9:47 am - Friday January 19, 2018

The Confession-by Guy De Maupassant-Novel and Ebooks

Novel Name: The Confession

Written byGuy De Maupassant

CategoryFictionShort StoriesShort Novel

Page 1:

Marguerite de Thérelles was dying. Although but fifty-six, she seemed
like seventy-five at least. She panted, paler than the sheets, shaken
by dreadful shiverings, her face convulsed, her eyes haggard, as if she
had seen some horrible thing.

Her eldest sister, Suzanne, six years older, sobbed on her knees beside
the bed. A little table drawn close to the couch of the dying woman,
and covered with a napkin, bore two lighted candles, the priest being
momentarily expected to give extreme unction and the communion, which
should be the last.

The apartment had that sinister aspect, that air of hopeless farewells,
which belongs to the chambers of the dying. Medicine bottles stood
about on the furniture, linen lay in the corners, pushed aside by foot
or broom. The disordered chairs themselves seemed affrighted, as if
they had run, in all the senses of the word. Death, the formidable, was
there, hidden, waiting.

The story of the two sisters was very touching. It was quoted far and
wide; it had made many eyes to weep.

Suzanne, the elder, had once been madly in love with a young man, who
had also been in love with her. They were engaged, and were only
waiting the day fixed for the contract, when Henry de Lampierre
suddenly died.

The despair of the young girl was dreadful, and she vowed that she
would never marry. She kept her word. She put on widow’s weeds, which
she never took off.

Then her sister, her little sister Marguérite, who was only twelve
years old, came one morning to throw herself into the arms of the
elder, and said: “Big Sister, I do not want thee to be unhappy. I do
not want thee to cry all thy life. I will never leave thee, never,
never! I–I, too, shall never marry. I shall stay with thee always,
always, always!”

Suzanne, touched by the devotion of the child, kissed her, but did not
believe.

Yet the little one, also, kept her word, and despite the entreaties of
her parents, despite the supplications of the elder, she never married.
She was pretty, very pretty; she refused many a young man who seemed to
love her truly; and she never left her sister more.

* * * * *

They lived together all the days of their life, without ever being
separated a single time. They went side by side, inseparably united.
But Marguérite seemed always sad, oppressed, more melancholy than the
elder, as though perhaps her sublime sacrifice had broken her spirit.
She aged more quickly, had white hair from the age of thirty, and often
suffering, seemed afflicted by some secret, gnawing trouble.

Now she was to be the first to die.

Since yesterday she was no longer able to speak. She had only said, at
the first glimmers of day-dawn:

“Go fetch Monsieur le Curé, the moment has come.”

And she had remained since then upon her back, shaken with spasms, her
lips agitated as though dreadful words were mounting from her heart
without power of issue, her look mad with fear, terrible to see.

Her sister, torn by sorrow, wept wildly, her forehead resting on the
edge of the bed, and kept repeating:

“Margot, my poor Margot, my little one!”

She had always called her, “Little One,” just as the younger had always
called her “Big Sister.”

Steps were heard on the stairs. The door opened. A choir boy appeared,
followed by an old priest in a surplice. As soon as she perceived him,
the dying woman, with one shudder, sat up, opened her lips, stammered
two or three words, and began to scratch the sheets with her nails as
if she had wished to make a hole.

The Abbé Simon approached, took her hand, kissed her brow, and with a
soft voice:

“God pardon thee, my child; have courage, the moment is now come,
speak.”

Then Marguérite, shivering from head to foot, shaking her whole couch
with nervous movements, stammered:

“Sit down, Big Sister … listen.”

The priest bent down toward Suzanne, who was still flung upon the bed’s
foot. He raised her, placed her in an armchair, and taking a hand of
each of the sisters in one of his own, he pronounced:

Filed in: Fantasy, Fiction, Guy de Maupassant, Short Stories

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