Femme Fatale

  Guy De Maupassant

  * * *

  FEMME FATALE

  Translated by Siân Miles

  Contents

  Cockcrow

  Femme Fatale

  Hautot & Son

  Laid to Rest

  Follow Penguin

  GUY DE MAUPASSANT

  Born 1850, Normandy, France

  Died 1893, Paris, France

  Selection from A Parisian Affair and Other Stories, published in Penguin Classics 2004.

  MAUPASSANT IN PENGUIN CLASSICS

  A Parisian Affair and Other Stories

  Bel-Ami

  Pierre et Jean

  Cockcrow

  Madame Berthe d’Avancelles had rejected the advances of her admirer Baron Joseph de Croissard to such an extent that he was now in despair. He had pursued her relentlessly throughout the winter in Paris, and now at his château at Carville in Normandy he was holding a series of hunting parties in her honour.

  The husband, Monsieur d’Avancelles, turned a blind eye to all this. It was rumoured that they lived separate lives on account of a physical shortcoming of his which Madame could not overlook. He was a fat little man with short arms, short legs, a short neck, short nose, short everything in fact.

  Madame d’Avancelles, in contrast, was a tall, chestnut-haired, determined-looking young woman. She laughed openly at old Pipe and Slippers as she called him to his face but looked with tender indulgence on her admirer, the titled Baron Joseph de Croissard, with his broad shoulders, his sturdy neck and his fair, drooping moustache.

  Until now, however, she had granted him no favours despite the fact that he was spending a fortune on her, throwing a constant round of receptions, hunting parties, and all kinds of celebrations to which he invited the local aristocracy.

  All day long the woods rang to the sound of hounds in full cry after a fox or a wild boar and every night a dazzling display of fireworks spiralled upwards to join the sparkling stars. A tracery of light from the drawing-room windows shone on the huge lawns where shadowy figures occasionally passed.

  It was the russet season of autumn when leaves swirled over the gardens like flocks of birds. Wafting on the air came the tang of damp, bare earth, caught as the smell of a woman’s naked flesh as her gown slips down to the floor after the ball.

  On an evening during a reception held the previous spring, Madame d’Avancelles had replied to an imploring Monsieur de Croissard with the words: ‘If I am to fall at all, my friend, it will certainly not be before the leaves do likewise. I’ve far too many things to do this summer to give it a thought.’ He had remembered those daring words of hers spoken so provocatively and was now pressing his advantage. Each day he crept closer, gaining more and more of the bold beauty’s heart until by this point her resistance seemed hardly more than symbolic.

  Soon there was to be a great hunting party. The night before, Madame Berthe had said laughingly to the Baron: ‘Tomorrow, Baron, if you manage to kill the beast I shall have something to give you.’

  He was up at dawn reconnoitring where the wild boar was wallowing. He accompanied his whips, setting out the order of the hunt in such a way that he should return from the field in triumph. When the horns sounded for the meet, he appeared in a well-cut hunting costume of scarlet and gold. With his upright, broad-chested figure and flashing eyes he glowed with good health and manly vigour.

  The hunt moved off. The boar was raised and ran, followed by the baying hounds rushing through the undergrowth. The horses broke into a gallop, hurtling with their riders along the narrow forest paths while far behind the following carriages drove noiselessly over the softer verges.

  Teasingly, Madame d’Avancelles kept the Baron at her side, slowing down to walking pace in an interminably long, straight avenue along which four rows of oaks arched vaultlike towards each other. Trembling with both desire and frustration he listened with one ear to the young woman’s light badinage, the other pricked for the hunting horns and the sound of the hounds growing fainter by the minute.

  ‘So you love me no longer,’ she was saying.

  ‘How can you say such a thing?’ he replied.

  ‘You do seem to be more interested in the hunt than in me,’ she went on. He groaned. ‘You do remember your own orders don’t you? To kill the beast myself.’

  ‘Indeed I do,’ she added with great seriousness. ‘Before my very eyes.’ At this he quivered impatiently in the saddle, spurred on his eager horse and finally lost his patience.

