La mère sauvage by guy de maupassant http   www horrormasters com
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La Mère Sauvage By Guy© 20d06 by hettp://www.HorrorMasters.acomupassant I had not been at Virelogne for fifteen years. I went back there in the autumn, to shoot with my friend Serval, who had at last rebuilt his château, which had been destroyed by the Prussians.  Iloved that districtvery much. It is one of those corners of the world which have a sensuous charm for the eyes. You love it with a bodily love. We, whom the country seduces, we keep tender memories for certain springs, for certain woods, for certain pools, for certain hills, seen very often, and which have stirred us like joyful events. Sometimes our thoughts turn back towards a corner in a forest, or the end of a bank, or an orchard powdered withflowers, seen but a single time, on some gay day; yet remaining in our heartslike the images of certain women met in the street on a spring morning, with bright transparent dresses; and leaving in soul and body an unappeased desire which is not to be forgotten,a feeling that you have just rubbed elbows with happiness.  At Virelogne I loved the whole countryside, dotted with little woods, and crossed by brooks which flashed in the sun and looked like veins, carrying blood to the earth. You fished in them for crawfish, trout, and eels! Divine happiness! You could bathe in places, andyou often found snipe among the high grass which grew along the borders of these slender watercourses.  I was walking, lightly as a goat, watching my two dogs ranging before me. Serval, a hundred metres to my right, was beating a field of lucern. I turned the thicket which forms the boundary of the wood of Sandres, and I saw a cottage in ruins.  All of a sudden, I remembered it as I had seen it the last time, in 1869, neat, covered with vines, with chickens before the door.  Whatsadder than a dead house, with its skeleton standing upright, bare and sinister?  Ialso remembered that in it, one very tiring day, the good woman had given me a glass of wine to drink, and that Serval had then told me the history of its inhabitants. The father, an old poacher, had been killed by the gendarmes. The son, whom I had once seen, was a tall, dry fellow who also passed for a ferocious destroyer of game. People called them “les Sauvage.”  Wasthat a name or a nickname?  Ihailed Serval. He came up with his long strides like a crane.  Iasked him:  “What’sbecome of those people?”  Andhe told me this story: When war was declared, the son Sauvage, who was then thirtythreeyears old, enlisted, leaving his mother alone in the house. People did not pity the old woman verymuch, because she had money; they knew it.  But she remained quite alone in that isolated dwelling so far from the village, on the edge of the wood. She was not afraid, however, being of the same strain as her menfolk;a hardy old woman, tall and thin, who laughed seldom, and with whom one never jested. The women of the fields laugh but little in any case; that is men’s business, that! But they themselves have sad and narrowed hearts, leading a melancholy, gloomy life. The peasants learn a little boisterous merriment at the tavern, but their helpmates remain grave, with countenances which are always severe. The muscles of their faces have never learned the movements of the laugh.
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