Chapter I: Front Matter

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

In the plain text version text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_), small caps are represented in upper case as in SMALL CAPS and words in bold are represented as in =bold=.

A number of words in this book have both hyphenated and non-hyphenated variants. For the words with both variants present the one more used has been kept.

Obvious punctuation and other printing errors have been corrected.

The cover art included with this eBook was modified by the transcriber and is granted to the public domain.

* * * * *

SHORT STORY
CLASSICS

(FOREIGN)

VOLUME FIVE
FRENCH II

EDITED BY
William Patten

WITH
AN INTRODUCTION
AND NOTES

P. F. COLLIER & SON
NEW YORK

COPYRIGHT 1907
BY P. F. COLLIER & SON

The use of the copyrighted translations in this
collection has been authorized by the
authors or their representatives. The
translations made especially for
this collection are covered
by the general
copyright

CONTENTS--VOLUME V

PAGE

LA BRETONNE
ANDRÉ THEURIET 1339

WHICH WAS THE MADMAN?
EDMOND ABOUT 1349

THE GRAND MARRIAGE
LUDOVIC HALÉVY 1379

THE ACCURSED HOUSE
ÉMILE GABORIAU 1415

THE FÊTE AT COQUEVILLE
ÉMILE ZOLA 1427

THE LOST CHILD
FRANÇOIS COPPÉE 1471

PUTOIS
ANATOLE FRANCE 1495

SAC-AU-DOS
JORIS KARL HUYSMANS 1515

"BONJOUR, MONSIEUR"
JEAN RICHEPIN 1559

THE BIT OF STRING
GUY DE MAUPASSANT 1571

THE NECKLACE
GUY DE MAUPASSANT 1581

THE WALL OPPOSITE
PIERRE LOTI 1595

THE ANCESTOR
PAUL BOURGET 1605

WHEN HE WAS A LITTLE BOY
HENRI LAVEDAN 1639

A GENTLEMAN FINDS A WATCH
GEORGES COURTELINE 1651

A YOUNG GIRL'S DIARY
MARCEL PRÉVOST 1659

THE SIGN OF THE KEY AND THE CROSS
HENRI DE RÉGNIER 1671

THE TELEGRAPH OPERATOR
ALPHONSE ALLAIS 1685

LA BRETONNE
BY CLAUDE ADHÉMAR ANDRÉ THEURIET

_André Theuriet, born at Marly-le-Roi in 1833, went to
Paris to study law, and finally became head of the Government
Department of Finance. In 1857 appeared the charming collection
of verses called "Chemin des Bois," which was crowned by the
Academy, and which earned for the author the title of "Song
Sparrow" from the great critic Sainte-Beuve._

_Theuriet received, in 1890, the Vitel prize from the Academy
for general literary excellence, and was admitted to that body
in 1896. His style is sane, fresh, limpid, delicate, and rich
in color. He is a lover of nature with a profound feeling for
the peasant._

_Theuriet's standing is well assured when we consider that
such men as Jules Claretie, Adolph Brisson, François Coppée,
all contributed appreciations of Theuriet in "Les Annales
Politiques et Littéraires," soon after his death, on April 23,
1907._

LA BRETONNE
BY ANDRÉ THEURIET

Translated by B. C. Waggener.
Copyright, 1891, by The Current Literature Publishing Company.

One November evening, the eve of Sainte-Catherine's Day, the gate of the Auberive prison turned upon its hinges to allow to pass out a woman of some thirty years, clad in a faded woolen gown and coiffed in a linen cap that framed in a singular fashion a face pale and puffed by that sickly-hued fat which develops on prison regimen. She was a prisoner whom they had just liberated, and whom her companions of detention called La Bretonne.

Condemned for infanticide, it was exactly, day for day, six years ago that the prison van had brought her to the Centrale. Now, in her former garb, and with her small stock of money received from the clerk in her pocket, she found herself free and with her roadpass stamped for Langres.

The courier for Langres, however, had long since gone. Cowed and awkward, she took her way stumblingly toward the chief inn of the borough, and with trembling voice asked shelter for the night. But the inn was crowded, and the _aubergiste_, who did not care to harbor "one of those birds from over yonder," counseled her to push on to the _cabaret_ at the far end of the village.

