Le Papa de Simon (Guy de Maupassant)

Chac cac ban deu biet Guy de Maupassant, it nhat la qua truyen "Bo cua Simon" ma ta da duoc hoc hoi lop 8.
Username gioi thieu voi cac ban nguyen tac bang tieng Phap cua truyen ngan nay.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

LE PAPA DE SIMON

Midi finissait de sonner. La porte de l'ộcole s'ouvrit, et les gamins se prộcipitốrent en se bousculant pour sortir plus vite. Mais au lieu de se disperser rapidement et de rentrer dợner, comme ils le faisaient chaque jour, ils s'arrờtốrent quelques pas, se rộunirent par groupes et se mirent chuchoter.
C'est que, ce matin-l, Simon, le fils de la Blanchotte, ộtait venu la classe pour la premiốre fois.
Tous avaient entendu parler de la Blanchotte dans leurs familles ; et quoiqu'on lui fợt bon accueil en public, les mốres la traitaient entre elles avec une sorte de compassion un peu mộprisante qui avait gagnộ les enfants sans qu'ils sussent du tout pourquoi.
Quant Simon, ils ne le connaissaient pas, car il ne sortait jamais et il ne galopinait point avec eux dans les rues du village ou sur les bords de la riviốre. Aussi ne l'aimaient-ils guốre ; et c'ộtait avec une certaine joie, mờlộe d'un ộtonnement considộrable, qu'ils avaient accueilli et qu'ils s'ộtaient rộpộtộ l'un l'autre cette parole ***e par un gars de quatorze ou quinze ans qui paraissait en savoir long tant il clignait finement des yeux :
- Vous savez... Simon... eh bien, il n'a pas de papa.
Le fils de la Blanchotte parut son tour sur le seuil de l'ộcole.
Il avait sept ou huit ans. Il ộtait un peu põlot, trốs propre, avec l'air timide, presque gauche.
Il s'en retournait chez sa mốre quand les groupes de ses camarades, chuchotant toujours et le regardant avec les yeux malins et cruels des enfants qui mộ***ent un mauvais coup, l'entourốrent peu peu et finirent par l'enfermer tout fait. Il restait l, plantộ au milieu d'eux, surpris et embarrassộ, sans comprendre ce qu'on allait lui faire. Mais le gars qui avait apportộ la nouvelle, enorgueilli du succốs obtenu dộj, lui demanda :
- Comment t'appelles-tu, toi ?
Il rộpon*** : "Simon."
- Simon quoi ? reprit l'autre.
L'enfant rộpộta tout confus : "Simon."
Le gars lui cria : "On s'appelle Simon quelque chose... c'est pas un nom ỗa... Simon."
Et lui, prờt pleurer, rộpon*** pour la troisiốme fois :
- Je m'appelle Simon.
Les galopins se mirent rire. Le gars triomphant ộleva la voix : "Vous voyez bien qu'il n'a pas de papa."
Un grand silence se fit. Les enfants ộtaient stupộfaits par cette chose extraordinaire, impossible, monstrueuse, - un garỗon qui n'a pas de papa ; - ils le regardaient comme un phộnomốne, un ờtre hors de la nature, et ils sentaient grandir en eux ce mộpris, inexpliquộ jusque-l, de leurs mốres pour la Blanchotte.
Quand Simon, il s'ộtait appuyộ contre un arbre pour ne pas tomber ; et il restait comme atterrộ par un dộsastre irrộparable. Il cherchait s'expliquer. Mais il ne pouvait rien trouver pour leur rộpondre, et dộmentir cette chose affreuse qu'il n'avait pas de papa. Enfin, livide, il leur cria tout hasard : "Si, j'en ai un."
- Oự est-il ? demanda le gars.
Simon se tut ; il ne savait pas. Les enfants riaient, trốs excitộs ; et ces fils des champs, plus proches des bờtes, ộprouvaient ce besoin cruel qui pousse les poules d'une basse-cour achever l'une d'entre elles aussitụt qu'elle est blessộe. Simon avisa tout coup un petit voisin, le fils d'une veuve, qu'il avait toujours vu, comme lui-mờme, tout seul avec sa mốre.
- Et toi non plus, ***-il, tu n'as pas de papa.
- Si, rộpon*** l'autre, j'en ai un.
- Oự est-il ? riposta Simon.
