ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Guy de Maupassant (1850–1893) was born in Dieppe, France. (In speaking of him by his last
name only, the name is Maupassant, not de Maupassant.) He studied law briefly, served in the
Franco-Prussian War (1870–1871), and then lived in Paris, where he met such distinguished
writers as Émile Zola and Gustave Flaubert. Maupassant for a time worked as a civil servant,
but he resigned his job in 1880 when he published (in an anthology edited by Zola) the first of
his two hundred or so stories. He had meanwhile contracted syphilis, which in later years
affected his mind. He attempted suicide in 1891 and was confined to an asylum, where he died
two years later.

Mademoiselle
Guy de Maupassant
English Translation by Jane Saretta

He had been registered under the names of Jean Marie Mathieu Valot, but he was never called
anything but “Mademoiselle.” He was the village simpleton, but not one of those wretched,
ragged simpletons who live on public charity. He lived comfortably on a small income which his
mother had left him, and which his guardian paid him regularly, and so he was rather envied
than pitied. And then, he was not one of those idiots with wild looks and the manners of an
animal, for he was by no means unattractive, with his half-open lips and smiling eyes, and
especially in his constant make-up in female dress. For he dressed like a girl, and thus showed
how little he objected to being called Mademoiselle.

And why should he not like the nickname which his mother had given him affectionately, when
he was a mere child, so delicate and weak, and with a fair complexion—poor little diminutive lad
not as tall as many girls of the same age? It was in pure love that, in his earlier years, his
mother whispered that tender Mademoiselle to him, while his old grandmother, used to say
jokingly:

“The fact is, as for his male equipment, it’s really not worth mentioning— no offense to God in
saying so.” And his grandfather, who was equally fond of a joke, used to add: “I only hope it
won’t disappear as he grows up.”
And they treated him as if he had really been a girl and coddled him, the more so as they were
very prosperous and did not have to worry about making ends meet.

When his mother and grandparents were dead, Mademoiselle was almost as happy with his
paternal uncle, an unmarried man, who had carefully attended the simpleton and who had
grown more and more attached to him by dint of looking after him; and the worthy man
continued to call Jean Marie Mathieu Valot, Mademoiselle.

He was called so in all the country round as well, not with the slightest intention of hurting his
feelings, but, on the contrary, because all thought they would please the poor gentle creature
who harmed nobody by his behavior.

The very street boys meant no harm by it, accustomed as they were to call the tall idiot in a
frock and cap by the nickname; but it would have struck them as very extraordinary, and would
have led them to crude jokes, if they had seen him dressed like a boy.

Mademoiselle, however, took care of that, for his dress was as dear to him as his nickname. He
delighted in wearing it, and, in fact, cared for nothing else, and what gave it a particular zest was
that he knew that he was not a girl, and that he was living in disguise. And this was evident by
the exaggerated feminine bearing and walk he put on, as if to show that it was not natural to
him. His enormous, carefully arranged cap was adorned with large variegated ribbons. His
petticoat, with numerous flounces, was distended behind by many hoops. He walked with short
steps, and with exaggerated swaying of the hips, while his folded arms and crossed hands were
distorted into pretensions of comical coquetry.

On such occasions, if anybody wished to make friends with him, it was necessary to say:

“Ah! Mademoiselle, what a nice girl you make.”

That put him into a good humor, and he used to reply, much pleased:

“Don’t I? But people can see I only do it for a joke.”

But, nevertheless, when they were dancing at village festivals in the neighborhood, he would
always be invited to dance as Mademoiselle, and would never ask any of the girls to dance with
him; and one evening when somebody asked him the reason for this, he opened his eyes wide,
laughed as if the man had said something stupid, and replied:

“I cannot ask the girls, because I am not dressed like a boy. Just look at my dress, you fool!”

As his interrogator was a judicious man, he said to him:

“Then dress like one, Mademoiselle.”

He thought for a moment, and then said with a cunning look:

“But if I dress like a boy, I won’t be a girl anymore, and then I am a girl,” and he shrugged his
shoulders as he said it.

But the remark seemed to make him think.

For some time afterward, when he met the same person, he would ask
him abruptly:

“If I dress like a boy, will you still call me Mademoiselle?”

“Of course, I will,” the other replied. “You will always be called so.”

