Go to Abundance for more selections, including other original pieces by Dane Allred and his audio versions of many famous short stories and poems called Literature Out Loud, plus lots more!!
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Born on August 5th, 1850, he once said, “I entered literary life as a meteor, and I shall leave it like a thunderbolt.” One of many French people who despised the Eiffel Tower, he would often eat at the restaurant at its base to avoid having to see the structure. Who is this outspoken author who has been called one of the fathers of the modern short story? We’ll find out in a moment on Biography Out Loud.
Biography Out Loud
Guy de Maupassant
Guy de Maupassant and forty-six other notable French authors and artists wrote a letter to the Minister of Public Works protesting the construction of the Eiffel Tower. An influential writer, Maupassant is credited with inspiring the works of several authors including O. Henry, Somerset Maugham and Henry James. When he was eighteen, he saved the poet Algernon Charles Swinburne from drowning, and was passionate about boating. He served as a Naval clerk in the Franco-Prussian War for ten years. Flaubert was a great influence on Guy de Maupassant, guiding him in his efforts in writing. Maupassant became very popular with multiple reprinting of his short stories and novels. He knew Alexander Dumas, Turgenev and Zola. Maupassant once said, “It is the encounters with people that make life worth living.”
He desired more and more solitude in his advancing years, fearing death and feeling persecuted. He tried to commit suicide but was placed in a private asylum where he died on July 6th, 1893. Writing his own epitaph, he said, “I have coveted everything and taken pleasure in nothing.”
In his short story, “A Wife’s Confession”, Guy de Maupassant says, “A legal kiss is never as good as a stolen one.”
Showing posts with label Guy de Mapassant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Guy de Mapassant. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Denis by Guy de Maupassant
Click on the player to hear an audio version of this short story.
Denis
by Guy De Maupassant
To Leon Chapron.
Marambot opened the letter which his servant Denis gave him and smiled.
For twenty years Denis has been a servant in this house. He was a short, stout, jovial man, who was known throughout the countryside as a model servant. He asked:
“Is monsieur pleased? Has monsieur received good news?”
M. Marambot was not rich. He was an old village druggist, a bachelor, who lived on an income acquired with difficulty by selling drugs to the farmers. He answered:
“Yes, my boy. Old man Malois is afraid of the law-suit with which I am threatening him. I shall get my money to-morrow. Five thousand francs are not liable to harm the account of an old bachelor.”
M. Marambot rubbed his hands with satisfaction. He was a man of quiet temperament, more sad than gay, incapable of any prolonged effort, careless in business.
He could undoubtedly have amassed a greater income had he taken advantage of the deaths of colleagues established in more important centers, by taking their places and carrying on their business. But the trouble of moving and the thought of all the preparations had always stopped him. After thinking the matter over for a few days, he would be satisfied to say:
“Bah! I’ll wait until the next time. I’ll not lose anything by the delay. I may even find something better.”
Denis, on the contrary, was always urging his master to new enterprises. Of an energetic temperament, he would continually repeat:
“Oh! If I had only had the capital to start out with, I could have made a fortune! One thousand francs would do me.”
M. Marambot would smile without answering and would go out in his little garden, where, his hands behind his back, he would walk about dreaming.
All day long, Denis sang the joyful refrains of the folk-songs of the district. He even showed an unusual activity, for he cleaned all the windows of the house, energetically rubbing the glass, and singing at the top of his voice.
M. Marambot, surprised at his zeal, said to him several times, smiling:
“My boy, if you work like that there will be nothing left for you to do to-morrow.”
The following day, at about nine o’clock in the morning, the postman gave Denis four letters for his master, one of them very heavy. M. Marambot immediately shut himself up in his room until late in the afternoon. He then handed his servant four letters for the mail. One of them was addressed to M. Malois; it was undoubtedly a receipt for the money.
Denis asked his master no questions; he appeared to be as sad and gloomy that day as he had seemed joyful the day before.
Night came. M. Marambot went to bed as usual and slept.