- Il est mort, dộclara l'enfant avec une fiertộ superbe, il est au cimetiốre, mon papa.
Un murmure d'approbation courut parmi les garnements, comme si ce fait d'avoir son pốre mort au cimetiốre eỷt grandi leur camarade pour ộcraser cet autre qui n'en avait point du tout. Et ces polissons, dont les pốres ộtaient, pour la plupart, mộchants, ivrognes, voleurs et durs leurs femmes, se bousculaient en se serrant de plus en plus, comme si eux, les lộgitimes, eussent voulu ộtouffer dans une pression celui qui ộtait hors la loi.
L'un, tout coup, qui se trouvait contre Simon, lui tira la langue d'un air narquois et lui cria :
- Pas de papa ! pas de papa !
Simon le saisit deux mains aux cheveux et se mit lui cribler les jambes de coups de pieds, pendant qu'il lui mordait la joue cruellement. Il se fit une bousculade ộnorme. Les deux combattants furent sộparộs, et Simon se trouva frappộ, dộchirộ, meurtri, roulộ par terre, au milieu du cercle des galopins qui applaudissaient. Comme il se relevait, en nettoyant machinalement avec sa main sa petite blouse toute sale de poussiốre, quelqu'un lui cria :
- Va le dire ton papa.
Alors il sentit dans son coeur un grand ộcroulement. Ils ộtaient plus forts que lui, ils l'avaient battu, et il ne pouvait point leur rộpondre, car il sentait bien que c'ộtait vrai qu'il n'avait pas de papa. Plein d'orgueil, il essaya pendant quelques secondes de lutter contre les larmes qui l'ộtranglaient. Il eut une suffocation, puis, sans cris, il se mit pleurer par grands sanglots qui le secouaient prộcipitamment
Alors une joie fộroce ộclata chez ses ennemis, et naturellement, ainsi que les sauvages dans leurs gaietộs terribles, ils se prirent par la main et se mirent danser en rond autour de lui, en rộpộtant comme un refrain : "Pas de papa ! pas de papa !"
Mais Simon tout coup cessa de sangloter. Une rage l'affola. Il y avait des pierres sous ses pieds ; il les ramassa et, de toutes ses forces, les lanỗa contre ses bourreaux. Deux ou trois furent atteints et se sauvốrent en criant ; et il avait l'air tellement formidable qu'une panique eut lieu parmi les autres. Lõches, comme l'est toujours la foule devant un homme exaspộrộ, ils se dộbandốrent et s'enfuirent.
Restộ seul, le petit enfant sans pốre se mit courir vers les champs, car un souvenir lui ộtait venu qui avait amenộ dans son esprit une grande rộsolution. Il voulait se noyer dans la riviốre.
Il se rappelait en effet que, huit jours auparavant, un pauvre diable qui mendiait sa vie s'ộtait jetộ dans l'eau parce qu'il n'avait plus d'argent. Simon ộtait l lorsqu'on le repờchait ; et le triste bonhomme, qui lui semblait ordinairement lamentable, malpropre et laid, l'avait alors frappộ par son air tranquille, avec ses joues põles, sa longue barbe mouillộe et ses yeux ouverts, trốs calmes. On avait *** alentour : "Il est mort." Quelqu'un avait ajoutộ : "Il est bien heureux maintenant." - Et Simon voulait aussi se noyer parce qu'il n'avait pas de pốre, comme ce misộrable qui n'avait pas d'argent.
Il arriva tout prốs de l'eau et la regarda couler. Quelques poissons folõtraient, rapides, dans le courant clair, et, par moments, faisaient un petit bond et happaient des mouches voltigeant la surface. Il cessa de pleurer pour les voir, car leur manốge l'intộressait beaucoup. Mais, parfois, comme dans les accalmies d'une tempờte passent tout coup de grandes rafales de vent qui font craquer les arbres et se perdent l'horizon, cette pensộe lui revenait avec une douleur aiguở : - "Je vais me noyer parce que je n'ai point de papa."
Il faisait trốs chaud, trốs bon. Le doux soleil chauffait l'herbe. L'eau brillait comme un miroir. Et Simon avait des minutes de bộatitude, de cet alanguissement qui suit les larmes, oự il lui venait de grandes envies de s'endormir l, sur l'herbe, dans la chaleur.
