Story : For Sale

 

 FOR SALE

Guy de Maupassant

 

How intoxicating it is to go off on foot when the sun comes up and walk in the morning dew along the fields beside the calm sea !

 How intoxicating ! It penetrates your eyes by the sunlight, your nostrils by the delicate summer air, your skin by gusts of wind.

 Why do we keep such a clear, cherished, sharp memory of certain moments of love of the Earth, the memory of a delicious and fleeting sensation like a caress of a landscape encountered at the turn of a road, at the entrance to a valley, on the edge of a river, just as if one were meeting up with a lovely, friendly young woman ?

 I remember one day in particular. I was going along the Brittany coast towards the tip of Finistère. I was going in a rapid pace along the shoreline, without thinking of anything. It was in the region of Quimperlé, that most delightful and beautiful part of Brittany.

A spring morning, one of those mornings that make you twenty years younger, that renew your hopes and recreate your dreams of adolescence.

I was going along a barely-marked path between the wheat fields and the waves. The stalks were motionless, and the waves were barely perceptible. You could smell the soft aroma of the ripe fields and the marine odour of the kelp. I went on thinking of nothing, straight ahead, continuing my tour of Brittany by the coastline that I had begun two weeks beforehand. I felt strong, agile, happy and gay. I was on my way.

 

Thinking of nothing ! Why think in these moments of the unconscious, profound, physical joy, the joy of the animal that is running in the grass or flying in the blue air under the sun ?

I heard singing of pious chants in the distance. A procession, perhaps, as it was a Sunday. But when I rounded a little cape I stood immobile, ravished. Five large fishing boats appeared full of people : men, women and children going to Plouneven.

They were going along the seashore, slowly, scarcely advancing under a faint, enfeebled breeze that swelled their brown sails a little, then, dying down right away, let them fall down again, flaccidly, alongside the masts.

The heavy vessels slid slowly along, heavily loaded. And everyone was singing. The men, upright on the planks, wearing high hats, chanted their powerful notes ; the women cried out in their sharp tones and the tinny voices of the children sounded like fifes in that pious and violent clamour.

And the passengers of the five boats were chanting the same hymn, whose monotonous rhythm rose up into the calm sky ; and the five boats advanced one after the other, close by each other.

They passed in front of me, right before me, and I watched them go off into the distance as their chant became ever fainter and then faded away.

And I began to dream of delicious things in a puerile and charming way, as young people do.

How that age of dreaming, the only happy moment of one’s existence, flees rapidly away ! You are never solitary, never sad, never morose or desolated when you possess that divine faculty of losing yourself in your hopes whenever you are alone. What a fairy-land, where everything can happen in the hallucination of vagabond thoughts ! How life is lovely under the gold-dust of dreams !

Alas, that’s all over now.

I had begun to dream. Of what ? Of all that one is ceaselessly waiting for, of all that one desires, of fortune, of glory, of women.

 

And I went on with rapid paces, caressing with one hand the blond heads of wheat bending under my fingers and tickling my skin as if I were touching someone’s hair.

Coming around a small promontory I saw, at the end of a narrow, round beach, a white house built on top of three terraces that led down to the shore.

Why did the view of that house make me quiver with joy ? Do I know ? Sometimes when you are travelling like that you come across places that you feel you have known for a long time, they seem so familiar, they are so pleasing to your soul. Is it possible that you have never seen them before ? That you have never lived there at some time ? Everything about them seduces you, enchants you — the soft profile of the horizon, the disposition of the trees, the colour of the sand.

Oh, that lovely house standing there on top of the slope ! Large fruit-trees had grown along the terraces that sloped down like giant steps towards the water. And each one had a long bouquet of Spanish broom on its summit, like a golden crown.

I stopped, seized with a feeling of affection for this house. How I would have liked to own it, to live there, forever !

I went up to the door, my heart beating with envy, and saw, on one of the fence-posts, a large sign reading : “For Sale”.

I felt a shudder of pleasure run through me as if it had been offered to me, as if the house had been given to me ! Why ? Yes, why ? I have no idea !

“For Sale.” So it almost didn’t belong to anyone anymore, it could belong to anyone, to me, to me ! Why did I feel that joy, that unexplainable sensation of profound light-heartedness ? I well knew nevertheless that I certainly wouldn’t buy it. How could I have paid for it ? Never mind, it was for sale. The caged bird belongs to its master, the bird in the air belongs to me and to no one else.

 

And I went into the garden. Oh, that charming garden with its superposed levels, its lattices with their long arms stretched out like crucified martyrs, its tufts of golden broom, and two old fig-trees at the end of each terrace !

When I was on the top one, I looked at the horizon. The little beach spread out at my feet, round and sandy, separated from the high sea by three heavy brown rocks that closed the entrance and would break up the waves in times of heavy seas.

