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Maupassant's Short Stories Vol. 9

Our Letters
Eight hours of railway travel induce sleep for some persons and insomnia for others with
me, any journey prevents my sleeping on the following night.
At about five o'clock I arrived at the estate of Abelle, which belongs to my friends, the
Murets d'Artus, to spend three weeks there. It is a pretty house, built by one of their
grandfathers in the style of the latter half of the last century. Therefore it has that intimate
character of dwellings that have always been inhabited, furnished and enlivened by the
same people. Nothing changes; nothing alters the soul of the dwelling, from which the
furniture has never been taken out, the tapestries never unnailed, thus becoming worn out,
faded, discolored, on the same walls. None of the old furniture leaves the place; only
from time to time it is moved a little to make room for a new piece, which enters there
like a new-born infant in the midst of brothers and sisters.
The house is on a hill in the center of a park which slopes down to the river, where there
is a little stone bridge. Beyond the water the fields stretch out in the distance, and here
one can see the cows wandering around, pasturing on the moist grass; their eyes seem full
of the dew, mist and freshness of the pasture. I love this dwelling, just as one loves a
thing which one ardently desires to possess. I return here every autumn with infinite
delight; I leave with regret.
After I had dined with this friendly family, by whom I was received like a relative, I
asked my friend, Paul Muret: "Which room did you give me this year?"
"Aunt Rose's room."
An hour later, followed by her three children, two little girls and a boy, Madame Muret
d'Artus installed me in Aunt Rose's room, where I had not yet slept.
When I was alone I examined the walls, the furniture, the general aspect of the room, in
order to attune my mind to it. I knew it but little, as I had entered it only once or twice,
and I looked indifferently at a pastel portrait of Aunt Rose, who gave her name to the
room.
This old Aunt Rose, with her curls, looking at me from behind the glass, made very little
impression on my mind. She looked to me like a woman of former days, with principles
and precepts as strong on the maxims of morality as on cooking recipes, one of these old
aunts who are the bugbear of gaiety and the stern and wrinkled angel of provincial
families.
I never had heard her spoken of; I knew nothing of her life or of her death. Did she
belong to this century or to the preceding one? Had she left this earth after a calm or a
stormy existence? Had she given up to heaven the pure soul of an old maid, the calm soul
 
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