FRIDAY FICTION 
A short story
by Guy de Maupassant1
“Well doctor, a little brandy?”
The old ship’s surgeon, holding out his glass, watched it as it slowly filled with the golden liquid. Then, holding it in front of his eyes, he let the light from the lamp stream through it, smelled it, tasted a few drops and smacked2 his lips with relish. Then he said:
“Ah! The charming poison! Or rather the seductive murderer, the delightful destroyer of peoples!
“You people do not know it the way I do. You may have read that admirable book entitled L’Assommoir3, but you have not, as I have, seen alcohol exterminate a whole tribe of savages, a little kingdom of Negroes —alcohol calmly unloaded by the barrel by red-bearded English seamen.
“Right near here, in a little village in Brittany near Pont-l’Abbé, I once witnessed a strange and terrible tragedy caused by alcohol. I was spending my vacation in a little country house left me by my father. You know this flat coast where the wind whistles day and night, where one sees, standing or prone4, these giant rocks which in the olden times were regarded as guardians, and which still retain something majestic and imposing about them. I always expect to see them come to life and start to walk across the country with the slow and ponderous tread of giants, or to unfold enormous granite wings and fly toward the paradise of the Druids.
“Everywhere is the sea, always ready on the slightest provocation to rise in its anger and shake its foamy mane5 at those bold enough to brave its wrath.
“And the men who travel on this terrible sea, which, with one motion of its green back, can overturn and swallow up their frail barks6 —they go out in the little boats, day and night, hardy, weary and drunk. They are often drunk. They have a saying which says: ‘When the bottle is full you see the reef, but when it is empty you see it no more.’
“Go into one of their huts7; you will never find the father there. If you ask the woman what has become of her husband, she will stretch her arms out over the dark ocean which rumbles and roars along the coast. He remained, there one night, when he had had too much to drink; so did her oldest son. She has four bigger, strong, fair-haired boys. Soon it will be their time.
“As I said, I was living in a little house near Pont-l’Abbé. I was there alone with my servant, an old sailor, and with a native family which took care of the grounds in my absence. It consisted of three persons, two sisters and a man, who had married one of them, and who attended to the garden.
“A short time before Christmas my gardener’s wife presented him with a boy. The husband asked me to stand as god-father. I could hardly deny the request, and so he borrowed ten francs from me for the cost of the christening, as he said.
“The second day of January was chosen as the date of the ceremony. For a week the earth had been covered by an enormous white carpet of snow, which made this flat, low country seem vast and limitless. The ocean appeared to be black in contrast with this white plain; one could see it rolling, raging and tossing8 its waves as though wishing to annihilate its pale neighbour, which appeared to be dead, it was so calm, quiet and cold.
“At nine o’clock the father, Kerandec, came to my door with his sister-in-law, the big Kermagan, and the nurse, who carried the infant wrapped up in a blanket. We started for the church. The weather was so cold that it seemed to dry up the skin and crack it open. I was thinking of the poor little creature who was being carried on ahead of us, and I said to myself that this Breton race must surely be of iron, if their children were able, as soon as they were born, to stand such an outing.
“We came to the church, but the door was closed; the priest was late.
“Then the nurse sat down on one of the steps and began to undress the child. At first I thought there must have been some slight accident, but I saw that they were leaving the poor little fellow naked completely naked, in the icy air. Furious at such imprudence, I protested:
“‘Why, you are crazy! You will kill the child!’
“The woman answered quietly: ‘Oh, no, sir; he must wait naked before the Lord.’
“The father and the aunt looked on undisturbed. It was the custom. If it were not adhered to misfortune was sure to attend the little one.
“I scolded9, threatened and pleaded. I used force to try to cover the frail creature. All was in vain. The nurse ran away from me through the snow, and the body of the little one turned purple. I was about to leave these brutes when I saw the priest coming across the country, followed by the sexton10 and a young boy. I ran towards him and gave vent to my indignation. He showed no surprise nor did he quicken his pace in the least. He answered:
“‘What can you expect, sir? It’s the custom. They all do it, and it’s of no use trying to stop them.’
“‘But at least hurry up!’ I cried.
