Endnotes

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Endnotes

A play on the words “Sceaux” (buckets) and “Sots” (fools). —⁠Translator’s Note ↩

Désabusé⁠—Dissillusioned. Des abusés⁠—Amongst the deluded. —⁠Translator’s note ↩

Oh, you have direful secrets, cruel waves!

You whisper them when clouds of tempest frown

And wives and mothers weep unhallowed graves

Yours are the mournful voices that we hear

When towards the shore by night our steps draw near

“Oceano Nox,” Victor Hugo, Selected Poems, vol. 3, p. 327

Literally, “The bird flies”⁠—a pun on the verb voler, which means both “to fly” and “to steal.” ↩

Nickname for Napolean III. ↩

Passenger boats which ply on the Seine. ↩

I well remember that infernal joy

Of being ravaged while I ravished her,

And there she lay beside me, breathless, hot,

A creature wan and cloyed, with grinding teeth

No heavenly moments⁠—rather fits from hell

“Cup and the Lip,” Alfred de Musset, Complete Writings, vol. 1, p. 253

When you and I in bed shall lie,

Lascivious we shall be,

Enlaced, playing a thousand tricks,

Of lovers, gamesomely.

The Works of Guy de Maupassant, vol. 3, p. 358

Caresses are merely restless transports,

The vain efforts of poor Love to attempt

The impossible union of souls through the body.

The Works of Guy de Maupassant, vol. 10, p. 287

Oh! the taste of the kisses first snatched through the veil.

The Complete Works of Guy de Maupassant, vol. 15, p. 205

Sleep you content, Voltaire, and does your hideous smile

Flit o’er your fleshless skull in mockery the while?

“Rolla,” Alfred de Musset, Complete Writings, vol. 2, p. 21

I well remember that infernal joy

Of being ravaged while I ravished her,

And there she lay beside me, breathless, hot,

A creature wan and cloyed, with grinding teeth

No heavenly moments⁠—rather fits from hell

“Cup and the Lip,” Alfred de Musset, Complete Writings, vol. 1, p. 253

I was looking in the air.

The Complete Writings of Guy de Maupassant, vol. 4, p. 29

I hate the poet who with tearful eye

Murmurs some name while gazing tow’rds a star,

Who sees no magic in the earth or sky

Unless Lizette or Ninon be not far.

The bard who in all Nature nothing sees

Divine, unless a petticoat he ties

Amorously to the branches of the trees

Or nightcap to the grass, is scarcely wise

He has not heard the eternal’s thunder tone

The voice of Nature in her various moods,

Who cannot tread the dim ravines alone,

And of no woman dream ’mid whispering woods.

The Works of Guy de Maupassant, vol. 8, p. 278

When we are young, our mornings are triumphant.

The Works of Guy de Maupassant, vol. 1, p. 182

Who comes? who calls?⁠—No, all is well:

’Twas but the tolling midnight bell.

O solitude! O poverty!

“La nuit de mai,” Alfred de Musset, Complete Writings, vol. 2, p. 308

Caresses are merely restless transports,

The vain efforts of poor Love to attempt

The impossible union of souls through the body.

The Works of Guy de Maupassant, vol. 10, p. 287

Tell me in what far-off land

The Roman beauty, Flora, lives;

Hipparchia, Thais’ cousin, and

All the beauty nature gives;

Echo speak, thy voice awake

Over river, stream, and lake,

Where are beauty’s smiles and tears?

And where are the snows of other years?

Blanche, as fair as lily’s chalice,

Swinging sweet, with voice serene,

Bertha Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice,

Emengarde, Le Mayne’s dear queen?

Where is Joan, the good Lorraine,

Whom th’ English brought to death and fame?

Where are all, O wisest seers,

And where the snows of other years?

The Complete Writings of Guy de Maupassant, vol. 16, p. 196

I hate the poet who with tearful eye

Murmurs some name while gazing tow’rds a star,

Who sees no magic in the earth or sky

Unless Lizette or Ninon be not far.

The bard who in all Nature nothing sees

Divine, unless a petticoat he ties

Amorously to the branches of the trees

Or nightcap to the grass, is scarcely wise

He has not heard the eternal’s thunder tone

The voice of Nature in her various moods,

Who cannot tread the dim ravines alone,

And of no woman dream ’mid whispering woods.

The Works of Guy de Maupassant, vol. 8, p. 278

A woman changeth oft her mind:

Yet fools still trust in womankind.

The Complete Writings of Guy de Maupassant, vol. 7, p. 100

You only were, in those rarest days

A common instrument under my art;

Like the bow, on the viol d’amour it plays

I dreamed my dream o’er your empty heart.

The Complete Writings of Guy de Maupassant, vol. 17, p. 217

You are thin, my beloved, but what of that?

One is nearer the heart when the breast is flat,

Like a bird in its little cage, I see

Love fluttering in your heart for me!

The Works of Guy de Maupassant, vol. 10, p. 390

I’m sorry for the Lord, the Lord of Albion

Whose praises are being sung in the salon,

If the Lord’s ears are tender in the least,

And he loves talent and beauty, He’s having a feast.

If He likes good music and wit and art

I pity the good Lord with all my heart.

The Works of Guy de Maupassant, vol. 10, p. 392⁠–⁠393

Nothing is sacred to a pastor,

Not even the dinner, or slumber, or

Ears of the poor traveler.

But do not let it happen again,

Or without delay I’ll take the first train.

The Works of Guy de Maupassant, vol. 10, p. 393

Ruth a Moabite,

Crouched at the feet of Boaz, with bare breast,

Hoping that some unknown ray of light

Would, at his awakening, reward her quest.

The Works of Guy de Maupassant, vol. 10, p. 397

Even when the bird walks one feels that it has wings,

The Works of Guy de Maupassant, vol. 3, p. 200

Oh! how nice, how nice it is,

To pick the sweet, wild strawberries.

The Works of Guy de Maupassant, vol. 2, p. 73

The princess, in a hurry

Without bell, priest, or beadle,

But with some water only,

Had baptized it.

The Complete Works of Guy de Maupassant, vol. 15, p. 193

Two millions, two millions

Are fine,

With five hundred thousand

And woman divine.

The Complete Writings of Guy de Maupassant, vol. 16, p. 228

Always the companion of whose heart you are not sure.

The Complete Writings of Guy de Maupassant, vol. 15, p. 216

Waterspout. ↩

In eyes as of a painting that entrances.

“Love of Lies,” Poems of Baudelaire, p. 133

An Arab dish. ↩

Like blue letter-cards but used as telegrams, they are sent through special tubes. ↩