Fascination by Guy de Maupassant
I can tell you neither the name of the country, nor the name of the man.
It was a long, long way from here on a fertile and burning shore. We had
been walking since the morning along the coast, with the blue sea bathed
in sunlight on one side of us, and the shore covered with crops on the
other. Flowers were growing quite close to the waves, those light,
gentle, lulling waves. It was very warm, a soft warmth permeated with the
odor of the rich, damp, fertile soil. One fancied one was inhaling germs.
I had been told, that evening, that I should meet with hospitality at the
house of a Frenchman who lived in an orange grove at the end of a
promontory. Who was he? I did not know. He had come there one morning ten
years before, and had bought land which he planted with vines and sowed
with grain. He had worked, this man, with passionate energy, with fury.
Then as he went on from month to month, year to year, enlarging his
boundaries, cultivating incessantly the strong virgin soil, he
accumulated a fortune by his indefatigable labor.
But he kept on working, they said. Rising at daybreak, he would remain in
the fields till evening, superintending everything without ceasing,
tormented by one fixed idea, the insatiable desire for money, which
nothing can quiet, nothing satisfy. He now appeared to be very rich. The
sun was setting as I reached his house. It was situated as described, at
the end of a promontory in the midst of a grove of orange trees. It was a
large square house, quite plain, and overlooked the sea. As I approached,
a man wearing a long beard appeared in the doorway. Having greeted him, I
asked if he would give me shelter for the night. He held out his hand and
"Come in, monsieur, consider yourself at home."
He led me into a room, and put a man servant at my disposal with the
perfect ease and familiar graciousness of a man-of-the-world. Then he
left me saying:
"We will dine as soon as you are ready to come downstairs."
We took dinner, sitting opposite each other, on a terrace facing the sea.
I began to talk about this rich, distant, unknown land. He smiled, as he
"Yes, this country is beautiful. But no country satisfies one when they
are far from the one they love."
"You regret France?"
"I regret Paris."
"Why do you not go back?"
"Oh, I will return there."
And gradually we began to talk of French society, of the boulevards, and
things Parisian. He asked me questions that showed he knew all about
these things, mentioned names, all the familiar names in vaudeville known
on the sidewalks.
"Whom does one see at Tortoni's now?
"Always the same crowd, except those who died." I looked at him
attentively, haunted by a vague recollection. I certainly had seen that
head somewhere. But where? And when? He seemed tired, although he was
vigorous; and sad, although he was determined. His long, fair beard fell
on his chest. He was somewhat bald and had heavy eyebrows and a thick
The sun was sinking into the sea, turning the vapor from the earth into a
fiery mist. The orange blossoms exhaled their powerful, delicious
fragrance. He seemed to see nothing besides me, and gazing steadfastly he
appeared to discover in the depths of my mind the far-away, beloved and
well-known image of the wide, shady pavement leading from the Madeleine
to the Rue Drouot.
"Do you know Boutrelle?"
"Has he changed much?"
"Yes, his hair is quite white."
"And La Ridamie?"
"The same as ever."
"And the women? Tell me about the women. Let's see. Do you know Suzanne
"Yes, very much. But that is over."
"Ah! And Sophie Astier?"
"Poor girl. Did you—did you know—"
But he ceased abruptly: And then, in a changed voice, his face suddenly
turning pale, he continued:
"No, it is best that I should not speak of that any more, it breaks my
Then, as if to change the current of his thoughts he rose.
"Would you like to go in?" he said.
"Yes, I think so."
And he preceded me into the house. The downstairs rooms were enormous,
bare and mournful, and had a deserted look. Plates and glasses were
scattered on the tables, left there by the dark-skinned servants who
wandered incessantly about this spacious dwelling.
Two rifles were banging from two nails, on the wall; and in the corners
of the rooms were spades, fishing poles, dried palm leaves, every
imaginable thing set down at random when people came home in the evening
and ready to hand when they went out at any time, or went to work.
My host smiled as he said:
"This is the dwelling, or rather the kennel, of an exile, but my own room
is cleaner. Let us go there."
As I entered I thought I was in a second-hand store, it was so full of
things of all descriptions, strange things of various kinds that one felt
must be souvenirs. On the walls were two pretty paintings by well-known
artists, draperies, weapons, swords and pistols, and exactly in the
middle, on the principal panel, a square of white satin in a gold frame.
