The Accent

"The Accent" is a poignant short story by Guy de Maupassant that explores themes of identity, social class, and the power of language. The narrative follows the encounter between a young Frenchman and a beautiful woman, whose attraction is complicated by their differing backgrounds and the woman’s distinctive accent. Through this interaction, Maupassant delves into the nuances of communication and perception, revealing how accents can signify deeper cultural and emotional divides. The story ultimately emphasizes the impact that language and social markers have on personal relationships and self-identity.

• Short story

								
It was a large, upholstered house, with long white terraces shaded by
vines, from which one could see the sea. Large pines stretched a dark
dome over the sacked facade, and there was a look of neglect, of want
and wretchedness about it all, such as irreparable losses, departures to
other countries, and death leave behind them.

The interior wore a strange look, with half unpacked boxes serving for
wardrobes, piles of band boxes, and for seats there was an array of
worm-eaten armchairs, into which bits of velvet and silk, which had been
cut from old dresses, had been festooned anyhow, and along the walls
there were rows of rusty nails which made one think of old portraits and
of pictures full of associations, which had one by one been bought for a
low price by some second-hand furniture broker.

The rooms were in disorder and furnished no matter how, while velvets
were hanging from the ceilings and in the corners, and seemed to show
that as the servants were no longer paid except by hopes, they no longer
did more than give them an accidental, careless touch with the broom
occasionally. The drawing-room, which was extremely large, was full of
useless knick-knacks, rubbish which is put up for sale at stalls at
watering places, daubs, they could not be called paintings of portraits
and of flowers, and an old piano with yellow keys.

Such is the home where she, who had been called the handsome Madame de
Maurillac, was spending her monotonous existence, like some unfortunate
doll which inconstant, childish hands have thrown into a corner in a
loft, she who, almost passed for a professional seductress, and whose
coquetries, at least so the Faithful ones of the Party said, had been
able to excite a passing and last spark of desire in the dull eyes of
the Emperor.

Like so many others, she and her husband had waited for his return from
Elba, had discounted a fresh, immediate chance, had kept up boldly and
spent the remains of his fortune at that game of luxury.

On the day when the illusion vanished, and he was forced to awake from
his dream, Monsieur de Maurillac, without considering that he was
leaving his wife and daughter behind him almost penniless, but not being
able to make up his mind to come down in the world, to vegetate, to
fight against his creditors, to accept the derisive alms of some
sinecure, poisoned himself, like a shop girl who is forsaken by her
lover.

Madame de Maurillac did not mourn for him, and as this lamentable
disaster had made her interesting, and as she was assisted and supported
by unexpected acts of kindness, and had a good adviser in one of those
old Parisian lawyers who would get anybody out of the most inextricable
difficulties, she managed to save something from the wreck, and to keep
a small income. Then reassured and emboldened, and resting her ultimate
illusions and her chimerical hopes on her daughter's radiant beauty, and
preparing for that last game in which they would risk everything, and
perhaps also hoping that she might herself marry again, the ancient
flirt arranged a double existence.

For months and months she disappeared from the world, and as a pretext
for her isolation and for hiding herself in the country, she alleged her
daughter's delicate health, and also the important interests she had to
look after in the South of France.

Her frivolous friends looked upon that as a great act of heroism, as
something almost super-human, and so courageous, that they tried to
distract her by their incessant letters, religiously kept her up in all
the scandal, and love adventures, in the falls, as well as in the
apotheosis of the capital.

The difficult struggle which Madame de Maurillac had to keep up in order
to maintain her rank, was really as fine as any of those campaigns in
the twilight of glory, as those slow retreats where men only give way
inch by inch and fight until the last cartridge is expended, until at
last fresh troops arrive, reinforcement which bar the way to the enemy,
and save the threatened flag.

Broken in by the same discipline, and haunted by the same dream, mother
and daughter lived on almost nothing in the dull, dilapidated house
which the peasants called the château, and economized like poor people
who only have a few hundred francs a year to live on. But Fabienne de
Maurillac developed well in spite of everything, and grew up into a
woman like some rare flower which is preserved from all contact with the
outer air and is reared in a hot-house.

In order that she might not lose her Parisian accent by speaking too
much with the servants, who had remained peasants under their livery,
Madame de Maurillac, who had not been able to bring a lady's maid with
her, on account of the extra cost which her traveling expenses and wages
would have entailed, and who, moreover, was afraid that some
indiscretion might betray her maneuvers and cover her with ridicule,
made up her mind to wait on her daughter herself. And Fabienne talked
with nobody but her, saw nobody but her, and was like a little novice in
a convent. Nobody was allowed to speak to her, or to interfere with her
walks in the large garden, or on the white terraces that were reflected
in the blue water.

As soon as the season for the country and the seaside came, however,
they packed up their trunks, and locked the doors of their house of
exile. As they were not known, and taking those terrible trains which
stop at every station, and by which travelers arrive at their
destination in the middle of the night, with the certainty that nobody
will be waiting for you, and see you get out of the carriage, they
traveled third class, so that they might have a few bank notes the more,
with which to make a show.

A fortnight in Paris in the family house at Auteuil, a fortnight in
which to try on dresses and bonnets and to show themselves, and then
Trouville, Aix or Biarritz, the whole show complete, with parties
succeeding parties, money was spent as if they did not know its value,
balls at the Casinos, constant flirtations, compromising intimacies, and
those kind of admirers who immediately surround two pretty women, one in
the radiant beauty of her eighteen years, and the other in the
brightness of that maturity, which beautiful September days bring with
them.

Unfortunately, however, they had to do the same thing over again every
year, and as if bad luck were continuing to follow them implacably,
Madame de Maurillac and her daughter did not succeed in their endeavors,
and did not manage during her usual absence from home, to pick up some
nice fellow who fell in love immediately, who took them seriously, and
asked for Fabienne's hand, consequently, they were very unhappy. Their
energies flagged, and their courage left them like water that escapes,
drop by drop, through a crack in a jug. They grew low-spirited and no
longer dared to be open towards each other and to exchange confidences
and projects.

Fabienne, with her pale cheeks, her large eyes with blue circles round
them and her tight lips, looked like some captive princess who is

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