project in english 4

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ProjectIn

English

IVMa. Victoria isidroIV-ApricotMs.layaog

IN THE PIECE OF STRINGBy Guy de maupassant


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ALONG ALL THE ROADS around Goderville the peasants andtheir wives were coming toward the burgh because it wasmarket day. The men were proceeding with slow steps, thewhole body bent forward at each movement of their long

twisted legs; deformed by their hard work, by the weight on the

plow which, at the same time, raised the left shoulder andswerved the figure, by the reaping of the wheat which made theknees spread to make a firm "purchase," by all the slow and

painful labors of the country. Their blouses, blue, "stiff-starched," shining as if varnished, ornamented with a little

design in white at the neck and wrists, puffed about their bonybodies, seemed like balloons ready to carry them off. From each

of them two feet protruded.

Some led a cow or a calf by a cord, and their wives, walkingbehind the animal, whipped its haunches with a leafy branch to

hasten its progress. They carried large baskets on their armsfrom which, in some cases, chickens and, in others, ducks thrust

out their heads. And they walked with a quicker, livelier stepthan their husbands. Their spare straight figures were wrappedin a scanty little shawl pinned over their flat bosoms, and their

heads were enveloped in a white cloth glued to the hair andsurmounted by a cap.

Then a wagon passed at the jerky trot of a nag, shakingstrangely, two men seated side by side and a woman in the

bottom of the vehicle, the latter holding onto the sides to lessenthe hard jolts.

In the public square of Goderville there was a crowd, a throngof human beings and animals mixed together. The horns of thecattle, the tall hats, with long nap, of the rich peasant and theheadgear of the peasant women rose above the surface of theassembly. And the clamorous, shrill, screaming voices made a

continuous and savage din which sometimes was dominated bythe robust lungs of some countryman's laugh or the long lowing

of a cow tied to the wall of a house.

All that smacked of the stable, the dairy and the dirt heap, hayand sweat, giving forth that unpleasant odor, human and

animal, peculiar to the people of the field.Matre Hauchecome of Breaute had just arrived at Goderville,and he was directing his steps toward the public square when

he perceived upon the ground a little piece of string. Matre


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Hauchecome, economical like a true Norman, thought thateverything useful ought to be picked up, and he bent painfully,for he suffered from rheumatism. He took the bit of thin cord

from the ground and began to roll it carefully when he noticedMatre Malandain, the harness maker, on the threshold of his

door, looking at him. They had heretofore had business togetheron the subject of a halter, and they were on bad terms, bothbeing good haters. Matre Hauchecome was seized with a sort ofshame to be seen thus by his enemy, picking a bit of string out

of the dirt. He concealed his "find" quickly under his blouse,then in his trousers' pocket; then he pretended to be still

looking on the ground for something which he did not find, andhe went toward the market, his head forward, bent double by

his pains.

He was soon lost in the noisy and slowly moving crowd whichwas busy with interminable bargainings. The peasants milked,went and came, perplexed, always in fear of being cheated, notdaring to decide, watching the vender's eye, ever trying to find

the trick in the man and the flaw in the beast.

The women, having placed their great baskets at their feet, hadtaken out the poultry which lay upon the ground, tied together

by the feet, with terrified eyes and scarlet crests.

They heard offers, stated their prices with a dry air and

impassive face, or perhaps, suddenly deciding on someproposed reduction, shouted to the customer who was slowlygoing away: "All right, Matre Authirne, I'll give it to you for

that."

Then lime by lime the square was deserted, and the Angelusringing at noon, those who had stayed too long scattered to

their shops.

At Jourdain's the great room was full of people eating, as thebig court was full of vehicles of all kinds, carts, gigs, wagons,

dumpcarts, yellow with dirt, mended and patched, raising theirshafts to the sky like two arms or perhaps with their shafts in

the ground and their backs in the air.

Just opposite the diners seated at the table the immensefireplace, filled with bright flames, cast a lively heat on the

backs of the row on the right. Three spits were turning on which


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were chickens, pigeons and legs of mutton, and an appetizingodor of roast beef and gravy dripping over the nicely brownedskin rose from the hearth, increased the jovialness and made

everybody's mouth water.All the aristocracy of the plow ate there at Matre Jourdain's,

tavern keeper and horse dealer, a rascal who had money.

The dishes were passed and emptied, as were the jugs of yellowcider. Everyone told his affairs, his purchases and sales. Theydiscussed the crops. The weather was favorable for the green

things but not for the wheat.

