are ignorant, since you have never felt an invincible passion. Let me tell you of a recent adventure, of which I was a witness. Ah, Madame, you should be kind, indulgent, and full of pity, for you do not understand. Wretched, indeed, are those whom perfidious nature has endowed with strong passions. Quiet people, born without violent instincts, live respectably of necessity. Those who are never tortured by frenzied desires have no difficulty in being good. I see cold-blooded little middle-class women, of rigid morals, of moderate intelligence, and limited affections, who cry out indignantly when they hear of the sins of fallen women. You sleep calmly in a peaceful bed haunted by no desperate dreams. Everyone about you is like you, acts like you, and is protected by the instinctive moderation of their senses. You have a slight struggle with the phantoms of temptation, but it is only your mind which sometimes plays with evil thoughts. Your body does not immediately respond to the slightest whisper of a tempting idea.

“In people whom chance has made passionate the senses are invincible. Can you command the winds, or a stormy sea? Can you thwart the forces of nature? No. The senses are also