He was awakened by a strange noise. He sat up in his bed and listened. Suddenly the door opened, and Denis appeared, holding in one hand a candle and in the other a carving knife, his eyes staring, his face contracted as though moved by some deep emotion; he was as pale as a ghost.
M. Marambot, astonished, thought that he was sleep-walking, and he was going to get out of bed and assist him when the servant blew out the light and rushed for the bed. His master stretched out his hands to receive the shock which knocked him over on his back; he was trying to seize the hands of his servant, whom he now thought to be crazy, in order to avoid the blows which the latter was aiming at him.
He was struck by the knife; once in the shoulder, once in the forehead and the third time in the chest. He fought wildly, waving his arms around in the darkness, kicking and crying:
“Denis! Denis! Are you mad? Listen, Denis!”
But the latter, gasping for breath, kept up his furious attack always striking, always repulsed, sometimes with a kick, sometimes with a punch, and rushing forward again furiously.
M. Marambot was wounded twice more, once in the leg and once in the stomach. But, suddenly, a thought flashed across his mind, and he began to shriek:
“Stop, stop, Denis, I have not yet received my money!”
The man immediately ceased, and his master could hear his labored breathing in the darkness.
M. Marambot then went on:
“I have received nothing. M. Malois takes back what he said, the law- suit will take place; that is why you carried the letters to the mail. Just read those on my desk.”
With a final effort, he reached for his matches and lit the candle.
He was covered with blood. His sheets, his curtains, and even the walls, were spattered with red. Denis, standing in the middle of the room, was also bloody from head to foot.
When he saw the blood, M. Marambot thought himself dead, and fell unconscious.
At break of day he revived. It was some time, however, before he regained his senses, and was able to understand or remember. But, suddenly, the memory of the attack and of his wounds returned to him, and he was filled with such terror that he closed his eyes in order not to see anything. After a few minutes he grew calmer and began to think. He had not died immediately, therefore he might still recover. He felt weak, very weak; but he had no real pain, although he noticed an uncomfortable smarting sensation in several parts of his body. He also felt icy cold, and all wet, and as though wrapped up in bandages. He thought that this dampness came from the blood which he had lost; and he shivered at the dreadful thought of this red liquid which had come from his veins and covered his bed. The idea of seeing this terrible spectacle again so upset him that he kept his eyes closed with all his strength, as though they might open in spite of himself.
What had become of Denis? He had probably escaped.
But what could he, Marambot, do now? Get up? Call for help? But if he should make the slightest motions, his wounds would undoubtedly open up again and he would die from loss of blood.
Suddenly he heard the door of his room open. His heart almost stopped. It was certainly Denis who was coming to finish him up. He held his breath in order to make the murderer think that he had been successful.
He felt his sheet being lifted up, and then someone feeling his stomach. A sharp pain near his hip made him start. He was being very gently washed with cold water. Therefore, someone must have discovered the misdeed and he was being cared for. A wild joy seized him; but prudently, he did not wish to show that he was conscious. He opened one eye, just one, with the greatest precaution.
He recognized Denis standing beside him, Denis himself! Mercy! He hastily closed his eye again.
Denis! What could he be doing? What did he want? What awful scheme could he now be carrying out?
What was he doing? Well, he was washing him in order to hide the traces of his crime! And he would now bury him in the garden, under ten feet of earth, so that no one could discover him! Or perhaps under the wine cellar! And M. Marambot began to tremble like a leaf. He kept saying to himself: “I am lost, lost!” He closed his eyes so as not to see the knife as it descended for the final stroke. It did not come. Denis was now lifting him up and bandaging him. Then he began carefully to dress the wound on his leg, as his master had taught him to do.
There was no longer any doubt. His servant, after wishing to kill him, was trying to save him.
Then M. Marambot, in a dying voice, gave him the practical piece of advice:
“Wash the wounds in a dilute solution of carbolic acid!”
Denis answered:
“This is what I am doing, monsieur.”
M. Marambot opened both his eyes. There was no sign of blood either on the bed, on the walls, or on the murderer. The wounded man was stretched out on clean white sheets.
