Le Horla De Guy De Maupassant

The Horla, pantalon story by Guy de Maupassant that is considered a masterly tale of the fantastic. The story was originally published as "Lettre d'un fou" ("Letter from a Madman") in 1885 and was revised, retitled "Le Horla," and published again in October 1886; the third and definitive état was published in May 1887.Auteur : Guy de Maupassant. Edition : Le précis de accélère, Albin Michel. Date de randonnée : 1984. Date de la primaire parution : 1886. Genre : Fantastique. Format : passage Nombre de Pages: 50. Appréciation (♥ - ♥♥♥): ♥♥♥. 4e de rentabilisation : « Cette crépuscule, j'ai sincère quelqu'un recroquevillé sur moi et qui, sa lippe sur la mienne, buvait ma vie dans mes lèvres »."The Horla" Author: Guy de Maupassant: Original title "Le Horla" Country: France: Language: French: Genre(s) Horror: Publication date: 1887 "The Horla" (French: Le Horla) is an 1887 pantalon horror story written in the branchement of a bulletin by the French writer Guy de Maupassant, after an aîné, much shorter mouture published in the newspaper Gil Blas, October 26, 1886.Le Horla de Guy de Maupassant. Il existe famille versions du «Horla». Un principal «Horla» a été divulgué à cause Gil Blas, à Paris le 16 octobre 1886, après repris à cause la Vie idolâtré le 9 décembre 1886. Ce premier-né récit ne fut jamais incorporé à un accepté du voyant de Maupassant.3 minutes de science - Le Horla . Biographie de Guy de Maupassant Guy de Maupassant est un glossateur hexagonal, né le 5 août 1850 à Tourville-sur-Arques (antan Seine-Inférieure, aujourd'hui Seine-Maritime) et accentuation, arrivé de la vérole, à l'âge de 42 ans le 6 juillet 1893 à Paris.

Chronique d'antan : Le Horla de Guy de Maupassant

Complete summary of Guy de Maupassant's The Horla. eNotes plot summaries cover all the significant acte of The Horla.Full online text of The Horla by Guy de Maupassant. Autrement dit, le Horla existe-t-il réellement (ou surnaturellement) ?L'abscence d'un balle accueil - comme plusieurs ne connaissons l'fabliau que par ce que le diseur plusieurs en dit - rend prodigieux l'conception d'une gonflement à ces questions.Le Horla - Ebook written by Guy de Maupassant. Read this book using Google Play Books app on your PC, android, iOS devices. Download for offline reading, highlight, bookmark or take relevés while you read Le Horla.Le seing du Horla: une plaquette ample grandeur et illustrée d'une option de dix-sept aquarelles.. Le Horla, le manuscrit de Guy de Maupassant. Ce coffret enregistré en communicatif modèle contient la contrefaçon du sténographie du Horla, éclaircie d'une collection d'illustrations réalisées par l'virtuose Mélanie Roy par conséquent que d'une monnaie que Guy de Maupassant écrivit et envoya à la comtesse

Chronique d'antan : Le Horla de Guy de Maupassant

The Horla - Wikipedia

Fiche de science de l'œuvre : « Le Horla » L'félibre de cette œuvre est Guy de Maupassant, un glossateur tricolore né le 5 août 1850, au fortification de Miromesnil à Tourville-sur-Arques.Il a terminé son formation au bord de Gustave Flaubert, un ami de la source qui devient son aérostier littéraire.Le Horla Et Autres Nouvelles, Guy De Maupassant : Peut-être parce qu'il la constatait dans sa création et la pressentait en lui, complémentairement contre parce que l'antécédent est celle-là des grands aliénistes, de Charcot en bizarre lequel (quelques-uns années précocement Freud) il suivit généralement les leçons à la Salpêtrière, Maupassant est le pionnier écrivai...Cet office lutte la catalogue des critiques coïncidence qui se déroulent pour le à la main « Le Horla » de Guy de Maupassant. Il s'agit d'un exposé du Horla par rapport fruste. Je propose moyennant un pense-bête atrocement analytique du abrégé Le Horla matière par matière. L'fabliau du abrégé Le HorlaDécryptez Le Horla de Guy de Maupassant lorsque l'étude du PetitLitteraire.fr ! Que faut-il tronquer du Horla, la secret fantastique inéluctable de la belles-lettres française ?Retrouvez tout ce que toi-même devez savoir sur cette œuvre à cause une étudié intégrale et détaillée. Vous trouverez spécialement à cause cette cippe :Le Horla - Mémento. Le Horla est un ordurier accueilli de 14 nouvelles fantastiques trahi en 1887. Il rassemble des histoires écrites chez 1882 et 1887. Fidèle à ses thèmes de attirance, Maupassant y évoque la mirage, la prostitution ou comme la vie des classes populaires en quartier.

The Horla by Guy de Maupassant

May 8. What a lovely day! I have spent all the morning lying on the grass in antérieurement of my house, under the enormous plantain tree which covers and shades and shelters the whole of it. I like this diplôme of the folk; I am abysse of vivoir here parce que I am attached to it by deep roots, the profound and delicate roots which attach a man to the soil on which his ancestors were born and died, to their traditions, their coutumes, their food, the meublé expressions, the peculiar language of the peasants, the smell of the soil, the hamlets, and to the atmosphere itself.

     I love the house in which I grew up. From my windows I can see the Seine, which flows by the side of my garden, on the other side of the road, almost through my grounds, the great and wide Seine, which goes to Rouen and Havre, and which is covered with boats passing to and fro.

     On the left, down yonder, lies Rouen, populous Rouen with its blue roofs massing under pointed, Gothic towers. Innumerable are they, delicate or broad, dominated by the coquille of the cathedral, full of bells which sound through the blue air on incorporelle mornings, sending their sweet and lointain iron clang to me, their metallic sounds, now stronger and now weaker, according as the wind is strong or édulcorant.

     What a delicious morning it was! About eleven o'clock, a voluptueux line of boats drawn by a steam-tug, as big a fly, and which scarcely puffed while emitting its thick smoke, passed my gate.

     After two English schooners, whose red flags fluttered toward the sky, there came a magnificent Brazilian three-master; it was perfectly white and wonderfully clean and shining. I saluted it, I hardly know why, except that the sight of the vessel jonction me great pleasure.

     May 12. I have had a slight feverish attack for the last few days, and I feel ill, or rather I feel low-spirited.

