The Revenge

 

THE REVENGE

Guy de Maupassant

 

SCENE 1

M. de GARELLE alone, seated deep in an armchair.

 

Here I am in Cannes, a bachelor, what an odd situation ! I’m a bachelor ! In Paris I was hardly aware of it. During a trip it’s different. Well, I’m not complaining.

And my wife has remarried !

Is that fellow happy, my successor, happier than me ? What a fool he must be to have married her after me ! As a matter of fact, I wasn’t any less stupid to have married her in the first place ! She had qualities however… physical qualities… significant ones, but moral defects too, important ones.

What a tricky woman, and what a liar, and what a coquette, and what a charmer for those who’ve never married her ! Was I a cuckold ? Christ ! What a torture to is to wonder about that, morning and night, without ever knowing for sure !

How I went out of my way and taken steps to spy on her, without learning anything ! In any case, if I was a cuckold, I’m not one anymore, thanks to Naquet. How easy divorce is, in any case ! It cost me a ten-francs whip and a stiffness in my right arm, not counting the pleasure I had, beating to my heart’s content a woman I strongly suspected of cheating on me !

Oh, what a beating, what a beating !…

 

He stands up laughing and walks around a few steps, then sits down again.

 

It’s true that the verdict was in her favour and against me – but what a beating !

Now I’ll spend the winter on the Riviera, as a bachelor ! What luck ! Isn’t it nice to be travelling with the eternal hope of finding the love that is out there somewhere ? Who am I going to meet in this hotel, in a moment, or on the Croisette, or in the street perhaps ? Where is she, the one who’ll love me tomorrow and whom I’ll love ? What will her eyes be like, her lips, her hair, her smile ? What will she be like, the first woman who’ll give me her lips and whom I’ll embrace ? Brunette or blonde ? Tall or short ? Fun-loving or strict ? Plump or ?… She’ll be plump !

Oh ! How I pity those who don’t know, who no longer know the exquisite charm of anticipation ! The real woman I love is The Unknown Woman, The Hoped-for Woman, The Desired Woman, the one who haunts my heart even though my eyes have never seen her, and whose seduction grows with all her dreamed-of perfections. Where is she ? In this hotel, behind that door ? In one of the rooms of this hotel, nearby or still far away ? What does it matter, as long as I desire her, as long as I’m sure to meet her ! And I’ll certainly meet her today or tomorrow, this week or the next, sooner or later ; but I’ve just got to find her !

And I’ll have, completely, the delightful joy of the first kiss, of the first caresses, of all the headiness of love’s discoveries, of all the mystery of the unexplored territory as delightful the first day as the conquest of virginity ! Oh ! the fools who don’t understand the wonderful sensation of lifting up a veil for the first time. Oh ! the fools who marry… because… those veils… one mustn’t lift them too often… for the same spectacle…

Hello, a woman !…

 

A woman crosses at the far end of the covered walk, elegant, svelte, shapely.

 

Good heavens ! She’s shapely and has style. Let’s try to see… her face.

 

She passes him by without noticing him, who is sunk in his armchair. He whispers :

 

By God, it’s my wife ! my wife, or rather, no, she’s Chantever’s wife ! She’s good-looking all the same, the little devil…

Would I feel like marrying her again now ?… Well, she’s sitting down and has taken up a magazine. I’ll lie low.

My wife ! How strange that makes me feel. My wife ! Actually, she hasn’t been my wife for a year now, for more than a year… Yes, she had physically qualities… considerable ones ; what legs ! I have shivers down my spine just thinking of them. And such fine breasts ! Phew ! In the beginning we played the left-right, left-right game, what breasts ! Left or right, they were just as good.

But what a pest… for the morale.

Did she have lovers ? Did I suffer wondering about that ? But now, blast it, it’s none of my business any more .

I’ve never seen anyone more appealing than her when she came to bed. She had a way of jumping on it and of slipping in under the sheets…

It looks like I’m gong to fall in love with her again...

What if I talked to her ?… But what’ll I say to her ?

And then she’ll scream for help because of the beating I gave her ! What a beating ! Perhaps I was a bit brutal, all things said and done.

What if I talked to her ? It would be amusing and challenging, after all. Damn it, yes, I’ll talk to her, and if I’m really skillful about it, perhaps… We’ll see...

 

SCENE 2

He approaches the young woman who’s attentively reading a magazine, and in a soft voice :

 Will you allow me, madam, to remind you of my existence ?

Mme de CHANTEVER abruptly lifts up her head, cries out, and tries to flee. He blocks her way and, humbly :

 You’ve nothing to fear from me, madam, I’m not your husband any more.

Mme de CHANTEVER. Oh ! How dare you ? After… after what happened !

M. de GARELLE. I dare... and I don’t... In any case... explain it as you may. When I saw you it was impossible for me not to come over to talk to you.

Mme de CHANTEVER. I hope this poor joke is over, isn’t it ?

M. de GARELLE. This isn’t at all a joke, madam.

Mme de CHANTEVER. A wager then, unless you’re just being insolent. In any case, a man who beats a woman is capable of anything !