The two men looked at each other.
Finally M. Marambot said calmly:
“You have been guilty of a great crime.”
Denis answered:
“I am trying to make up for it, monsieur. If you will not tell on me, I will serve you as faithfully as in the past.”
This was no time to anger his servant. M. Marambot murmured as he closed his eyes:
“I swear not to tell on you.”
Denis saved his master. He spent days and nights without sleep, never leaving the sick room, preparing drugs, broths, potions, feeling his pulse, anxiously counting the beats, attending him with the skill of a trained nurse and the devotion of a son.
He continually asked:
“Well, monsieur, how do you feel?”
M. Marambot would answer in a weak voice:
“A little better, my boy, thank you.”
And when the sick man would wake up at night, he would often see his servant seated in an armchair, weeping silently.
Never had the old druggist been so cared for, so fondled, so spoiled. At first he had said to himself:
“As soon as I am well I shall get rid of this rascal.”
He was now convalescing, and from day to day he would put off dismissing his murderer. He thought that no one would ever show him such care and attention, for he held this man through fear; and he warned him that he had left a document with a lawyer denouncing him to the law if any new accident should occur.
This precaution seemed to guarantee him against any future attack; and he then asked himself if it would not be wiser to keep this man near him, in order to watch him closely.
Just as formerly, when he would hesitate about taking some larger place of business, he could not make up his mind to any decision.
“There is always time,” he would say to himself.
Denis continued to show himself an admirable servant. M. Marambot was well. He kept him.
One morning, just as he was finishing breakfast, he suddenly heard a great noise in the kitchen. He hastened in there. Denis was struggling with two gendarmes. An officer was taking notes on his pad.
As soon as he saw his master, the servant began to sob, exclaiming:
“You told on me, monsieur, that’s not right, after what you had promised me. You have broken your word of honor, Monsieur Marambot; that is not right, that’s not right!”
M. Marambot, bewildered and distressed at being suspected, lifted his hand:
“I swear to you before the Lord, my boy that I did not tell on you. I haven’t the slightest idea how the police could have found out about your attack on me.”
The officer started:
“You say that he attacked you, M. Marambot?”
The bewildered druggist answered:
“Yes–but I did not tell on him–I haven’t said a word–I swear it–he has served me excellently from that time on–”
The officer pronounced severely:
“I will take down your testimony. The law will take notice of this new action, of which it was ignorant, Monsieur Marambot. I was commissioned to arrest your servant for the theft of two ducks surreptitiously taken by him from M. Duhamel of which act there are witnesses. I shall make a note of your information.”
Then, turning toward his men, he ordered:
“Come on, bring him along!”
The two gendarmes dragged Denis out.
The lawyer used a plea of insanity, contrasting the two misdeeds in order to strengthen his argument. He had clearly proved that the theft of the two ducks came from the same mental condition as the eight knife-wounds in the body of Marambot. He had cunningly analyzed all the phases of this transitory condition of mental aberration, which could, doubtless, be cured by a few months’ treatment in a reputable sanatorium. He had spoken in enthusiastic terms of the continued devotion of this faithful servant, of the care with which he had surrounded his master, wounded by him in a moment of alienation.
Touched by this memory, M. Marambot felt the tears rising to his eyes.
The lawyer noticed it, opened his arms with a broad gesture, spreading out the long black sleeves of his robe like the wings of a bat, and exclaimed:
“Look, look, gentleman of the jury, look at those tears. What more can I say for my client? What speech, what argument, what reasoning would be worth these tears of his master? They, speak louder than I do, louder than the law; they cry: ‘Mercy, for the poor wandering mind of a while ago! They implore, they pardon, they bless!”
He was silent and sat down.
Then the judge, turning to Marambot, whose testimony had been excellent for his servant, asked him:
“But, monsieur, even admitting that you consider this man insane, that does not explain why you should have kept him. He was none the less dangerous.”