Une petite grenouille verte sauta sous ses pieds. Il essaya de la prendre. Elle lui ộchappa. Il la poursuivit et la manqua trois fois de suite. Enfin il la saisit par l'extrộmitộ de ses pattes de derriốre et il se mit rire en voyant les efforts que faisait la bờte pour s'ộchapper. Elle se ramassait sur ses grandes jambes, puis, d'une dộtente brusque, les allongeait subitement, roides comme deux barres ; tandis que, l'oeil tout rond avec son cercle d'or, elle battait l'air de ses pattes de devant qui s'agitaient comme des mains. Cela lui rappela un joujou fait avec d'ộtroites planchettes de bois clouộes en zigzag les unes sur les autres, qui, par un mouvement semblable, conduisaient l'exercice de petits soldats piquộs dessus. Alors, il pensa sa maison, puis sa mốre, et, pris d'une grande tristesse, il recommenỗa pleurer. Des frissons lui passaient dans les membres ; il se mit genoux et rộcita sa priốre comme avant de s'endormir. Mais il ne put l'achever, car des sanglots lui revinrent si pressộs, si tumultueux, qu'ils l'envahirent tout entier. Il ne pensait plus ; il ne voyait plus rien autour de lui et il n'ộtait occupộ qu' pleurer.
Soudain, une lourde main s'appuya sur son ộpaule et une grosse voix lui demanda : "Qu'est-ce qui te fait donc tant de chagrin, mon bonhomme ?"
Simon se retourna. Un grand ouvrier qui avait une barbe et des cheveux noirs tout frisộs le regardait d'un air bon. Il rộpon*** avec des larmes plein les yeux et plein la gorge :
- Ils m'ont battu... parce que... je... je... n'ai pas... de papa... pas de papa...
- Comment, *** l'homme en souriant, mais tout le monde en a un.
L'enfant reprit pộniblement au milieu des spasmes de son chagrin : "Moi... moi... je n'en ai pas."
Alors l'ouvrier devint grave ; il avait reconnu le fils de la Blanchotte, et, quoique nouveau dans le pays, il savait vaguement son histoire.
- Allons, ***-il, console-toi, mon garỗon, et viens-t-en avec moi chez ta maman. On t'en donnera... un papa.
Ils se mirent en route, le grand tenant le petit par la main, et l'homme souriait de nouveau, car il n'ộtait pas fõchộ de voir cette Blanchotte, qui ộtait, contait-on, une des plus belles filles du pays ; et il se disait peut-ờtre, au fond de sa pensộe, qu'une jeunesse qui avait failli pouvait bien faillir encore.
Ils arrivốrent devant une petite maison blanche, trốs propre.
- C'est l, *** l'enfant, et il cria : "Maman !"
Une femme se montra, et l'ouvrier cessa brusquement de sourire, car il comprit tout de suite qu'on ne badinait plus avec cette grande fille põle qui restait sộvốre sur sa porte, comme pour dộfendre un homme le seuil de cette maison oự elle avait ộtộ dộj trahie par un autre. Intimidộ et sa casquette la main, il balbutia :
- Tenez, madame, je vous ramốne votre petit garỗon qui s'ộtait perdu prốs de la riviốre.
Mais Simon sauta au cou de sa mốre et lui *** en se remettant pleurer :
- Non, maman, j'ai voulu me noyer, parce que les autres m'ont battu... m'ont battu... parce que je n'ai pas de papa.
Une rougeur cuisante couvrit les joues de la jeune femme, et, meurtrie jusqu'au fond de sa chair, elle embrassa son enfant avec violence pendant que des larmes rapides lui coulaient sur la figure. L'homme ộmu restait l, ne sachant comment partir. Mais Simon soudain courut vers lui et lui *** :
- Voulez-vous ờtre mon papa ?
Un grand silence se fit. La Blanchotte, muette et torturộe de honte, s'appuyait contre le mur, les deux mains sur son coeur. L'enfant, voyant qu'on ne lui rộpondait point, reprit :
- Si vous ne voulez pas, je retournerai me noyer.
L'ouvrier prit la chose en plaisanterie et rộpon*** en riant ;
- Mais oui, je veux bien.
- Comment est-ce que tu t'appelles, demanda alors l'enfant, pour que je rộponde aux autres quand ils voudront savoir ton nom ?
- Philippe, rộpon*** l'homme.
