Complete Maupassant Original Short Stories by Guy de Maupassant (book recommendations website .TXT) 📖

door, allowed me to precede him, and we entered a card room, where men sat playing as they, play in all gambling places. They were chatting cheerfully, eagerly. I have seldom seen such a jolly, lively, mirthful club.

As I seemed surprised, the secretary said:

"Oh, the establishment has an unheard of prestige. All the smart people all over the world belong to it so as to appear as though they held death in scorn. Then, once they get here, they feel obliged to be cheerful that they may not appear to be afraid. So they joke and laugh and talk flippantly, they are witty and they become so. At present it is certainly the most frequented and the most entertaining place in Paris. The women are even thinking of building an annex for themselves."

"And, in spite of all this, you have many suicides in the house?"

"As I said, about forty or fifty a day. Society people are rare, but poor devils abound. The middle class has also a large contingent.

"And how . . . do they do?"

"They are asphyxiated . . . very slowly."

"In what manner?"

"A gas of our own invention. We have the patent. On the other side of the building are the public entrances--three little doors opening on small streets. When a man or a woman present themselves they are interrogated. Then they are offered assistance, aid, protection. If a client accepts, inquiries are made; and sometimes we have saved their lives."

"Where do you get your money?"

"We have a great deal. There are a large number of shareholders. Besides it is fashionable to contribute to the establishment. The names of the donors are published in Figaro. Then the suicide of every rich man costs a thousand francs. And they look as if they were lying in state. It costs the poor nothing."

"How can you tell who is poor?"

"Oh, oh, monsieur, we can guess! And, besides, they must bring a certificate of indigency from the commissary of police of their district. If you knew how distressing it is to see them come in! I visited their part of our building once only, and I will never go again. The place itself is almost as good as this part, almost as luxurious and comfortable; but they themselves . . . they themselves!!! If you could see them arriving, the old men in rags coming to die; persons who have been dying of misery for months, picking up their food at the edges of the curbstone like dogs in the street; women in rags, emaciated, sick, paralyzed, incapable of making a living, who say to us after they have told us their story: 'You see that things cannot go on like that, as I cannot work any longer or earn anything.' I saw one woman of eighty- seven who had lost all her children and grandchildren, and who for the last six weeks had been sleeping out of doors. It made me ill to hear of it. Then we have so many different cases, without counting those who say nothing, but simply ask: 'Where is it?' These are admitted at once and it is all over in a minute."

With a pang at my heart I repeated:

"And . . . where is it?"

"Here," and he opened a door, adding:

"Go in; this is the part specially reserved for club members, and the one least used. We have so far had only eleven annihilations here."

"Ah! You call that an . . . annihilation!"

"Yes, monsieur. Go in."

I hesitated. At length I went in. It was a wide corridor, a sort of greenhouse in which panes of glass of pale blue, tender pink and delicate green gave the poetic charm of landscapes to the inclosing walls. In this pretty salon there were divans, magnificent palms, flowers, especially roses of balmy fragrance, books on the tables, the Revue des Deuxmondes, cigars in government boxes, and, what surprised me, Vichy pastilles in a bonbonniere.

As I expressed my surprise, my guide said:

"Oh, they often come here to chat." He continued: "The public corridors are similar, but more simply furnished."

In reply to a question of mine, he pointed to a couch covered with creamy crepe de Chine with white embroidery, beneath a large shrub of unknown variety at the foot of which was a circular bed of mignonette.

The secretary added in a lower tone:

"We change the flower and the perfume at will, for our gas, which is quite imperceptible, gives death the fragrance of the suicide's favorite flower. It is volatilized with essences. Would you like to inhale it for a second?"

"'No, thank you," I said hastily, "not yet . . . ."

He began to laugh.

"Oh, monsieur, there is no danger. I have tried it myself several times."

I was afraid he would think me a coward, and I said:

"Well, I'll try it."

"Stretch yourself out on the 'endormeuse."'

A little uneasy I seated myself on the low couch covered with crepe de Chine and stretched myself full length, and was at once bathed in a delicious odor of mignonette. I opened my mouth in order to breathe it in, for my mind had already become stupefied and forgetful of the past and was a prey, in the first stages of asphyxia, to the enchanting intoxication of a destroying and magic opium.

Some one shook me by the arm.

"Oh, oh, monsieur," said the secretary, laughing, "it looks to me as if you were almost caught."

But a voice, a real voice, and no longer a dream voice, greeted me with the peasant intonation:

"Good morning, m'sieu. How goes it?"

My dream was over. I saw the Seine distinctly in the sunlight, and, coming along a path, the garde champetre of the district, who with his right hand touched his kepi braided in silver. I replied:

"Good morning, Marinel. Where are you going?"

"I am going to look at a drowned man whom they fished up near the Morillons. Another who has thrown himself into the soup. He even took off his trousers in order to tie his legs together with them."

End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Original Short Stories, Vol. 13. by Guy de Maupassant

ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS FOR THE COMPLETE SHORT STORIES OF MAUPASSANT:

Anguish of suspense made men even desire the arrival of enemies As he had never enjoyed anything, he desired nothing Calling all religious things "weeper's wares" Chronic passion for cleaning Dependent, like other emotions, on surroundings Devouring faith which is the making of martyrs and visionaries Did wrong in doing her duty Do you know how I picture God? Don't talk about things you know nothing about Don't know what to say, for I am always terribly stupid at first Everyone has his share Freemasonry made up of those who possess Full of that common sense which borders on stupidity Great ones of this world who make war Greatest shatterer of dreams who had ever dwelt on earth Hardly understand at all those bellicose ardors Hotel bed: Who has occupied it the night before? How much excited cowardice there often is in boldness I am learning my trade Impenetrable night, thicker than walls and empty Insolent like all in authority Irresistible force of mutual affection Isn't for the fun of it, anyhow! Key of a door Kiss of the man without a mustache Legitimized love always despises its easygoing brother Let us be indignant, or let us be enthusiastic Let them respect my convictions, and I will respect theirs Like all women, being very fond of indigestible things Love is always love, come whence it may Love must unsettle the mind Love has no law Love that is sacred--not marriage! Machine for bringing children into the world Mediocrities and the fools always form the immense majority Moments of friendly silence Muscles of their faces have never learned the motions of laughter "My God! my God!" without believing, nevertheless, in God Night-robe of streams and meadows One cannot both be and have been Only by going a long distance from home Only being allowed to read religious works or cook-books People do not think as they speak, and do not speak as they act Pines, close at hand, seemed to be weeping Poetry did not seem to be the strong point Presence of a woman, that sovereign inspiration Preserved in a pickle of innocence Purgatory and paradise according to the yearly income Rage of a timid man Resisted that feeling of comfort and relief Sadness of existences that have had their day She was an ornament, not a home She went through life in a mood of perpetual discontent She saw that he would yield on every point So stupid and they pretend they know everything Spend his time quietly regretting the past Spirit of order and arithmetic in the business house Subtleties of expression to describe the most improper things The tomb is the boundary of conjugal sinning Thin veneer of modesty of every woman Thrill of furious and bestial anger which urges on a mob to massacre Unconscious brutality which is so common in the country Well-planned disorder What is sadder than a dead house When we love, we have need of confession When did you lie, the last time or now? World has made laws to combat our instincts

End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Original Short Stories, Complete by Guy de Maupassant