Profitable Business

"Profitable Business" is a thought-provoking short story by Guy de Maupassant that explores themes of ambition, ethics, and the complexities of human relationships in the mercantile world. The narrative follows a businessman who navigates the challenges of profit-making while grappling with moral dilemmas. Maupassant’s keen observations and rich characterizations reveal the often-cutthroat nature of business, highlighting the tension between personal values and the pursuit of success. The story serves as a critique of materialism, urging readers to reflect on what truly constitutes a "profitable" life beyond mere financial gain.

• Short story

								
He certainly did not think himself a saint, nor had he any hypocritical
pretensions to virtue, but, nevertheless, he thought as highly of
himself as much as he did of anybody else, and perhaps, even a trifle
more highly. And that, quite impartially, without any more self love
than was necessary, and without his having to accuse himself of being
self conceited. He did himself justice, that was all, for he had good
moral principles, and he applied them, especially, if the truth must be
told, not only to judging the conduct of others, but also, it must be
allowed, in a measure for regulating his own conduct, as he would have
been very vexed if he had been able to think of himself:

"On the whole, I am what people call a perfectly honorable man."

Luckily, he had never (oh! never), been obliged to doubt that excellent
opinion which he had of himself, which he liked to express thus, in his
moments of rhetorical expansion:

"My whole life gives me the right to shake hands with myself."

Perhaps a subtle psychologist would have found some flaws in this armor
of integrity, which was sanctimoniously satisfied with itself. It was,
for example, quite certain that our friend had no scruples in making
profit out of the vices or misfortunes of his neighbors, provided that
he was not in his own opinion, the person who was solely, or chiefly
responsible for them. But, on the whole, it was only one manner of
looking at it, nothing more, and there were plenty of materials for
casuistic arguments in it. This kind of discussion is particularly
unpleasant to such simple natures as that of his worthy fellow, who
would have replied to the psychologist.

"Why go on a wild goose chase? As for me, I am perfectly sincere."

You must not, however, believe that this perfect sincerity prevented him
from having elevated views. He prided himself on having a weakness for
imagination and the unforeseen, and if he would have been offended at
being called a dishonorable man, he would, perhaps have been still more
hurt if anybody had attributed middle-class tastes to him.

Accordingly, in love affairs, he expressed a most virtuous horror of
adultery, for if he had committed it, it would not have been able to
bear that testimony to himself, which was so sweet to his conscience:

"Ah! As for me, I can declare that I never wronged anybody!"

While, on the other hand, he was not satisfied with pleasure which was
paid for by the hour, and which debases the noblest desires of the
heart, to the vulgar satisfaction of a physical requirement. What he
required, so he used to say, while lifting his eyes up to heaven was:

"Something rather more ideal than that!"

That search after the ideal did not, indeed, cost him any great effort,
as it was limited to not going to licensed houses of ill-fame, and to
not accosting streetwalkers with the simple words: "How much?"

It consisted chiefly in wishing to be gallant even with such women, and
in trying to persuade himself that they liked him for his own sake, and
in preferring those whose manner, dress and looks allowed room for
suppositions and romantic illusions, such as:

"She might be taken for a little work-girl who has not yet lost her
virtue."

"No, I rather think she is a widow, who has met with misfortunes."

"What if she be a fashionable lady in disguise!"

And other nonsense, which he knew to be such, even while imagining it,
but whose imaginary flavor was very pleasant to him, all the same.

With such tastes, it was only natural that this pilgrim followed and
pushed up against women in the large shops, and whenever there was a
crowd, and that he especially looked out for those ladies of easy
virtue, for nothing is more exciting than those half-closed shutters,
behind which a face is indistinctly seen, and from which one hears a
furtive: "P'st! P'st!"

He used to say to himself: "Who is she? Is she young and pretty? Is she
some old woman, who is terribly skillful at her business, but who yet
does not venture to show herself any longer? Or is she some new
beginner, who has not yet acquired the boldness of an old hand? In any
case, it is the unknown, perhaps, that is my ideal during the time it
takes me to find my way upstairs;" and always as he went up, his heart
beat, as it does at a first meeting with a beloved mistress.

But he had never felt such a delicious shiver as he did on the day on
which he penetrated into that old house in the blind alley in
Ménilmontant. He could not have said why, for he had often gone after
so-called love in much stranger places; but now, without any reason, he
had a presentiment that he was going to meet with an adventure, and that
gave him a delightful sensation.

The woman who had made the sign to him, lived on the third floor, and
all the way upstairs his excitement increased, until his heart was
beating violently when he reached the landing. At the same time, he was
going up, he smelt a peculiar odor, which grew stronger and stronger,
and which he had tried in vain to analyze, though all he could arrive at
was, that it smelt like a chemist's shop.

The door on the right, at the end of the passage, was opened as soon as
he put his foot on the landing, and the woman said, in a low voice:

"Come in, my dear."

A whiff of a very strong smell met his nostrils through the open door,
and suddenly he exclaimed:

"How stupid I was! I know what it is now; it is carbolic acid, is it
not?"

"Yes," the woman replied. "Don't you like it, dear? It is very
wholesome, you know."

The woman was not ugly, although not young; she had very good eyes,
although they were sad and sunken in her head; evidently she had been
crying, very much quite recently, and that imparted a special spice to
the vague smile which she put on, so as to appear more amiable.

Seized by his romantic ideas once more, and under the influence of the
presentiment which he had had just before, he thought--and the idea
filled him with pleasure:

"She is some widow, whom poverty has forced to sell herself."

The room was small, but very clean and tidy, and that confirmed him in
his conjecture, as he was curious to verify its truth, he went into the
three rooms which opened into one another. The bedroom, came first;
next there came a kind of a drawing-room, and then a dining-room, which
evidently served as a kitchen, for a Dutch tiled stove stood in the
middle of it, on which a stew was simmering, but the smell of carbolic
acid was even stronger in that room. He remarked on it, and added with a
laugh:

"Do you put it with your soup?"

And as he said this, he laid hold of the handle of the door which led
into the next room, for he wanted to see everything, even that nook,
which was apparently a store cupboard, but the woman seized him by the
arm, and pulled him violently back.

"No, no," she said, almost in a whisper, and in a hoarse and suppliant

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes