I
“Look here,” I said to Labarbe, “you have again repeated those words, ‘That pig, Morin.’ Why on earth do I never hear Morin’s name mentioned without his being called a pig?”
Labarbe, who has since become a Deputy, blinked at me like an owl and said: “Do you mean to say that you do not know Morin’s story, and yet you come from La Rochelle?” I confessed that I did not know Morin’s story, and then Labarbe rubbed his hands, and began his narrative.
“You knew Morin, did you not, and you remember his large drapery shop on the Quai de la Rochelle?”
“Yes, perfectly.”
“Well, you must know that in 1862 or ’63 Morin went to spend a fortnight in Paris for pleasure, or for his pleasures, but under the pretext of renewing his stock, and you also know what a fortnight in Paris means for a country shopkeeper; it fires his blood. The theatre every evening, women brushing up against you, and a continual state of mental excitement; it drives one mad. One sees nothing but dancers in tights, actresses in very low dresses, round legs, plump shoulders, all nearly within reach of one’s hands, without daring or being able to touch them. It is rare for one to have even an affair or two with the commoner sort. And one leaves with heart still aflutter, and a mind still exhilarated by a sort of longing for kisses which tickle one’s lips.
“Morin was in that state when he took his ticket for La Rochelle by the 8:40 night express. Full of regrets and longings he was walking up and down the big waiting-room at the station, when he suddenly came to a halt in front of a young lady who was kissing an old one. She had her veil up, and Morin murmured with delight: ‘By Jove, what a beautiful woman!’
“When she had said ‘Goodbye’ to the old lady, she went into the waiting-room, and Morin followed her; then she went on to the platform and Morin still followed her; then she got into an empty carriage, and he again followed her. There were very few travellers by the express, the engine whistled, and the train started. They were alone. Morin devoured her with his eyes. She appeared to be about nineteen or twenty, and was fair, tall, and had an emancipated air. She wrapped a travelling rug round her legs and stretched herself on the seat to sleep.
“Morin wondered who she was. And a thousand conjectures, a thousand projects went through his mind. He said to himself: ‘So many stories are told of adventures on railway journeys, maybe I am going to have one. Who knows? An affair of this kind can take place so quickly. Perhaps all that I need is a little courage. Was it not Danton who said: “Audacity, more audacity, and always audacity”? If it was not Danton, it was Mirabeau. Anyhow, what does that matter? But then, I am lacking in courage, and that is the difficulty. Oh! if one only knew, if one could only read people’s minds! I will bet that every day one misses magnificent opportunities without knowing it. The slightest sign would be enough to let me know that she is perfectly agreeable …’
“Then he imagined combinations which led him to triumph. He pictured some chivalrous deed, or merely some slight service which he rendered her, a lively, gallant conversation which ended in a declaration, which ended in—in what you can guess.
“But he could find no opening; he had no pretext, and he waited for some fortunate circumstance, with his heart wildly beating, and his mind topsy-turvy. The night passed, and the pretty girl still slept, while Morin was meditating her downfall. The day broke and soon the first ray of sunlight appeared in the sky, a long, clear ray which shone on the face of the sleeping girl, and woke her, so she sat up, looked at the country, then at Morin, and smiled. She smiled like a happy woman, with an engaging and bright look, and Morin trembled. Obviously that smile was intended for him, it was a discreet invitation, the signal which he was waiting for. That smile meant: ‘How stupid, what a ninny, what a dolt, what a donkey you are, to have sat there on your seat like a stick all night.
“ ‘Just look at me. Am I not charming? And you have sat like that for a whole night, alone with a pretty woman, without venturing to do anything, you great booby!’
“She was still smiling as she looked at him; she even began to laugh; and he was losing his head trying to find something suitable to say, no matter what. But he could think of nothing, nothing, and then, arming himself with Dutch courage, he said to himself: ‘It can’t be helped, I will risk everything,’ and suddenly without the slightest warning, he moved towards her, his arms extended, his lips protruding, and seizing her in his arms, kissed her.
“She sprang up with a bound, shouting: ‘Help! help!’ and screaming with terror; then she opened the carriage door, and waved her arm outside, mad with fear and trying to jump out, while Morin, who was almost distracted, and feeling sure that she would throw herself out, held her by her skirt and stammered: ‘Oh! Madame! Oh! Madame!’
“The train slackened speed, and then stopped. Two guards rushed up at the young woman’s frantic signals, and she threw herself into their arms, stammering: ‘That man tried—tried—to—to—’
“And then she fainted.
“They were at Mauzé station, and the gendarme on duty arrested Morin. When the victim of his brutality had regained her consciousness, she made her charge against him, and the police drew it up. The poor draper did not reach home till night, with a prosecution hanging over him for an outrage on morals in a public place.