Short Fiction

that I was much disturbed.

“The ninth day, in the morning, I perceived, on rising, a little piece of paper slipped under my door. I seized it and read: ‘You have abandoned me, and you know what I said. You have ordered my death. As I do not wish to be found by anyone but you, come into the park, to the place where last year I said that I loved you, and look up.’

“I felt myself becoming mad. I dressed as quickly as possible, and ran, so that I nearly fell exhausted, to the designated spot. His little school cap was on the ground in the mud. It had rained all night. I raised my eyes and saw something swinging amongst the leaves, for there was a wind blowing, a strong wind.

“After that, I knew nothing of what I did. I must have shouted, fainted, perhaps, and fallen, then got up and run to the house. I came to my senses in bed, with my mother at my side.

“I at first believed that I had dreamed all this in a frightful delirium. I muttered: ‘And he, he⁠—Gontran?’ They did not answer.

“It was all true.

“I dared not look at him again, but I asked for a lock of his blond hair. Here⁠—it⁠—is⁠—” And the old lady held out her hand in a gesture of despair.

Then, she used her handkerchief several times, and dried her eyes, and continued: “I broke off my engagement without saying why⁠—and I⁠—have remained always the⁠—widow of this child thirteen years old.” Then her head fell upon her breast and she wept pensively for a long time.

And, as they dispersed to their rooms for the night, a burly huntsman, whose quiet she had disturbed somewhat, whispered in the ear of his neighbour:

“What a misfortune to be so sentimental! Don’t you think so?”

Rust

During his whole life, he had had only one insatiable passion, love of sport. He went out every day, from morning till night, with the greatest ardour, in summer and winter, spring and autumn, on the marshes, when it was close time on the plains and in the woods. He shot, he hunted, he coursed, he ferreted and trapped both birds and animals; he spoke of nothing but shooting and hunting, he dreamt of it, and continually repeated:

“How miserable any man must be who does not care for sport!”

And now that he was past fifty, he was well, robust, stout and vigorous, though rather bald, and he kept his moustache cut quite short, so that it might not cover his lips, and interfere with his blowing the horn.

He was never called by anything but his first Christian name, Monsieur Hector, but his full name was Baron Hector Gontran de Coutelier, and he lived in a small manor house which he had inherited, in the middle of the woods; and though he knew all the nobility of the department, and met its male representatives out shooting and hunting, he only regularly visited one family, the Courvilles, who were very pleasant neighbours, and had been allied to his race for centuries. In their house he was liked, and taken the greatest care of, and he used to say: “If I were not a sportsman, I should like to be here always.”

Monsieur de Courville had been his friend and comrade from childhood, and lived quietly as a gentleman farmer with his wife, daughter and son-in-law, Monsieur de Darnetot, who did nothing, under the pretext of being absorbed in historical research.

Baron de Coutelier often went and dined with his friends, as much with the object of telling them of the shots he had made, as of anything else. He had long stories about dogs and ferrets, of which he spoke as if they were persons of note, whom he knew very well. He analysed them, and explained their thoughts and intentions:

“When Médor saw that the corncrake was leading him such a dance, he said to himself: ‘Wait a bit, my friend, we will have a joke.’ And then, with a jerk of the head to me, to make me go into the corner of the clover field, he began to quarter the sloping ground, noisily brushing through the clover to drive the bird into a corner from which it could not escape.

“Everything happened as he had foreseen. Suddenly, the corncrake found itself on the edge of the wood, and it could not go any farther without showing itself; the corncrake thought to himself, ‘Caught by Jove’ and crouched down. Médor stood and pointed, looking round at me, but at a sign from me, he drew up to it, flushed the corncrake; bang! down it came, and Médor, as he brought it to me, wagged his tail, as much as to say: ‘How about that, Monsieur Hector?’ ”

Courville, Darnetot, and the two ladies laughed very heartily at those picturesque descriptions into which the Baron threw his whole heart. He grew animated, moved his arms about, and gesticulated with his whole body; and when he described the death of anything he had killed, he gave a formidable laugh, and said:

“Isn’t that a good one?”

As soon as they began to speak about anything else, he stopped listening, and sat by himself, humming a few notes to imitate a hunting horn. And when there was a pause between two sentences on those moments of sudden calm which come between the war of words, a hunting tune was heard, “Ta, ta, ta, ra, ra,” which the Baron sang, puffing his cheek as if he were blowing his horn.

He had only lived for field sports, and was growing old, without thinking about it, or guessing it, when he had a severe attack of rheumatism, and was confined to his bed for two months, and nearly died of grief and boredom.

As he kept no female servant, for an old footman did all the cooking, he could not get any hot poultices, nor could he have any of those little attentions, nor anything that an