A Wedding Gift

Guy de Maupassant

For a long time Jacques Bourdillere had sworn that he would never marry, but he suddenly

changed his mind. It happened suddenly, one summer, at the seashore.

One morning as he lay stretched out on the sand, watching the women coming out of the

water, a little foot had struck him by its neatness and daintiness. He raised his eyes and was

delighted with the whole person, although in fact he could see nothing but the ankles and

the head emerging from a flannel bathrobe carefully held closed. He was supposed to be

sensual and a fast liver. It was therefore by the mere grace of the form that he was at first

captured. Then he was held by the charm of the young girl's sweet mind, so simple and

He did not know or understand, but he had fully decided to have this child for his wife.

Her parents hesitated for a long time, restrained by the young man's bad reputation. It was

said that he had an old sweetheart, one of these binding attachments which one always

believes to be broken off and yet which always hold.

Besides, for a shorter or longer period, he loved every woman who came within reach of his

lips.

Then he settled down and refused, even once, to see the one with whom he had lived for so

long. A friend took care of this woman's pension and assured her an income. Jacques paid,

but he did not even wish to hear of her, pretending even to ignore her name. She wrote him

letters which he never opened. Every week he would recognize the clumsy writing of the

The young couple had decided not to take the conventional wedding trip, but after a little

dance for the younger cousins, which would not be prolonged after eleven o'clock, in order

that this day of lengthy ceremonies might not be too tiresome, the young pair were to spend

the first night in the parental home and then, on the following morning, to leave for the

beach so dear to their hearts, where they had first known and loved each other.

Night had come, and the dance was going on in the large parlor. 'The two had retired into a

little Japanese boudoir hung with bright silks and dimly lighted by the soft rays of a large

colored lantern hanging from the ceiling like a gigantic egg. Through the open window the

fresh air from outside passed over their faces like a caress, for the night was warm and

calm, full of the odor of spring.

They were silent, holding each other's hands and from time to time squeezing them with all

their might. She sat there with a dreamy look, feeling a little lost at this great change in her

life, but smiling, moved, ready to cry, often also almost ready to faint from joy, believing

the whole world to be changed by what had just happened to her, uneasy, she knew not

They found no thoughts to exchange. They had been left alone, but occasionally some of the

dancers would cast a rapid glance at them, as though they were the discreet and trusty

witnesses of a mystery.

A door opened and a servant entered, holding on a tray a letter which a messenger had just

brought. Jacques, trembling, took this paper, overwhelmed by a vague and sudden fear, the

mysterious terror of swift misfortune.

He looked for a longtime at the envelope, the writing on which he did not know, not daring

to open it, not wishing to read it, with a wild desire to put it in his pocket and say to

himself: "I'll leave that till to- morrow, when I'm far away!" But on one corner two big

words, underlined, "Very urgent," filled him with terror. Saying, "Please excuse me, my

Trembling and dazed, she stammered: "Go, my dear!" not having been his wife long enough

to dare to question him, to demand to know. He disappeared. She remained alone, listening

to the dancing in the neighboring parlor.

He had seized the first hat and coat he came to and rushed downstairs three steps at a time.

As he was emerging into the street he stopped under the gas-jet of the vestibule and reread

the letter. This is what it said:

SIR: A girl by the name of Ravet, an old sweetheart of yours, it seems, has just

given birth to a child that she says is yours. The mother is about to die and is

begging for you. I take the liberty to write and ask you if you can grant this last

request to a woman who seems to be very unhappy and worthy of pity.

Yours truly,

DR. BONNARD.

When he reached the sick-room the woman was already on the point of death. He did not

on the floor were pails full of ice and rags covered with blood. Water flooded the carpet;

two candles were burning on a bureau; behind the bed, in a little wicker crib, the child was

crying, and each time it would moan the mother, in torture, would try to move, shivering

under her ice bandages.

thin face, which started at the contact. One of the nurses was lighting them with a candle,

and the doctor was watching them from the back of the room.

die, dear. Promise to stay to the end. Oh! don't leave me now. Don't leave me in my last

moments!"

He kissed her face and her hair, and, weeping, he murmured: "Do not be uneasy; I will

stay."

It was several minutes before she could speak again, she was so weak. She continued: "The

little one is yours. I swear it before God and on my soul. I swear it as I am dying! I have

never loved another man but you --promise to take care of the child."

He was trying to take this poor pain-racked body in his arms. Maddened by remorse and

sorrow, he stammered: "I swear to you that I will bring him up and love him. He shall never

leave me."

Then she tried to kiss Jacques. Powerless to lift her head, she held out her white lips in an

appeal for a kiss. He approached his lips to respond to this piteous entreaty.

As soon as she felt a little calmer, she murmured: "Bring him here and let me see if you

The physician had returned. The two nurses, after noiselessly moving about the room for a

while, were now sleeping on chairs. The child was asleep, and the mother, with eyes shut,

appeared also to be resting.

Suddenly, just as pale daylight was creeping in behind the curtains, she stretched out her

arms with such a quick and violent motion that she almost threw her baby on the floor. A

The nurses sprang forward and declared: "All is over!"

He looked once more at this woman whom he had so loved, then at the clock, which

pointed to four, and he ran away, forgetting his overcoat, in the evening dress, with the

child in his arms.

After he had left her alone the young wife had waited, calmly enough at first, in the little

Japanese boudoir. Then, as she did not see him return, she went back to the parlor with an

indifferent and calm appearance, but terribly anxious. When her mother saw her alone she

asked: "Where is your husband?" She answered: "In his room; he is coming right back."

At five o'clock a slight noise was heard in the hall. A door was softly opened and closed.

Then suddenly a little cry like the mewing of a cat was heard throughout the silent house.

All the women started forward and Berthe sprang ahead of them all, pushing her way past

her aunts, wrapped in a bathrobe.

Jacques stood in the middle of the room, pale and out of breath, holding an infant in his

arms. The four women looked at him, astonished; but Berthe, who had suddenly become

courageous, rushed forward with anguish in her heart, exclaiming: "What is it? What's the

matter?"

He looked about him wildly and answered shortly:

"I--I have a child and the mother has just died."

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