La Bretonne passed on, and, more trembling and awkward than ever, knocked at the door of that cabaret, which, properly speaking, was but a cantine for laborers. The cabaretière also eyed her askance, scenting doubtless a "discharged" from the Centrale, and finally refused her on the plea that she had no bed to give her.

La Bretonne dared not insist, but with bowed head pursued her way, while at the bottom of her soul rose and grew a dull hatred for that world which thus repulsed her.

She had no other resource than to gain Langres afoot.

Toward the end of November, night comes quickly. Soon she found herself enveloped in darkness, on a grayish road that ran between two divisions of the forest, and where the north wind whistled fiercely, choked her with dust, and pelted her with dead leaves.

After six years of sedentary and recluse life her legs were stiff, the muscles knotted and her feet, accustomed to sabots, pinched and bruised by her new slippers. At the end of a league she felt them blistered and herself exhausted. She dropped upon a pile of stones by the wayside, shivering and asking herself if she was going to be forced to perish of cold and hunger in this black night, under this icy breeze, which froze her to the marrow.

All at once, in the solitude of the road, she seemed to hear the droning notes of a voice singing. She listened and distinguished the air of one of those caressing and monotonous chants with which one soothes young children.

She was not alone, then!

She struggled to her feet and in the direction from which the voice came, and there, at the turn of a crossroad, perceived a reddish light streaming through the branches. Five minutes later she was before a mud-walled hovel, whose roof, covered by squares of sod, leaned again the rock, and whose window had allowed to pass that beckoning ray.

With anxious heart she decided to knock.

The chant ceased instantly and a woman opened the door, a peasant woman, no older than La Bretonne herself, but faded and aged by work. Her bodice, torn in places, displayed the skin tanned and dirty; her red hair escaped disheveled from under a soiled stuff cap, and her gray eyes regarded with amazement the stranger whose face had in it something of touching loneliness.

"Good evening!" said she, lifting yet higher the sputtering lamp in her hand; "what do you desire?"

"I am unable to go on," murmured La Bretonne, in a voice broken by a sob; "the city is far, and if you will lodge me for the night, you will do me a service.... I have money; I will pay you for the trouble."

"Enter," replied the other, after a moment's hesitancy; "but why," continued she, in a tone more curious than suspicious, "did you not sleep at Auberive?"

"They would not give me a lodging," lowering her blue eyes and taken with a sudden scruple, "be--because, see you, I come from the Maison Centrale."

"So! the Maison Centrale! but no matter--enter--I fear nothing, having known only misery. Moreover, I've a conscience against turning a Christian from the door on a night like this. I'll give you a bed and a slice of cheese."

And she pulled from the eaves some bundles of dried heather and spread them as a pallet in the corner by the fire.

"Do you live here alone?" demanded La Bretonne, timidly.

"Yes, with my _gâchette_, going on seven years now. I earn our living by working in the wood."

"Your man, then, is dead?"

"Yes," said the other bruskly, "the _gâchette_ has no father. Briefly, to each his sorrow! But come, behold your straw, and two or three potatoes left from supper. It is all I can offer you--"

She was called by a childish voice coming from a dark nook, separated from the room by a board partition.

"Good night!" she repeated, "the little one cries; I must go, but sleep you well!"

And taking up the lamp she passed into the closet, leaving La Bretonne crouched alone in the darkness.

Stretched upon her heather, after she had eaten her supper, she strove to close her eyes, but sleep would not come to her. Through the thin partition she heard the mother still softly talking to the child, whom the arrival of a stranger had wakened, and who did not wish to go to sleep again.

The mother soothed and fondled it with words of endearment that somehow strangely disturbed La Bretonne. That outburst of simple tenderness seemed to waken a confused maternal instinct in the soul of that girl condemned in the past for having stifled her new-born.

"If things had not gone so badly with me," thought La Bretonne, sorrowfully, "_it_ would have been the same age as this little one here."

At that thought and at the sound of that childish voice, a sickening shudder seemed to shake her very vitals; something soft and tender to spring up in that soured heart, and an increasing need for the relief of tears.

"But come, come, my little one," the mother cried, "to sleep you must go! And if you are good and do as I say, to-morrow I'll take you to the Sainte-Catherine's Fair!"

"The _fête_ of little children, mama; the _fête_ of little children, you mean?"

"Yes, my angel, of little children."

"And the day when the good Sainte-Catherine brings playthings to the babies, mama?"

"Sometimes--yes."