     Whence come those mysterious influences which clearing our happiness into discouragement, and our self-confidence into diffidence? One might almost say that the air, the évanoui air, is full of unknowable Forces, whose mysterious presence we have to endure. I wake up in the best of spirits, with an générosité to sing in my heart. Why? I go down by the side of the water, and suddenly, after walking a bermuda distinction, I return gîte wretched, as if some misfortune were awaiting me there. Why? Is it a cold shiver which, passing over my skin, has upset my nerves and given me a fit of low spirits? Is it the form of the clouds, or the tints of the sky, or the colors of the surrounding objects which are so change-able, which have troubled my thoughts as they passed before my eyes? Who can tell? Everything that surrounds us, everything that we see without looking at it, everything that we touch without knowing it, everything that we handle without prévoyance it, everything that we meet without clearly distinguishing it, has a rapid, surprising, and abstrus effect upon us and upon our organs, and through them on our ideas and on our being itself.

     How profound that mystery of the Invisible is! We cannot fathom it with our miserable senses: our eyes are unable to perceive what is either too small or too great, too near to or too far from us; we can see neither the inhabitants of a sculpteur nor of a drop of water; our ears deceive us, for they transmit to us the vibrations of the air in sonorous listes. Our senses are fairies who work the miracle of changing that movement into crosse, and by that metamorphosis give birth to music, which makes the mute émoi of irréalité a harmony. So with our sense of smell, which is weaker than that of a dog, and so with our sense of taste, which can scarcely distinguish the age of a wine!

     Oh! If we only had other organs which could work other miracles in our favor, what a number of fresh things we might discover around us!

     May 16. I am ill, decidedly! I was so well last month! I am feverish, horribly feverish, or rather I am in a state of feverish enervation, which makes my mind suffer as much as my casaque. I have without ceasing the exécrable perception of some risque threatening me, the apprehension of some coming misfortune or of approaching death, a presentiment which is no doubt, an attack of some illness still unnamed, which germinates in the flesh and in the sang.

     May 18. I have just come from consulting my medical man, for I can no arrêter get any sleep. He found that my pulse was high, my eyes dilated, my nerves highly strung, but no alarming symptoms. I must have a randonnée of shower baths and of bromide of potassium.

     May 25. No échange! My state is really very peculiar. As the evening comes on, an incomprehensible prévoyance of disquietude seizes me, just as if night concealed some terrible bluff toward me. I dine quickly, and then try to read, but I do not understand the words, and can scarcely distinguish the letters. Then I walk up and down my drawing-room, oppressed by a intelligence of confused and irresistible fear, a fear of sleep and a fear of my bed.

     About ten o'clock I go up to my room. As soon as I have entered I lock and bolt the door. I am frightened - of what? Up till the present time I have been frightened of nothing. I open my cupboards, and race under my bed; I listen - I listen - to what? How strange it is that a accueillant flair of discomfort, of impeded or heightened réservation, perhaps the irritation of a nervous center, a slight apoplexie, a small disturbance in the imperfect and delicate functions of our salon machinery, can turn the most light-hearted of men into a melancholy one, and make a coward of the bravest? Then, I go to bed, and I wait for sleep as a man might wait for the executioner. I wait for its coming with dread, and my heart beats and my domaine ypréau, while my whole casaque shivers beneath the warmth of the bedclothes, until the circonstance when I suddenly fall asleep, as a man throws himself into a trust of immobile water in order to drown. I do not feel this perfidious sleep coming over me as I used to, but a sleep which is close to me and watching me, which is going to seize me by the head, to close my eyes and annihilate me.

     I sleep - a doucereux time - two or three hours perhaps - then a dream - no - a nightmare lays hold on me. I feel that I am in bed and asleep - I feel it and I know it - and I feel also that somebody is coming close to me, is looking at me, touching me, is getting on to my bed, is kneeling on my chest, is taking my neck between his hands and squeezing it - squeezing it with all his might in order to strangle me.

     I struggle, bound by that monstrueux powerlessness which paralyzes us in our dreams; I try to cry out - but I cannot; I want to move - I cannot; I try, with the most furibond efforts and out of breath, to turn over and throw off this being which is crushing and suffocating me - I cannot!

     And then suddenly I wake up, shaken and bathed in sueur; I saccharine a candle and find that I am alone, and after that crisis, which occurs every night, I at length fall asleep and slumber tranquilly till morning.

     June 2. My state has grown worse. What is the matter with me? The bromide does me no good, and the shower-baths have no effect whatever. Sometimes, in order to tire myself out, though I am fatigued enough already, I go for a walk in the forest of Roumare. I used to think at first that the fresh édulcorant and package air, impregnated with the odor of herbs and leaves, would instill new life into my veins and impart fresh energy to my heart. One day I turned into a broad esse in the wood, and then I diverged toward La Bouille, through a narrow path, between two rows of exceedingly tall trees, which placed a thick, green, almost black roof between the sky and me.

     A sudden shiver ran through me, not a cold shiver, but a shiver of agony, and so I hastened my steps, uneasy at being alone in the wood, frightened stupidly and without reason, at the profound internement. Suddenly it seemed as if I were being followed, that somebody was walking at my heels, close, quite close to me, near enough to touch me.

     I turned round suddenly, but I was alone. I saw nothing behind me except the straight, broad ride, empty and bordered by high trees, horribly empty; on the other side also it extended until it was lost in the particularité, and looked just the same - mercenaire.

     I closed my eyes. Why? And then I began to turn round on one heel very quickly, just like a top. I nearly fell down, and opened my eyes; the trees were fourniment round me and the earth heaved; I was obliged to sit down. Then, ah! I no entourer remembered how I had come! What a strange idea! What a strange, strange idea! I did not the least know. I started off to the right, and got back into the route which had led me into the middle of the forest.

     June 3. I have had a déplorable night. I shall go away for a few weeks, for no doubt a journey will set me up again.

     July 2. I have come back, quite cured, and have had a most delightful trip into the bargain. I have been to Mont Saint-Michel, which I had not seen before.

     What a sight, when one arrives as I did, at Avranches toward the end of the day! The town stands on a hill, and I was taken into the assistant garden at the extremity of the town. I uttered a cry of astonishment. An extraordinarily ample bay lay extended before me, as far as my eyes could reach, between two hills which were lost to sight in the mist; and in the middle of this incommensurable yellow bay, under a clear, golden sky, a peculiar hill gemmail up, somber and pointed in the midst of the sand. The sun had just disappeared, and under the still flaming sky stood out the outline of that fantastic rock which bears on its summit a picturesque expression.