Suddenly the drum beat in the court before the house.Everybody rose, except a few indifferent persons, and ran to the

door or to the windows, their mouths still full and napkins intheir hands.

After the public crier had ceased his drumbeating he called outin a jerky voice, speaking his phrases irregularly:

"It is hereby made known to the inhabitants of Goderville, andin general to all persons present at the market, that there waslost this morning on the road to Benzeville, between nine and

ten o'clock, a black leather pocketbook containing five hundredfrancs and some business papers. The finder is requested toreturn same with all haste to the mayor's office or to Matre

Fortune Houlbreque of Manneville; there will be twenty francsreward." Then the man went away. The heavy roll of the drumand the crier's voice were again heard at a distance.

Then they began to talk of this event, discussing the chancesthat Matre Houlbreque had of finding or not finding his

pocketbook.

And the meal concluded. They were finishing their coffee whena chief of the gendarmes appeared upon the threshold.

He inquired:

"Is Matre Hauchecome of Breaute here?"

Matre Hauchecome, seated at the other end of the table,replied:


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"Here I am."

And the officer resumed:

"Matre Hauchecome, will you have the goodness to accompany

me to the mayor's office? The mayor would like to talk to you."

The peasant, surprised and disturbed, swallowed at a draughthis tiny glass of brandy, rose and, even more bent than in the

morning, for the first steps after each rest were speciallydifficult, set out, repeating: "Here I am, here I am." The mayorwas awaiting him, seated on an armchair. He was the notary of

the vicinity, a stout, serious man with pompous phrases.

"Matre Hauchecome," said he, "you were seen this morning topick up, on the road to Benzeville, the pocketbook lost by Matre

Houlbreque of Manneville."

The countryman, astounded, looked at the mayor, alreadyterrified by this suspicion resting on him without his knowing

why.

"Me? Me? Me pick up the pocketbook?"

"Yes, you yourself."

"Word of honor, I never heard of it."

"But you were seen."

"I was seen, me? Who says he saw me?"

"Monsieur Malandain, the harness maker."

The old man remembered, understood and flushed with anger.

"Ah, he saw me, the clodhopper, he saw me pick up this stringhere, M'sieu the Mayor." And rummaging in his pocket, he drewout the little piece of string. But the mayor, incredulous, shook

his head.

"You will not make me believe, Matre Hauchecome, thatMonsieur Malandain, who is a man worthy of credence, mistook

this cord for a pocketbook."


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The peasant, furious, lifted his hand, spat at one side to attesthis honor, repeating:

"It is nevertheless the truth of the good God, the sacred truth,

M'sieu the Mayor. I repeat it on my soul and my salvation."

The mayor resumed:

"After picking up the object you stood like a stilt, looking a longwhile in the mud to see if any piece of money had fallen out."

The good old man choked with indignation and fear.

"How anyone can tell--how anyone can tell--such lies to takeaway an honest man's reputation! How can anyone---"

There was no use in his protesting; nobody believed him. Hewas con.

fronted with Monsieur Malandain, who repeated and maintainedhis affirmation. They abused each other for an hour. At his ownrequest Matre Hauchecome was searched; nothing was found

on him.

Finally the mayor, very much perplexed, discharged him with

the warning that he would consult the public prosecutor and askfor further orders.

The news had spread. As he left the mayor's office the old manwas sun rounded and questioned with a serious or bantering

curiosity in which there was no indignation. He began to tell thestory of the string. No one believed him. They laughed at him.

He went along, stopping his friends, beginning endlessly hisstatement and his protestations, showing his pockets turned

inside out to prove that he had nothing.

They said:

"Old rascal, get out!"

And he grew angry, becoming exasperated, hot and distressedat not


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being believed, not knowing what to do and always repeatinghimself.

Night came. He must depart. He started on his way with three

neighbors to whom he pointed out the place where he hadpicked up the bit of string, and all along the road he spoke of hisadventure.

In the evening he took a turn in the village of Breaute in orderto tell it to everybody. He only met with incredulity.

It made him ill at night.

The next day about one o'clock in the afternoon MariusPaumelle, a hired man in the employ of Matre Breton,

husbandman at Ymanville, returned the pocketbook and itscontents to Matre Houlbreque of Manneville.

This man claimed to have found the object in the road, but notknowing how to read, he had carried it to the house and given it

to his employer.

The news spread through the neighborhood. MatreHauchecome was informed of it. He immediately went the

circuit and began to recount his story completed by the happy

climax. He was in triumph.

"What grieved me so much was not the thing itself as the lying.There is nothing so shameful as to be placed under a cloud on

account of a lie."