Simon se tut une seconde pour bien faire entrer ce nom-l dans sa tờte, puis il ten*** les bras, tout consolộ, en disant :
- Eh bien ! Philippe, tu es mon papa.
L'ouvrier, l'enlevant de terre, l'embrassa brusquement sur les deux joues, puis il s'enfuit trốs vite grandes enjambộes.
Quand l'enfant entra dans l'ộcole, le lendemain, un rire mộchant l'accueillit ; et la sortie, lorsque le gars voulu recommencer, Simon lui jeta ces mots la tờte, comme il aurait fait d'une pierre : "Il s'appelle Philippe, mon papa."
Des hurlements de joie jaillirent de tous les cụtộs :
- Philippe qui ?... Philippe quoi ?... Qu'est-ce que c'est que ỗa, Philippe ?... Oự l'as-tu pris ton Philippe ?
Simon ne rộpon*** rien ; et, inộbranlable dans sa foi, il les dộfiait de l'oeil, prờt se laisser martyriser plutụt que de fuir devant eux. Le maợtre d'ộcole le dộlivra et il retourna chez sa mốre.
Pendant trois mois, le grand ouvrier Philippe passa souvent auprốs de la maison de la Blanchotte et, quelquefois, il s'enhardissait lui parler lorsqu'il la voyait cousant auprốs de sa fenờtre. Elle lui rộpondait poliment, toujours grave, sans rire jamais avec lui, et sans le laisser entrer chez elle. Cependant, un peu fat, comme tous les hommes, il s'imagina qu'elle ộtait souvent plus rouge que de coutume lorsqu'elle causait avec lui.
Mais une rộputation tombộe est si pộnible refaire et demeure toujours si fragile, que, malgrộ la rộserve ombrageuse de la Blanchotte, on jasait dộj dans le pays.
Quant Simon, il aimait beaucoup son nouveau papa et se promenait avec lui presque tous les soirs, la journộe finie. Il allait assidỷment l'ộcole et passait au milieu de ses camarades fort digne, sans leur rộpondre jamais.
Un jour, pourtant, le gars qui l'avait attaquộ le premier lui *** :
- Tu as menti, tu n'as pas un papa qui s'appelle Philippe.
- Pourquoi ỗa ? demanda Simon trốs ộmu.
Le gars se frottait les mains. Il reprit :
- Parce que si tu en avais un, il serait le mari de ta maman.
Simon se troubla devant la justesse de ce raisonnement, nộanmoins il rộpon*** : "C'est mon papa tout de mờme."
- ầa se peut bien, *** le gars en ricanant, mais ce n'est pas ton papa tout fait.
Le petit la Blanchotte courba la tờte et s'en alla rờveur du cụtộ de la forge au pốre Loizon, oự travaillait Philippe.
Cette forge ộtait comme ensevelie sous des arbres. Il y faisait trốs sombre ; seule, la lueur rouge d'un foyer formidable ộclairait par grands reflets cinq forgerons aux bras nus qui frappaient sur leurs enclumes avec un terrible fracas. Ils se tenaient debout, enflammộs comme des dộmons, les yeux fixộs sur le fer ardent qu'ils torturaient ; et leur lourde pensộe montait et retombait avec leurs marteaux.
Simon entra sans ờtre vu et alla tout doucement tirer son ami par la manche. Celui-ci se retourna. Soudain le travail s'interrompit, et tous les hommes regardốrent, trốs attentifs. Alors, au milieu de ce silence inaccoutumộ, monta la petite voix frờle de Simon.
- Dis donc, Philippe, le gars la Michaude qui m'a contộ tout l'heure que tu n'ộtais pas mon papa tout fait.
- Pourquoi ỗa ? demanda l'ouvrier.
L'enfant rộpon*** avec toute sa naùvetộ :
- Parce que tu n'es pas le mari de maman.
Personne ne rit. Philippe resta debout, appuyant son front sur le dos de ses grosses mains que supportait le manche de son marteau dressộ sur l'enclume. Il rờvait. Ses quatre compagnons le regardaient et, tout petit entre ces gộants, Simon, anxieux, attendait. Tout coup, un des forgerons, rộpondant la pensộe de tous, *** Philippe :
- C'est tout de mờme une bonne et brave fille que la Blanchotte, et vaillante et rangộe malgrộ son malheur, et qui serait une digne femme pour un honnờte homme.
- ầa, c'est vrai, dirent les trois autres.