Somewhat surprised, I approached to look at it, and perceived a hairpin
fastened in the centre of the glossy satin. My host placed his hand on my
"That," said he, "is the only thing that I look at here, and the only
thing that I have seen for ten years. M. Prudhomme said: 'This sword is
the most memorable day of my life.' I can say: 'This hairpin is all my
I sought for some commonplace remark, and ended by saying:
"You have suffered on account of some woman?"
He replied abruptly:
"Say, rather, that I am suffering like a wretch."
"But come out on my balcony. A name rose to my lips just now which I
dared not utter; for if you had said 'Dead' as you did of Sophie Astier,
I should have fired a bullet into my brain, this very day."
We had gone out on the wide balcony from whence we could see two gulfs,
one to the right and the other to the left, enclosed by high gray
mountains. It was just twilight and the reflection of the sunset still
lingered in the sky.
"Is Jeanne de Limours still alive?"
His eyes were fastened on mine and were full of a trembling anxiety. I
"Parbleu—she is prettier than ever."
"Do you know her?"
He hesitated and then said:
He took my hand.
"Tell me about her," he said.
"Why, I have nothing to tell. She is one of the most charming women, or,
rather, girls, and the most admired in Paris. She leads a delightful
existence and lives like a princess, that is all."
"I love her," he murmured in a tone in which he might have said "I am
going to die." Then suddenly he continued:
"Ah! For three years we lived in a state of terror and delight. I almost
killed her five or six times. She tried to pierce my eyes with that
hairpin that you saw just now. Look, do you see that little white spot
beneath my left eye? We loved each other. How can I explain that
infatuation? You would not understand it."
"There must be a simple form of love, the result of the mutual impulse of
two hearts and two souls. But there is also assuredly an atrocious form,
that tortures one cruelly, the result of the occult blending of two
unlike personalities who detest each other at the same time that they
adore one another."
"In three years this woman had ruined me. I had four million francs which
she squandered in her calm manner, quietly, eat them up with a gentle
smile that seemed to fall from her eyes on to her lips."
"You know her? There is something irresistible about her. What is it? I
do not know. Is it those gray eyes whose glance penetrates you like a
gimlet and remains there like the point of an arrow? It is more likely
the gentle, indifferent and fascinating smile that she wears like a mask.
Her slow grace pervades you little by little; exhales from her like a
perfume, from her slim figure that scarcely sways as she passes you, for
she seems to glide rather than walk; from her pretty voice with its
slight drawl that would seem to be the music of her smile; from her
gestures, also, which are never exaggerated, but always appropriate, and
intoxicate your vision with their harmony. For three years she was the
only being that existed for me on the earth! How I suffered; for she
deceived me as she deceived everyone! Why? For no reason; just for the
pleasure of deceiving. And when I found it out, when I treated her as a
common girl and a beggar, she said quietly: 'Are we married?'
"Since I have been here I have thought so much about her that at last I
understand her. She is Manon Lescaut come back to life. It is Manon, who
could not love without deceiving; Marion for whom love, amusement, money,
are all one."
He was silent. After a few minutes he resumed:
"When I had spent my last sou on her she said simply:
"'You understand, my dear boy, that I cannot live on air and weather. I
love you very much, better than anyone, but I must live. Poverty and I
could not keep house together."
"And if I should tell you what a horrible life I led with her! When I
looked at her I would just as soon have killed her as kissed her. When I
looked at her . . . I felt a furious desire to open my arms to embrace
and strangle her. She had, back of her eyes, something false and
intangible that made me execrate her; and that was, perhaps, the reason I
loved her so well. The eternal feminine, the odious and seductive
feminine, was stronger in her than in any other woman. She was full of
it, overcharged, as with a venomous and intoxicating fluid. She was a
woman to a greater extent than any one has ever been."
"And when I went out with her she would look at all men in such a manner
that she seemed to offer herself to each in a single glance. This
exasperated me, and still it attached me to her all the more. This
creature in just walking along the street belonged to everyone, in spite
of me, in spite of herself, by the very fact of her nature, although she
had a modest, gentle carriage. Do you understand?
"And what torture! At the theatre, at the restaurant she seemed to belong
to others under my very eyes. And as soon as I left her she did belong to
"It is now ten years since I saw her and I love her better than ever."
Night spread over the earth. A strong perfume of orange blossoms pervaded
the air. I said:
"Will you see her again?"
"Parbleu! I now have here, in land and money, seven to eight thousand
francs. When I reach a million I shall sell out and go away. I shall have
enough to live on with her for a year—one whole year. And then,
good-bye, my life will be finished."
"But after that?" I asked.
"After that, I do not know. That will be all, I may possibly ask her to
take me as a valet de chambre."