Marambot, wiping his eyes, answered:
“Well, your honor, what can you expect? Nowadays it’s so hard to find good servants–I could never have found a better one.”
Denis was acquitted and put in a sanatorium at his master’s expense.
Denis
by Guy De Maupassant
To Leon Chapron.
Marambot opened the letter which his servant Denis gave him and smiled.
For twenty years Denis has been a servant in this house. He was a short, stout, jovial man, who was known throughout the countryside as a model servant. He asked:
“Is monsieur pleased? Has monsieur received good news?”
M. Marambot was not rich. He was an old village druggist, a bachelor, who lived on an income acquired with difficulty by selling drugs to the farmers. He answered:
“Yes, my boy. Old man Malois is afraid of the law-suit with which I am threatening him. I shall get my money to-morrow. Five thousand francs are not liable to harm the account of an old bachelor.”
M. Marambot rubbed his hands with satisfaction. He was a man of quiet temperament, more sad than gay, incapable of any prolonged effort, careless in business.
He could undoubtedly have amassed a greater income had he taken advantage of the deaths of colleagues established in more important centers, by taking their places and carrying on their business. But the trouble of moving and the thought of all the preparations had always stopped him. After thinking the matter over for a few days, he would be satisfied to say:
“Bah! I’ll wait until the next time. I’ll not lose anything by the delay. I may even find something better.”
Denis, on the contrary, was always urging his master to new enterprises. Of an energetic temperament, he would continually repeat:
“Oh! If I had only had the capital to start out with, I could have made a fortune! One thousand francs would do me.”
M. Marambot would smile without answering and would go out in his little garden, where, his hands behind his back, he would walk about dreaming.
All day long, Denis sang the joyful refrains of the folk-songs of the district. He even showed an unusual activity, for he cleaned all the windows of the house, energetically rubbing the glass, and singing at the top of his voice.
M. Marambot, surprised at his zeal, said to him several times, smiling:
“My boy, if you work like that there will be nothing left for you to do to-morrow.”
The following day, at about nine o’clock in the morning, the postman gave Denis four letters for his master, one of them very heavy. M. Marambot immediately shut himself up in his room until late in the afternoon. He then handed his servant four letters for the mail. One of them was addressed to M. Malois; it was undoubtedly a receipt for the money.
Denis asked his master no questions; he appeared to be as sad and gloomy that day as he had seemed joyful the day before.
Night came. M. Marambot went to bed as usual and slept.
He was awakened by a strange noise. He sat up in his bed and listened. Suddenly the door opened, and Denis appeared, holding in one hand a candle and in the other a carving knife, his eyes staring, his face contracted as though moved by some deep emotion; he was as pale as a ghost.
M. Marambot, astonished, thought that he was sleep-walking, and he was going to get out of bed and assist him when the servant blew out the light and rushed for the bed. His master stretched out his hands to receive the shock which knocked him over on his back; he was trying to seize the hands of his servant, whom he now thought to be crazy, in order to avoid the blows which the latter was aiming at him.
He was struck by the knife; once in the shoulder, once in the forehead and the third time in the chest. He fought wildly, waving his arms around in the darkness, kicking and crying:
“Denis! Denis! Are you mad? Listen, Denis!”
But the latter, gasping for breath, kept up his furious attack always striking, always repulsed, sometimes with a kick, sometimes with a punch, and rushing forward again furiously.
M. Marambot was wounded twice more, once in the leg and once in the stomach. But, suddenly, a thought flashed across his mind, and he began to shriek:
“Stop, stop, Denis, I have not yet received my money!”
The man immediately ceased, and his master could hear his labored breathing in the darkness.
M. Marambot then went on:
“I have received nothing. M. Malois takes back what he said, the law- suit will take place; that is why you carried the letters to the mail. Just read those on my desk.”
With a final effort, he reached for his matches and lit the candle.
He was covered with blood. His sheets, his curtains, and even the walls, were spattered with red. Denis, standing in the middle of the room, was also bloody from head to foot.
When he saw the blood, M. Marambot thought himself dead, and fell unconscious.
