One Evening Page #2

"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

								

Trémoulin, whose fair beard glistened in the light.

The other began to row again, while Trémoulin kept throwing wood onto
the brazier, which burnt red and brightly. I leant over the side again,
and could see the bottom, and a few feet below us there was that strange
country of the water, which vivifies plants and animals, just like the
air of heaven does. Trémoulin, who was standing in the bows with his
body bent forward, and holding the sharp-pointed trident in his hand,
was on the look-out with the ardent gaze of a beast of prey watching for
its spoil, and, suddenly, with a swift movement, he darted his forked
weapon into the sea so vigorously that it secured a large fish swimming
near the bottom. It was a conger eel, which managed to wriggle, half
dead as it was, into a puddle of the brackish water.

Trémoulin again threw his spear, and when he pulled it up, I saw a great
lump of red flesh which palpitated, moved, rolled and unrolled, long,
strong, soft feelers round the handle of the trident. It was an octopus,
and Trémoulin opened his knife, and with a swift movement plunged it
between the eyes, and killed it. And so our fishing continued until the
wood began to run short. When there was not enough left to keep up the
fire, Trémoulin dipped the braziers into the sea, and we were again
buried in darkness.

The old sailor began to row again, slowly and regularly, though I could
not tell where the land or where the port was. By-and-bye, however, I
saw lights. We were nearing the harbor.

"Are you sleepy?" my friend said to me.

"Not the slightest."

"Then we will go and have a chat on the roof."

"I shall be delighted."

Just as we got onto the terrace, I saw the crescent moon rising behind
the mountains, and around us, the white houses, with their flat roofs,
descending down towards the sea, while human forms were standing or
lying on them, sleeping or dreaming under the stars; whole families
wrapped in long gowns, and resting in the calm night, after the heat of
the day.

It suddenly seemed to me as if the Eastern mind were taking possession
of me, the poetical and legendary spirit of a people with simply and
flowery thoughts. My head was full of the Bible and of The Arabian
Nights; I could hear the prophets proclaiming miracles, and I could see
princesses wearing silk drawers on the roofs of the palaces, while
delicate perfumes, whose smoke assumed the forms of genii, were burning
on silver dishes, and I said to Trémoulin:

"You are very fortunate in living here."

"I came here quite by accident," he replied.

"By accident?"

"Yes, accident and unhappiness brought me here."

"You have been unhappy?"

"Very unhappy."

He was standing in front of me, wrapped in his bournoose, and his voice
had such a painful ring in it that it almost made me shiver; after a
moment's silence, he continued:

"I will tell you what my troubles have been; perhaps it will do me good
to speak about them."

"Let me hear them."

"Do you really wish it?"

"Yes."

"Very well, then. You remember what I was at school; a sort of poet,
brought up in a chemist's shop. I dreamt of writing books, and I tried
it, after taking my degree, but I did not succeed. I published a volume
of verse, and then a novel, and neither of them sold, and then I wrote a
play, which was never acted."

"Next, I lost my heart, but I will not give you an account of my
passion. Next door to my father's shop, there was a tailor's, who had a
daughter, with whom I fell in love. She was very clever, and had
obtained her certificates for higher education, and her mind was bright
and active, quite in keeping indeed with her body. She might have been
taken for fifteen, although she was two-and-twenty. She was very small,
with delicate features, outlines and tints, just like some beautiful
water color. Her nose, her mouth, her blue eyes, her light hair, her
smile, her waist, her hands, all looked as if they were fit for a
stained window, and not for everyday life, but she was lively, supple,
and incredibly active, and I was very much in love with her. I remember
two or three walks in the Luxembourg Garden, near the Medices
fountain, which were certainly the happiest hours of my life. I dare say
you have known that foolish condition of tender madness, which causes us
to think of nothing but of acts of adoration! One really becomes
possessed, haunted by a woman, and nothing exists for us, by the side of
her.

"We soon became engaged, and I told her my projects of the future, which
she did not approve of. She did not believe that I was either a poet, a
novelist, or a dramatic author, and thought a prosperous business could
afford perfect happiness. So I gave up the idea of writing books, and
resigned myself to selling them, and I bought a bookseller's business at
Marseilles, the owner of which had just died.

"I had three very prosperous years. We had made our shop into a sort of
literary drawing-room, where all the men of letters in the town used to
come and talk. They came in, as if it had been a club, and exchanged
ideas on books, on poets, and especially on politics. My wife, who took
a very active part in the business, enjoyed quite a reputation in the
town, but, as for me, while they were all talking downstairs, I was
working in my studio upstairs, which communicated with the shop by a
winding staircase. I could hear their voices, their laughter, and their
discussions, and sometimes I left off writing in order to listen. I kept
in my own room to write a novel--which I never finished.

"The most regular frequenters of the shop were Monsieur Montina, a man
of good private means, a tall, handsome man, like one meets with in the
South of France, with an olive skin, and dark, expressive eyes; Monsieur
Barbet, a magistrate; two merchants, who were partners, Messrs. Faucil
and Labarrègue, and General, the Marquis de la Flèche, the head of the
Royalist party, the principal man in the whole district, an old fellow
of sixty-six.

"My business prospered, and I was happy, very happy. One day, however,
about three o'clock, when I was out on business, as I was going through
the Rue Saint Ferréol, I suddenly saw a woman come out of a house,
whose figure and appearance were so much like my wife's that I should
have said to myself: 'There she is!' if I had not left her in the shop
half an hour before, suffering from a headache. She was walking quickly
on before me, without turning round, and, in spite of myself, I followed
her, as I felt surprised and uneasy. I said to myself: 'It it she; no,
it is quite impossible, as she has a sick headache. And then, what could
she have to do in that house?' However, as I wished to have the matter
cleared up, I made haste after her. I do not know whether she felt or
guessed that I was behind her, or whether she recognized my step, but
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