"Then why doesn't she bring playthings to our house, mama?"

"We live too far away, perhaps; and then--we are too poor."

"She brings them only to rich babies, then, mama? But why, mama, why, I say? I should love to see playthings!"

"Eh, bien! some day you may, if you are very good--to-night, perhaps, if you are wise and go to sleep soon."

"I will, then, mama, I will right away, so she can bring them to-morrow."

The little voice ceased; there was a long silence; then a long breath, even and light!

The child slept at last--the mother also.

La Bretonne, only, did not sleep! An emotion, at once poignant and tender, tore at her heart, and she thought more than ever of that other little one, whom they said she had killed.... This lasted till dawn.

Mother and child slept still, but La Bretonne was up and out, gliding hurriedly and furtively in the direction of Auberive and slackening her pace only when the first houses of the village came in sight.

Soon she had reached and was traversing its only street, walking slowly now and scanning with all her eyes the signs of the shops. One at last seemed to fix her attention. She knocked at the shutter and presently it opened. A mercer's shop, apparently, but also with some toys and playthings in the window--poor, pitiful trifles, a pasteboard doll, a Noah's ark, a woolly, stiff-legged little sheep!

To the astonishment of the merchant, La Bretonne purchased them all, paid, and went out. She had resumed the road to the hovel in the wood, when suddenly a hand fell heavily upon her shoulder, and she was face to face with a brigadier of _gendarmerie_.

The unhappy one had forgotten that it was forbidden to liberated prisoners to loiter near the Maison Centrale.

"Instead of vagabondizing here, you should already be at Langres," said the brigadier, gruffly. "Come, march, be off with you! To the road, to the road, I say!"

She sought to explain. Pains lost. At once a passing cart was pressed into service, La Bretonne bundled into it, and in charge of a _gendarme_ once more en route for Langres.

The cart jolted lumberingly over the frozen ruts. The poor La Bretonne clutched with a heartbroken air her bundle of playthings in her freezing fingers.

All at once, at a turn of the road, she recognized the cross path that led through the wood. Her heart leaped and she besought the _gendarme_ to stop only one moment. She had a commission for La Fleuriotte, the woman that lived there!

She supplicated with so much fervor that the _gendarme_, a good man at heart, allowed himself to be persuaded. They stopped, tied the horse to a tree, and ascended the pathway.

Before the door La Fleuriotte hewed the gathered wood into the required fagots. On seeing her visitor return, accompanied by a _gendarme_, she stood open-mouthed and with arms hanging.

"Hist!" said La Bretonne, "hist! the little one--does it sleep still?"

"Yes--but--"

"Then, here, these playthings, lay them on the bed and tell her Sainte-Catherine brought them. I returned to Auberive for them; but it seems I had no right to do it, and they are taking me now to Langres."

"Holy Mother of God!" cried the amazed La Fleuriotte.

"Hist! be still, I say!"

And drawing near the bed herself, followed always by her escort, La Bretonne scattered upon the coverlet the doll, the Noah's ark, and the stiff-legged, woolly, and somewhat grimy little lamb, bent the bare arm of the child till it clasped the latter, then turned with a smile.

"Now," said she, addressing the _gendarme_, vigorously rubbing his eyes with the cuff of his jacket--the frost, it seemed, had gotten into them--"I am ready: we can go!"

WHICH WAS THE MADMAN?
BY EDMOND FRANÇOIS VALENTIN ABOUT

_Edmond About, born at Dieuze in 1828, author of a play,
"Gaetana," the noisy failure of which crushed for a long time
his dramatic aspiration, turned to the writing of novels,
such as "The Marriages of Paris," "Madelon," and "The Romish
Question," the latter a book which attacked with great venom
and vivacity the temporal power of the Pope. "The Man of
the Old School" is a general title under which he collected
separate stories, studies of social reform, such as "The
Romance of an Honest Man," at one time an eloquent manual of
patriotism. About has also written studies in politics and
finance, besides art criticisms, more brilliant than profound._

_About's style is distinguished by its spirit and lucidity. He
knows how to tell a story, and has great respect for his mother
tongue. He was elected to the Academy in 1884, but died in 1885
without delivering his thesis._

WHICH WAS THE MADMAN?
THE STORY OF A STRANGE CASE

BY EDMOND ABOUT

Copyright, 1903, by The Current Literature Publishing Company.