He talked of his adventure all day long; he told it on thehighway to people who were passing by, in the wineshop to

people who were drinking there and to persons coming out ofchurch the following Sunday. He stopped strangers to tell them

about it. He was calm now, and yet something disturbed himwithout his knowing exactly what it was. People had the air ofjoking while they listened. They did not seem convinced. He

seemed to feel that remarks were being made behind his back.

On Tuesday of the next week he went to the market atGoderville, urged solely by the necessity he felt of discussing

the case.


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Malandain, standing at his door, began to laugh on seeing himpass. Why?

He approached a farmer from Crequetot who did not let him

finish and, giving him a thump in the stomach, said to his face:

"You big rascal."

Then he turned his back on him.

Matre Hauchecome was confused; why was he called a bigrascal?

When he was seated at the table in Jourdain's tavern hecommenced to explain "the affair."

A horse dealer from Monvilliers called to him:

"Come, come, old sharper, that's an old trick; I know all aboutyour piece of string!"

Hauchecome stammered:

"But since the pocketbook was found."

But the other man replied:

"Shut up, papa, there is one that finds and there is one thatreports. At any rate you are mixed with it."

The peasant stood choking. He understood. They accused him ofhaving had the pocketbook returned by a confederate, by an

accomplice.

He tried to protest. All the table began to laugh.

He could not finish his dinner and went away in the midst ofjeers.

He went home ashamed and indignant, choking with anger andconfusion, the more dejected that he was capable, with his

Norman cunning, of doing what they had accused him of andever boasting of it as of a good turn. His innocence to him, in a


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confused way, was impossible to prove, as his sharpness wasknown. And he was stricken to the heart by the injustice of the

suspicion.

Then he began to recount the adventures again, prolonging his

history every day, adding each time new reasons, moreenergetic protestations, more solemn oaths which he imaginedand prepared in his hours of solitude, his whole mind given upto the story of the string. He was believed so much the less as

his defense was more complicated and his arguing more subtile.

"Those are lying excuses," they said behind his back.

He felt it, consumed his heart over it and wore himself out withuseless efforts. He wasted away before their very eyes.

The wags now made him tell about the string to amuse them, asthey make a soldier who has been on a campaign tell about his

battles. His mind, touched to the depth, began to weaken.

Toward the end of December he took to his bed.

He died in the first days of January, and in the delirium of hisdeath struggles he kept claiming his innocence, reiterating:

"A piece of string, a piece of string--look--here it is, M'sieu the

Mayor."

Biography of GUY DEMAUPASSANT


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Henri-Ren-Albert-Guy de Maupassant was born on August 5,1850 at the chteau de Miromesnil, near Dieppe in the Seine-Infrieure (now Seine-Maritime) department. He was the firstson of Laure Le Poittevin and Gustave de Maupassant, both fromprosperous bourgeois families. When Maupassant was elevenand his brother Herv was five, his mother, an independent-minded woman, risked social disgrace to obtain a legalseparation from her husband.

After the separation, Le Poittevin kept her two sons, the elderGuy and younger Herv. With the fathers absence,Maupassants mother became the most influential figure in theyoung boys life. She was an exceptionally well read woman andwas very fond of classical literature, especially Shakespeare.Until the age of thirteen, Guy happily lived with his mother, towhom he was deeply devoted, at tretat, in the Villa desVerguies, where, between the sea and the luxuriant
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countryside, he grew very fond of fishing and outdoor activities.At age thirteen, he was sent to a small seminary near Rouen forclassical studies.

In October 1868, at the age of 18, he saved the famous poet

Algernon Charles Swinburne from drowning off the coast oftretat at Normandy.[2] As he entered junior high school, he metthe great author Gustave Flaubert.

He first entered a seminary at Yvetot, but deliberately gothimself expelled. From his early education he retained a markedhostility to religion. Then he was sent to the Lyce Pierre-Corneille in Rouen[3] where he proved a good scholar indulgingin poetry and taking a prominent part in theatricals.

The Franco-Prussian War broke out soon after his graduation

from college in 1870; he enlisted as a volunteer and foughtbravely. Afterwards, in 1871, he left Normandy and moved toParis where he spent ten years as a clerk in the NavyDepartment. During these ten tedious years his only recreationand relaxation was canoeing on the Seine on Sundays andholidays. Gustave Flaubert took him under his protection andacted as a kind of literary guardian to him, guiding his debut injournalism and literature. At Flaubert's home he met mile Zolaand the Russian novelist Ivan Turgenev, as well as many of theproponents of the realist and naturalist schools.

