Alexandre

by Guy de Maupassant

Alexandre by Guy de Maupassant

At four o'clock that day, as on every other day, Alexandre brought the wheelchair up to the door of the little house. Then, following the doctor's orders, he would push his old and ill mistress about until six o'clock.

When he had placed the wheelchair against the step, just at the place where the old lady could most easily get in it, he went into the house. Soon a furious, hoarse old soldier's voice was heard swearing inside. It belonged to the retired ex- army captain, Joseph Maramballe, the master of the house.

Then doors were slammed, chairs pushed about and hurried foot steps, and then nothing more could be heard. After a few seconds, Alexandre reappeared at the door, with all his strength helping Madame Maramballe, who was exhausted from getting down the stairs. When she was at last in the wheelchair, Alexandre walked behind it, started pushing and set off towards the river.

In this way, they crossed the little town every day, greeted on every side by passers-by. These greetings were perhaps meant as much for the servant as for the mistress, because if she was loved and respected by everyone, this old man, with his long, white beard, was considered a perfect servant.

The July sun was shining down on the street, bathing the low houses in its burning light. Dogs were sleeping on the pavement in the shade of the houses and Alexandre, a little out of breath, hurried to get to the cooler road leading to the water.

Madame Maramballe was already sleeping under her white umbrella, whose point sometimes scratched the man's impassive face. As soon as they had reached the river, she woke up in the shade of the trees and said in a kind voice: "Go more slowly, my poor boy. You’ll kill yourself in this heat."

Madame Maramballe breathed deeply the warm air of this spot and then murmured: "Ah! I feel better now! But he wasn't very happy today."

Alexandre answered: "No, madame."

For thirty-five years he had worked for this couple, first for the husband in the army, then as a simple servant who did not wish to leave his master; and for the last six years, every afternoon, he had pushed his mistress along the narrow streets of the town. From this long acquaintance and then from their daily chat, a friendship began between the old lady and the servant, affectionate on her part, deferential on his.

They talked over the affairs of the house exactly as if they were equals. Their main subject of conversation and their main worry was the captain’s bad temper, worsened by a long career which had begun with promise, continued without promotion and ended without glory.

Madame Maramballe continued: "He certainly has been very unhappy since he left the army."

And Alexandre completed his mistress’ thoughts, "Oh, it’s the same every day and it was the same before he left the army too."

"That’s true. But the poor man has been so unfortunate. He began with a brave act, which got him the Legion of Honour at the age of twenty; and then from twenty to fifty he couldn’t go higher than captain, although at the beginning he expected to retire at least a colonel."

"Madame, you might also say that it was his fault. If he hadn’t always been so rude, his superiors would have liked him better. We should try to please if we want to advance. As far as his treatment to us is concerned, it’s also our fault, because we’re prepared to stay with him, but with others it's different."

Madame Maramballe was thinking. Oh, how many years had she been thinking about her husband’s brutality, the husband she’d married long ago because he was a handsome officer, full of promise, so they said! What mistakes one makes in life!

She murmured: "Let’s stop a while, my poor Alexandre, and you rest on that bench.

Every time they came in this direction Alexandre had a short break on this seat.

He sat down and took his beautiful white beard in his hand and, closing his fingers over it, ran them down to the point, which he held for a minute as if to be certain of the length.

Madame Maramballe continued: "I married him. It’s only natural I should put up with his unfairness, but what I can’t understand is why you do too, Alexandre!"

He only shrugged his shoulders and answered: "Me, madame?"

She added: "Really. I’ve often wondered. When I married him, you were his servant in the army and you had to put up with him. But why did you stay with us? We pay you so little and treat you so badly. You could have done as everyone else does, marry, have a family."

He answered: "Oh, madame! With me it's different."

Then he was silent, but he kept pulling his beard, as if he were trying to pull it out, like a man who’s greatly embarrassed.

Madame Maramballe was following her own train of thought: "You have an education."

He interrupted her proudly: "I studied building, madame."

"Then why did you stay with us and ruin your prospects?"

He stammered: "That's it! That's it! It's my character."

"What do you mean, your character?"

"Yes, when I become fond of a person I become fond of them, that's all."

She began to laugh: "You’re not going to tell me that my husband's sweetness made you fond of him for life."

He was fidgeting on his bench, visibly embarrassed, and he muttered behind his long beard:

"It wasn’t him. It was you!"

The old lady, who had a sweet face, with a snowy line of white hair between her forehead and her hat, turned around in her chair and gave her servant a surprised look, saying: "Me, Alexandre! How?"

He began to look up in the air, then to one side, then towards the distance, turning his head like shy people do when they’re forced to tell someone shameful secrets. At last he said, with an old soldier’s courage: "You see, the first time I brought a letter to you from the captain, you gave me a tip and a smile, and that settled it."

Not understanding well, she said, "Explain yourself."

Then he shouted out, like a criminal admitting murder: "I had feelings for you!"

She did not answer but stopped looking at him, hung her head and thought. She was good, full of gentleness, and reason. In a second, she saw the extraordinary love of this poor man, who had given up everything to live beside her, without saying anything. And she felt she could cry. Then, with a sad but not angry expression, she said: "Let’s go home."

He got up and began to push the wheelchair.

As they got near the house, they saw Captain Maramballe coming towards them. As soon as he joined them, he asked his wife, hoping to get angry: "What have we got for dinner?"

"Some chicken."

He lost his temper: "Chicken! Chicken! Always chicken! I've had enough chicken! Haven’t you got any imagination? Why do you make me eat chicken every day?"

She answered, in a resigned tone: "But, my dear, you know that the doctor has ordered it for you. It's the best thing for your stomach. If your stomach were better, I could give you many things which I can’t at the moment."

Then, exasperated, he stood in front of Alexandre, shouting: "Well, if my stomach is out of order it's that man’s fault. For thirty-five years he has been poisoning me with his disgusting cooking."

Madame Maramballe suddenly turned round completely to see the old servant. Their eyes met and, in this single glance, they both said "Thank you!" to each other.