The Magic Couch Page #3

"The Magic Couch" is a short story by Guy de Maupassant that explores the themes of escapism and the complexities of human desire. The narrative follows an ordinary man who, through a magical couch, experiences vivid and fantastical dreams that transport him away from the mundane realities of his life. As he becomes increasingly enamored with these dreamlike adventures, he grapples with the tension between his fantasies and his waking existence. Maupassant's masterful storytelling highlights the allure of imagination while also cautioning against losing touch with reality.

• Short story

								


With a pang at my heart I repeated:

“And... where is it?”

“Here,” and he opened a door, adding:

“Go in; this is the part specially reserved for club members, and the one least used. We have so far had only eleven annihilations here.”

“Ah! You call that an... annihilation!”

“Yes, monsieur. Go in.”

I hesitated. At length I went in. It was a wide corridor, a sort of greenhouse in which panes of glass of pale blue, tender pink and delicate green gave the poetic charm of landscapes to the inclosing walls. In this pretty salon there were divans, magnificent palms, flowers, especially roses of balmy fragrance, books on the tables, the Revue des Deuxmondes, cigars in government boxes, and, what surprised me, Vichy pastilles in a bonbonniere.

As I expressed my surprise, my guide said:

“Oh, they often come here to chat.” He continued: “The public corridors are similar, but more simply furnished.”

In reply to a question of mine, he pointed to a couch covered with creamy crepe de Chine with white embroidery, beneath a large shrub of unknown variety at the foot of which was a circular bed of mignonette.

The secretary added in a lower tone:

“We change the flower and the perfume at will, for our gas, which is quite imperceptible, gives death the fragrance of the suicide’s favorite flower. It is volatilized with essences. Would you like to inhale it for a second?”

“‘No, thank you,” I said hastily, “not yet....”

He began to laugh.

“Oh, monsieur, there is no danger. I have tried it myself several times.”

I was afraid he would think me a coward, and I said:

“Well, I’ll try it.”

“Stretch yourself out on the ‘endormeuse.”’

A little uneasy I seated myself on the low couch covered with crepe de Chine and stretched myself full length, and was at once bathed in a delicious odor of mignonette. I opened my mouth in order to breathe it in, for my mind had already become stupefied and forgetful of the past and was a prey, in the first stages of asphyxia, to the enchanting intoxication of a destroying and magic opium.

Some one shook me by the arm.

“Oh, oh, monsieur,” said the secretary, laughing, “it looks to me as if you were almost caught.”

But a voice, a real voice, and no longer a dream voice, greeted me with the peasant intonation:

“Good morning, m’sieu. How goes it?”

My dream was over. I saw the Seine distinctly in the sunlight, and, coming along a path, the garde champetre of the district, who with his right hand touched his kepi braided in silver. I replied:

“Good morning, Marinel. Where are you going?”

“I am going to look at a drowned man whom they fished up near the Morillons. Another who has thrown himself into the soup. He even took off his trousers in order to tie his legs together with them.”
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