  ‘For God’s sake, Madame, not if we stay here a minute longer.’

  ‘That is how it has to be nevertheless,’ she cried laughingly. ‘Otherwise, you’re out of luck.’

  Then she spoke to him gently, leaning her hand on his arm and, as if absentmindedly, stroking his horse’s mane. They had turned right on to a narrow path overhung with trees when, suddenly swerving to avoid one of their low branches, she leaned against him so closely that he felt her hair tickling his neck. He threw his arms around her and pressing his thick moustache to her forehead planted upon it a passionate kiss.

  At first she was motionless, stunned by his ardour, then with a start she turned her head and, either by chance or design, her own delicate lips met his beneath their blond cascade. Then, out of either embarrassment or regret for the incident she spurred her horse on the flank and galloped swiftly away. For a long while they rode straight on together, without so much as exchanging a glance.

  The hunt in full cry was close and the thickets seemed to shake, when suddenly, covered in blood and shaking off the hounds that clung to him, the boar went rushing past through the bushes. The Baron gave a triumphant laugh, cried ‘Let him who loves me follow me!’ and disappeared, swallowed up by the forest. When Madame d’Avancelles reached an open glade a few minutes later he was just getting up, covered with mud, his jacket torn and his hands bloody, while the animal lay full length on the ground with the Baron’s knife plunged up to the hilt in its shoulder.

  The quarry was cut by torchlight on that mild and melancholy night. The moon gilded the red flames of the torches which filled the air with pine smoke. The dogs, yelping and snapping, devoured the stinking innards of the boar while the beaters and the gentlemen, standing in a circle around the spoil, blew their horns with all their might. The flourish of the hunting horns rose into the night air above the woods. Its echoes fell and were lost in the distant valleys beyond, alarming nervous stags, a barking fox and small grey rabbits at play on the edge of the glades. Terrified night birds fluttered above the crazed pack while the women, excited a little by the violence and vulnerability surrounding these events, leaned a little heavily on the men’s arms and, without waiting for the hounds to finish, drifted off with their partners down the many forest paths. Feeling languid after all the exhausting emotion of the day Madame d’Avancelles said to the Baron: ‘Would you care for a turn in the park, my friend?’

  He gave no answer, but trembling and unsteady with desire pulled her to him. Instantly they kissed and as they walked very slowly under the almost leafless trees through which moonlight filtered, their love, their desire and their need for each other was so intense that they almost sank down at the foot of a tree.

  The horns had fallen silent and the exhausted hounds were sleeping by now in their kennels.

  ‘Let us go back,’ the young woman said. They returned.

  Just as they reached the château and were about to enter, she murmured in a faint voice: ‘I’m so tired, my friend, I’m going straight to bed.’ As he opened his arms for one last kiss she fled, with the parting words: ‘No … to sleep … but … let him who loves me follow me!’

  An hour later when the whole sleeping château seemed dead to the world the Baron crept on tiptoe out of his room and s
cratched at the door of his friend. Receiving no reply he made to open it and found it unbolted.

  She was leaning dreamily with her elbows on the window ledge. He threw himself at her knees which he showered with mad kisses through her nightdress. She said nothing, but ran her dainty fingers caressingly through the Baron’s hair. Suddenly, as if coming to a momentous decision, she disengaged herself and whispered provocatively: ‘Wait for me. I shall be back.’ Her finger raised in shadow pointed to the far end of the room where loomed the vague white shape of her bed.

  With wildly trembling hands he undressed quickly by feel and slipped between the cool sheets. He stretched out in bliss and almost forgot his friend as his weary body yielded to the linen’s caress. Doubtless enjoying the strain on his patience, still she did not return. He closed his eyes in exquisitely pleasurable anticipation. His most cherished dream was about to come true. Little by little his limbs relaxed, as did his mind, where thoughts drifted, vague and indistinct. He succumbed at last to the power of great fatigue and finally fell asleep.

