Hautot Senior and Hautot Junior Page #4

"Hautot Senior and Hautot Junior" is a novella by French author Guy de Maupassant that explores the complex relationship between a father and his son, both named Hautot. Set in rural Normandy, the story revolves around Hautot Senior, a traditional and somewhat gruff older man, and his more modern, carefree son, Hautot Junior. Their differing worldviews and generational conflict come to the forefront as they navigate love, ambition, and the changing societal values of their time. Maupassant's narrative captures themes of familial bonds, loss, and the inevitable passage of time, all infused with his characteristic wit and keen observations of human nature.

								

her eyes.

Then seized by the contagion of her grief, César began to weep, too, and
as tears always soften the fibers of the heart, he bent over Emile whose
forehead was close to his own mouth, and kissed him.

The mother, recovering her breath, murmured:

"Poor lad, he is an orphan now!"

"And so am I," said César.

And they ceased to talk.

But suddenly the practical instinct of the housewife, accustomed to be
thoughtful about many things, revived in the young woman's breast.

"You have perhaps taken nothing all the morning, Monsieur César."

"No, Mam'zelle."

"Oh! you must be hungry. You will eat a morsel."

"Thanks," he said, "I am not hungry; I have had too much trouble."

She replied:

"In spite of sorrow, we must live. You will not refuse to let me get
something for you! And then you will remain a little longer. When you
are gone, I don't know what will become of me."

He yielded after some further resistance, and, sitting down with his
back to the fire, facing her, he ate a plateful of tripe, which had been
bubbling in the stove, and drank a glass of red wine. But he would not
allow her to uncork the bottle of white wine. He several times wiped
the mouth of the little boy, who had smeared all his chin with sauce.

As he was rising up to go, he asked:

"When would you like me to come back to speak about this business to
you, Mam'zelle Donet?"

"If it is all the same to you, say next Thursday, Monsieur César. In
that way, I would lose none of my time, as I always have my Thursdays
free."

"That will suit me--next Thursday."

"You will come to lunch. Won't you?"

"Oh! On that point I can't give you a promise."

"The reason I suggested is that people can chat better when they are
eating. One has more time too."

"Well, be it so. About twelve o'clock, then."

And he took his departure, after he had again kissed little Emile, and
pressed Mademoiselle Donet's hand.

PART III

The week appeared long to César Hautot. He had never before found
himself alone, and the isolation seemed to him insupportable. Till now,
he had lived at his father's side, just like his shadow, followed him
into the fields, superintended the execution of his orders, and, when
they had been a short time separated, again met him at dinner. They had
spent the evenings smoking their pipes, face to face with one another,
chatting about horses, cows or sheep, and the grip of their hands when
they rose up in the morning might have been regarded as a manifestation
of deep family affection on both sides.

Now César was alone, he went vacantly through the process of dressing
the soil of autumn, every moment expecting to see the tall gesticulating
silhouette of his father rising up at the end of a plain. To kill time,
he entered the houses of his neighbors, told about the accident to all
who had not heard of it, and sometimes repeated it to the others. Then,
after he had finished his occupations and his reflections, he would sit
down at the side of a road, asking himself whether this kind of life was
going to last for ever.

He frequently thought of Mademoiselle Donet. He liked her. He considered
her thoroughly respectable, a gentle and honest young woman, as his
father had said. Yes, undoubtedly she was an honest girl. He resolved to
act handsomely towards her, and to give her two thousand francs a year,
settling the capital on the child. He even experienced a certain
pleasure in thinking that he was going to see her on the following
Thursday and arrange this matter with her. And then the notion of this
brother, this little chap of five, who was his father's son, plagued
him, annoyed him a little, and, at the same time, exhibited him. He had,
as it were, a family in this brat, sprung from a clandestine alliance,
who would never bear the name of Hautot, a family which he might take or
leave, just as he pleased, but which would recall his father.

And so, when he saw himself on the road to Rouen on Thursday morning,
carried along by Graindorge trotting with clattering foot-beats, he felt
his heart lighter, more at peace than he had hitherto felt it since his
bereavement.

On entering Mademoiselle Donet's apartment, he saw the table laid as on
the previous Thursday with the sole difference that the crust had not
been removed from the bread. He pressed the young woman's hand, kissed
Emile on the cheeks, and sat down, more at ease than if he were in his
own house, his heart swelling in the same way. Mademoiselle Donet seemed
to him a little thinner and paler. She must have grieved sorely. She
wore now an air of constraint in his presence, as if she understood what
she had not felt the week before under the first blow of her misfortune,
and she exhibited an excessive deference towards him, a mournful
humility, and made touching efforts to please him, as if to pay him back
by her attentions for the kindness he had manifested towards her. They
were a long time at lunch talking over the business, which had brought
him there. She did not want so much money. It was too much. She earned
enough to live on herself, but she only wished that Emile might find a
few sous awaiting him when he grew big. César held out, however, and
even added a gift of a thousand francs for herself for the expense of
mourning.

When he had taken his coffee, she asked:

"Do you smoke?"

"Yes--I have my pipe."

He felt in his pocket. Good God! He had forgotten it! He was becoming
quite woebegone about it when she offered him a pipe of his father that
had been shut up in a cupboard. He accepted it, took it up in his hand,
recognized it, smelled it, spoke of its quality in a tone of emotion,
filled it with tobacco, and lighted it. Then, he set Emile astride on
his knee, and made him play the cavalier, while she removed the
tablecloth, and put the soiled plates at one end of the sideboard in
order to wash them as soon as he was gone.

About three o'clock, he rose up with regret, quite annoyed at the
thought of having to go.

"Well! Mademoiselle Donet," he said, "I wish you good evening, and am
delighted to have found you like this."

She remained standing before him, blushing, much affected, and gazed at
him while she thought of the other.

"Shall we not see one another again?" she said.

He replied simply:

"Why, yes, mam'zelle, if it gives you pleasure."

"Certainly, Monsieur César. Will next Thursday suit you then?"

"Yes, Mademoiselle Donet."

"You will come to lunch, of course?"

"Well--if you are so kind as to invite me, I can't refuse."

"It is understood, then, Monsieur César--next Thursday at twelve, the
same as to-day."

"Thursday at twelve, Mam'zelle Donet!"
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