At break of day he revived. It was some time, however, before he regained his senses, and was able to understand or remember. But, suddenly, the memory of the attack and of his wounds returned to him, and he was filled with such terror that he closed his eyes in order not to see anything. After a few minutes he grew calmer and began to think. He had not died immediately, therefore he might still recover. He felt weak, very weak; but he had no real pain, although he noticed an uncomfortable smarting sensation in several parts of his body. He also felt icy cold, and all wet, and as though wrapped up in bandages. He thought that this dampness came from the blood which he had lost; and he shivered at the dreadful thought of this red liquid which had come from his veins and covered his bed. The idea of seeing this terrible spectacle again so upset him that he kept his eyes closed with all his strength, as though they might open in spite of himself.
What had become of Denis? He had probably escaped.
But what could he, Marambot, do now? Get up? Call for help? But if he should make the slightest motions, his wounds would undoubtedly open up again and he would die from loss of blood.
Suddenly he heard the door of his room open. His heart almost stopped. It was certainly Denis who was coming to finish him up. He held his breath in order to make the murderer think that he had been successful.
He felt his sheet being lifted up, and then someone feeling his stomach. A sharp pain near his hip made him start. He was being very gently washed with cold water. Therefore, someone must have discovered the misdeed and he was being cared for. A wild joy seized him; but prudently, he did not wish to show that he was conscious. He opened one eye, just one, with the greatest precaution.
He recognized Denis standing beside him, Denis himself! Mercy! He hastily closed his eye again.
Denis! What could he be doing? What did he want? What awful scheme could he now be carrying out?
What was he doing? Well, he was washing him in order to hide the traces of his crime! And he would now bury him in the garden, under ten feet of earth, so that no one could discover him! Or perhaps under the wine cellar! And M. Marambot began to tremble like a leaf. He kept saying to himself: “I am lost, lost!” He closed his eyes so as not to see the knife as it descended for the final stroke. It did not come. Denis was now lifting him up and bandaging him. Then he began carefully to dress the wound on his leg, as his master had taught him to do.
There was no longer any doubt. His servant, after wishing to kill him, was trying to save him.
Then M. Marambot, in a dying voice, gave him the practical piece of advice:
“Wash the wounds in a dilute solution of carbolic acid!”
Denis answered:
“This is what I am doing, monsieur.”
M. Marambot opened both his eyes. There was no sign of blood either on the bed, on the walls, or on the murderer. The wounded man was stretched out on clean white sheets.
The two men looked at each other.
Finally M. Marambot said calmly:
“You have been guilty of a great crime.”
Denis answered:
“I am trying to make up for it, monsieur. If you will not tell on me, I will serve you as faithfully as in the past.”
This was no time to anger his servant. M. Marambot murmured as he closed his eyes:
“I swear not to tell on you.”
Denis saved his master. He spent days and nights without sleep, never leaving the sick room, preparing drugs, broths, potions, feeling his pulse, anxiously counting the beats, attending him with the skill of a trained nurse and the devotion of a son.
He continually asked:
“Well, monsieur, how do you feel?”
M. Marambot would answer in a weak voice:
“A little better, my boy, thank you.”
And when the sick man would wake up at night, he would often see his servant seated in an armchair, weeping silently.
Never had the old druggist been so cared for, so fondled, so spoiled. At first he had said to himself:
“As soon as I am well I shall get rid of this rascal.”
He was now convalescing, and from day to day he would put off dismissing his murderer. He thought that no one would ever show him such care and attention, for he held this man through fear; and he warned him that he had left a document with a lawyer denouncing him to the law if any new accident should occur.
This precaution seemed to guarantee him against any future attack; and he then asked himself if it would not be wiser to keep this man near him, in order to watch him closely.
Just as formerly, when he would hesitate about taking some larger place of business, he could not make up his mind to any decision.
“There is always time,” he would say to himself.
Denis continued to show himself an admirable servant. M. Marambot was well. He kept him.
