The Assignation Page #2

"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

								

already. Oh! I What misery she endured in this Rue de Miromesnil! She
thought that she recognized all the foot-passengers, the servants,
everybody, and almost before the cab had stopped, she jumped out and ran
past the porter who was standing outside his lodge. He must know
everything, everything!--her address, her name, her husband's
profession--everything, for those porters are the most cunning of
policemen! For two years she had intended to bribe him, to give him (to
throw at him one day as she passed him) a hundred-franc bank-note, but
she had never once dared to do it. She was frightened! What of? She did
not know! Of his calling her back, if he did not understand? Of a
scandal? Of a crowd on the stairs? Of being arrested, perhaps? To reach
the Viscount's door, she had only to ascend a half a flight of stairs,
and it seemed to her as high as the tower of Saint Jacques' Church.

As soon as she had reached the vestibule, she felt as if she were caught
in a trap, and the slightest noise before or behind her, nearly made her
faint. It was impossible for her to go back, because of that porter who
barred her retreat; and if anyone came down at that moment she would not
dare to ring at Martelet's door, but would pass it as if she had been
going elsewhere! She would have gone up, and up, and up! She would have
mounted forty flights of stairs! Then, when everything would seem quiet
again down below, she would run down, feeling terribly frightened, lest
she would not recognize the lobby.

He was there in a velvet coat lined with silk, very stylish, but rather
ridiculous, and for two years he had never altered his manner of
receiving her, not in a single movement! As soon as he had shut the
door, he used to say this: "Let me kiss your hands, my dear, dear
friend!" Then he followed her into the room, when with closed shutters
and lighted candles, out of refinement, no doubt, he knelt down before
her and looked at her from head to foot with an air of adoration. On the
first occasion that had been very nice and very successful; but now it
seemed to her as if she saw Monsieur Delauney acting the last scene of a
successful piece for the hundred and twentieth time. He might really
change his manner of acting. But no, he never altered his manner of
acting, poor fellow. What a good fellow he was, but very commonplace!

And how difficult it was to undress and dress without a lady's maid!
Perhaps that was the moment when she began to take a dislike to him.
When he said: "Do you want me to help you?" she could have killed him.
Certainly there were not many men as awkward as he was, or as
uninteresting. Certainly, little Baron de Isombal would never have asked
her in such a manner: "Do you want me to help you?" He would have helped
her, he was so witty, so funny, so active. But there! He was a
diplomatist, he had been about in the world, and had roamed everywhere,
and, no doubt, dressed and undressed women who were arrayed in every
possible fashion! ...

The church clock struck the three-quarters, and she looked at the dial,
and said: "Oh, how agitated he will be!" and then she quickly left the
square; but she had not taken a dozen steps outside, when she found
herself face to face with a gentleman who bowed profoundly to her.

"Why! Is that you, Baron?" she said, in surprise. She had just been
thinking of him.

"Yes, Madame." And then, after asking how she was, and a few vague
words, he continued: "Do you know that you are the only one--you will
allow me to say of my lady friends, I hope? who has not yet seen my
Japanese collection."

"But my dear Baron, a lady cannot go to a bachelor's room like this."

"What do you mean? That is a great mistake, when it is a question of
seeing a rare collection!"

"At any rate, she cannot go alone."

"And why not? I have received a number of ladies alone, only for the
sake of seeing my collection! They come every day. Shall I tell you
their names? No--I will not do that; one must be discreet, even when one
it not guilty; as a matter of fact, there is nothing improper in going
to the house of a well-known serious man who holds a certain position,
unless one goes for an unavoidable reason!"

"Well, what you have said is certainly correct, at bottom."

"So you will come and see my collection?"

"When?"

"Well, now, immediately."

"Impossible; I am in a hurry."

"Nonsense, you have been sitting in the square for this last half hour."

"You were watching me?"

"I was looking at you."

"But I am sadly in a hurry."

"I am sure you are not. Confess that you are in no particular hurry."

Madame Haggan began to laugh, and said: "Well, ... no ... not ...
very...."

A cab passed close to them, and the little Baron called out: "Cabman!"
and the vehicle stopped, and opening the door, he said: "Get in,
Madame."

"But, Baron! no, it is impossible to-day; I really cannot."

"Madame, you are acting very imprudently; get in! people are beginning
to look at us, and you will collect a crowd; they will think I am trying
to carry you off, and we shall both be arrested; please get in!"

She got in, frightened and bewildered, and he sat down by her side,
saying to the cabman: "Rue de Provence."

But suddenly she exclaimed: "Good heavens! I have forgotten a very
important telegram; please drive to the nearest telegraph office first
of all."

The cab stopped a little farther on, in the Rue de Châteaudun, and she
said to the Baron: "Would you kindly get me a fifty centimes telegraph
form? I promised my husband to invite Martelet to dinner to-morrow, and
had quite forgotten it."

When the Baron returned and gave her the blue telegraph form, she wrote
in pencil:

     "My Dear Friend: I am not at all well. I am suffering terribly from
     neuralgia, which keeps me in bed. Impossible to go out. Come and
     dine to-morrow night, so that I may obtain my pardon.

     "JEANNE."

She wetted the gum, fastened it carefully, and addressed it to:
"Viscount de Martelet, 240 Rue Miromesnil," and then, giving it back to
the Baron, she said: "Now, will you be kind enough to throw this into
the telegram box."
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