Notre Coeur or A Woman's Pastime

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Guy de Maupassant. Notre Coeur or A Woman's Pastime

GUY DE MAUPASSANT

INTRODUCTION

NOTRE CŒUR

CHAPTER I. THE INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER II "WILL YOU WALK INTO MY PARLOR?"

CHAPTER III. THE THORNS OF THE ROSE

CHAPTER IV. THE BENEFIT OF CHANGE OF SCENE

CHAPTER V. CONSPIRACY

CHAPTER VI. QUESTIONINGS

CHAPTER VII. DEPRESSION

CHAPTER VIII. NEW HOPES

CHAPTER IX. DISILLUSION

CHAPTER X. FLIGHT

CHAPTER XI. LONELINESS

CHAPTER XII. CONSOLATION

CHAPTER XIII. MARIOLLE COPIES MME DE BURNE

THE OLIVE GROVE AND OTHER TALES

THE OLIVE GROVE

REVENGE

AN OLD MAID

COMPLICATION

FORGIVENESS

THE WHITE WOLF

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Born in the middle year of the nineteenth century, and fated unfortunately never to see its close, Guy de Maupassant was probably the most versatile and brilliant among the galaxy of novelists who enriched French literature between the years 1800 and 1900. Poetry, drama, prose of short and sustained effort, and volumes of travel and description, each sparkling with the same minuteness of detail and brilliancy of style, flowed from his pen during the twelve years of his literary life.

Although his genius asserted itself in youth, he had the patience of the true artist, spending his early manhood in cutting and polishing the facets of his genius under the stern though paternal mentorship of Gustave Flaubert. Not until he had attained the age of thirty did he venture on publication, challenging criticism for the first time with a volume of poems.

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"Will you have a cup of tea?" she asked.

Upon his acceptance she arose, and with a firm step in which there was no undulation, but which was rather marked by stiffness, proceeded to the table where the water was simmering in the depths of the machine, surrounded by a little garden of cakes, pastry, candied fruits, and bonbons. Then, as her profile was presented in clear relief against the hangings of the salon, Mariolle observed the delicacy of her form and the thinness of her hips beneath the broad shoulders and the full chest that he had been admiring a moment before. As the train of her light dress unrolled and dragged behind her, seemingly prolonging upon the carpet a body that had no end, this blunt thought arose to his mind: "Behold, a siren! She is altogether promising." She was now going from one to another, offering her refreshments with gestures of exquisite grace. Mariolle was following her with his eyes; but Lamarthe, who was walking about with his cup in his hand, came up to him and said:

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