One morning, just as he was finishing breakfast, he suddenly heard a great noise in the kitchen. He hastened in there. Denis was struggling with two gendarmes. An officer was taking notes on his pad.
As soon as he saw his master, the servant began to sob, exclaiming:
“You told on me, monsieur, that’s not right, after what you had promised me. You have broken your word of honor, Monsieur Marambot; that is not right, that’s not right!”
M. Marambot, bewildered and distressed at being suspected, lifted his hand:
“I swear to you before the Lord, my boy that I did not tell on you. I haven’t the slightest idea how the police could have found out about your attack on me.”
The officer started:
“You say that he attacked you, M. Marambot?”
The bewildered druggist answered:
“Yes–but I did not tell on him–I haven’t said a word–I swear it–he has served me excellently from that time on–”
The officer pronounced severely:
“I will take down your testimony. The law will take notice of this new action, of which it was ignorant, Monsieur Marambot. I was commissioned to arrest your servant for the theft of two ducks surreptitiously taken by him from M. Duhamel of which act there are witnesses. I shall make a note of your information.”
Then, turning toward his men, he ordered:
“Come on, bring him along!”
The two gendarmes dragged Denis out.
The lawyer used a plea of insanity, contrasting the two misdeeds in order to strengthen his argument. He had clearly proved that the theft of the two ducks came from the same mental condition as the eight knife-wounds in the body of Marambot. He had cunningly analyzed all the phases of this transitory condition of mental aberration, which could, doubtless, be cured by a few months’ treatment in a reputable sanatorium. He had spoken in enthusiastic terms of the continued devotion of this faithful servant, of the care with which he had surrounded his master, wounded by him in a moment of alienation.
Touched by this memory, M. Marambot felt the tears rising to his eyes.
The lawyer noticed it, opened his arms with a broad gesture, spreading out the long black sleeves of his robe like the wings of a bat, and exclaimed:
“Look, look, gentleman of the jury, look at those tears. What more can I say for my client? What speech, what argument, what reasoning would be worth these tears of his master? They, speak louder than I do, louder than the law; they cry: ‘Mercy, for the poor wandering mind of a while ago! They implore, they pardon, they bless!”
He was silent and sat down.
Then the judge, turning to Marambot, whose testimony had been excellent for his servant, asked him:
“But, monsieur, even admitting that you consider this man insane, that does not explain why you should have kept him. He was none the less dangerous.”
Marambot, wiping his eyes, answered:
“Well, your honor, what can you expect? Nowadays it’s so hard to find good servants–I could never have found a better one.”
Denis was acquitted and put in a sanatorium at his master’s expense.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
The Hand by Guy de Maupassant
Click on the player to hear an audio podcast of this short story.
The Hand
by Guy de Maupassant
All were crowding around M. Bermutier, the judge, who was giving his opinion about the Saint-Cloud mystery. For a month this inexplicable crime had been the talk of Paris. Nobody could make head or tail of it.
M. Bermutier, standing with his back to the fireplace, was talking, citing the evidence, discussing the various theories, but arriving at no conclusion.
Some women had risen, in order to get nearer to him, and were standing with their eyes fastened on the clean-shaven face of the judge, who was saying such weighty things. They, were shaking and trembling, moved by fear and curiosity, and by the eager and insatiable desire for the horrible, which haunts the soul of every woman. One of them, paler than the others, said during a pause:
“It’s terrible. It verges on the supernatural. The truth will never be known.”
The judge turned to her:
“True, madame, it is likely that the actual facts will never be discovered. As for the word ’supernatural’ which you have just used, it has nothing to do with the matter. We are in the presence of a very cleverly conceived and executed crime, so well enshrouded in mystery that we cannot disentangle it from the involved circumstances which surround it. But once I had to take charge of an affair in which the uncanny seemed to play a part. In fact, the case became so confused that it had to be given up.”
Several women exclaimed at once:
“Oh! Tell us about it!”