M. de GARELLE. You are harsh, madam. However, it seems to me that you shouldn’t reproach me now for an outburst I had long ago, that I regret moreover. I must admit that, on the contrary, I was expecting thanks from you.

Mme de CHANTEVER, astounded. Good grief, are you mad ? Or are you making fun of me like a boorish ruffian ?

M. de GARELLE. Not at all, madam, and if you don’t understand me, you must be very unhappy.

Mme de CHANTEVER. What do you mean ?

M. de GARELLE. That if you were happy with the fellow who took my place, you should be grateful to me for my violence that resulted in this new marriage.

Mme de CHANTEVER. This is pushing the joke too far, sir. Please leave me alone !

M. de GARELLE. Nevertheless, madam, think of about it, if I hadn’t committed the infamy of beating you, we would still be dragging our millstone around together today...

Mme de CHANTEVER, hurt. The fact is, that you’ve done me a fine favour !

M. de GARELLE. Isn’t that so ? A favour that deserved better than what I got just now.

Mme de CHANTEVER. Perhaps. But your face is so disagreeable to me now.

M. de GARELLE. I can’t say the same about yours.

Mme de CHANTEVER. Your gallantries are as unpleasant to me as your brutalities.

M. de GARELLE. The fact is, madam, that I can’t give you a beating any longer : I have to behave like a gentleman.

Mme de CHANTEVER. That’s honest at least. But if you really want to be a gentleman, you’ll go away.

M. de GARELLE. My desire to please you won’t go that far.

Mme de CHANTEVER. So what do you want ?

M. de GARELLE. To set things right, in case I did something wrong.

M. de GARELLE, shocked. What ? In case you did something wrong ? Why, you’re out of your mind ! You beat me and you seem to think that you behaved towards me in the best possible way !

M. de GARELLE. Perhaps.

Mme de CHANTEVER. Excuse me ? Perhaps ?

M. de GARELLE. Yes, madam. You know the comedy called The Cuckolded Husband, Beaten and Content. Well, have I or have I not been cuckolded, that’s the heart of the matter. In any case, you’re the one who was beaten and not content…

M. de GARELLE, getting up. Sir, you are insulting me !

M. de GARELLE, quickly. Please, listen to me just a minute. I was jealous, very jealous, which proved that I loved you. I beat you, which proved it even more, and beat you really badly, which triumphantly demonstrated it. But if you were faithful, and beaten, you really are to be pitied, quite to be pitied, I confess, and...

Mme de CHANTEVER. Don’t pity me !

M. de GARELLE. How do you mean that ? I can understand it in two ways : either that you despise my pity, or that it’s undeserved. But if the pity that I think you merit is undeserved, then the beating… the violent beating you got from me was more than deserved.

Mme de CHANTEVER. Take it as you wish.

M. de GARELLE. All right. I understand. So with you, madam, I was a cuckolded husband.

Mme de CHANTEVER. I don’t say that.

M. de GARELLE. You imply it.

Mme de CHANTEVER. I imply that I don’t want your pity.

M. de GARELLE. Stop playing with words and confess frankly that I was a...

Mme de CHANTEVER. Don’t say that odious word, it revolts and disgusts me !

M. de GARELLE. I won’t say the word if you confess to the thing.

Mme de CHANTEVER. Never ! It’s not true !

M. de GARELLE. Then I pity you with all my heart, and the proposition I was about to make to you no longer makes any sense.

Mme de CHANTEVER. What were you going to propose ?

M. de GARELLE. I don’t need to tell you that any more, because it would only make sense if you had been unfaithful to me.

Mme de CHANTEVER. Well, let’s say for the moment that I was unfaithful to you.

M. de GARELLE. That’s not enough. I need a confession.

Mme de CHANTEVER. I confess.

M. de GARELLE. That’s not enough. I need proof.

Mme de CHANTEVER, smiling. Now you’e asking for too much.

M. de GARELLE. No, madam as I was saying, I was about to make a serious proposition, a very serious one, otherwise I wouldn’t have come over to you after what happened between us, first from you to me and then from me to you. This proposition, which could have the most serious consequences for both of us, would be worthless if you hadn’t been unfaithful to me.

Mme de CHANTEVER. You’re full of surprises. But what more do you want ? I cheated on you, so there !

M. de GARELLE. I need proof.

Mme de CHANTEVER. But what proof do you want me to give you ? I don’t have any on me, or rather I don’t have any anymore.

M. de GARELLE. It doesn’t matter where they are. I need them.

Mme de CHANTEVER. But one can’t keep proof of that sort of thing… and… unless one’s caught red-handed… (After a silence.) It seems to me that my word should be enough.

M. de GARELLE, inclining. So, you’re ready to give me your word ?

Mme de CHANTEVER, raising her hand. I swear to it.

M. de GARELLE, serious. I believe you, madam. And with whom did were you unfaithful to me ?

Mme de CHANTEVER. Oh ! You’re asking for too much, for God’s sake !

