The Assignation

"The Assignation" is a short story by French author Guy de Maupassant that delves into themes of love, desire, and the tension between reality and illusion. The narrative revolves around a man who eagerly anticipates a clandestine meeting with a woman he is infatuated with. As the story unfolds, Maupassant expertly captures the emotional intensity of longing, the complexities of human relationships, and the often bittersweet nature of romantic encounters. Through vivid imagery and poignant dialogue, "The Assignation" explores the fleeting moments of passion and the inevitable disillusionment that can accompany them.

• Short story

								
Although she had her bonnet and jacket on, with a black veil over her
face, and another in her pocket, which she would put on over the +other
as soon as she had got into the cab, she was beating +the top of her
little boot with the point of her parasol, and remained sitting in her
room, without being able to make up her mind to keep this appointment.

And yet, how many times within the last two years had she dressed
herself thus, when she knew that her husband would be on the Stock
Exchange, in order to go to the bachelor chambers of her lover, the
handsome Viscount de Martelet.

The clock behind her was ticking loudly, a book which she had half read
through was lying open on a little rosewood writing-table between the
windows, and a strong, sweet smell of violets from two bunches which
were in a couple of Dresden china vases, mingled with a vague smell of
verbena which came through the half-open door of her dressing-room.

The clock struck three, she rose up from her chair, she turned round to
look at herself in the glass and smiled. "He is already waiting for me,
and will be getting tired."

Then she left the room, told her footman that she would be back in an
hour, at the latest--which was a lie; went downstairs and ventured into
the street on foot.

It was towards the end of May, that delightful time of the year, when
the spring seems to be besieging Paris, and to conquer it over its
roofs, invading the houses through their walls, and making it look gay,
shedding brightness over its stone façades, the asphalt of its
pavements, the stones on the roads, bathing it and intoxicating it with
sap, like a forest putting on its spring verdure.

Madame Haggan went a few steps to the right, intending, as usual, to go
along the Parade Provence, where she would hail a cab; but the soft air,
that feeling of summer which penetrates our breast on some days, now
took possession of her so suddenly that she changed her mind, and went
down the Rue de la Chausée d'Antin, without knowing why, but vaguely
attracted by a desire to see the trees in the Square de la Trinité.

"He may just wait ten minutes longer for me," she said to herself. And
that idea pleased her also as she walked slowly through the crowd. She
fancied that she saw him growing impatient, looking at the clock,
opening the window, listening at the door, sitting down for a few
moments, getting up again, and not daring to smoke, as she had forbidden
him to do so when she was coming to him, and throwing despairing looks
at his box of cigarettes.

She walked slowly, interested in what she saw, the shops and the people
she met, walking slower and slower, and so little eager to get to her
destination that she only sought for some pretext for stopping, and at
the end of the street, in the little square, the verdure attracted her
so much, that she went in, took a chair, and, sitting down, watched the
hands of the clock as they moved.

Just then, the half hour struck, and her heart beat with pleasure when
she heard the chimes. She had gained half-an-hour; then it would take
her a quarter of an hour to reach the Rue Miromesnil, and a few minutes
more in strolling along--an hour! a whole hour saved from her
rendez-vous! She would not stop three-quarters of an hour, and that
business would be finished once more.

Oh! she disliked going there! Just like a patient going to the dentist,
so she had the intolerable recollection of all their past meetings, one
a week on an average, for the last two years; and the thought that
another was going to take place immediately made her shiver with misery
from head to foot. Not that it was exactly painful, like a visit to the
dentist, but it was wearisome, so wearisome, so complicated, so long, so
unpleasant, that anything, even a visit to the dentist would have seemed
preferable to her. She went on, however, but very slowly, stopping,
sitting down, going hither and thither, but she went. Oh! how she would
have liked to miss this meeting, but she had left the unhappy viscount
in the lurch, twice following, during the last month, and she did not
dare to do it again so soon. Why did she go to see him? Oh! why? Because
she had acquired the habit of doing it, and had no reason to give poor
Martelet when he wanted to know the why! Why had she begun it? Why?
She did not know herself, any longer. Had she been in love with him?
Very possibly! Not very much, but a little, a long time ago! He was very
nice, sought after, perfectly dressed, most courteous, and after the
first glance, he was a perfect lover for a fashionable woman. He had
courted her for three months--the normal period, an honorable strife and
sufficient resistances--and then she had consented, and with what
emotion, what nervousness, what terrible, delightful fear, and that
first meeting in his small, ground-floor bachelor rooms, in the Rue de
Miromesnil. Her heart? What did her little heart of a woman who had been
seduced, vanquished, conquered, feel when she for the first time entered
the door of that house which was her nightmare? She really did not know!
She had quite forgotten. One remembers a fact, a date, a thing, but one
hardly remembers, after the lapse of two years, what an emotion, which
soon vanished, because it was very slight, was like. But, oh! she had
certainly not forgotten the others, that rosary of meetings, that road
to the cross of love, and those stations, which were so monotonous, so
fatiguing, so similar to each other, that she felt a nauseating taste in
her mouth at what was going to happen so soon.

And the very cabs were not like the other cabs which one makes use of
for ordinary purposes! Certainly, the cabmen guessed. She felt sure of
it, by the very way they looked at her, and the eyes of these Paris
cabmen are terrible! When one remembers they are constantly remembering,
in the Courts of Justices, after a lapse of several years, faces of
criminals whom they have only driven once, in the middle of the night,
from some street or other to a railway station, and that they have to do
with almost as many passengers as there are hours in the day, and that
their memory is good enough for them to declare: "That is the man whom I
took up in the Rues des Martyrs, and put down at the Lyons Railway
Station, at 12 o'clock at night, on July 10, last year!" Is it not
terrible when one risks what a young woman risks when she is going to
meet her lover, and has to trust her reputation to the first cabman she
meets? In two years she had employed at least a hundred to a hundred and
twenty in that drive to the Rue Miromesnil, reckoning only one a week,
and they were so many witnesses, who might appear against her at a
critical moment.

As soon as she was in the cab, she took another veil, which was as thick
and dark as a domino mask, out of her pocket, and put it on. That hid
her face, but what about the rest, her dress, her bonnet, and her
parasol? They might be remarked; they might, in fact, have been seen

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