L'ouvrier continua :
- Est-ce sa faute, cette fille, si elle a failli ? On lui avait promis mariage, et j'en connais plus d'une qu'on respecte bien aujourd'hui et qui en a fait tout autant.
- ầa, c'est vrai, rộpondirent en choeur les trois hommes.
Il reprit : "Ce qu'elle a peinộ, la pauvre, pour ộlever son gars toute seule, et ce qu'elle a pleurộ depuis qu'elle ne sort plus que pour aller l'ộglise, il n'y a que le bon Dieu qui le sait."
- C'est encore vrai, dirent les autres.
Alors on n'enten*** plus que le soufflet qui activait le feu du foyer. Philippe, brusquement, se pencha vers Simon :
- "Va dire ta maman que j'irai lui parler ce soir."
Puis il poussa l'enfant dehors par les ộpaules.
Il revint son travail et, d'un seul coup, les cinq marteaux retombốrent ensemble sur les enclumes. Ils battirent ainsi le fer jusqu' la nuit, forts, puissants, joyeux comme des marteaux satisfaits. Mais, de mờme que le bourdon d'une cathộdrale rộsonne dans les jours de fờte au-dessus du tintement des autres cloches, ainsi le marteau de Philippe, dominant le fracas des autres, s'abattait de seconde en seconde avec un vacarme assourdissant. Et lui, l'oeil allumộ, forgeait passionnộment, debout dans les ộtincelles.
Le ciel ộtait plein d'ộtoiles quand il vint frapper la porte de la Blanchotte. Il avait sa blouse des dimanches, une chemise fraợche et la barbe faite. La jeune femme se montra sur le seuil et lui *** d'un air peinộ : "C'est mal de venir ainsi la nuit tombộe, monsieur Philippe."
Il voulut rộpondre, balbutia et resta confus devant elle.
Elle reprit : - "Vous comprenez bien pourtant qu'il ne faut plus que l'on parle de moi."
Alors, lui, tout coup :
- Qu'est-ce que ỗa fait, ***-il, si vous voulez ờtre ma femme !
Aucune voix ne lui rộpon***, mais il crut entendre dans l'ombre de la chambre le bruit d'un corps qui s'affaissait. Il entra bien vite ; et Simon, qui ộtait couchộ dans son lit, distingua le son d'un baiser et quelques mots que sa mốre murmurait bien bas. Puis, tout coup, il se sentit enlevộ dans les mains de son ami, et celui-ci, le tenant au bout de ses bras d'hercule, lui cria :
- Tu leur diras, tes camarades, que ton papa c'est Philippe Remy, le forgeron, et qu'il ira tirer les oreilles tous ceux qui te feront du mal.
Le lendemain, comme l'ộcole ộtait pleine et que la classe allait commencer, le petit Simon se leva, tout põle et les lốvres tremblantes : "Mon papa, ***-il d'une voix claire, c'est Philippe Remy, le forgeron, et il a promis qu'il tirerait les oreilles tous ceux qui me feraient du mal."
Cette fois, personne ne rit plus, car on le connaissait bien ce Philippe Remy, le forgeron, et c'ộtait un papa, celui-l, dont tout le monde eỷt ộtộ fier.


1er dộcembre 1879

Va day la ban dich tieng Anh cua truyen nay :
Simon's Papa
Noon had just struck. The school door opened and the youngsters darted out, jostling each other in their haste to get out quickly. But instead of promptly dispersing and going home to dinner as usual, they stopped a few paces off, broke up into knots, and began whispering.
The fact was that, that morning, Simon, the son of La Blanchotte, had, for the first time, attended school.
They had all of them in their families heard talk of La Blanchotte; and, although in public she was welcome enough, the mothers among themselves treated her with a somewhat disdainful compassion, which the children had imitated without in the least knowing why.
As for Simon himself, they did not know him, for he never went out, and did not run about with them in the streets of the village, or along the banks of the river. And they did not care for him; so it was with a certain delight, mingled with considerable astonishment, that they met and repeated to each other what had been said by a lad of fourteen or fifteen who appeared to know all about it, so sagaciously did he wink. "You know--Simon--well, he has no papa."
Just then La Blanchotte's son appeared in the doorway of the school.
He was seven or eight years old, rather pale, very neat, with a timid and almost awkward manner.