In 1878 he was transferred to the Ministry of Public Instructionand became a contributing editor of several leading newspaperssuch as Le Figaro, Gil Blas, Le Gaulois and l'cho de Paris. Hedevoted his spare time to writing novels and short stories.

In 1880 he published what is considered his first masterpiece,"Boule de Suif", which met with an instant and tremendoussuccess. Flaubert characterized it as "a masterpiece that willendure." This was Maupassant's first piece of short fiction setduring the Franco-Prussian War, and was followed by short

stories such as "Deux Amis", "Mother Savage", and"Mademoiselle Fifi".

The decade from 1880 to 1891 was the most fertile period ofMaupassant's life. Made famous by his first short story, heworked methodically and produced two or sometimes four
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volumes annually. He combined talent and practical businesssense, which made him wealthy.

In 1881 he published his first volume of short stories under thetitle ofLa Maison Tellier; it reached its twelfth edition within

two years; in 1883 he finished his first novel, Une Vie(translated into English asA Woman's Life), 25,000 copies ofwhich were sold in less than a year. In his novels, heconcentrated all his observations scattered in his short stories.His second novel Bel-Ami, which came out in 1885, had thirty-seven printings in four months.

His editor, Havard, commissioned him to write newmasterpieces and Maupassant continued to produce themwithout the slightest apparent effort. At this time he wrote whatmany consider to be his greatest novel, Pierre et Jean.

With a natural aversion to society, he loved retirement, solitude,and meditation. He traveled extensively in Algeria, Italy,England, Brittany, Sicily, Auvergne, and from each voyagebrought back a new volume. He cruised on his private yacht"Bel-Ami," named after his earlier novel. This feverish life didnot prevent him from making friends among the literarycelebrities of his day: Alexandre Dumas, fils had a paternalaffection for him; at Aix-les-Bains he met Hippolyte Taine andfell under the spell of the philosopher-historian.

Flaubert continued to act as his literary godfather. Hisfriendship with the Goncourts was of short duration; his frankand practical nature reacted against the ambience of gossip,scandal, duplicity, and invidious criticism that the two brothershad created around them in the guise of an 18th-century stylesalon.

Maupassant was but one of a fair number of 19th-centuryParisians who did not care for the Eiffel tower; indeed, he oftenate lunch in the restaurant at its base, not out of any preference

for the food, but because it was only there that he could avoidseeing its otherwise unavoidable profile.[4] Moreover, he andforty-six other Parisian literary and artistic notables attachedtheir names to letter of protest, ornate as it was irate, againstthe tower's construction to the then Minister of Public Works.[5]
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Maupassant also wrote under several pseudonyms such asJoseph Prunier, Guy de Valmont, and Maufrigneuse (which heused from 1881 to 1885).

In his later years he developed a constant desire for solitude, an

obsession for self-preservation, and a fear of death and crazedparanoia of persecution, that came from the syphilis he hadcontracted in his early days. On January 2, in 1892, Maupassanttried to commit suicide by cutting his throat and was committedto the celebrated private asylum of Dr. Esprit Blanche at Passy,in Paris, where he died on July 6, 1893.

Guy De Maupassant penned his own epitaph: "I have covetedeverything and taken pleasure in nothing." He is buried inSection 26 of the Cimetire du Montparnasse, Paris.

Significance

Maupassant is considered one of the fathers of the modernshort story. He delighted in clever plotting, and served as amodel for Somerset Maugham and O. Henry in this respect. Hisstories about expensive jewelry ("The Necklace", "Les Bijoux")are imitated with a twist by Maugham ("Mr Know-All", "A Stringof Beads") and Henry James.

Taking his cue from Balzac, Maupassant wrote comfortably in

both the high-Realist and fantastic modes; stories and novelssuch as "L'Hritage" and Bel-Amiaim to recreate Third RepublicFrance in a realistic way, whereas many of the short stories(notably "Le Horla" and "Qui sait ?") describe apparentlysupernatural phenomena.

The supernatural in Maupassant, however, is often implicitly asymptom of the protagonists' troubled minds; Maupassant wasfascinated by the burgeoning discipline ofpsychiatry, andattended the public lectures ofJean-Martin Charcot between1885 and 1886.[6] This interest is reflected in his fiction.

Criticism

Maupassant is notable as the subject of one ofLeo Tolstoy'sessays on art: The Works of Guy de Maupassant.

