Short Stories, vol 4 | Page 4

THE
WRONG HOUSE THE DIAMOND NECKLACE THE MARQUIS
DE FUMEROL THE TRIP OF THE HORLA FAREWELL THE
WOLF THE INN

THE MORIBUND
The warm autumn sun was beating down on the farmyard. Under the
grass, which had been cropped close by the cows, the earth soaked by
recent rains, was soft and sank in under the feet with a soggy noise, and
the apple trees, loaded with apples, were dropping their pale green fruit
in the dark green grass.
Four young heifers, tied in a line, were grazing and at times looking
toward the house and lowing. The fowls made a colored patch on the
dung- heap before the stable, scratching, moving about and cackling,
while two roosters crowed continually, digging worms for their hens,
whom they were calling with a loud clucking.
The wooden gate opened and a man entered. He might have been forty
years old, but he looked at least sixty, wrinkled, bent, walking slowly,
impeded by the weight of heavy wooden shoes full of straw. His long
arms hung down on both sides of his body. When he got near the farm
a yellow cur, tied at the foot of an enormous pear tree, beside a barrel
which served as his kennel, began at first to wag his tail and then to
bark for joy. The man cried:
"Down, Finot!"
The dog was quiet.
A peasant woman came out of the house. Her large, flat, bony body
was outlined under a long woollen jacket drawn in at the waist. A gray
skirt, too short, fell to the middle of her legs, which were encased in
blue stockings. She, too, wore wooden shoes, filled with straw. The
white cap, turned yellow, covered a few hairs which were plastered to
the scalp, and her brown, thin, ugly, toothless face had that wild,
animal expression which is often to be found on the faces of the
peasants.
The man asked:
"How is he gettin' along?"
The woman answered:
"The priest said it's the end--that he will never live through the night."
Both of them went into the house.
After passing through the kitchen, they entered a low, dark room,
barely lighted by one window, in front of which a piece of calico was
hanging. The big beams, turned brown with age and smoke, crossed the
room from one side to the other, supporting the thin floor of the garret,

where an army of rats ran about day and night.
The moist, lumpy earthen floor looked greasy, and, at the back of the
room, the bed made an indistinct white spot. A harsh, regular noise, a
difficult, hoarse, wheezing breathing, like the gurgling of water from a
broken pump, came from the darkened couch where an old man, the
father of the peasant woman, was dying.
The man and the woman approached the dying man and looked at him
with calm, resigned eyes.
The son-in-law said:
"I guess it's all up with him this time; he will not last the night."
The woman answered:
"He's been gurglin' like that ever since midday." They were silent. The
father's eyes were closed, his face was the color of the earth and so dry
that it looked like wood. Through his open mouth came his harsh,
rattling breath, and the gray linen sheet rose and fell with each
respiration.
The son-in-law, after a long silence, said:
"There's nothing more to do; I can't help him. It's a nuisance, just the
same, because the weather is good and we've got a lot of work to do."
His wife seemed annoyed at this idea. She reflected a few moments and
then said:
"He won't be buried till Saturday, and that will give you all day
tomorrow."
The peasant thought the matter over and answered:
"Yes, but to-morrow I'll have to invite the people to the funeral. That
means five or six hours to go round to Tourville and Manetot, and to
see everybody."
The woman, after meditating two or three minutes, declared:
"It isn't three o'clock yet. You could begin this evening and go all round
the country to Tourville. You can just as well say that he's dead, seem'
as he's as good as that now."
The man stood perplexed for a while, weighing the pros and cons of the
idea. At last he declared:
"Well, I'll go!"
He was leaving the room, but came back after a minute's hesitation:
"As you haven't got anythin' to do you might shake down some apples
to bake and make four dozen dumplings for those who come to the

funeral, for one must have something to cheer them. You can light the
fire with the wood that's under the shed. It's dry."
He left the room, went back into the kitchen, opened the cupboard, took
out a six-pound loaf of