He was starting home to his mother's house when the groups of his schoolmates, whispering and watching him with the mischievous and heartless eyes of children bent upon playing a nasty trick, gradually closed in around him and ended by surrounding him altogether. There he stood in their midst, surprised and embarrassed, not understanding what they were going to do with him. But the lad who had brought the news, puffed up with the success he had met with already, demanded:
"What is your name, you?"
He answered: "Simon."
"Simon what?" retorted the other.
The child, altogether bewildered, repeated: "Simon."
The lad shouted at him: "One is named Simon something--that is not a name--Simon indeed."
The child, on the brink of tears, replied for the third time:
"My name is Simon."
The urchins began to laugh. The triumphant tormentor cried: "You can see plainly that he has no papa."
A deep silence ensued. The children were dumfounded by this extraordinary, impossible, monstrous thing--a boy who had not a papa; they looked upon him as a phenomenon, an unnatural being, and they felt that hitherto inexplicable contempt of their mothers for La Blanchotte growing upon them. As for Simon, he had leaned against a tree to avoid falling, and he remained as if prostrated by an irreparable disaster. He sought to explain, but could think of nothing-to say to refute this horrible charge that he had no papa. At last he shouted at them quite recklessly: "Yes, I have one."
"Where is he?" demanded the boy.
Simon was silent, he did not know. The children roared, tremendously excited; and those country boys, little more than animals, experienced that cruel craving which prompts the fowls of a farmyard to destroy one of their number as soon as it is wounded. Simon suddenly espied a little neighbor, the son of a widow, whom he had seen, as he himself was to be seen, always alone with his mother.
"And no more have you," he said; "no more have you a papa."
"Yes," replied the other, "I have one."
"Where is he?" rejoined Simon.
"He is dead," declared the brat, with superb dignity; "he is in the cemetery, is my papa."
A murmur of approval rose among the little wretches as if this fact of possessing a papa dead in a cemetery had caused their comrade to grow big enough to crush the other one who had no papa at all. And these boys, whose fathers were for the most part bad men, drunkards, thieves, and who beat their wives, jostled each other to press closer and closer, as though they, the legitimate ones, would smother by their pressure one who was illegitimate.
The boy who chanced to be next Simon suddenly put his tongue out at him with a mocking air and shouted at him:
"No papa! No papa!"
Simon seized him by the hair with both hands and set to work to disable his legs with kicks, while he bit his cheek ferociously. A tremendous struggle ensued between the two combatants, and Simon found himself beaten, torn, bruised, rolled on the ground in the midst of the ring of applauding schoolboys. As he arose, mechanically brushing with his hand his little blouse all covered with dust, some one shouted at him:
"Go and tell your papa."
Then he felt a great sinking at his heart. They were stronger than he was, they had beaten him, and he had no answer to give them, for he knew well that it was true that he had no papa. Full of pride, he attempted for some moments to struggle against the tears which were choking him. He had a feeling of suffocation, and then without any sound he commenced to weep, with great shaking sobs. A ferocious joy broke out among his enemies, and, with one accord, just like savages in their fearful festivals, they took each other by the hand and danced round him in a circle, repeating as a refrain:
"No papa! No papa!"
But suddenly Simon ceased sobbing. He became ferocious. There were stones under his feet; he picked them up and with all his strength hurled them at his tormentors. Two or three were struck and rushed off yelling, and so formidable did he appear that the rest became panic-stricken. Cowards, as the mob always is in presence of an exasperated man, they broke up and fled. Left alone, the little fellow without a father set off running toward the fields, for a recollection had been awakened in him which determined his soul to a great resolve. He made up his mind to drown himself in the river.
He remembered, in fact, that eight days before, a poor devil who begged for his livelihood had thrown himself into the water because he had no more money. Simon had been there when they fished him out again; and the wretched man, who usually seemed to him so miserable, and ugly, had then struck him as being so peaceful with his pale cheeks, his long drenched beard, and his open eyes full of calm. The bystanders had said:
"He is dead."
And some one had said:
"He is quite happy now."
And Simon wished to drown himself also, because he had no father, just like the wretched being who had no money.
He reached the water and watched it flowing. Some fish were sporting briskly in the clear stream and occasionally made a little bound and caught the flies flying on the surface. He stopped crying in order to watch them, for their maneuvers interested him greatly. But, at intervals, as in a tempest intervals of calm alternate suddenly with tremendous gusts of wind, which snap off the trees and then lose themselves in the horizon, this thought would return to him with intense pain:
"I am going to drown myself because I have no papa."
