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Four Short Stories

Captain Burle
Chapter I
THE SWINDLE
It was nine o'clock. The little town of Vauchamp, dark and silent, had just retired to bed
amid a chilly November rain. In the Rue des Recollets, one of the narrowest and most
deserted streets of the district of Saint-Jean, a single window was still alight on the third
floor of an old house, from whose damaged gutters torrents of water were falling into the
street. Mme Burle was sitting up before a meager fire of vine stocks, while her little
grandson Charles pored over his lessons by the pale light of a lamp.
The apartment, rented at one hundred and sixty francs per annum, consisted of four large
rooms which it was absolutely impossible to keep warm during the winter. Mme Burle
slept in the largest chamber, her son Captain and Quartermaster Burle occupying a
somewhat smaller one overlooking the street, while little Charles had his iron cot at the
farther end of a spacious drawing room with mildewed hangings, which was never used.
The few pieces of furniture belonging to the captain and his mother, furniture of the
massive style of the First Empire, dented and worn by continuous transit from one
garrison town to another, almost disappeared from view beneath the lofty ceilings
whence darkness fell. The flooring of red-colored tiles was cold and hard to the feet;
before the chairs there were merely a few threadbare little rugs of poverty-stricken aspect,
and athwart this desert all the winds of heaven blew through the disjointed doors and
windows.
Near the fireplace sat Mme Burle, leaning back in her old yellow velvet armchair and
watching the last vine branch smoke, with that stolid, blank stare of the aged who live
within themselves. She would sit thus for whole days together, with her tall figure, her
long stern face and her thin lips that never smiled. The widow of a colonel who had died
just as he was on the point of becoming a general, the mother of a captain whom she had
followed even in his campaigns, she had acquired a military stiffness of bearing and
formed for herself a code of honor, duty and patriotism which kept her rigid, desiccated,
as it were, by the stern application of discipline. She seldom, if ever, complained. When
her son had become a widower after five years of married life she had undertaken the
education of little Charles as a matter of course, performing her duties with the severity
of a sergeant drilling recruits. She watched over the child, never tolerating the slightest
waywardness or irregularity, but compelling him to sit up till midnight when his exercises
were not finished, and sitting up herself until he had completed them. Under such
implacable despotism Charles, whose constitution was delicate, grew up pale and thin,
with beautiful eyes, inordinately large and clear, shining in his white, pinched face.
During the long hours of silence Mme Burle dwelt continuously upon one and the same
idea: she had been disappointed in her son. This thought sufficed to occupy her mind, and
under its influence she would live her whole life over again, from the birth of her son,
 
 
 
 
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