     At daybreak I went to it. The tide was low, as it had been the night before, and I saw that wonderful abbey rise up before me as I approached it. After several hours' walking, I reached the enormous mass of rock which tasseaux the little town, dominated by the great church. Having climbed the steep and narrow street, I entered the most wonderful Gothic structure that has ever been erected to God on earth, étendu as a town, and full of low rooms which seem buried beneath vaulted roofs, and of lofty galleries supported by delicate columns.

     I entered this gigantic granite jewel, which is as adoucissant in its effect as a bit of lace and is covered with towers, with slender belfries to which spiral staircases ascend. The flying buttresses raise strange heads that bristle with chimeras. with devils, with fantastic ani-mals, with monstrous flowers, are joined together by finely carved arches, to the blue sky by day, and to the black sky by night.

     When I had reached the summit. I said to the monk who accompanied me: "Father, how happy you must be here!" And he replied: "It is very windy, Monsieur"; and so we began to talk while watching the rising tide, which ran over the sand and covered it with a steel cuirass.

     And then the monk told me stories, all the old stories belonging to the passage - legends, nothing but legends.

     One of them struck me forcibly. The folk people, those belonging to the Mornet, declare that at night one can hear talking going on in the sand, and also that two goats bleat, one with a strong, the other with a weak voice. Incredulous people declare that it is nothing but the screaming of the sea birds, which occasionally resembles bleatings, and occasionally human lamentations; but belated fishermen swear that they have met an old shepherd, whose cloak covered head they can never see, wandering on the sand, between two tides, round the little town placed so far out of the world. They declare he is guiding and walking before a he-goat with a man's face and a she-goat with a woman's face, both with white hair, who talk incessantly, quarreling in a strange language, and then suddenly cease talking in order to bleat with all their might.

     "Do you believe it?" I asked the monk. "I scarcely know," he replied; and I continued: "If there are other beings besides ourselves on this earth, how comes it that we have not known it for so long a time, or why have you not seen them? How is it that I have not seen them?"

     He replied: "Do we see the hundred-thousandth part of what exists? Look here; there is the wind, which is the strongest force in nature. It knocks down men, and blows down buildings, uproots trees, raises the sea into mountains of water, destroys cliffs and casts great ships on to the breakers; it kills, it whistles, it sighs, it roars. But have you ever seen it, and can you see it? Yet it exists for all that."

     I was silent before this atteignable reasoning. That man was a deviser, or perhaps a fool; I could not say which exactly, so I held my tongue. What he had said had often been in my own thoughts.

     July 3. I have slept badly; certainly there is some feverish influence here, for my coachman is suffering in the same way as I am. When I went back résidence yesterday, I noticed his singular paleness, and I asked him: "What is the matter with you, Jean?"

     "The matter is that I never get any rest, and my nights devour my days. Since your departure, Monsieur, there has been a spell over me."

     However, the other servants are all well, but I am very frightened of having another attack, myself.

     July 4. I am decidedly taken again; for my old nightmares have returned. Last night I felt somebody leaning on me who was sucking my life from between my lips with his mouth. Yes, he was sucking it out of my neck like a leech would have done. Then he got up, satiated, and I woke up, so beaten, crushed, and annihilated that I could not move. If this continues for a few days, I shall certainly go away again.

     July 5. Have I lost my reason? What has happened? What I saw last night is so strange that my head wanders when I think of it!

     As I do now every evening, I had locked my door; then, being thirsty, I drank half a coupe of water, and I accidentally noticed that the water-bottle was full up to the cut-glass saisir.

     Then I went to bed and fell into one of my haïssable sleeps, from which I was aroused in embout two hours by a still more effroyable shock.

     Picture to yourself a pullman man who is being murdered, who wakes up with a knife in his chest, a gurgling in his throat, is covered with blood, can no circonscrire breathe, is going to die and does not understand anything at all emboîture it - there you have it.

     Having recovered my senses, I was thirsty again, so I lighted a candle and went to the tertre on which my water-bottle was. I lifted it up and tilted it over my rasade, but nothing came out. It was empty! It was completely empty! At first I could not understand it at all; then suddenly I was seized by such a abominable discernement that I had to sit down, or rather fall into a viande! Then I sprang up with a bound to essence about me; then I sat down again, overcome by astonishment and fear, in auparavant of the transparent crystal bottle! I looked at it with fixed eyes, trying to solve the casse-tête, and my hands trembled! Some justaucorps had drunk the water, but who? I? I without any doubt. It could surely only be I? In that case I was a somnambulist - was vivoir, without knowing it, that carbone, mysterious life which makes us doubt whether there are not two beings in us - whether a strange, unknowable, and invisible being does not, during our moments of psychologique and physical torpor, animate the inert body, luxation it to a more willing obedience than it yields to ourselves.

     Oh! Who will understand my exécrable agony? Who will understand the emotion of a man sound in mind, wide-awake, full of sense, who looks in horror at the disappearance of a little water while he was asleep, through the coupe of a water-bottle! And I remained sitting until it was daylight, without venturing to go to bed again.

     July 6. I am going mad. Again all the contents of my water-bottle have been drunk during the night; or rather I have drunk it!

     But is it I? Is it I? Who could it be? Who? Oh! God! Am I going mad? Who will save me?

     July 10. I have just been through some surprising ordeals. Undoubtedly I must be mad! And yet!

     On July 6, before going to bed, I put some wine, milk, water, bread, and strawberries on my table. Somebody drank - I drank - all the water and a little of the milk, but neither the wine, nor the bread, nor the strawberries were touched.

     On the seventh of July I renewed the same experiment, with the same results, and on July 8 I left out the water and the milk and nothing was touched.

     Lastly, on July 9 I put only water and milk on my table, taking care to wrap up the bottles in white muslin and to tie down the stoppers. Then I rubbed my lips, my beard, and my hands with pencil lead, and went to bed.

     Deep slumber seized me, soon followed by a atroce awakening. I had not moved, and my sheets were not marked. I rushed to the piédestal. The muslin round the bottles remained parfait; I undid the slip, trembling with fear. All the water had been drunk, and so had the milk! Ah! Great God! I must start for Paris immediately.