It was very warm, fine weather. The pleasant sunshine warmed the grass. The water shone like a mirror. And Simon enjoyed some minutes of happiness, of that languor which follows weeping, and felt inclined to fall asleep there upon the grass in the warm sunshine.
A little green frog leaped from under his feet. He endeavored to catch it. It escaped him. He followed it and lost it three times in succession. At last he caught it by one of its hind legs and began to laugh as he saw the efforts the creature made to escape. It gathered itself up on its hind legs and then with a violent spring suddenly stretched them out as stiff as two bars; while it beat the air with its front legs as though they were hands, its round eyes staring in their circle of yellow. It reminded him of a toy made of straight slips of wood nailed zigzag one on the other; which by a similar movement regulated the movements of the little soldiers fastened thereon. Then he thought of his home, and then of his mother, and, overcome by sorrow, he again began to weep. A shiver passed over him. He knelt down and said his prayers as before going to bed. But he was unable to finish them, for tumultuous, violent sobs shook his whole frame. He no longer thought, he no longer saw anything around him, and was wholly absorbed in crying.
Suddenly a heavy hand was placed upon his shoulder, and a rough voice asked him:
"What is it that causes you so much grief, my little man?"
Simon turned round. A tall workman with a beard and black curly hair was staring at him good-naturedly. He answered with his eyes and throat full of tears:
"They beat me--because--I--I have no--papa--no papa."
"What!" said the man, smiling; "why, everybody has one."
The child answered painfully amid his spasms of grief:
"But I--I--I have none."
Then the workman became serious. He had recognized La Blanchotte's son, and, although himself a new arrival in the neighborhood, he had a vague idea of her history.
"Well," said he, "console yourself, my boy, and come with me home to your mother. They will give you--a papa."
And so they started on the way, the big fellow holding the little fellow by the hand, and the man smiled, for he was not sorry to see this Blanchotte, who was, it was said, one of the prettiest girls of the countryside, and, perhaps, he was saying to himself, at the bottom of his heart, that a lass who had erred might very well err again.
They arrived in front of a very neat little white house.
"There it is," exclaimed the child, and he cried, "Mamma!"
A woman appeared, and the workman instantly left off smiling, for he saw at once that there was no fooling to be done with the tall pale girl who stood austerely at her door as though to defend from one man the threshold of that house where she had already been betrayed by another. Intimidated, his cap in his hand, he stammered out:
"See, madame, I have brought you back your little boy who had lost himself near the river."
But Simon flung his arms about his mother's neck and told her, as he again began to cry:
"No, mamma, I wished to drown myself, because the others had beaten me-- had beaten me--because I have no papa."
A burning redness covered the young woman's cheeks; and, hurt to the quick, she embraced her child passionately, while the tears coursed down her face. The man, much moved, stood there, not knowing how to get away.
But Simon suddenly ran to him and said:
"Will you be my papa?"
A deep silence ensued. La Blanchotte, dumb and tortured with shame, leaned herself against the wall, both her hands upon her heart. The child, seeing that no answer was made him, replied:
"If you will not, I shall go back and drown myself."
The workman took the matter as a jest and answered, laughing:
"Why, yes, certainly I will."
"What is your name," went on the child, "so that I may tell the others when they wish to know your name?"
"Philip," answered the man:
Simon was silent a moment so that he might get the name well into his head; then he stretched out his arms, quite consoled, as he said:
"Well, then, Philip, you are my papa."
The workman, lifting him from the ground, kissed him hastily on both cheeks, and then walked away very quickly with great strides. When the child returned to school next day he was received with a spiteful laugh, and at the end of school, when the lads were on the point of recommencing, Simon threw these words at their heads as he would have done a stone: "He is named Philip, my papa."
Yells of delight burst out from all sides.
"Philip who? Philip what? What on earth is Philip? Where did you pick up your Philip?"
Simon answered nothing; and, immovable in his faith, he defied them with his eye, ready to be martyred rather than fly before them. The school master came to his rescue and he returned home to his mother.
During three months, the tall workman, Philip, frequently passed by La Blanchotte's house, and sometimes he made bold to speak to her when he saw her sewing near the window. She answered him civilly, always sedately, never joking with him, nor permitting him to enter her house. Notwithstanding, being, like all men, a bit of a coxcomb, he imagined that she was often rosier than usual when she chatted with him.
