epub:type="noteref">13
“He murmured:
“ ‘Please be quiet.’
“ ‘Why do you want me to be quiet?’ she demanded furiously.
“ ‘You’re spoiling the landscape,’ he answered.
“Then the scene began, the ugly idiotic scene, with its baseless reproaches, its misplaced recriminations, then tears. It came and went. They returned home. He had let her run on without replying to her, lulled by the beauty of the evening and stunned by her insane outburst.
“Three months later, he was struggling desperately in the strong unseen bonds which these affairs twist round our lives. She held him, exhausted him, tormented him. They quarrelled, insulted each other, and fought from morning until night.
“Finally, he decided to end it, to break with her at all costs. He sold all his canvases, borrowed some money from friends, realised twenty thousand francs (he was still hardly known) and one morning left them for her on the chimneypiece with a letter.
“He came and took refuge in my house.
“About three o’clock in the afternoon, there was a ring at the door. I went to open it. A woman leapt at me, pushed me aside, entered and penetrated to my studio; it was she.
“He had risen when he saw her enter.
“With a truly magnificent gesture, she threw the envelope containing the banknotes at his feet, and said shortly:
“ ‘There’s your money. I don’t want it.’
“She was very pale, trembling, and certainly ready for any folly. As for him, I saw him turn pale too, turn pale with anger and exasperation, ready, perhaps, for any violence.
“He asked:
“ ‘What is it you want?’
“She answered:
“ ‘I won’t be treated like a harlot. You implored me, you took me. I didn’t ask you for anything. Keep me with you.’
“He stamped his foot.
“ ‘No, this is too much. If you think you’re going to …’
“I seized him by the arm.
“ ‘Be quiet, Jean. Leave it to me.’
“I walked up to her, and gently, one step at a time, I tried to make her see reason, emptying out all the bagful of arguments one uses in such circumstances. She listened to me without moving, staring straight in front of her, obstinate.
“Finally, not knowing what else to say, and seeing that the scene could only end badly, I bethought myself of one last resort. I said deliberately:
“ ‘He still loves you, my dear; but his family want him to marry, and you realise …’
“She started:
“ ‘Oh … oh … I understand then …’
“She turned towards him:
“ ‘You’re going … you’re going … to be married?’
“He answered firmly:
“ ‘Yes.’
“She took a step forward:
“ ‘If you marry, I’ll kill myself … do you hear?’
“He shrugged his shoulders and said calmly:
“ ‘All right … kill yourself!’
“A frightful anguish clutched at her throat but she managed to get out two or three times:
“ ‘What did you say? … what did you say? … what did you say? Repeat it.’
“He repeated:
“ ‘All right, kill yourself, if it’ll amuse you.’
“She grew terrifyingly pale and replied:
“ ‘You’d better not drive me too far. I’ll throw myself out of the window.’
“He burst out laughing, walked across to the window, opened it, and bowing like a person politely making way for another to go first, said:
“ ‘The way is open. After you!’
“For a moment she stared at him with a wild distorted stare; then, taking off as if she were jumping a hedge in the country, she jumped past me, past him, cleared the railing and disappeared. …
“I shall never forget the effect that this open window made on me, after seeing that body leap past it and fall: in one moment it seemed in my sight wide as the sky and empty as space. I recoiled instinctively, not daring to look, as though I should fall myself.
“Jean, stunned, never moved.
“They picked up the poor girl with both legs broken. She will never walk again.
“Her lover, wild with remorse, and feeling perhaps a touch of gratitude, took her back and married her.
“There you are, my dear.”
The evening came. The young woman grew chilly and wished to go. The servant began to wheel the little invalid carriage towards the village. The painter walked beside his wife; they had not exchanged a single word for an hour past.
Practical Jokes
We live in a period when practical jokers have the air of undertakers’ men and are generally known as politicians. We never see them now, your real practical joke, your really splendid rag, your happy little games, the healthy forthright jokes of our fathers’ time. And, however, what is there more amusing and more laughable than such jests? What is more amusing than to mystify credulous souls, dupe the cleverest, and make the sharpest fall into inoffensive and comic traps? What is better fun than making adroit mock of people and forcing them to laugh at their own simplicity or even, when they get angry, revenging oneself by a fresh trick?
Oh! I have played a few; I’ve played some practical jokes in my time. And they have been played on me too, I can tell you, and good ones too. Yes, I have played more than one, terrible affairs—make your hair stand on end. One of my victims died of the consequences, and no loss to anyone. I will tell the story one day, but I shall have some difficulty in telling it decently, for it was by no means a very respectable practical joke—oh, by no means. It happened in a little village in the suburbs of Paris. Everyone there is still laughing at the memory of it, although the victim is dead. Peace to his soul!
I am going to tell of two, the last I suffered, and the first I played.
Let us begin with the last, for it amuses me least, since I was the victim.
I was going to hunt one autumn with some friends in their country-house in Picardy. My friends were practical jokers, you understand. I could not know any other kind of people.
When I arrived they gave me a princely reception, which put me on my guard. They fired off guns, they embraced me, they flattered me as if they expected a good deal from me, and I said to myself: “Look out, old man,
