One Evening

"One Evening" by Guy de Maupassant is a captivating short story that revolves around a chance encounter between a man and a woman during a serene evening. As they converse, their dialogue reveals their inner thoughts and desires, reflecting themes of love, longing, and the complexities of human relationships. The narrative encapsulates the allure of fleeting connections and the profound emotions that can arise in a brief moment, showcasing Maupassant's mastery of character exploration and atmospheric storytelling.

• Short story

								
The steamboat Kleber had stopped, and I was admiring the beautiful bay
of Bougie, that was opened out before us. The high hills were covered
with forests, and in the distance the yellow sands formed a beach of
powdered gold, while the sun shed its fiery rays on the white houses of
the town.

The warm African breeze blew the odor of that great, mysterious
continent into which men of the Northern races but rarely penetrate,
into my face. For three months I had been wandering on the borders of
that great, unknown world, on the outskirts of that strange world of the
ostrich, the camel, the gazelle, the hippopotamus, the gorilla, the lion
and the tiger, and the negro. I had seen the Arab galloping like the
wind, and passing like a floating standard, and I had slept under those
brown tents, the moving habitation of those white birds of the desert,
and I felt, as it were, intoxicated with light, with fancy, and with
space.

But now, after this final excursion, I should have to start, to return
to France and to Paris, that city of useless chatter, of commonplace
cares, and of continual hand-shaking, and I should bid adieu to all that
I had got to like so much, which was so new to me, which I had scarcely
had time to see thoroughly, and which I so much regretted to leave.

A fleet of small boats surrounded the steamer, and, jumping into one
rowed by a negro lad, I soon reached the quay near the old Saracen gate,
whose gray ruins at the entrance of the Kabyle town, looked like an old
escutcheon of nobility. While I was standing by the side of my
portmanteau, looking at the great steamer lying at anchor in the roads,
and filled with admiration at that unique shore, and that semi-circle of
hills, bathed in blue light, which were more beautiful than those of
Ajaccio, or of Porto, in Corsica, a heavy hand was laid on my shoulder,
and on turning round I saw a tall man with a long beard, dressed in
white flannel, and wearing a straw hat, standing by my side, and looking
at me with his blue eyes.

"Are you not an old school-fellow of mine?" he said.

"It is very possible. What is your name?"

"Trémoulin."

"By Jove! You were in the same class as I was."

"Ah! Old fellow, I recognized you immediately."

He seemed so pleased, so happy at seeing me, that in an outburst of
friendly selfishness, I shook both the hands of my former school-fellow
heartily, and felt very pleased at meeting him thus.

For four years Trémoulin had been one of the best and most intimate
school friends, one of those whom we are too apt to forget as soon as we
leave. In those days he had been a tall, thin fellow, whose head seemed
to be too heavy for his body; it was a large, round head, and hung
sometimes to the right and sometimes to the left, onto his chest.
Trémoulin was very clever, however, and had a marvelous aptitude for
learning, and had an instinctive intuition for all literary studies, and
gained nearly all the prizes in our class.

We were fully convinced at school, that he would turn out a celebrated
man, a poet, no doubt, for he wrote verses, and was full of ingeniously
sentimental ideas. His father, who kept a chemist's shop near the
Panthéon, was not supposed to be very well off, and I had lost sight
of him as soon as he had taken his bachelor's degree, and now I
naturally asked him what he was doing there.

"I am a planter," he replied.

"Bah! You really plant?"

"And I have my harvest."

"What is it?"

"Grapes, from which I make wine."

"Is your wine-growing a success?"

"A great success."

"So much the better, old fellow."

"Were you going to the hotel?"

"Of course I was."

"Well, then, you must just come home with me, instead!"

"But! ..."

"The matter is settled."

And he said to the young negro who was watching our movements: "Take
that home, Al."

And the lad put my portmanteau on his shoulder, and set off, raising the
dust with his black feet, while Trémoulin took my arm and led me off.
First of all, he asked me about my journey, and what impressions it had
had on me, and seeing how enthusiastic I was about it, he seemed to like
me better than ever. He lived in an old Moorish house, with an interior
courtyard, without any windows looking into the street, and commanded by
a terrace, which, in its turn, commanded those of the neighboring
houses, as well as the bay, and the forests, the hill, and the open sea,
and I could not help exclaiming:

"Ah! That is what I like; the whole of the East lays hold of me in this
place. You are indeed lucky to be living here! What nights you must
spend upon that terrace! Do you sleep there?"

"Yes, in the summer. We will go onto it this evening. Are you fond of
fishing?"

"What kind of fishing?"

"Fishing by torchlight."

"Yes, I am particularly fond of it."

"Very well, then, we will go after dinner, and we will come back and
drink sherbet on my roof."

After I had had a bath, he took me to see the charming Kabyle town, a
veritable cascade of white houses toppling down to the sea, and then,
when it was getting dusk, we went in, and after an excellent dinner, we
went down to the quay, and we saw nothing except the fires and the
stars, those large, bright, scintillating African stars. A boat was
waiting for us, and as soon as we had got in, a man whose face I could
not distinguish, began to row, while my friend was getting ready the
brazier which he would light later, and he said to me: "You know I have
a mania for a fish-spear, and nobody can handle it better than I can."

"Allow me to compliment you on your skill." We had rowed round a kind of
mole, and now we were in a small bay full of high rocks, whose shadows
looked like towers built in the water, and I suddenly perceived that the
sea was phosphorescent, and as the oars moved gently, they seemed to
light up moving flames, that followed in our wake, and then died out,
and I leant over the side of the boat and watched it, as we glided over
that glimmer in the darkness.

Where were we going to? I could not see my neighbors; in fact, I could
see nothing but the luminous ripple, and the sparks of water dropping
from the oars; it was hot, very hot, and the darkness seemed as hot as a
furnace, and this mysterious motion with these two men in that silent
boat, had a peculiar effect upon me.

Suddenly the rower stopped. Where were we? I heard a slight scratching
noise close to me, and I saw a hand, nothing but a hand applying a
lighted match to the iron grating which was fastened over the bows of
the boat, which was covered with wood, as if it had been a floating
funeral pile, and which soon was blazing brightly and illuminating the
boat and the two men, an old, thin, pale, wrinkled sailor, with a
pocket-handkerchief tied round his head, instead of a cap, and

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