The Confession

"The Confession" by Guy de Maupassant is a poignant short story that explores themes of guilt, desire, and the complexity of human relationships. The narrative centers around a man's introspective confession as he reflects on a secret affair and the profound impact of love and betrayal on his life. Through Maupassant's masterful storytelling, the reader is drawn into the emotional turmoil of the protagonist, examining the conflicting forces of passion and moral responsibility. The story ultimately highlights the human struggle with inner demons and the quest for redemption.

• Short story

								
Monsieur de Champdelin had no reason to complain of his lot as a married
man; nor could he accuse destiny of having played him in a bad turn, as
it does so many others, for it would have been difficult to find a more
desirable, merrier, prettier little woman, or one who was easier to
amuse and to guide than his wife. To see the large, limpid eyes which
illuminated her fair, girlish face, one would think that her mother must
have spent whole nights before her birth, in looking dreamily at the
stars, and so had become, as it were, impregnated with their magic
brightness. And one did not know which to prefer--her bright, silky
hair, or her slightly restroussé nose, with its vibrating nostrils,
her red lips, which looked as alluring as a ripe peach, her beautiful
shoulders, her delicate ears, which resembled mother-of-pearl, or her
slim waist and rounded figure, which would have delighted and tempted a
sculptor.

And then she was always merry, overflowing with youth and life, never
dissatisfied, only wishing to enjoy herself, to laugh, to love and be
loved, and putting all the house into a tumult, as if it had been a
great cage full of birds. In spite of all this, however, that worn out
fool, Champdelin, had never cared much about her, but had left that
charming garden lying waste, and almost immediately after their
honeymoon, he had resumed is usual bachelor habits, and had begun to
lead the same fast life that he had done of old.

It was stronger than he, for his was one of those libertine natures
which are constant targets for love, and which never resign themselves
to domestic peace and happiness. The last woman who came across him, in
a love adventure, was always the one whom he loved best, and the mere
contact with a petticoat inflamed him, and made him commit the most
imprudent actions.

As he was not hard to please, he fished, as it were, in troubled waters,
went after the ugly ones and the pretty ones alike, was bold even to
impudence, was not to be kept off by mistakes, nor anger, nor modesty,
nor threats, though he sometimes fell into a trap and got a thrashing
from some relative or jealous lover; he withstood all attempts to get
hush-money out of him, and became only all the more enamored of vice and
more ardent in his lures and pursuit of love affairs on that account.

But the work-girls and the shop-girls and all the tradesmen's wives in
Saint Martéjoux knew him, and made him pay for their whims and their
coquetry, and had to put up with his love-making. Many of them smiled or
blushed when they saw him under the tall plane-trees in the public
garden, or met him in the unfrequented, narrow streets near the
Cathedral, with his thin, sensual face, whose looks had something
satyr-like about them, and some of them used to laugh at him and make
fun of him, though they ran away when he went up to them. And when some
friend or other, who was sorry that he could forget himself so far, used
to say to him, when he was at a loss for any other argument: "And your
wife, Champdelin? Are you not afraid that she will have her revenge and
pay you out in your own coin?" his only reply was a contemptuous and
incredulous shrug of the shoulders.

She deceive him, indeed; she, who was as devout, as virtuous, and as
ignorant of forbidden things as a nun, who cared no more for love than
she did for an old slipper! She, who did not even venture on any veiled
allusions, who was always laughing, who took life as it came, who
performed her religious duties with edifying assiduity, she to pay him
back, so as to make him look ridiculous, and to gad about at night?
Never! Anyone who could think such a thing must have lost his senses.

However, one summer day, when the roofs all seemed red-hot, and the
whole town appeared dead, Monsieur de Champdelin had followed two
milliner's girls, with bandboxes in their hands from street to street,
whispering nonsense to them, and promising beforehand to give them
anything they asked him for, and had gone after them as far as the
Cathedral. In their fright, they took refuge there, but he followed them
in, and, emboldened by the solitude of the nave, and by the perfect
silence in the building, he became more enterprising and bolder. They
did not know how to defend themselves, or to escape from him, and were
trembling at his daring attempts, and at his kisses, when he saw a
confessional whose doors were open, in one of the side chapels. "We
should be much more comfortable in there, my little dears," he said,
going into it, as if to get such an unexpected nest ready for them.

But they were quicker than he, and throwing themselves against the
grated door, they pushed it to before he could turn round, and locked
him in. At first he thought it was only a joke, and it amused him; but
when they began to laugh heartily and putting their tongues at him, as
if he had been a monkey in a cage, and overwhelmed him with insults, he
first of all grew angry, and then humble, offering to pay well for his
ransom, and he implored them to let him out, and tried to escape like a
mouse does out of a trap. They, however, did not appear to hear him, but
naively bowed to him ceremoniously, wished him good night, and ran out
as fast as they could.

Champdelin was in despair; he did not know what to do, and cursed his
bad luck. What would be the end of it? Who would deliver him from that
species of prison, and was he going to remain there all the afternoon
and night, like a portmanteau that had been forgotten at the lost
luggage office? He could not manage to force the lock, and did not
venture to knock hard against the sides of the confessional, for fear of
attracting the attention of some beadle or sacristan. Oh! those wretched
girls, and how people would make fun of him and write verses about him,
and point their fingers at him, if the joke were discovered and got
noised abroad!

By and by, he heard the faint sound of prayers in the distance and
through the green serge curtain that concealed him Monsieur Champdelin
heard the rattle of the beads on the chaplets, as the women repeated
their Ave Maria's, and the rustle of dresses and the noise of
footsteps on the pavement.

Suddenly, he felt a tickling in his throat that nearly choked him, and
he could not altogether prevent himself from coughing, and when at last
it passed off, the unfortunate man was horrified at hearing some one
come into the chapel and up to the confessional. Whoever it was, knelt
down, and gave a discreet knock at the grating which separated the
priest from his penitents, so he quickly put on the surplice and stole
which were hanging on a nail, and covering his face with his
handkerchief, and sitting back in the shade, he opened the grating.

It was a woman, who was already saying her prayers and he gave the
responses as well as he could, from his boyish recollections, and was
somewhat agitated by the delicious scent that emanated from her
half-raised veil and from her bodice; but at her first words he started

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