The Will

"The Will" by Guy de Maupassant is a thought-provoking novella that explores themes of greed, morality, and the complexities of human relationships. The story centers around a wealthy man who, upon his death, generates tension and conflict among his heirs as they grapple with the implications of his will. The narrative delves into the characters' motivations and desires, ultimately revealing the darker aspects of human nature when faced with wealth and inheritance. Maupassant's keen observations and incisive prose highlight the moral dilemmas that arise from the pursuit of fortune, making it a compelling and timeless examination of humanity.

								
I knew that tall young fellow, Rene de Bourneval. He was an agreeable man, though rather melancholy and seemed prejudiced against everything, was very skeptical, and he could with a word tear down social hypocrisy. He would often say:

“There are no honorable men, or, at least, they are only relatively so when compared with those lower than themselves.”

He had two brothers, whom he never saw, the Messieurs de Courcils. I always supposed they were by another father, on account of the difference in the name. I had frequently heard that the family had a strange history, but did not know the details. As I took a great liking to Rene we soon became intimate friends, and one evening, when I had been dining with him alone, I asked him, by chance: “Are you a son of the first or second marriage?” He grew rather pale, and then flushed, and did not speak for a few moments; he was visibly embarrassed. Then he smiled in the melancholy, gentle manner, which was peculiar to him, and said:

“My dear friend, if it will not weary you, I can give you some very strange particulars about my life. I know that you are a sensible man, so I do not fear that our friendship will suffer by my revelations; and should it suffer, I should not care about having you for my friend any longer.

“My mother, Madame de Courcils, was a poor little, timid woman, whom her husband had married for the sake of her fortune, and her whole life was one of martyrdom. Of a loving, timid, sensitive disposition, she was constantly being ill-treated by the man who ought to have been my father, one of those boors called country gentlemen. A month after their marriage he was living a licentious life and carrying on liaisons with the wives and daughters of his tenants. This did not prevent him from having three children by his wife, that is, if you count me in. My mother said nothing, and lived in that noisy house like a little mouse. Set aside, unnoticed, nervous, she looked at people with her bright, uneasy, restless eyes, the eyes of some terrified creature which can never shake off its fear. And yet she was pretty, very pretty and fair, a pale blonde, as if her hair had lost its color through her constant fear.

“Among the friends of Monsieur de Courcils who constantly came to her chateau, there was an ex-cavalry officer, a widower, a man who was feared, who was at the same time tender and violent, capable of the most determined resolves, Monsieur de Bourneval, whose name I bear. He was a tall, thin man, with a heavy black mustache. I am very like him. He was a man who had read a great deal, and his ideas were not like those of most of his class. His great-grandmother had been a friend of J. J. Rousseau's, and one might have said that he had inherited something of this ancestral connection. He knew the Contrat Social, and the Nouvelle Heloise by heart, and all those philosophical books which prepared in advance the overthrow of our old usages, prejudices, superannuated laws and imbecile morality.

“It seems that he loved my mother, and she loved him, but their liaison was carried on so secretly that no one guessed at its existence. The poor, neglected, unhappy woman must have clung to him in despair, and in her intimacy with him must have imbibed all his ways of thinking, theories of free thought, audacious ideas of independent love; but being so timid she never ventured to speak out, and it was all driven back, condensed, shut up in her heart.

“My two brothers were very hard towards her, like their father, and never gave her a caress, and, accustomed to seeing her count for nothing in the house, they treated her rather like a servant. I was the only one of her sons who really loved her and whom she loved.

“When she died I was seventeen, and I must add, in order that you may understand what follows, that a lawsuit between my father and mother had been decided in my mother's favor, giving her the bulk of the property, and, thanks to the tricks of the law, and the intelligent devotion of a lawyer to her interests, the right to make her will in favor of whom she pleased.

“We were told that there was a will at the lawyer's office and were invited to be present at the reading of it. I can remember it, as if it were yesterday. It was an imposing scene, dramatic, burlesque and surprising, occasioned by the posthumous revolt of that dead woman, by the cry for liberty, by the demands of that martyred one who had been crushed by our oppression during her lifetime and who, from her closed tomb, uttered a despairing appeal for independence.

“The man who believed he was my father, a stout, ruddy-faced man, who looked like a butcher, and my brothers, two great fellows of twenty and twenty-two, were waiting quietly in their chairs. Monsieur de Bourneval, who had been invited to be present, came in and stood behind me. He was very pale and bit his mustache, which was turning gray. No doubt he was prepared for what was going to happen. The lawyer double-locked the door and began to read the will, after having opened, in our presence, the envelope, sealed with red wax, of the contents of which he was ignorant.”

My friend stopped talking abruptly, and rising, took from his writing-table an old paper, unfolded it, kissed it and then continued: “This is the will of my beloved mother:

   “'I, the undersigned, Anne Catherine-Genevieve-Mathilde de
   Croixluce, the legitimate wife of Leopold-Joseph Gontran de Councils
   sound in body and mind, here express my last wishes.

   “I first of all ask God, and then my dear son Rene to pardon me for
   the act I am about to commit. I believe that my child's heart is
   great enough to understand me, and to forgive me. I have suffered
   my whole life long. I was married out of calculation, then
   despised, misunderstood, oppressed and constantly deceived by my
   husband.

   “'I forgive him, but I owe him nothing.

   “'My elder sons never loved me, never petted me, scarcely treated me
   as a mother, but during my whole life I did my duty towards them,
   and I owe them nothing more after my death. The ties of blood
   cannot exist without daily and constant affection. An ungrateful
   son is less than a stranger; he is a culprit, for he has no right
   to be indifferent towards his mother.

   “'I have always trembled before men, before their unjust laws, their
   inhuman customs, their shameful prejudices. Before God, I have no
   longer any fear. Dead, I fling aside disgraceful hypocrisy; I dare
   to speak my thoughts, and to avow and to sign the secret of my
   heart.

   “'I therefore leave that part of my fortune of which the law allows
   me to dispose, in trust to my dear lover, Pierre-Germer-Simon de
   Bourneval, to revert afterwards to our dear son Rene.

   “'(This bequest is specified more precisely in a deed drawn
   up by a notary.)

   “'And I declare before the Supreme Judge who hears me, that I should
   have cursed heaven and my own existence, if I had not found the
   deep, devoted, tender, unshaken affection of my lover; if I had not

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