Friedrich Nietzsche's autobiography mentions him in thefollowing text:
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"I cannot at all conceive in which century of history one couldhaul together such inquisitive and at the same time delicatepsychologists as one can in contemporary Paris: I can name as asample for their number is by no means small, ... or to pickout one of the stronger race, a genuine Latin to whom I am

particularly attached, Guy de Maupassant."

IN THE TELL-TALE HEART

BY EDGAR ALLAN POETRUE! --nervous --very, very dreadfully nervous I had been andam; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease hadsharpened my senses --not destroyed --not dulled them. Aboveall was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in theheaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then,


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am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily --how calmly Ican tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; butonce conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was

none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He hadnever wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold Ihad no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had theeye of a vulture --a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Wheneverit fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees --verygradually --I made up my mind to take the life of the old man,and thus rid myself of the eye forever.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen knownothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seenhow wisely I proceeded --with what caution --with what

foresight --with what dissimulation I went to work! I was neverkinder to the old man than during the whole week before Ikilled him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latchof his door and opened it --oh so gently! And then, when I hadmade an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern,all closed, closed, that no light shone out, and then I thrust inmy head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly Ithrust it in! I moved it slowly --very, very slowly, so that I mightnot disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place mywhole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he

lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise asthis, And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid thelantern cautiously-oh, so cautiously --cautiously (for the hingescreaked) --I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell uponthe vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights --everynight just at midnight --but I found the eye always closed; andso it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old manwho vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when theday broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spokecourageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, andinquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he wouldhave been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect thatevery night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious inopening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quicklythan did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent ofmy own powers --of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my


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feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door,little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds orthoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heardme; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now youmay think that I drew back --but no. His room was as black as

pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were closefastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that he couldnot see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it onsteadily, steadily.

I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when mythumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprangup in bed, crying out --"Who's there?"

I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did notmove a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie

down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening; --just as Ihave done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches inthe wall.

Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan ofmortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief --oh, no! --itwas the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of thesoul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Manya night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welledup from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the

terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what theold man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. Iknew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slightnoise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been eversince growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy themcauseless, but could not. He had been saying to himself --"It isnothing but the wind in the chimney --it is only a mousecrossing the floor," or "It is merely a cricket which has made asingle chirp." Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself withthese suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain;because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his blackshadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was themournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused himto feel --although he neither saw nor heard --to feel thepresence of my head within the room.

When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearinghim lie down, I resolved to open a little --a very, very little


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crevice in the lantern. So I opened it --you cannot imagine howstealthily, stealthily --until, at length a simple dim ray, like thethread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full uponthe vulture eye.

It was open --wide, wide open --and I grew furious as I gazedupon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness --all a dull blue, with ahideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones;but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person: forI had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon thedamned spot.

And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness isbut over-acuteness of the sense? --now, I say, there came to myears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes whenenveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the

beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as thebeating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. Iheld the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I couldmaintain the ray upon the eve. Meantime the hellish tattoo ofthe heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louderand louder every instant. The old man's terror must have beenextreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! --do youmark me well I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And

now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence ofthat old house, so strange a noise as this excited me touncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrainedand stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thoughtthe heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me --thesound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man's hour hadcome! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped intothe room. He shrieked once --once only. In an instant I draggedhim to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I thensmiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for manyminutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however,did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. Atlength it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed andexamined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placedmy hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. Therewas no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eve would trouble meno more.


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If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when Idescribe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of thebody. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence.First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and thearms and the legs.

I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber,and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced theboards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye --not evenhis --could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothingto wash out --no stain of any kind --no blood-spot whatever. Ihad been too wary for that. A tub had caught all --ha! ha!

When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock--still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, therecame a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with

a light heart, --for what had I now to fear? There entered threemen, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, asofficers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbourduring the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused;information had been lodged at the police office, and they (theofficers) had been deputed to search the premises.

I smiled, --for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemenwelcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The oldman, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors

all over the house. I bade them search --search well. I led them,at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure,undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I broughtchairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from theirfatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfecttriumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath whichreposed the corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. Iwas singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily,they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself

getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and Ifancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted.The ringing became more distinct: --It continued and becamemore distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: butit continued and gained definiteness --until, at length, I foundthat the noise was not within my ears.