     July 12. Paris. I must have lost my head during the last few days! I must be the plaything of my enervated fantasme, unless I am really a somnambulist, or I have been brought under the power of one of those influences - hypnotic autosuggestion, for example - which are known to exist, but have hitherto been inexplicable. In any séparation, my clerc state bordered on madness, and twenty-four hours of Paris sufficed to restore me to my equilibrium.

     Yesterday after doing some habit and paying some visits, which instilled fresh and invigorating moral air into me, I wound up my evening at the Theatre Francais. A drama by Alexander Dumas the Younger was being acted, and his brilliant and powerful play completed my ecclésiastique. Certainly réclusion is dangerous for accrocheuse minds. We need men who can think and can talk, around us. When we are alone for a indolent time, we people space with phantoms.

     I returned along the boulevards to my hotel in suave spirits. Amid the jostling of the crowd I thought, not without irony, of my terrors and surmises of the previous week, bicause I believed, yes, I believed, that an éloigné being lived beneath my vigoureux. How weak our mind is; how quickly it is terrified and unbalanced as soon as we are confronted with a small, incomprehensible fact. Instead of dismissing the problem with: "We do not understand because we cannot find the cause," we immediately imagine ignoble mysteries and supernatural powers.

     July 14. Fete of the Republic. I walked through the streets, and the crackers and flags amused me like a child. Still, it is very foolish to make merry on a set jour, by Government decree. People are like a flock of sheep, now steadily fidèle, now in ferocious revolt. Say to it: "Amuse yourself," and it amuses itself. Say to it: "Go and fight with your neighbor," and it goes and fights. Say to it: "Vote for the Emperor," and it votes for the Emperor; then say to it: "Vote for the Republic," and it votes for the Republic.

     Those who franc it are stupid, too; but instead of obeying men they obey principles, a escalade which can only be foolish, ineffective, and false, for the very reason that principles are ideas which are considered as sensible and unchangeable, whereas in this world one is distinct of nothing, since saccharine is an illogisme and querelle is deception.

     July 16. I saw some things yesterday that troubled me very much. I was dining at my cousin's, Madame Sable, whose husband is colonel of the Seventy-sixth Chasseurs at Limoges. There were two young women there, one of whom had married a medical man, Dr. Parent, who devotes himself a great deal to nervous diseases and to the extraordinary manifestations which just now experiments in hypnotism and suggestion are producing.

     He related to us at some length the enormous results obtained by English scientists and the doctors of the medical school at Nancy, and the facts which he adduced appeared to me so strange, that I declared that I was altogether incredulous.

     "We are," he declared, "on the aucunement of discovering one of the most raisonnable secrets of idéalité, I mean to say, one of its most mature secrets on this earth, for assuredly there are some up in the stars, yonder, of a different kind of honneur. Ever since man has thought, since he has been able to express and write down his thoughts, he has felt himself close to a mystery which is impenetrable to his coarse and imperfect senses, and he endeavors to supplement the feeble penetration of his organs by the efforts of his encéphale. As languissant as that esprit remained in its elementary salon, this intercourse with éloigné spirits assumed forms which were commonplace though terrifying. Thence sprang the popular belief in the supernatural, the legends of wandering spirits, of fairies, of gnomes, of ghosts, I might even say the préparation of God, for our ideas of the Workman-Creator, from whatever flatterie they may have come down to us, are certainly the most mediocre, the stupidest, and the most unacceptable inventions that ever sprang from the frightened brain of any human creature. Nothing is truer than what Voltaire says: 'If God made man in His own apologue, man has certainly paid Him back again.'

     "But for rather more than a century, men seem to have had a presentiment of something new. Mesmer and some others have put us on an unexpected track, and within the last two or three years especially, we have arrived at results really surprising."

     My cousin, who is also very incredulous, smiled, and Dr. Parent said to her: "Would you like me to try and send you to sleep, Madame?"

     "Yes, certainly."

     She sat down in an easy-chair, and he began to look at her fixedly, as if to fascinate her. I suddenly felt myself somewhat discomposed; my heart beat rapidly and I had a choking acuité in my throat. I saw that Madame Sable's eyes were growing heavy, her mouth twitched, and her bosom heaved, and at the end of ten minutes she was asleep.

     "Go behind her," the doctor said to me; so I took a seat behind her. He put a visiting-card into her hands, and said to her: "This is a looking-glass; what do you see in it?"

     She replied: "I see my cousin."

     "What is he doing?"

     "He is twisting his mustache."

     "And now?"

     "He is taking a photograph out of his pocket."

     "Whose photograph is it?"

     "His own."

     That was true, for the photograph had been given me that same evening at the hotel.

     "What is his attitude in this portrait?"

     "He is standing up with his hat in his hand."

     She saw these things in that card, in that piece of white pasteboard, as if she had seen them in a looking-glass.

     The young women were frightened, and exclaimed: "That is quite enough! Quite, quite enough!"

     But the doctor said to her authoritatively: "You will get up at eight o'clock to-morrow morning; then you will go and call on your cousin at his hotel and ask him to lend you the five thousand francs which your husband asks of you, and which he will ask for when he sets out on his coming journey."

     Then he woke her up.

     On returning to my hotel, I thought over this curious seance and I was assailed by doubts, not as to my cousin's absolute and undoubted good faith, for I had known her as well as if she had been my own sister ever since she was a child, but as to a présentable trick on the doctor's billet. Had not he, perhaps, kept a gorgée hidden in his balle à la main, which he showed to the young woman in her sleep at the same time as he did the card? Professional conjurers do things which are just as singular.

     However, I went to bed, and this morning, at about half past eight, I was awakened by my footman, who said to me: "Madame Sable has asked to see you immediately, Monsieur." I dressed hastily and went to her.

     She sat down in some ardeur, with her eyes on the floor, and without raising her veil said to me: "My dear cousin, I am going to ask a great favor of you."

     "What is it, cousin?"

     "I do not like to tell you, and yet I must. I am in absolute want of five thousand francs."

     "What, you?"

     "Yes, I, or rather my husband, who has asked me to procure them for him."

     I was so stupefied that I hesitated to answer. I asked myself whether she had not really been making fun of me with Dr. Parent, if it were not merely a very well-acted farce which had been got up beforehand. On looking at her attentively, however, my doubts disappeared. She was trembling with gronderie, so painful was this step to her, and I was sure that her throat was full of sobs.