  He slept the heavy, impenetrable sleep of the exhausted huntsman. He slept indeed till dawn. Then from a nearby tree through the still half-open window came the ringing cry of a cock. Startled awake, the Baron’s eyes flew open. Finding himself, to his great surprise, in a strange bed and with a woman’s body lying against his he remembered nothing and stammered as he struggled into consciousness: ‘What? Where am I? What is it?’

  At this, she, who had not slept a wink, looked at the puffy, red-eyed and dishevelled man at her side. She answered in the same dismissive tone she took with her husband. ‘Nothing,’ she said, ‘it’s a cock. Go back to sleep, Monsieur. It’s nothing to do with you.’

  Femme Fatale

  The restaurant, Le Grillon, Mecca of the entire local boating community, was now slowly emptying. At the main entrance a large crowd of people were calling and shouting out to each other. With oars on their shoulders, strapping great fellows in white jerseys waved and gesticulated. Women in light spring frocks were stepping cautiously into the skiffs moored alongside and, having settled themselves in the stern of each, were smoothing out their dresses. The owner of the establishment, a tough-looking, red-bearded man of legendary strength, was helping the pretty young things aboard and with a practised hand was holding steady the gently bobbing craft.

  The oarsmen then took their places, playing to the gallery and showing off broad chests and muscular arms in their sleeveless vests. The gallery in this case consisted of a crowd of suburbanites in their Sunday best, as well as a few workmen and some soldiers, all leaning on the parapet of the bridge and watching the scene below with keen interest. One by one the boats cast off from the landing stage. The oarsmen leaned forward and with a regular swing pulled back. At each stroke of the long, slightly curved blades the fast skiffs sped through the water making for La Grenouillère and growing progressively smaller till they disappeared beyond the railway bridge and into the distance.

  Only one couple now remained. The slim, pale-faced young man, still a relatively beardless youth, had his arm around the waist of his girl, a skinny little grasshopper of a creature with brown hair. They stopped from time to time to gaze into each other’s eyes.

  The owner cried: ‘Come on, Monsieur Paul, get a move on!’

  The couple moved down closer. Of all the customers, Monsieur Paul, who paid regularly and in full, was the best liked and most respected. Many of the others ran up bills and frequently absconded without settling them. The son of a senator, he was also an excellent advertisement for the establishment. When some stranger asked, ‘And who’s that young chap over there with his eyes glued to the girl?’ one of the regulars would murmur, in a mysterious, important sort of way, ‘Oh, that’s Paul Baron, you know, the son of the senator.’ Then the stranger would inevitably have to comment, ‘Poor young devil, he’s got it bad.’ The proprietress of Le Grillon, a good businesswoman and wise in the ways of the world, called the young man and his companion ‘my two turtle doves’ and looked with tender indulgence on the love affair which brought such glamour to her establishment.

  The couple ambled slowly down to where a skiff called the Madeleine was ready. Before embarking, however, they stopped to kiss once more, much to the amusement of the audience gathered on the bridge. Finally, Monsieur Paul took up the oars and set off after the others also making for La Grenouillère.

  When they arrived it was getting on for three and here too the vast floating café was swarming with people. It is in effect one huge raft with a tarpaulin roof supported by wooden columns. It is connected to the charming island of Croissy by two narrow footbridges, one of which runs right through to the centre of the café itself. The other connects at the far end with a tiny islet where a single tree grows and which is nicknamed the Pot-de-Fleurs. From there it connects with the land again via a bathing pool.

  Monsieur Paul moored his boat alongside the café, climbed up to its balustrade then, holding his girl’s two hands, guided her up also. They entered, found a place for two at the end of a table and sat down opposite each other.

  Lining the towpath on the opposite side of the river was a long string of vehicles. Fiacres alternated with the flashy carriages of gay young men-about-town. The first were lumbering great hulks whose bodywork crushed the springs beneath and to which were harnessed broken-down old hacks with drooping necks. The other carriages were streamlined, with light suspension and fine, delicate wheels. These were drawn by horses with slender, straight, strong legs, heads held high and bits snowy with foam. Their solemn, liveried drivers, heads held stiffly inside huge collars, sat ramrod straight with their whips resting on their knees.

