A Passion Page #2

"A Passion" is a poignant novella by Guy de Maupassant that explores the complexities of love and desire. The story follows the tumultuous relationship between two characters, revealing the intensity of their emotions and the societal constraints that challenge their connection. Maupassant's masterful prose delves into themes of obsession, jealousy, and the often-painful intersection of passion and reality, showcasing his keen insight into human psychology and the intricacies of romantic entanglements. Through this tale, readers are invited to reflect on the nature of love and the sacrifices it demands.

								

have come to give you the greatest proof of love that a woman can offer.
I follow you. For you I am abandoning my husband, my children, my
family. I am ruining myself, but I am happy. It seems to me that I am
giving myself to you over again. It is the last and the greatest
sacrifice. I am yours for ever!"

He felt a cold sweat down his back, and was seized with a dull and
violent rage, the anger of weakness. However, he became calm, and, in a
disinterested tone, with a show of kindness, he refused to accept her
sacrifice, tried to appease her, to bring her to reason, to make her see
her own folly! She listened to him, staring at him with her great black
eyes and with a smile of disdain on her lips, and said not a word in
reply. He went on talking to her, and when, at length, he stopped, she
said merely:

"Can you really be a coward? Can you be one of those who seduce a woman,
and then throw her over, through sheer caprice?"

He became pale, and renewed his arguments; he pointed out to her the
inevitable consequences of such an action to both of them as long as
they lived--how their lives would be shattered and how the world would
shut its doors against them. She replied obstinately: "What does it
matter when we love each other?" Then, all of a sudden, he burst out
furiously:

"Well, then, I will not. No--do you understand? I will not do it, and I
forbid you to do it." Then, carried away by the rancorous feeling which
had seethed within him so long, he relieved his heart:

"Ah, damn it all, you have now been sticking on to me for a long time in
spite of myself, and the best thing for you now is to take yourself off.
I'll be much obliged if you do so, upon my honor!"

She did not answer him, but her livid countenance began to look
shriveled up, as if all her nerves and muscles had been twisted out of
shape. And she went away without saying good-bye.

The same night she poisoned herself.

For a week she was believed to be in a hopeless condition. And in the
city people gossiped about the case, and pitied her, excusing her sin on
account of the violence of her passion, for overstrained emotions,
becoming heroic through their intensity, always obtain forgiveness for
whatever is blameworthy in them. A woman who kills herself is, so to
speak, not an adulteress. And ere long there was a feeling of general
reprobation against Lieutenant Renoldi for refusing to see her again--a
unanimous sentiment of blame.

It was a matter of common talk that he had deserted her, betrayed her,
ill-treated her. The Colonel, overcome by compassion, brought his
officer to book in a quiet way. Paul d'Henricol called on his friend:

"Deuce take it, Renoldi, it's not good enough to let a woman die; it's
not the right thing anyhow."

The other, enraged, told him to hold his tongue, whereupon d'Henricol
made use of the word "infamy." The result was a duel, Renoldi was
wounded, to the satisfaction of everybody, and was for some time
confined to his bed.

She heard about it, and only loved him the more for it, believing that
it was on her account he had fought the duel; but, as she was too ill to
move, she was unable to see him again before the departure of the
regiment.

He had been three months in Lille when he received one morning, a visit
from the sister of his former mistress.

After long suffering and a feeling of dejection, which she could not
conquer, Madame Poincot's life was now despaired of, and she merely
asked to see him for a minute, only for a minute, before closing her
eyes for ever.

Absence and time had appeased the young man's satiety and anger; he was
touched, moved to tears, and he started at once for Havre.

She seemed to be in the agonies of death. They were left alone together;
and by the bedside of this woman whom he now believed to be dying, and
whom he blamed himself for killing, though it was not by his own hand,
he was fairly crushed with grief. He burst out sobbing, embraced her
with tender, passionate kisses, more lovingly than he had ever done in
the past. He murmured in a broken voice:

"No, no, you shall not die! You shall get better! We shall love each
other for ever--for ever!"

She said in faint tones:

"Then it is true. You do love me, after all?"

And he, in his sorrow for her misfortunes, swore, promised to wait till
she had recovered, and full of loving pity, kissed again and again the
emaciated hands of the poor woman whose heart was panting with feverish,
irregular pulsations.

The next day he returned to the garrison.

Six weeks later she went to meet him, quite old-looking, unrecognizable,
and more enamored than ever.

In his condition of mental prostration, he consented to live with her.
Then, when they remained together as if they had been legally united,
the same colonel who had displayed indignation with him for abandoning
her, objected to this irregular connection as being incompatible with
the good example officers ought to give in a regiment. He warned the
lieutenant on the subject, and then furiously denounced his conduct, so
Renoldi retired from the army.

He went to live in a village on the shore of the Mediterranean, the
classic sea of lovers.

And three years passed. Renoldi, bent under the yoke, was vanquished,
and became accustomed to the woman's persevering devotion. His hair had
now turned white.

He looked upon himself as a man done for, gone under. Henceforth, he had
no hope, no ambition, no satisfaction in life, and he looked forward to
no pleasure in existence.

But one morning a card was placed in his hand, with the name--"Joseph
Poincot, Shipowner, Havre."

The husband! The husband, who had said nothing, realizing that there was
no use in struggling against the desperate obstinacy of women. What did
he want?

He was waiting in the garden, having refused to come into the house. He
bowed politely, but would not sit down, even on a bench in a
gravel-path, and he commenced talking clearly and slowly.

"Monsieur, I did not come here to address reproaches to you. I know too
well how things happened. I have been the victim of--we have been the
victims of--a kind of fatality. I would never have disturbed you in your
retreat if the situation had not changed. I have two daughters,
Monsieur. One of them, the elder, loves a young man, and is loved by
him. But the family of this young man is opposed to the marriage, basing
their objection on the situation of--my daughter's mother. I have no
feeling of either anger or spite, but I love my children, Monsieur. I
have, therefore, come to ask my wife to return home. I hope that to-day
she will consent to go back to my house--to her own house. As for me, I
will make a show of having forgotten, for--for the sake of my
daughters."

Renoldi felt a wild movement in his heart, and he was inundated with a
delirium of joy like a condemned man who receives a pardon.

He stammered: "Why, yes--certainly, Monsieur--I myself--be assured of
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