Our Letters Page #2

"Our Letters" is a collection of correspondence by the renowned French author Guy de Maupassant. Through these letters, readers gain insight into Maupassant's personal life, thoughts, and creative process. The collection reflects his relationships, literary ambitions, and the social landscape of 19th-century France, showcasing the wit and depth that characterize his fiction. This work not only illuminates the man behind the stories but also offers a glimpse into the realities of an artist grappling with fame and the complexities of human emotion.

								

   death, and then suspecting the discreetness of your relatives.

   But don't all of us die sooner or later? And it is almost certain
   that one of us will precede the other under the ground. We must
   therefore foresee all dangers, even that one.

   As for me, I will keep your letters beside mine, in the secret of my
   little desk. I will show them to you there, sleeping side by side
   in their silken hiding place, full of our love, like lovers in a
   tomb.

   You will say to me: “But if you should die first, my dear, your
   husband will find these letters.”

   Oh! I fear nothing. First of all, he does not know the secret of my
   desk, and then he will not look for it. And even if he finds it
   after my death, I fear nothing.

   Did you ever stop to think of all the love letters that have been
   found after death? I have been thinking of this for a long time,
   and that is the reason I decided to ask you for my letters.

   Think that never, do you understand, never, does a woman burn, tear
   or destroy the letters in which it is told her that she is loved.
   That is our whole life, our whole hope, expectation and dream.
   These little papers which bear our name in caressing terms are
   relics which we adore; they are chapels in which we are the saints.
   Our love letters are our titles to beauty, grace, seduction, the
   intimate vanity of our womanhood; they are the treasures of our
   heart. No, a woman does not destroy these secret and delicious
   archives of her life.

   But, like everybody else, we die, and then—then these letters
   are found! Who finds them? The husband. Then what does he do?
   Nothing. He burns them.

   Oh, I have thought a great deal about that! Just think that every
   day women are dying who have been loved; every day the traces and
   proofs of their fault fall into the hands of their husbands, and
   that there is never a scandal, never a duel.

   Think, my dear, of what a man's heart is. He avenges himself on a
   living woman; he fights with the man who has dishonored her, kills
   him while she lives, because, well, why? I do not know exactly why.
   But, if, after her death, he finds similar proofs, he burns them and
   no one is the wiser, and he continues to shake hands with the friend
   of the dead woman, and feels quite at ease that these letters should
   not have fallen into strange hands, and that they are destroyed.

   Oh, how many men I know among my friends who must have burned such
   proofs, and who pretend to know nothing, and yet who would have
   fought madly had they found them when she was still alive! But she
   is dead. Honor has changed. The tomb is the boundary of conjugal
   sinning.

   Therefore, I can safely keep our letters, which, in your hands,
   would be a menace to both of us. Do you dare to say that I am not
   right?

   I love you and kiss you.
I raised my eyes to the portrait of Aunt Rose, and as I looked at her severe, wrinkled face, I thought of all those women's souls which we do not know, and which we suppose to be so different from what they really are, whose inborn and ingenuous craftiness we never can penetrate, their quiet duplicity; and a verse of De Vigny returned to my memory:

     “Always this comrade whose heart is uncertain.”
 
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes