The Wrong House

"The Wrong House" is a short story by Guy de Maupassant that delves into themes of mistaken identity and the complexities of human relationships. The narrative follows a man who, after a chance encounter, finds himself entering the wrong house in pursuit of a romantic interest. As he navigates the unsettling situation, Maupassant expertly explores the nuances of desire, deception, and the unexpected consequences of one's choices. The story combines elements of suspense and irony, showcasing Maupassant's signature style and his keen observations on society and human nature.

								
Quartermaster Varajou had obtained a week's leave to go and visit his
sister, Madame Padoie. Varajou, who was in garrison at Rennes and was
leading a pretty gay life, finding himself high and dry, wrote to his
sister saying that he would devote a week to her. It was not that he
cared particularly for Mme. Padoie, a little moralist, a devotee,
and always cross; but he needed money, needed it very badly, and he
remembered that, of all his relations, the Padoies were the only ones
whom he had never approached on the subject.

Pere Varajou, formerly a horticulturist at Angers, but now retired from
business, had closed his purse strings to his scapegrace son and had
hardly seen him for two years. His daughter had married Padoie, a former
treasury clerk, who had just been appointed tax collector at Vannes.

Varajou, on leaving the train, had some one direct him to the house of
his brother-in-law, whom he found in his office arguing with the Breton
peasants of the neighborhood. Padoie rose from his seat, held out his
hand across the table littered with papers, murmured, “Take a chair.
I will be at liberty in a moment,” sat down again and resumed his
discussion.

The peasants did not understand his explanations, the collector did not
understand their line of argument. He spoke French, they spoke Breton,
and the clerk who acted as interpreter appeared not to understand
either.

It lasted a long time, a very long time. Varajou looked at his
brother-in-law and thought: “What a fool!” Padoie must have been almost
fifty. He was tall, thin, bony, slow, hairy, with heavy arched eyebrows.
He wore a velvet skull cap with a gold cord vandyke design round it.
His look was gentle, like his actions. His speech, his gestures, his
thoughts, all were soft. Varajou said to himself, “What a fool!”

He, himself, was one of those noisy roysterers for whom the greatest
pleasures in life are the cafe and abandoned women. He understood
nothing outside of these conditions of existence.

A boisterous braggart, filled with contempt for the rest of the world,
he despised the entire universe from the height of his ignorance. When
he said: “Nom d'un chien, what a spree!” he expressed the highest degree
of admiration of which his mind was capable.

Having finally got rid of his peasants, Padoie inquired:

“How are you?”

“Pretty well, as you see. And how are you?”

“Quite well, thank you. It is very kind of you to have thought of coming
to see us.”

“Oh, I have been thinking of it for some time; but, you know, in the
military profession one has not much freedom.”

“Oh, I know, I know. All the same, it is very kind of you.”

“And Josephine, is she well?”

“Yes, yes, thank you; you will see her presently.” “Where is she?”

“She is making some calls. We have a great many friends here; it is a
very nice town.”

“I thought so.”

The door opened and Mme. Padoie appeared. She went over to her brother
without any eagerness, held her cheek for him to kiss, and asked:

“Have you been here long?”

“No, hardly half an hour.”

“Oh, I thought the train would be late. Will you come into the parlor?”

They went into the adjoining room, leaving Padoie to his accounts and
his taxpayers. As soon as they were alone, she said:

“I have heard nice things about you!”

“What have you heard?”

“It seems that you are behaving like a blackguard, getting drunk and
contracting debts.”

He appeared very much astonished.

“I! never in the world!”

“Oh, do not deny it, I know it.”

He attempted to defend himself, but she gave him such a lecture that he
could say nothing more.

She then resumed:

“We dine at six o'clock, and you can amuse yourself until then. I cannot
entertain you, as I have so many things to do.”

When he was alone he hesitated as to whether he should sleep or take a
walk. He looked first at the door leading to his room and then at the
hall door, and decided to go out. He sauntered slowly through the quiet
Breton town, so sleepy, so calm, so dead, on the shores of its inland
bay that is called “le Morbihan.” He looked at the little gray houses,
the occasional pedestrians, the empty stores, and he murmured:

“Vannes is certainly not gay, not lively. It was a sad idea, my coming
here.”

He reached the harbor, the desolate harbor, walked back along a lonely,
deserted boulevard, and got home before five o'clock. Then he threw
himself on his bed to sleep till dinner time. The maid woke him,
knocking at the door.

“Dinner is ready, sir:”

He went downstairs. In the damp dining-room with the paper peeling from
the walls near the floor, he saw a soup tureen on a round table without
any table cloth, on which were also three melancholy soup-plates.

M. and Mme. Padoie entered the room at the same time as Varajou. They
all sat down to table, and the husband and wife crossed themselves over
the pit of their stomachs, after which Padoie helped the soup, a meat
soup. It was the day for pot-roast.

After the soup, they had the beef, which was done to rags, melted,
greasy, like pap. The officer ate slowly, with disgust, weariness and
rage.

Mme. Padoie said to her husband:

“Are you going to the judge's house this evening?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Do not stay late. You always get so tired when you go out. You are not
made for society, with your poor health.”

She then talked about society in Vannes, of the excellent social circle
in which the Padoies moved, thanks to their religious sentiments.

A puree of potatoes and a dish of pork were next served, in honor of the
guest. Then some cheese, and that was all. No coffee.

When Varajou saw that he would have to spend the evening tete-a-tete
with his sister, endure her reproaches, listen to her sermons, without
even a glass of liqueur to help him to swallow these remonstrances,
he felt that he could not stand the torture, and declared that he
was obliged to go to the police station to have something attended to
regarding his leave of absence. And he made his escape at seven o'clock.

He had scarcely reached the street before he gave himself a shake like a
dog coming out of the water. He muttered:

“Heavens, heavens, heavens, what a galley slave's life!”

And he set out to look for a cafe, the best in the town. He found it on
a public square, behind two gas lamps. Inside the cafe, five or six
men, semi-gentlemen, and not noisy, were drinking and chatting quietly,
leaning their elbows on the small tables, while two billiard players
walked round the green baize, where the balls were hitting each other as
they rolled.

One heard them counting:

“Eighteen-nineteen. No luck. Oh, that's a good stroke! Well played!
Eleven. You should have played on the red. Twenty. Froze! Froze! Twelve.
Ha! Wasn't I right?”

Varajou ordered:

“A demi-tasse and a small decanter of brandy, the best.” Then he sat
down and waited for it.

He was accustomed to spending his evenings off duty with his companions,
amid noise and the smoke of pipes. This silence, this quiet, exasperated
him. He began to drink; first the coffee, then the brandy, and asked for

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