“He answered: ‘But I can’t go any faster.’
“He entered the vestry11, while we remained outside on the church steps. I was suffering. But what about the poor little creature who was howling from the effects of the biting cold.
“At last the door opened. He went into the church. But the poor child had to remain naked throughout the ceremony. It was interminable. The priest stammered12 over the Latin words and mispronounced them horribly. He walked slowly and with a ponderous tread. His white surplice chilled my heart. It seemed as though, in the name of a pitiless and barbarous god, he had wrapped himself in another kind of snow in order to torture this little piece of humanity that suffered so from the cold.
“Finally the christening was finished according to the rites and I saw the nurse once more take the frozen, moaning child and wrap it up in the blanket.
“The priest said to me: ‘Do you wish to sign the register?’
“Turning to my gardener, I said: “Hurry up and get home quickly so that you can warm that child.’ I gave him some advice so as to ward off, if not too late, a bad attack of pneumonia. He promised to follow my instructions and left with his sister-in-law and the nurse. I followed the priest into the vestry, and when I had signed he demanded five francs for expenses.
“As I had already given the father ten francs, I refused to pay twice. The priest threatened to destroy the paper and to annul the ceremony. I, in turn, threatened him with the district attorney. The dispute was long, and I finally paid five francs.
“As soon as I reached home I went down to Kerandec’s to find out whether everything was all right. Neither father, nor sister-in-law, nor nurse had yet returned. The mother, who had remained alone, was in bed, shivering with cold and starving, for she had had nothing to eat since the day before.
“‘Where the deuce can they have gone?’ I asked. She answered without surprise or anger, ‘They’re going to drink something to celebrate: It was the custom. Then I thought, of my ten francs which were to pay the church and would doubtless pay for the alcohol.
“I sent some broth13 to the mother and ordered a good fire to be built in the room. I was uneasy and furious and promised myself to drive out these brutes, wondering with terror what was going to happen to the poor infant.
“It was already six, and they had not yet returned. I told my servant to wait for them and I went to bed. I soon fell asleep and slept like a top. At daybreak I was awakened by my servant, who was bringing me my hot water.
“As soon as my eyes were open I asked: ‘How about Kerandec?’
“The man hesitated and then stammered: ‘Oh! He came back, all right, after midnight, and so drunk that he couldn’t walk, and so were Kermagan and the nurse. I guess they must have slept in a ditch14, for the little one died and they never even noticed it.’
“I jumped up out of bed, crying: “‘What! The child is dead?’
“‘Yes, sir. They brought it back to Mother Kerandec. When she saw it she began to cry, and now they are making her drink to console her.’
“‘What’s that? They are making her drink!’
“‘Yes, sir. I only found it out this morning. As Kerandec had no more brandy or money, he took some wood alcohol, which monsieur gave him for the lamp, and all four of them are now drinking that. The mother is feeling pretty sick now.’
“I had hastily put on some clothes, and seizing a stick, with the intention of applying it to the backs of these human beasts, I hastened towards the gardener’s house.
“The mother was raving15 drunk beside the blue body of her dead baby. Kerandec, the nurse, and the Kermagan woman were snoring on the floor. I had to take care of the mother, who died towards noon.”
The old doctor was silent. He took up the brandy-bottle and poured out another glass. He held it up to the lamp, and the light streaming through it imparted to the liquid the amber colour of molten topaz. With one gulp he swallowed the treacherous drink.
French writer Guy de Maupassant is famous for his short stories, which paint a fascinating picture of French life in the 19th century. He was prolific, publishing over 300 short stories and six novels, but died at a young age after ongoing struggles with both physical and mental health. He is considered one of the fathers of the modern short story as well as one of its finest practitioners. His prolific and deeply admired body of work influenced a great number of writers. The short stories of writer Guy de Maupassant detail many aspects of French life in the 19th century. His most famous work for English readers is probably The Necklace. Also consider A Piece of String, Mademoiselle Fifi, Miss Harriet, My Uncle Jules, Found on a Drowned Man and The Wreck as starting points. And his truly terrifying piece of Gothic Fiction, The Hand.