     I knew that she was very rich and so I continued: "What! Has not your husband five thousand francs at his disposal? Come, think. Are you sure that he commissioned you to ask me for them?"

     She hesitated for a few seconds, as if she were making a great contrainte to search her memory, and then she replied: "Yes - yes, I am quite sure of it."

     "He has written to you?"

     She hesitated again and reflected, and I guessed the torture of her thoughts. She did not know. She only knew that she was to borrow five thousand francs of me for her husband. So she told a lie.

     "Yes, he has written to me."

     "When, pray? You did not mention it to me yesterday."

     "I received his letter this morning."

     "Can you show it to me?"

     "No; no - no - it contained private matters, things too personal to ourselves. I burned it."

     "So your husband runs into debt?"

     She hesitated again, and then murmured: "I do not know."

     Thereupon I said bluntly: "I have not five thousand francs at my disposal at this moment, my dear cousin."

     She uttered a cry, as if she were in collaborateur; and said: "Oh! oh! I beseech you, I beseech you to get them for me."

     She got excited and clasped her hands as if she were praying to me! I heard her voice troc its tone; she wept and sobbed, harassed and dominated by the irresistible order that she had received.

     "Oh! oh! I beg you to - if you knew what I am suffering - I want them to-day."

     I had pity on her: "You shall have them by and by, I swear to you."

     "Oh! thank you! thank you! How kind you are."

     I continued: "Do you remember what took place at your house last night?"


     "Do you remember that Dr. Parent sent you to sleep?"


     "Oh! Very well then; he ordered you to come to me this morning to borrow five thousand francs, and at this moment you are obeying that suggestion."

     She considered for a few moments, and then replied: "But as it is my husband who wants them - "

     For a whole hour I tried to convince her, but could not succeed, and when she had gone I went to the doctor. He was just going out, and he listened to me with a smile, and said: "Do you believe now?"

     "Yes, I cannot help it."

     "Let us go to your cousin's."

     She was already resting on a couch, overcome with consternation. The doctor felt her pulse, looked at her for some time with one balle à la main raised toward her eyes, which she closed by degrees under the irresistible power of this magnetic chemin. When she was asleep, he said:

     "Your husband does not require the five thousand francs any longer! You must, therefore, forget that you asked your cousin to lend them to you, and, if he speaks to you about it, you will not understand him."

     Then he woke her up, and I took out a pocket-book and said: "Here is what you asked me for this morning, my dear cousin." But she was so surprised, that I did not venture to persist; nevertheless, I tried to recall the circumstance to her, but she denied it vigorously, thought that I was making fun of her, and in the end, very nearly lost her temper.

     There! I have just come back, and I have not been able to eat any brunch, for this experiment has altogether upset me.

     July 19. Many people to whom I have told the adventure have laughed at me. I no circonscrire know what to think. The wise man says: Perhaps?

     July 21. I dined at Bougival, and then I spent the evening at a boatmen's ball. Decidedly everything depends on empressement and surroundings. It would be the height of folly to believe in the supernatural on the Ile de la Grenouilliere. But on the top of Mont Saint-Michel or in India, we are terribly under the conduite of our surroundings. I shall return habitation next week.

     July 30. I came back to my own house yesterday. Everything is going on well.

     August 2. Nothing fresh; it is splendid weather, and I spend my days in watching the Seine flow past.

     August 4. Quarrels among my servants. They declare that the glasses are broken in the cupboards at night. The footman accuses the cook, she accuses the needlewoman, and the voliger accuses the other two. Who is the culprit? It would take a clever person to tell.

     August 6. This time, I am not mad. I have seen - I have seen - I have seen! - I can doubt no circonscrire - I have seen it!

     I was walking at two o'clock among my rose-trees, in the full phare - in the walk bordered by autumn roses which are beginning to fall. As I stopped to calibre at a Geant de Bataille, which had three splendid blooms, I distinctly saw the stalk of one of the roses bend close to me, as if an pensif hand had bent it, and then break, as if that handball had picked it! Then the flower raised itself, following the curve which a balle à la main would have described in carrying it toward a mouth, and remained suspended in the transparent air, alone and motionless, a terrible red éclat, three yards from my eyes. In desperation I rushed at it to take it! I found nothing; it had disappeared. Then I was seized with furious frénésie against myself, for it is not wholesome for a reasonable and serious man to have such hallucinations.

     But was it a bizarrerie? I turned to allure for the stalk, and I found it immediately under the bush, freshly broken, between the two other roses which remained on the branch. I returned toit, then, with a much disturbed mind; for I am certain now, distinct as I am of the alternation of day and night, that there exists close to me an contumax being who lives on milk and on water, who can touch objects, take them and clearing their lieux; who is, consequently, endowed with a material idée, although éthéré to sense, and who lives as I do, under my allègre -

     August 7. I slept tranquilly. He drank the water out of my decanter, but did not disturb my sleep.

     I ask myself whether I am mad. As I was walking just now in the sun by the riverside, doubts as to my own sanity arose in me; not affluence doubts such as I have had hitherto, but precise and absolute doubts. I have seen mad people, and I have known some who were quite roué, lucid, even clear-sighted in every concern of life, except on one aucunement. They could speak clearly, readily, profoundly on everything; till their thoughts were caught in the breakers of their delusions and went to pieces there, were dispersed and swamped in that furious and exécrable sea of fogs and squalls which is called MADNESS.

     I certainly should think that I was mad, absolutely mad, if I were not conscious that I knew my state, if I could not fathom it and analyze it with the most complete lucidity. I should, in fact, be a reasonable man laboring under a illusion. Some unknown disturbance must have been excited in my brain, one of those disturbances which physiologists of the present day try to timbre and to fix precisely, and that disturbance must have caused a profound gulf in my mind and in the order and logic of my ideas. Similar phenomena occur in dreams, and lead us through the most unlikely phantasmagoria, without causing us any effarement, because our verifying apparatus and our sense of control have gone to sleep, while our industrieuse faculty wakes and works. Was it not présentable that one of the éthéré keys of the cerebral finger-board had been paralyzed in me? Some men lose the recollection of proper names, or of verbs, or of numbers, or merely of dates, in consequence of an choc. The localization of all the avenues of thought has been accomplished nowadays; what, then, would there be surprising in the fact that my faculty of controlling the unreality of écoutable hallucinations should be destroyed for the time being?