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No doubt I now grew very pale; --but I talked more fluently, andwith a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased --and whatcould I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound --much such a soundas a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped forbreath --and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly

--more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I aroseand argued about trifles, in a high key and with violentgesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would theynot be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, asif excited to fury by the observations of the men --but the noisesteadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed --I raved--I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, andgrated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all andcontinually increased. It grew louder --louder --louder! And stillthe men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible theyheard not? Almighty God! --no, no! They heard! --theysuspected! --they knew! --they were making a mockery of myhorror!-this I thought, and this I think. But anything was betterthan this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision!I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that Imust scream or die! and now --again! --hark! louder! louder!louder! louder!

"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed!--tear up the planks! here, here! --It is the beating of hishideous heart!"

-THE END-

BiOGRAPHY OF EDGAR ALLANPOE


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Edgar Allan Poe (January 19, 1809 October 7, 1849) was anAmerican author, poet, editor and literary critic, considered part

of the American Romantic Movement. Best known for his talesofmystery and the macabre, Poe was one of the earliestAmerican practitioners of the short story and is considered theinventor of the detective fiction genre. He is further creditedwith contributing to the emerging genre ofscience fiction.[1] Hewas the first well-known American writer to try to earn a livingthrough writing alone, resulting in a financially difficult life andcareer.[2]

He was born as Edgar Poe in Boston, Massachusetts; he wasorphaned young when his mother died shortly after his fatherabandoned the family. Poe was taken in by John and FrancesAllan, ofRichmond, Virginia, but they never formally adoptedhim. He attended the University of Virginia for one semester butleft due to lack of money. After enlisting in the Army and laterfailing as an officer's cadet at West Point, Poe parted ways withthe Allans. His publishing career began humbly, with an
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Romanticismhttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mystery_(fiction)http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Macabrehttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Detective_fictionhttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Science_fictionhttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edgar_Allan_Poe#cite_note-0%23cite_note-0http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edgar_Allan_Poe#cite_note-Meyers138-1%23cite_note-Meyers138-1http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bostonhttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Massachusettshttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richmond,_Virginiahttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Virginiahttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/University_of_Virginiahttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/West_Pointhttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Romanticismhttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mystery_(fiction)http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Macabrehttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Detective_fictionhttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Science_fictionhttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edgar_Allan_Poe#cite_note-0%23cite_note-0http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edgar_Allan_Poe#cite_note-Meyers138-1%23cite_note-Meyers138-1http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bostonhttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Massachusettshttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richmond,_Virginiahttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Virginiahttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/University_of_Virginiahttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/West_Point


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anonymous collection of poems, Tamerlane and Other Poems(1827), credited only to "a Bostonian".

Poe switched his focus to prose and spent the next severalyears working for literary journals and periodicals, becoming

known for his own style of literary criticism. His work forcedhim to move among several cities, including Baltimore,Philadelphia, and New York City. In Baltimore in 1835, hemarried Virginia Clemm, his 13-year-old cousin. In January1845 Poe published his poem, "The Raven", to instant success.His wife died oftuberculosis two years after its publication. Hebegan planning to produce his own journal, The Penn (laterrenamed The Stylus), though he died before it could beproduced. On October 7, 1849, at age 40, Poe died in Baltimore;the cause of his death is unknown and has been variouslyattributed to alcohol, brain congestion, cholera, drugs, heartdisease, rabies, suicide, tuberculosis, and other agents.[3]

Poe and his works influenced literature in the United States andaround the world, as well as in specialized fields, such ascosmology and cryptography. Poe and his work appearthroughout popular culture in literature, music, films, andtelevision. A number of his homes are dedicated museumstoday.

charactersThe main character here in this story is MAITRE

HAUCHECOME,economical,like a true Norman.He is verythrifty.He is very practical person.For him,everything that is still

benificiable must be picked up or must be kept.He is the onewho accused as the stealer of the leather pocketbook containingfive hundred francs and some business papers. He did his best
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tamerlane_and_Other_Poemshttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baltimorehttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Philadelphiahttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_York_Cityhttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Virginia_Eliza_Clemm_Poehttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Ravenhttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tuberculosishttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Stylushttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cholerahttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rabieshttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edgar_Allan_Poe#cite_note-Meyers256-2%23cite_note-Meyers256-2http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cosmologyhttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cryptographyhttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tamerlane_and_Other_Poemshttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baltimorehttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Philadelphiahttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_York_Cityhttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Virginia_Eliza_Clemm_Poehttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Ravenhttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tuberculosishttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Stylushttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cholerahttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rabieshttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edgar_Allan_Poe#cite_note-Meyers256-2%23cite_note-Meyers256-2http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cosmologyhttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cryptography


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