Pierre and Jean Guy de Maupassant (best motivational books of all time TXT) 📖

Her husband shrugged his shoulders.

“No, but never mind him; he is always behindhand. We will begin without him.”

She turned to Jean:

“You had better go to call him, my child; it hurts his feelings if we do not wait for him.”

“Yes, mother. I will go.”

And the young man went. He mounted the stairs with the fevered determination of a man who is about to fight a duel and who is in a fright. When he knocked at the door Pierre said:

“Come in.”

He went in. The elder was writing, leaning over his table.

“Good morning,” said Jean.

Pierre rose.

“Good morning!” and they shook hands as if nothing had occurred.

“Are you not coming down to breakfast?”

“Well⁠—you see⁠—I have a good deal to do.” The elder brother’s voice was tremulous, and his anxious eye asked his younger brother what he meant to do.

“They are waiting for you.”

“Oh! There is⁠—is my mother down?”

“Yes, it was she who sent me to fetch you.”

“Ah, very well; then I will come.”

At the door of the dining-room he paused, doubtful about going in first; then he abruptly opened the door and saw his father and mother seated at the table opposite each other.

He went straight up to her without looking at her or saying a word, and bending over her, offered his forehead for her to kiss, as he had done for some time past, instead of kissing her on both cheeks as of old. He supposed that she put her lips near but he did not feel them on his brow, and he straightened himself with a throbbing heart after this feint of a caress. And he wondered:

“What did they say to each other after I had left?”

Jean constantly addressed her tenderly as “mother,” or “dear mother,” took care of her, waited on her, and poured out her wine.

Then Pierre understood that they had wept together, but he could not read their minds. Did Jean believe in his mother’s guilt, or think his brother a base wretch?

And all his self-reproach for having uttered the horrible thing came upon him again, choking his throat and his tongue, and preventing his either eating or speaking.

He was now a prey to an intolerable desire to fly, to leave the house which was his home no longer, and these persons who were bound to him by such imperceptible ties. He would gladly have been off that moment, no matter whither, feeling that everything was over, that he could not endure to stay with them, that his presence was torture to them, and that they would bring on him incessant suffering too great to endure. Jean was talking, chatting with Roland. Pierre, as he did not listen, did not hear. But he presently was aware of a pointed tone in his brother’s voice and paid more attention to his words. Jean was saying:

“She will be the finest ship in their fleet. They say she is of 6,500 tons. She is to make her first trip next month.”

Roland was amazed.

“So soon? I thought she was not to be ready for sea this summer.”

“Yes. The work has been pushed forward very vigorously, to get her through her first voyage before the autumn. I looked in at the Company’s office this morning, and was talking to one of the directors.”

“Indeed! Which of them?”

“M. Marchand, who is a great friend of the Chairman of the Board.”

“Oh! Do you know him?”

“Yes. And I wanted to ask him a favour.”

“Then you will get me leave to go over every part of the Lorraine as soon as she comes into port?”

“To be sure; nothing could be easier.”

Then Jean seemed to hesitate, to be weighing his words, and to want to lead up to a difficult subject. He went on:

“On the whole, life is very endurable on board those great Transatlantic liners. More than half the time is spent on shore in two splendid cities⁠—New York and Havre; and the remainder at sea with delightful company. In fact, very pleasant acquaintances are sometimes made among the passengers, and very useful in afterlife⁠—yes, really very useful. Only think, the captain, with his perquisites on coal, can make as much as twenty-five thousand francs a year or more.”

Roland muttered an oath followed by a whistle, which testified to his deep respect for the sum and the captain.

Jean went on:

“The purser makes as much as ten thousand, and the doctor has a fixed salary of five thousand, with lodgings, keep, light, firing, service, and everything, which makes it up to ten thousand at least. That is very good pay.”

Pierre raising his eyes met his brother’s and understood.

Then, after some hesitation, he asked:

“Is it very hard to get a place as medical man on board a Transatlantic liner?”

“Yes⁠—and no. It all depends on circumstances and recommendation.”

There was a long pause; then the doctor began again.

“Next month, you say, the Lorraine is to sail?”

“Yes. On the 7th.”

And they said nothing more.

Pierre was considering. It certainly would be a way out of many difficulties if he could embark as medical officer on board the steamship. By-and-by he could see; he might perhaps give it up. Meanwhile he would be gaining a living, and asking for nothing from his parents. Only two days since he had been forced to sell his watch, for he would no longer hold out his hand to beg of his mother. So he had no other resource left, no opening to enable him to eat the bread of any house but this which had become uninhabitable, or sleep in any other bed, or under any other roof. He presently said, with some little hesitation:

“If I could, I would very gladly sail in her.”

Jean asked:

“What should hinder you?”

“I know no one in the Transatlantic Shipping Company.”

Roland was astounded.

“And what has become of all your fine schemes for getting on?”

Pierre replied in a low voice:

“There are times when we must bring ourselves to sacrifice everything and renounce our fondest hopes. And after all it is only to make a beginning, a way of saving a