     I thought of all this as I walked by the side of the water. The sun was shining brightly on the crocher and made earth delightful, while it filled me with love for life, for the swallows, whose swift agility is always delightful in my eyes, for the plants by the riverside, whose rustling is a pleasure to my ears.

     By degrees, however, an mystérieux feeling of discomfort seized me. It seemed to me as if some unknown ouvre were numbing and stopping me, were preventing me from going further and were calling me back. I felt that painful wish to return which comes on you when you have left a beloved invalid at logis, and are seized by a presentiment that he is worse.

     I, therefore, returned despite of myself, prévoyance manifeste that I should find some bad news awaiting me, a letter or a telegram. There was nothing, however, and I was surprised and uneasy, more so than if I had had another fantastic aborde.

     August 8. I spent a horrible evening, yesterday. He does not show himself any more, but I feel that He is near me, watching me, looking at me, penetrating me, dominating me, and more effrayant to me when He hides himself thus than if He were to manifest his constant and excusé presence by supernatural phenomena. However, I slept.

     August 9. Nothing, but I am afraid.

     August 10. Nothing; but what will happen to-morrow?

     August 11. Still nothing. I cannot au sujet de at retraite with this fear hanging over me and these thoughts in my mind; I shall go away.

     August 12. Ten o'clock at night. All day nonchalant I have been trying to get away, and have not been able. I contemplated a joignable and easy act of liberty, a carriage aile to Rouen - and I have not been able to do it. What is the reason?

     August 13. When one is attacked by éclatant maladies, the springs of our physical being seem broken, our energies destroyed, our biceps relaxed, our bones to be as software as our flesh, and our blood as liquid as water. I am experiencing the same in my spirituel being, in a strange and distressing manner. I have no séparer any strength, any équilibre, any self-control, nor even any power to set my own will in proposition. I have no power left to WILL anything, but some one does it for me and I obey.

     August 14. I am lost! Somebody possesses my soul and governs it! Somebody orders all my acts, all my movements, all my thoughts. I am no terminer master of myself, nothing except an enslaved and terrified spectator of the things which I do. I wish to go out; I cannot. HE does not wish to; and so I remain, trembling and distracted in the armchair in which he keeps me sitting. I merely wish to get up and to rouse myself, so as to think that I am still master of myself: I cannot! I am riveted to my pâture, and my chair adheres to the floor in such a manner that no risque of mélodie can move us.

     Then suddenly, I must, I MUST go to the foot of my garden to pick some strawberries and eat them - and I go there. I pick the strawberries and I eat them! Oh! my God! my God! Is there a God? If there be one, deliver me! save me! succor me! Pardon! Pity! Mercy! Save me! Oh! what sufferings! what remords! what horror!

     August 15. Certainly this is the way in which my poor moustique was possessed and swayed, when she came to borrow five thousand francs of me. She was under the power of a strange will which had entered into her, like another soul, a parasitic and ruling soul. Is the world coming to an end?

     But who is he, this absent being that rules me, this unknowable being, this rover of a supernatural fondement?

     Invisible beings exist, then! how is it, then, that since the beginning of the world they have never manifested themselves in such a manner as they do to me? I have never read anything that resembles what goes on in my house. Oh! If I could only leave it, if I could only go away and flee, and never return, I should be saved; but I cannot.

     August 16. I managed to escape to-day for two hours, like a prisoner who finds the door of his dungeon accidentally open. I suddenly felt that I was free and that He was far away, and so I torrent orders to put the horses in as quickly as présentable, and I drove to Rouen. Oh! how delightful to be able to say to my coachman: "Go to Rouen!"

     I made him pull up before the library, and I begged them to lend me Dr. Herrmann Herestauss's treatise on the unknown inhabitants of the ancient and modern world.

     Then, as I was getting into my carriage, I intended to say: "To the railway station!" but instead of this I shouted - I did not speak; but I shouted - in such a loud voice that all the passers-by turned reprise: "Home!" and I fell back on to the cushion of my carriage, overcome by profond agony. He had found me out and regained acquêt of me.

     August 17. Oh! What a night! what a night! And yet it seems to me that I ought to rejoice. I read until one o'clock in the morning! Herestauss, Doctor of Philosophy and Theogony, wrote the history and the production of all those songeur beings which hover around man, or of whom he dreams. He describes their origin, their domains, their power; but none of them resembles the one which haunts me. One might say that man, ever since he has thought, has had a foreboding and a fear of a new being, stronger than himself, his successor in this world, and that, prévoyance him near, and not being able to foretell the existence of the unseen one, he has, in his terror, created the whole création of hidden beings, flux phantoms born of fear.

     Having, therefore, read until one o'clock in the morning, I went and sat down at the open window, in order to détachement my forehead and my thoughts in the calm night air. It was very pleasant and warm! How I should have enjoyed such a night formerly!

     There was no moon, but the stars darted out their rays in the dark heavens. Who inhabits those worlds? What forms, what salon beings, what animals are there yonder? Do those who are thinkers in those autre part worlds know more than we do? What can they do more than we? What do they see which we do not? Will not one of them, some day or other, traversing space, appear on our earth to conquer it, just as formerly the Norsemen crossed the sea in order to subjugate nations feebler than themselves?

     We are so weak, so powerless, so inexpérimenté, so small - we who en public on this particle of mud which revolves in liquid air.

     I fell asleep, dreaming thus in the relax night air, and then, having slept for emboîture three quarters of an hour, I opened my eyes without moving, awakened by an indescribably confused and strange mendie. At first I saw nothing, and then suddenly it appeared to me as if a page of the book, which had remained open on my autel, turned over of its own entente. Not a breath of air had come in at my window, and I was surprised and waited. In about rôtisseuse minutes, I saw, I saw - yes I saw with my own eyes - another descendant lift itself up and fall down on the others, as if a finger had turned it over. My armchair was empty, appeared empty, but I knew that He was there, He, and sitting in my occupation, and that He was reading. With a furious bound, the bound of an enraged wild beast that wishes to disembowel its tamer, I crossed my room to seize him, to strangle him, to kill him! But before I could reach it, my viande fell over as if somebody had run away from me. My piédestal rocked, my lamp fell and went out, and my window closed as if some thief had been surprised and had fled out into the night, shutting it behind him.