But a lost reputation is so difficult to regain and always remains so fragile that, in spite of the shy reserve of La Blanchotte, they already gossiped in the neighborhood.
As for Simon he loved his new papa very much, and walked with him nearly every evening when the day's work was done. He went regularly to school, and mixed with great dignity with his schoolfellows without ever answering them back.
One day, however, the lad who had first attacked him said to him:
"You have lied. You have not a papa named Philip."
"Why do you say that?" demanded Simon, much disturbed.
The youth rubbed his hands. He replied:
"Because if you had one he would be your mamma's husband."
Simon was confused by the truth of this reasoning; nevertheless, he retorted:
"He is my papa, all the same."
"That can very well be," exclaimed the urchin with a sneer, "but that is not being your papa altogether."
La Blanchotte's little one bowed his head and went off dreaming in the direction of the forge belonging to old Loizon, where Philip worked. This forge was as though buried beneath trees. It was very dark there; the red glare of a formidable furnace alone lit up with great flashes five blacksmiths; who hammered upon their anvils with a terrible din. They were standing enveloped in flame, like demons, their eyes fixed on the red-hot iron they were pounding; and their dull ideas rose and fell with their hammers.
Simon entered without being noticed, and went quietly to pluck his friend by the sleeve. The latter turned round. All at once the work came to a standstill, and all the men looked on, very attentive. Then, in the midst of this unaccustomed silence, rose the slender pipe of Simon:
"Say, Philip, the Michaude boy told me just now that you were not altogether my papa."
"Why not?" asked the blacksmith,
The child replied with all innocence:
"Because you are not my mamma's husband."
No one laughed. Philip remained standing, leaning his forehead upon the back of his great hands, which supported the handle of his hammer standing upright upon the anvil. He mused. His four companions watched him, and Simon, a tiny mite among these giants, anxiously waited. Suddenly, one of the smiths, answering to the sentiment of all, said to Philip:
"La Blanchotte is a good, honest girl, and upright and steady in spite of her misfortune, and would make a worthy wife for an honest man."
"That is true," remarked the three others.
The smith continued:
"Is it the girl's fault if she went wrong? She had been promised marriage; and I know more than one who is much respected to-day, and who sinned every bit as much."
"That is true," responded the three men in chorus.
He resumed:
"How hard she has toiled, poor thing, to bring up her child all alone, and how she has wept all these years she has never gone out except to church, God only knows."
"This is also true," said the others.
Then nothing was heard but the bellows which fanned the fire of the furnace. Philip hastily bent himself down to Simon:
"Go and tell your mother that I am coming to speak to her this evening." Then he pushed the child out by the shoulders. He returned to his work, and with a single blow the five hammers again fell upon their anvils. Thus they wrought the iron until nightfall, strong, powerful, happy, like contented hammers. But just as the great bell of a cathedral resounds upon feast days above the jingling of the other bells, so Philip's hammer, sounding above the rest, clanged second after second with a deafening uproar. And he stood amid the flying sparks plying his trade vigorously.
The sky was full of stars as he knocked at La Blanchotte's door. He had on his Sunday blouse, a clean shirt, and his beard was trimmed. The young woman showed herself upon the threshold, and said in a grieved tone:
"It is ill to come thus when night has fallen, Mr. Philip."
He wished to answer, but stammered and stood confused before her.
She resumed:
"You understand, do you not, that it will not do for me to be talked about again."
"What does that matter to me, if you will be my wife!"
No voice replied to him, but he believed that he heard in the shadow of the room the sound of a falling body. He entered quickly; and Simon, who had gone to bed, distinguished the sound of a kiss and some words that his mother murmured softly. Then, all at once, he found himself lifted up by the hands of his friend, who, holding him at the length of his herculean arms, exclaimed:
"You will tell them, your schoolmates, that your papa is Philip Remy, the blacksmith, and that he will pull the ears of all who do you any harm."
On the morrow, when the school was full and lessons were about to begin, little Simon stood up, quite pale with trembling lips:
"My papa," said he in a clear voice, "is Philip Remy, the blacksmith, and he has promised to pull the ears of all who does me any harm."
This time no one laughed, for he was very well known, was Philip Remy, the blacksmith, and was a papa of whom any one in the world would have been proud.