M. de GARELLE. I need to know his name.

Mme de CHANTEVER. I can’t reveal that.

M. de GARELLE. Why ?

Mme de CHANTEVER. Because I’m a married woman.

M. de GARELLE. And ?

Mme de CHANTEVER. What about professional secrecy ?

M. de GARELLE. That’s a valid point.

Mme de CHANTEVER. Besides, I was unfaithful to you with M. de Chantever.

M. de GARELLE. That’s not true !

Mme de CHANTEVER. Why not ?

M. de GARELLE. Because then he wouldn’t have married you !

Mme de CHANTEVER. You’re being insolent ! And what about this proposition ?...

M. de GARELLE. Here it is. You’ve just admitted that because of you, I’ve been one of those ridiculous men, always tarnished whatever they do, laughable if they keep quiet, and even more grotesque if they get angry, that we call cuckolded husbands. Well, madam, there’s no doubt that the few whip-strokes you got from me are far from compensating me for the outrage and the damage to my marriage that I suffered because of you ; and it’s just as doubtless that you owe me more serious compensation and of a different nature, now that I’m not your husband any more.

Mme de CHANTEVER. You’re losing your head. What do you mean ?

M. de GARELLE. I mean, madam, that you now have to give back to me the charming hours you stole from me when I was your husband, to offer them to whoever it was.

Mme de CHANTEVER. You’re mad !

M. de GARELLE. Not at all. Your love belonged to me, right ? Your kisses were due to me, all of them, without exception. Isn’t that true ? You diverted some of them to someone else ! Well it’s necessary, necessary for me, that the restitution takes place, a restitution with no scandal, a secret restitution, as one does for shameful thefts.

Mme de CHANTEVER. But what do you take me for ?

M. de GARELLE. M. de Chantever’s wife.

Mme de CHANTEVER. Bless my soul, that’s just too much !

M. de GARELLE. Excuse me but the fellow who had an affair with you knew you were M. de Garelle’s wife. It’d only be fair that I have my turn now. What would be too much, would be to refuse to pay back what is legitimately owed.

Mme de CHANTEVER. And if I said yes… you could...

M. de GARELLE. But of course.

Mme de CHANTEVER. So what use would the divorce have been ?

M. de GARELLE. To revive our love.

Mme de CHANTEVER. You’ve never loved me.

M. de GARELLE. However I’m now giving you a strong proof of it.

Mme de CHANTEVER. What proof ?

M. de GARELLE. What do you mean, what proof ? When a man’s crazy enough to first marry a woman and then to become her lover, it proves that he loves her or else I know nothing about love.

Mme de CHANTEVER. Oh, don’t mix things up. To marry a woman is a proof of love or desire, but to take her as a mistress proves nothing… but contempt. In the first case one accepts all the burdens, all the problems and all the responsibilities of love ; in the second case one leaves all that to the legitimate husband and only keeps the pleasure, with the possibility of disappearing the day the person ceases to please. It’s hardly comparable.

M. de GARELLE. My dear, your reasoning is very faulty. When you love a woman, you shouldn’t marry her, because when you get married you can be sure that she’s going to be unfaithful, just like you were with me. The proof is right in front of me. Whereas it’s unquestionable that a mistress stays faithful to her lover because of her determination to deceive her husband. Is that not true ? If you want an insoluble bond between a woman and yourself, get her to marry someone else — marriage is just a string that can be cut at will — and become her lover : free love is an unbreakable chain. We have cut the string ; I’m offering you the chain !

Mme de CHANTEVER. You’re amusing ! But my answer is no.

M. de GARELLE. Then I’ll tell M. de Chantever.

Mme de CHANTEVER. You’ll tell him what ?

M. de GARELLE. I’ll tell him that you were unfaithful to me.

Mme de CHANTEVER. That I was unfaithful… to you...

M. de GARELLE. Yes, when you were my wife.

Mme de CHANTEVER. So what ?

M. de GARELLE. So, he won’t forgive you.

Mme de CHANTEVER. He won’t forgive me ?

M. de GARELLE. Of course not ! It won’t reassure him at all.

Mme de CHANTEVER, laughing. Don’t do that, Henry !

 

A voice from the stairs, calling : Mathilde !

 

Mme de CHANTEVER, low. My husband ! Good-bye !.

M. de GARELLE, standing up. I’ll go with you and present myself.

Mme de CHANTEVER. Don’t do that !

M. de GARELLE. You’ll see.

Mme de CHANTEVER. I beg of you !

M. de GARELLE. Accept the chain, then !

The Voice. Mathilde !

Mme de CHANTEVER. Let me be !

M. de GARELLE. Where can I see you again ?

Mme de CHANTEVER. – Here – tonight – after dinner.

M. de GARELLE, kissing her hand. – I love you…

 

She runs off.

 

M. de GARELLE goes slowly back to his chair and settles down in it.

 

Well ! I much prefer this role to the other one. She’s charming, really charming, and I find her even more charming since I heard M. de Chantever calling her “Mathilde” with that tone of ownership that husbands have !

With affection

Ruben