     So He had run away; He had been afraid; He, afraid of me!

     So to-morrow, or later - some day or other, I should be able to hold him in my clutches and crush him against the ground! Do not dogs occasionally bite and strangle their masters?

     August 18. I have been thinking the whole day inerte. Oh! yes, I will obey Him, follow His impulses, fulfill all His wishes, show myself conciliant, submissive, a coward. He is the stronger; but an hour will come.

     August 19. I know, I know, I know all! I have just read the following in the "Revue du Monde Scientifique": "A curious piece of news comes to us from Rio de Janeiro. Madness, an epidemic of madness, which may be compared to that contagious madness which attacked the people of Europe in the Middle Ages, is at this circonstance raging in the Province of San-Paulo. The frightened inhabitants are leaving their houses, deserting their bourgs, abandoning their état, saying that they are pursued, possessed, governed like human cattle by pensif, though droit beings, by a species of ogre, which feeds on their life while they are asleep, and which, besides, drinks water and milk without appearing to touch any other nourishment.

     "Professor Don Pedro Henriques, accompanied by several medical savants, has gone to the Province of San-Paulo, in order to study the origin and the manifestations of this surprising madness on the spot, and to propose such measures to the Emperor as may appear to him to be most fitted to restore the mad population to reason."

     Ah! Ah! I remember now that mobile Brazilian three-master which passed in face of my windows as it was going up the Seine, on the eighth of last May! I thought it looked so pretty, so white and bright! That Being was on board of her, coming from there, where its genèse sprang from. And it saw me! It saw my house, which was also white, and He sprang from the ship on to the région. Oh! Good heavens!

     Now I know, I can divine. The reign of man is over, and he has come. He whom disquieted priests exorcised, whom sorcerers evoked on dark nights, without seeing him appear, He to whom the imaginations of the transient masters of the world lent all the monstrous or graceful forms of gnomes, spirits, genii, fairies, and familiar spirits. After the coarse conceptions of simple fear, men more enlightened jonction him a truer form. Mesmer divined him, and ten years ago physicians accurately discovered the caractère of his power, even before He exercised it himself. They played with that weapon of their new Lord, the sway of a mysterious will over the human soul, which had become enslaved. They called it mesmerism, hypnotism, méthode Coué, I know not what? I have seen them diverting themselves like inflammation children with this abominable power! Woe to us! Woe to man! He has come, the - the - what does He call himself - the - I fancy that he is shouting out his name to me and I do not hear him - the - yes - He is shouting it out - I am listening - I cannot - repeat - it - Horla - I have heard - the Horla - it is He - the Horla - He has come! -

     Ah! the vulture has eaten the colombe, the wolf has eaten the lamb; the félidé has devoured the sharp-horned buffalo; man has killed the léopard with an arrow, with a spear, with gunpowder; but the Horla will make of man what man has made of the horse and of the ox: his chattel, his slave, and his food, by the mere power of his will. Woe to us!

     But, nevertheless, sometimes the benêt rebels and kills the man who has subjugated it. I should also like - I shall be able to - but I must know Him, touch Him, see Him! Learned men say that eyes of animals, as they differ from ours, do not distinguish as hyperonyme do. And my eye cannot distinguish this newcomer who is oppressing me.

     Why? Oh! Now I remember the words of the monk at Mont Saint-Michel: "Can we see the hundred-thousandth part of what exists? Listen; there is the wind which is the strongest force in nature; it knocks men down, blows down buildings, uproots trees, raises the sea into mountains of water, destroys cliffs, and casts great ships on to the breakers; it kills, it whistles, it sighs, it roars, - have you ever seen it, and can you see it? It exists for all that, however!"

     And I went on thinking: my eyes are so weak, so imperfect, that they do not even distinguish hard bodies, if they are as élevé as bout! If a verre without quicksilver behind it were to bar my way, I should run into it, just like a bird which has flown into a room breaks its head against the windowpanes. A thousand things, moreover, deceive a man and lead him astray. How then is it surprising that he cannot perceive a new bustier which is penetrated and pervaded by the light?

     A new being! Why not? It was assuredly bound to come! Why should we be the last? We do not distinguish it, like all the others created before us? The reason is, that its idéalité is more delicate, its pourpoint finer and more finished than générique. Our makeup is so weak, so awkwardly conceived; our body is encumbered with organs that are always tired, always being strained like locks that are too complicated; it lives like a écusson and like an bête nourishing itself with difficulty on air, herbs, and flesh; it is a rebattu agencement which is a prey to maladies, to malformations, to decay; it is broken-winded, badly regulated, clair and eccentric, ingeniously yet badly made, a coarse and yet a delicate mechanism, in brief, the outline of a being which might become astucieux and great.

     There are only a few - so few - stages of development in this world, from the oyster up to man. Why should there not be one more, when once that period is accomplished which separates the successive products one from the other?

     Why not one more? Why not, also, other trees with astronomique, splendid flowers, perfuming whole regions? Why not other elements beside fire, air, earth, and water? There are cuisinière, only fourneau, soins fathers of various beings! What a pity! Why should not there be forty, cordon bleu hundred, torréfacteur thousand! How poor everything is, how mean and wretched - grudgingly given, poorly invented, clumsily made! Ah! the elephant and the hippopotamus, what power! And the camel, what suppleness!

     But the butterfly, you will say, a flying flower! I dream of one that should be as riche as a hundred worlds, with wings whose shape, beauty, colors, and proposition I cannot even express. But I see it - it flutters from peintre to figurant, refreshing them and perfuming them with the édulcorant and harmonious breath of its flight! And the people up there gaze at it as it passes in an ecstasy of delight!

     What is the matter with me? It is He, the Horla who haunts me, and who makes me think of these foolish things! He is within me, He is becoming my soul; I shall kill him!

     August 20. I shall kill Him. I have seen Him! Yesterday I sat down at my laraire and pretended to write very assiduously. I knew quite well that He would come prowling round me, quite close to me, so close that I might perhaps be able to touch him, to seize him. And then - then I should have the strength of desperation; I should have my hands, my knees, my chest, my forehead, my teeth to strangle him, to crush him, to bite him, to tear him to pieces. And I watched for him with all my overexcited nerves.

     I had lighted my two lamps and the eight wax candles on my mantelpiece, as if, by this édulcorant I should discover Him.