  The river banks were crowded with people coming and going in different kinds of configurations: family parties, groups of friends, couples and individuals. They idly plucked at blades of grass, wandered down to the water’s edge then climbed back up to the path. Having reached a certain spot they all congregated to wait for the ferryman whose heavy boat plied constantly back and forth, depositing passengers on the island.

  The branch of the river, incidentally called the dead branch, which this floating bar dominates, seemed asleep, so slowly did the current move there. Flotillas of gigs, skiffs, canoes, pedaloes and river craft of all kinds streamed over the still water, mingling and intersecting, meeting and parting, running foul of each other, stopping, and with a sudden jerk of their oarsmen’s arms and a tensing of their muscles, taking off again, darting this way and that like shoals of red and yellow fish.

  More were arriving all the time; some from Chatou upstream, some from Bougival, downstream. Gales of contagious laughter carried from one boat to another and the air was full of insults, complaints, protestations and howls. The men in the boats exposed their muscular, tanned bodies to the glare of the sun and, like exotic water-plants, the women’s parasols of red, green and yellow silk blossomed in the sterns of their craft.

  The July sun blazed in the middle of the sky and the atmosphere was gay and carefree, while in the windless air not a leaf stirred in the poplars and willows lining the banks of the river. In the distance ahead, the conspicuous bulk of Mont-Valérien loomed, rearing the ramparts of its fortifications in the glare of the sun. On the right, the gentle slopes of Louveciennes, following the curve of the river, formed a semi-circle within which could be glimpsed, through the dense and shady greenery of their spacious lawns, the white-painted walls of weekend retreats.

  On the land adjoining La Grenouillère strollers were sauntering under the gigantic trees which help to make this part of the island one of the most delightful parks imaginable. Busty women with peroxided hair and nipped-in waists could be seen, made up to the nines with blood red lips and black-kohled eyes. Tightly laced into their garish dresses they trailed in all their vulgar glory over the fresh green grass. They were accompanied by men whose fashion-plate accessories, light gloves, patent-leather boots, canes as slender as threads and absurd monocles made them look like comple
te idiots.

  The part of the island facing La Grenouillère is narrow and between it and the opposite bank where another ferry plies, bringing people over from Croissy, the current is very strong and very fast. Here it swirls and roars, raging like a torrent in a myriad of eddies and foam. A detachment of pontoon-builders wearing the uniform of artillerymen was camped on the bank and some of the soldiers, side by side on a long beam of wood, sat watching the river below.

  A noisy, rambunctious crowd filled the floating restaurant. The wooden tables, sticky and awash with streams of spilt drink, were covered with half-empty glasses and surrounded by half-tipsy customers. The crowd sang and shouted and brawled. Red-faced, belligerent men, their hats tipped at the backs of their heads and their eyes glassy with booze, prowled like animals spoiling for a fight. The women, cadging free drinks in the meantime, were seeking their prey for the night. The space between the tables was filled with the usual clientèle – noisy young boating blades and their female companions in short flannel skirts.

  One of the men was banging away at the piano using his feet as well as his hands. Four couples were dancing a quadrille and watching them was a group of elegantly dressed young men whose respectable appearance was ruined by the hideous incongruity of the setting.

  The place reeked of vice and corruption and the dregs of Parisian society in all its rottenness gathered there: cheats, conmen and cheap hacks rubbed shoulders with under-age dandies, old roués and rogues, sleazy underworld types once notorious for things best forgotten mingled with other small-time crooks and speculators, dabblers in dubious ventures, frauds, pimps, and racketeers. Cheap sex, both male and female, was on offer in this tawdry meat-market of a place where petty rivalries were exploited, and quarrels picked over nothing in an atmosphere of fake gallantry where swords or pistols at dawn settled matters of highly questionable honour in the first place.