M. Bermutier smiled in a dignified manner, as a judge should, and went on:
“Do not think, however, that I, for one minute, ascribed anything in the case to supernatural influences. I believe only in normal causes. But if, instead of using the word ’supernatural’ to express what we do not understand, we were simply to make use of the word ‘inexplicable,’ it would be much better. At any rate, in the affair of which I am about to tell you, it is especially the surrounding, preliminary circumstances which impressed me. Here are the facts:
I was, at that time, a judge at Ajaccio, a little white city on the edge of a bay which is surrounded by high mountains.
The majority of the cases which came up before me concerned vendettas. There are some that are superb, dramatic, ferocious, heroic. We find there the most beautiful causes for revenge of which one could dream, enmities hundreds of years old, quieted for a time but never extinguished; abominable stratagems, murders becoming massacres and almost deeds of glory. For two years I heard of nothing but the price of blood, of this terrible Corsican prejudice which compels revenge for insults meted out to the offending person and all his descendants and relatives. I had seen old men, children, cousins murdered; my head was full of these stories.
One day I learned that an Englishman had just hired a little villa at the end of the bay for several years. He had brought with him a French servant, whom he had engaged on the way at Marseilles.
Soon this peculiar person, living alone, only going out to hunt and fish, aroused a widespread interest. He never spoke to any one, never went to the town, and every morning he would practice for an hour or so with his revolver and rifle.
Legends were built up around him. It was said that he was some high personage, fleeing from his fatherland for political reasons; then it was affirmed that he was in hiding after having committed some abominable crime. Some particularly horrible circumstances were even mentioned.
In my judicial position I thought it necessary to get some information about this man, but it was impossible to learn anything. He called himself Sir John Rowell.
I therefore had to be satisfied with watching him as closely as I could, but I could see nothing suspicious about his actions.
However, as rumors about him were growing and becoming more widespread, I decided to try to see this stranger myself, and I began to hunt regularly in the neighborhood of his grounds.
For a long time I watched without finding an opportunity. At last it came to me in the shape of a partridge which I shot and killed right in front of the Englishman. My dog fetched it for me, but, taking the bird, I went at once to Sir John Rowell and, begging his pardon, asked him to accept it.
He was a big man, with red hair and beard, very tall, very broad, a kind of calm and polite Hercules. He had nothing of the so-called British stiffness, and in a broad English accent he thanked me warmly for my attention. At the end of a month we had had five or six conversations.
One night, at last, as I was passing before his door, I saw him in the garden, seated astride a chair, smoking his pipe. I bowed and he invited me to come in and have a glass of beer. I needed no urging.
He received me with the most punctilious English courtesy, sang the praises of France and of Corsica, and declared that he was quite in love with this country.
Then, with great caution and under the guise of a vivid interest, I asked him a few questions about his life and his plans. He answered without embarrassment, telling me that he had travelled a great deal in Africa, in the Indies, in America. He added, laughing:
‘I have had many adventures.’
Then I turned the conversation on hunting, and he gave me the most curious details on hunting the hippopotamus, the tiger, the elephant and even the gorilla.
I said:
“Are all these animals dangerous?”
He smiled:
“Oh, no! Man is the worst.”
And he laughed a good broad laugh, the wholesome laugh of a contented Englishman.
“I have also frequently been man-hunting.”
Then he began to talk about weapons, and he invited me to come in and see different makes of guns.
His parlor was draped in black, black silk embroidered in gold. Big yellow flowers, as brilliant as fire, were worked on the dark material.
He said: “It is a Japanese material.”
But in the middle of the widest panel a strange thing attracted my attention. A black object stood out against a square of red velvet. I went up to it; it was a hand, a human hand. Not the clean white hand of a skeleton, but a dried black hand, with yellow nails, the muscles exposed and traces of old blood on the bones, which were cut off as clean as though it had been chopped off with an axe, near the middle of the forearm.
Around the wrist, an enormous iron chain, riveted and soldered to this unclean member, fastened it to the wall by a ring, strong enough to hold an elephant in leash.
I asked:”‘What is that?’”
