The Last Step

"The Last Step" is a poignant short story by Guy de Maupassant that explores themes of love, loss, and the complexities of human emotion. The tale follows a man reflecting on the haunting memories of a past relationship, as he grapples with the bittersweet nature of love and the inevitability of change. Maupassant’s masterful storytelling delves into the depth of the protagonist's feelings, capturing the essence of nostalgia and the struggle to reconcile with what was lost. Through vivid imagery and psychological insight, the narrative reveals the profound impact of love and the lingering shadows it casts on one's life.

• Short story

								
Monsier de Saint-Juéry would not have deceived his old mistress for
anything in the world: perhaps from an instinctive fear that he had
heard of adventures that turn out badly, make a noise, and bring about
hateful family quarrels, crises from which one emerges enervated and
exasperated with destiny, and, as it were, with the weight of a bullet
on one's feet, and also from his requirement for a calm, sheep-like
existence, whose monotony was never disturbed by any shock, and perhaps
from the remains of the love which had so entirely made him, during the
first years of their connection, the slave of the proud, dominating
beauty, and of the enthralling charm of that woman.

He kept out of the way of temptation almost timidly, and was faithful to
her, and as submissive as a spaniel. He paid her every attention, did
not appear to notice that the outlines of her figure, which had formerly
been so harmonious and supple, were getting too full and puffy, that her
face, which used to remind him of a blush rose, was getting wrinkled,
and that her eyes were getting dull. He admired her in spite of
everything, almost blindly, and clothed her with imaginary charms, with
an autumnal beauty, with the majestic and serene softness of an October
twilight, and with the last blossoms which unfold by the side of the
walks, strewn with dead leaves.

But although their connection had lasted for many years, though they
were as closely bound to each other as if they had been married, and
although Charlotte Guindal pestered him with entreaties, and upset him
with continual quarrels on the subject, and, in spite of the fact that
he believed her to be absolutely faithful to him, and worthy of his most
perfect confidence and love, yet Monsieur de Saint-Juéry had never been
able to make up his mind to give her his name, and to put their false
position on a legal footing.

He really suffered from this, but remained firm and defended his
position, quibbled, sought for subterfuges, replied by the eternal and
vague: "What would be the good of it," which nearly sent Charlotte mad,
made her furious and caused her to say angry and ill-tempered things.
But he remained passive and listless, with his back bent like a restive
horse under the whip.

He asked her whether it was really necessary to their happiness, as they
had no children? Did not everybody think that they were married? Was not
she everywhere called Madame de Saint-Juéry, and had their servants any
doubt that they were in the service of respectable, married people? Was
not the name which had been transmitted to a man from father to son,
intact, honored, and often with a halo of glory round it, a sacred trust
which no one had a right to touch? What would she gain if she bore it
legitimately? Did she for a moment suppose that she would rise higher in
people's estimation, and be more admitted into society, or that people
would forget that she had been his regular mistress before becoming his
wife? Did not everybody know that formerly, before he rescued her from
that Bohemian life in which she had been waiting for her chance in vain,
and was losing her good looks, Charlotte Guindal frequented all the
public balls, and showed her legs liberally at the Moulin-Rouge[12].

[Footnote 12: A café chantant, and casino.]

Charlotte knew his crabbed, though also kindly character, which was at
the same time logical and obstinate, too well to hope that she would
ever be able to overcome his opposition and scruples, except by some
clever woman's trick, some well-acted scene in a comedy; so she appeared
to be satisfied with his reasons, and to renounce her bauble, and
outwardly she showed an equable and conciliatory temper, and no longer
worried Monsieur de Saint-Juéry with her recriminations, and thus the
time went by, in calm monotony, without fruitless battles or fierce
assaults.

Charlotte Guindal's medical man was Doctor Rabatel, one of those clever
men who appear to know everything, but whom a country bone-setter would
reduce to a "why?" by a few questions; one of those men who wish to
impress everybody with their apparent value, and who make use of their
medical knowledge as if it were some productive commercial house, which
carried on a suspicious business; who can scent out those persons whom
they can manage as they please, as if they were a piece of soft wax, who
keep them in a continual state of terror, by keeping the idea of death
constantly before their eyes.

They soon manage to obtain the mastery over such persons, scrutinize
their consciences as well as the cleverest priest could do, make sure of
being well paid for their complicity as soon as they have obtained a
footing anywhere, and drain their patients of their secrets, in order to
use them as a weapon for extorting money on occasions. He felt sure
immediately that this middle-aged lady wanted something of him, as by
some extraordinary perversion of taste, he was rather fond of the
remains of a good-looking woman, if they were well got up, and offered
to him; of that high flavor which arises from soft lips, which had been
made tender through years of love, from gray hair powdered with gold,
from a body engaged in its last struggle, and which dreams of one more
victory before abdicating power altogether, he did not hesitate to
become his new patient's lover.

When winter came, however, a thorough change took place in Charlotte's
health, that had hitherto been so good. She had no strength left, she
felt ill after the slightest exertion, complained of internal pains, and
spent whole days lying on the couch, with set eyes and without uttering
a word, so that everybody thought that she was dying of one of those
mysterious maladies which cannot be coped with, but which, by degrees,
undermines the whole system. It was sad to see her rapidly sinking,
lying motionless on her pillows, while a mist seemed to have come over
her eyes, and her hands lay helplessly on the bed and her mouth seemed
sealed by some invisible finger. Monsieur de Saint-Juéry was in despair;
he cried like a child, and he suffered as if somebody had plunged a
knife into him, when the doctor said to him in his unctuous voice:

"I know that you are a brave man, my dear sir, and I may venture to tell
you the whole truth.... Madame de Saint-Juéry is doomed, irrevocably
doomed.... Nothing but a miracle can save her, and alas! there are no
miracles in these days. The end is only a question of a few hours, and
may come quite suddenly...."

Monsieur de Saint-Juéry had thrown himself into a chair, and was sobbing
bitterly, covering his face with his hands.

"My poor dear, my poor darling," he said, through his tears.

"Pray compose yourself, and be brave," the doctor continued, sitting
down by his side, "for I have to say something serious to you, and to
convey to you our poor patient's last wishes.... A few minutes ago, she
told me the secret of your double life, and of your connection with

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