The simpleton appeared delighted, for there was no doubt that he thought more of his nickname
than he did of his dress, and the next day he made his appearance in the village square, without
his petticoats and dressed as a man. He had taken a pair of trousers, a coat, and a hat from his
guardian’s closet. This created quite a disturbance in the neighborhood, for the people who had
been in the habit of smiling at him kindly when he was dressed as a woman, looked at him in
astonishment and almost in fear, while the indulgent could not help laughing, and visibly making
fun of him.
The involuntary hostility of some, and the too evident ridicule of others, the disagreeable
surprise of all, were too palpable for him not to see it, and to be hurt by it, and it was still worse
when a street urchin said to him in a jeering voice, as he danced round him:

“Oh! oh! Mademoiselle, you wear trousers! Oh! oh! Mademoiselle!”

And it grew worse and worse, when a whole band of these vagabonds were on his heels,
hooting and yelling after him, as if he had been somebody in a masquerading dress during the
Carnival.

It was quite certain that the unfortunate creature looked more in disguise now than he had
formerly. By dint of living like a girl, and by even exaggerating the feminine walk and manners,
he had totally lost all masculine looks and ways. His smooth face, his long flax-like hair, required
a cap with ribbons, and became a caricature under the high stove-pipe hat of the old doctor, his
grandfather.

Mademoiselle’s shoulders, and especially his swelling stern, danced about wildly in this old-
fashioned coat and wide trousers. And nothing was as funny as the contrast between his odd
dress and delicate walk, the winning way he used his head, and the elegant movements of his
hands, with which he fanned himself like a girl.

Soon the older lads and girls, the old women, men of ripe age and even the Judicial Councilor,
joined the little brats, and hooted Mademoiselle, while the astonished fellow ran away, and
rushed into the house with terror. There he put both hands to his poor head, and tried to
comprehend the matter. Why were they angry with him? For it was quite evident that they were
angry with him. What wrong had he done, and whom had he injured, by dressing as a boy? Was
he not a boy, after all? For the first time in his life, he felt a horror for his nickname, for had he
not been insulted through it? But immediately he was seized with a horrible doubt.

“Suppose that, after all, I am a girl?”

He wanted to ask his guardian about it but he was reluctant to do so, for he somehow felt,
although only obscurely, that he, worthy man, might not tell him the truth, out of kindness. And,
besides, he preferred to find out for himself, without asking anyone.
All his idiot’s cunning, which had been lying latent up till then, because he never had any
occasion to make use of it, now came out and urged him to a solitary and dark action.

The next day he dressed himself as a girl again, and made his appearance as if he had
perfectly forgotten his escapade of the day before, but the people, especially the street boys,
had not forgotten it. They looked at him sideways, and, even the best of them, could not help
smiling, while the little blackguards ran after him and said:

“Oh! oh! Mademoiselle, you were wearing pants!”

But he pretended not to hear, or even to guess what they were alluding to. He seemed as happy
and glad to look about him as he usually did, with half-open lips and smiling eyes. As usual, he
wore an enormous cap with variegated ribbons, and the same large petticoats; he walked with
short, mincing steps, swaying and wriggling his hips and gesticulating like a coquette, and licked
his lips when they called him Mademoiselle, while really he would have liked to have jumped at
the throats of those who called him so.

Days and months passed, and by degrees people forgot all about his strange escapade. But he
had never left off thinking about it, or trying to find out—for which he was always on the alert—
how he could ascertain his qualities as a boy, and how to assert them victoriously. Really
innocent, he had reached the age of twenty without knowing anything or without ever having
any natural impulse, but being tenacious of purpose, curious and dissembling, he asked no
questions, but observed all that was said and done.

Often at their village dances, he had heard young fellows boasting about girls whom they had
seduced, and girls praising such and such a young fellow, and often, also, after a dance, he saw
the couples go away together, with their arms round each other’s waists. They paid no attention
to him, and he listened and watched, until, at last, he discovered what was going on.

And then, one night, when dancing was over, and the couples were going away with their arms
round each other’s waists, a terrible screaming was heard at the corner of the woods through
which those going to the next village had to pass. It was Josephine, pretty Josephine, and when
her screams were heard, they ran to her assistance, and arrived only just in time to rescue her,
half strangled, from Mademoiselle’s clutches.

The idiot had watched her and had thrown himself upon her in order to treat her as the other
young fellows did the girls, but she resisted him so stoutly that he took her by the throat and
squeezed it with all his might until she could not breathe, and was nearly dead.

In rescuing Josephine from him, they had thrown him on the ground, but he jumped up again
immediately, foaming at the mouth and slobbering, and exclaimed:

“I am not a girl any longer, I’m a man, I’m a man, I tell you.”