On the point, on the other side, were two enormous stones, a menhir and a dolmen, one upright and the other couched in the grass, like two strange mates immobilised by a spell, that seemed to be steadily looking towards the little house that they had seen being built, they who had known this little bay formerly so solitary, the little house that they would see one day collapse, fall apart, fly off and disappear, the little house that was for sale !

Oh ! ancient dolmen and ancient menhir, how I love you !

 

And I rang the doorbell as if I were ringing at my own home. A woman came to open the door, a maid, an ancient little maid dressed in black with a white headpiece, who looked like a nun. It seemed to me that I also knew this woman.

I said to her :

— You aren’t from Brittany, are you ?

She replied :

— No, sir, I am from Lorraine.

She added :

— Would you like to visit the house ?

— Yes, most certainly.

And I went in.

I recognized everything, it seemed to me : the walls, the furniture. I was almost astonished not to find my canes in the front hall.

I went into the salon, a lovely salon carpeted with mats that looked out on the sea through three large windows. On the mantlepiece were China bowls and a big photograph of a woman. I went up to it right away, persuaded that I would recognize her too. And I did recognize her, although I was certain that I had never met her. It was she, herself, she for whom I was waiting, whom I desired, whom I called to, whose face haunted my dreams. Her, the one for whom one is always searching everywhere, the one whom one was going to see in the street in a moment, whom one was going to find on the road in the countryside when one sees a red umbrella in the wheat-fields, the one who must have already arrived at the hotel that I am about to enter during a trip, in the coach that I am getting into, in the salon whose door is opening before me.

It was her, assuredly, undoubtedly her ! I recognized her by her eyes that were looking at me, by her har rolled up in an English bun, by her mouth above all, by that smile that I had imagined for so long.

I asked right away :

— Who is this woman ?

The maid with the nun’s face replied dryly :

— It’s Madame.

I continued :

— She’s your mistress ?

She replied in her devout, harsh manner :

— Oh no, sir !

I took a seat and said :

— Tell me about her.

She remained stupefied, immobile, silent.

I insisted :

— She’s the proprietor of this house, then ?

— Oh no, sir !

— To whom does it belong, then ?

— To my master, M. Tournelle.

I pointed at the photograph.

— And this woman, who is she ?

— It’s Madame.

— The wife of your master ?

— Oh no, sir !

— His mistress, then ?

The nun didn’t reply. I continued, urged on by a vague sense of jealousy, by a confused anger against that man who had discovered this woman :

— Where are they now ?

The maid murmured :

— Monsieur is in Paris, but as for Madame, I do not know.

I was shaken :

— They are no longer together ?

— No, sir.

I became cunning and, in a grave voice :

— Tell me what happened, and I might perhaps be of service to your master. I know this woman, she’s wicked !

 

The old servant looked at me and had confidence in me because of my open and honest manner.

— Oh, sir, she made my master so unhappy ! He had met her in Italy and had brought her back with him as if he had married her. She sang beautifully. He loved her, sir, so much that it was a pity to see. They were travelling together in these parts last year, and they found this house that had been built by an idiot, a real idiot to have built it two leagues away from the village. Madame wanted to buy it right away and to stay here with my master, so he bought the house to please her.

They stayed here all last summer, sir, and almost all winter.

And then, one day in the morning at breakfast time, Master called me :

— Césarine, has Madame come home ?

— No, sir.

We waited the whole day. My master was in a terrible fury. We searched everywhere but couldn’t find her. She had left, sir, we never knew where or how.

Oh, what joy pervaded me ! I felt like kissing the nun, like taking her by the waist and dancing with her in the salon !

Ah, she had left, she had escaped, she had grown tired of him, disgusted by him ! How that made me happy !

The maid continued :

— Master was devastated and returned to Paris, leaving me with my husband to sell the house. We are asking twenty thousand francs for it.

But I was no longer listening, I was thinking of her ! And, all of a sudden it seemed to me that all I had to do to find her was to go on my way, that she must have come back to this region, to this springtime, to see the house, the lovely house that she would have liked so much, without him.

 

I thrust ten francs into the hand of the old woman, took up the photograph and ran off kissing profusely the lovely face in the photo.

I went back to my route and began walking along again, looking at her, at her ! What a joy that she was free, that she had escaped ! For sure, I would meet her, today or tomorrow, this week or the next, because she had left him ! She had left him because my time had come !

She was free, somewhere in the world ! I only had to find her now that I knew her.

And I continued caressing the bending, golden stalks of ripe wheat, I drank in the marine air that swelled my breast, I felt the sun kiss my face. I went on, I went on overwhelmed with happiness, intoxicated with hope. I went on, sure to meet her soon and to take her back with me to live in our turn in the lovely house For Sale. How she would be happy there, this time !

 

With affection,

Ruben