The Englishman answered quietly:
“‘That is my best enemy. It comes from America, too. The bones were severed by a sword and the skin cut off with a sharp stone and dried in the sun for a week.’”
I touched these human remains, which must have belonged to a giant. The uncommonly long fingers were attached by enormous tendons which still had pieces of skin hanging to them in places. This hand was terrible to see; it made one think of some savage vengeance.
I said: “This man must have been very strong.”
The Englishman answered quietly: “‘Yes, but I was stronger than he. I put on this chain to hold him.”
I thought that he was joking. I said: “This chain is useless now, the hand won’t run away.”
Sir John Rowell answered seriously: “It always wants to go away. This chain is needed.”
I glanced at him quickly, questioning his face, and I asked myself: “Is he an insane man or a practical joker?”
But his face remained inscrutable, calm and friendly. I turned to other subjects, and admired his rifles.
However, I noticed that he kept three loaded revolvers in the room, as though constantly in fear of some attack. I paid him several calls. Then I did not go any more. People had become used to his presence; everybody had lost interest in him. A whole year rolled by. One morning, toward the end of November, my servant awoke me and announced that Sir John Rowell had been murdered during the night.
Half an hour later I entered the Englishman’s house, together with the police commissioner and the captain of the gendarmes. The servant, bewildered and in despair, was crying before the door. At first I suspected this man, but he was innocent.
The guilty party could never be found.
On entering Sir John’s parlor, I noticed the body, stretched out on its back, in the middle of the room.
His vest was torn, the sleeve of his jacket had been pulled off, everything pointed to, a violent struggle.
The Englishman had been strangled! His face was black, swollen and frightful, and seemed to express a terrible fear. He held something between his teeth, and his neck, pierced by five or six holes which looked as though they had been made by some iron instrument, was covered with blood.
A physician joined us. He examined the finger marks on the neck for a long time and then made this strange announcement:”It looks as though he had been strangled by a skeleton.”
A cold chill seemed to run down my back, and I looked over to where I had formerly seen the terrible hand. It was no longer there. The chain was hanging down, broken.
I bent over the dead man and, in his contracted mouth, I found one of the fingers of this vanished hand, cut–or rather sawed off by the teeth down to the second knuckle.
Then the investigation began. Nothing could be discovered. No door, window or piece of furniture had been forced. The two watch dogs had not been aroused from their sleep.
Here, in a few words, is the testimony of the servant:
“For a month his master had seemed excited. He had received many letters, which he would immediately burn. Often, in a fit of passion which approached madness, he had taken a switch and struck wildly at this dried hand riveted to the wall, and which had disappeared, no one knows how, at the very hour of the crime. He would go to bed very late and carefully lock himself in. He always kept weapons within reach. Often at night he would talk loudly, as though he were quarrelling with some one.”
“That night, somehow, he had made no noise, and it was only on going to open the windows that the servant had found Sir John murdered. He suspected no one.”
I communicated what I knew of the dead man to the judges and public officials. Throughout the whole island a minute investigation was carried on. Nothing could be found out.
One night, about three months after the crime, I had a terrible nightmare. I seemed to see the horrible hand running over my curtains and walls like an immense scorpion or spider. Three times I awoke, three times I went to sleep again; three times I saw the hideous object galloping round my room and moving its fingers like legs.
The following day the hand was brought me, found in the cemetery, on the grave of Sir John Rowell, who had been buried there because we had been unable to find his family. The first finger was missing.
“Ladies, there is my story. I know nothing more.”
The women, deeply stirred, were pale and trembling. One of them exclaimed:
“But that is neither a climax nor an explanation! We will be unable to sleep unless you give us your opinion of what had occurred.”
The judge smiled severely:
“Oh! Ladies, I shall certainly spoil your terrible dreams. I simply believe that the legitimate owner of the hand was not dead, that he came to get it with his remaining one. But I don’t know how. It was a kind of vendetta.”
One of the women murmured: “No, it can’t be that.”
And the judge, still smiling, said: “Didn’t I tell you that my explanation would not satisfy you?”
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