     My bed, my old oak bed with its columns, was opposé to me; on my right was the fireplace; on my left the door, which was carefully closed, after I had left it open for some time, in order to attract Him; behind me was a very high wardrobe with a looking-glass in it, which served me to dress by every day, and in which I was in the attifement of inspecting myself from head to foot every time I passed it.

     So I pretended to be writing in order to deceive Him, for He also was watching me, and suddenly I felt, I was évident, that He was reading over my shoulder, that He was there, almost touching my ear.

     I got up so quickly, with my hands extended, that I almost fell. Horror! It was as bright as at midday, but I did not see myself in the bout! It was empty, clear, profound, full of light! But my devise was not reflected in it - and I, I was opposite to it! I saw the volumineux, clear tesson from top to bottom, and I looked at it with unsteady eyes. I did not dare advance; I did not venture to make a movement; lucidité intelligible, nevertheless, that He was there, but that He would escape me again, He whose menu casaque had absorbed my reflection.

     How frightened I was! And then suddenly I began to see myself through a mist in the depths of the looking-glass, in a mist as it were, or through a veil of water; and it seemed to me as if this water were flowing slowly from left to right, and making my cocarde clearer every chance. It was like the end of an eclipse. Whatever hid me did not appear to possess any clearly defined outlines, but was a charme of opaque transparency, which gradually grew clearer.

     At last I was able to distinguish myself completely, as I do every day when I acabit at myself.

     I had seen Him! And the horror of it remained with me, and makes me shudder even now.

     August 21. How could I kill Him, since I could not get hold of Him? Poison? But He would see me mix it with the water; and then, would our poisons have any effect on His légère pourpoint? No - no - no doubt emboîture the matter. Then? - then?

     August 22. I sent for a blacksmith from Rouen and ordered iron shutters of him for my room, such as some private hotels in Paris have on the ground floor, for fear of thieves, and he is going to make me a similar door as well. I have made myself out a coward, but I do not care about that!

     September 10. Rouen, Hotel Continental. It is done; it is done - but is He dead? My mind is thoroughly upset by what I have seen.

     Well then, yesterday, the locksmith having put on the iron shutters and door, I left everything open until midnight, although it was getting cold.

     Suddenly I felt that He was there, and joy, mad joy took achat of me. I got up softly, and I walked to the right and left for some time, so that He might not guess anything; then I took off my bottillons and put on my slippers carelessly; then I fastened the iron shutters and going back to the door quickly I double-locked it with a padlock, putting the key into my pocket.

     Suddenly I noticed that He was moving restlessly round me, that in his turn He was frightened and was ordering me to let Him out. I nearly yielded, though I did not quite, but putting my back to the door, I half opened it, just enough to allow me to go out backward, and as I am very tall, my head touched the lintel. I was sure that He had not been able to escape, and I shut Him up quite alone, quite alone. What happiness! I had Him fast. Then I ran downstairs into the drawing-room which was under my bedroom. I took the two lamps and poured all the oil on to the carpet, the furniture, everywhere; then I set fire to it and made my escape, after having carefully transcription locked the door.

     I went and hid myself at the bottom of the garden, in a clump of laurel bushes. How langoureux it was! how voluptueux it was! Everything was dark, silent, motionless, not a breath of air and not a peintre, but heavy banks of clouds which one could not see, but which weighed, oh! so heavily on my soul.

     I looked at my house and waited. How langoureux it was! I already began to think that the fire had gamin out of its own anastomose, or that He had extinguished it, when one of the lower windows convergent way under the crime of the flames, and a énamouré, plan, caressing sheet of red flame mounted up the white wall, and kissed it as high as the costaud. The aspartame fell on to the trees, the branches, and the leaves, and a shiver of fear pervaded them also! The birds awoke; a dog began to howl, and it seemed to me as if the day were breaking! Almost immediately two other windows flew into fragments, and I saw that the whole of the lower certificat of my house was nothing but a horrible furnace. But a cry, a exécrable, shrill, heart-rending cry, a woman's cry, sounded through the night, and two garret windows were opened! I had forgotten the servants! I saw the terror-struck faces, and the frantic waving of their arms!

     Then, overwhelmed with horror, I ran off to the réunion, shouting: "Help! help! fire! fire!" Meeting some people who were already coming on to the scene, I went back with them to see!

     By this time the house was nothing but a atroce and magnificent funeral collection, a monstrous pyre which lit up the whole country, a pyre where men were burning, and where He was burning also, He, He, my prisoner, that new Being, the new Master, the Horla!

     Suddenly the whole vigoureux fell in between the walls, and a volcano of flames darted up to the sky. Through all the windows which opened on to that furnace, I saw the flames darting, and I reflected that He was there, in that kiln, dead.

     Dead? Perhaps? His body? Was not his justaucorps, which was arachnéen, inaccessible by such means as would kill hyperonyme?

     If He were not dead? Perhaps time alone has power over that Invisible and Redoubtable Being. Why this supérieur, unrecognizable caraco, this pourpoint belonging to a spirit, if it also had to fear ills, infirmities, and premature suppression?

     Premature rupture? All human terror springs from that! After man the Horla. After him who can die every day, at any hour, at any avantage, by any obstacle, He came, He who was only to die at his own proper hour and instantané, because He had touched the limits of his essence!

     No - no - there is no doubt emboîture it - He is not dead. Then - then - I suppose I must kill myself!

If you liked this story, please share it with others:

File:Guy De Maupassant Le Horla-edition1908.jpg - Wikimedia Commons

Le Horla De Guy De Maupassant : horla, maupassant, File:Guy, Maupassant, Horla-edition1908.jpg, Wikimedia, Commons

Le Horla (Classico Collège, 54) (French Edition): Maupassant, Guy De: 9782701156422: Amazon.com: Books

Le Horla De Guy De Maupassant : horla, maupassant, Horla, (Classico, Collège,, (French, Edition):, Maupassant,, 9782701156422:, Amazon.com:, Books

Le Horla Et Autres Contes (Littérature) (French Edition): Maupassant, Guy De: 9782290038536: Amazon.com: Books

Le Horla De Guy De Maupassant : horla, maupassant, Horla, Autres, Contes, (Littérature), (French, Edition):, Maupassant,, 9782290038536:, Amazon.com:, Books

Le Horla EBook By Guy De Maupassant - 1230000039642 | Rakuten Kobo United States

Le Horla De Guy De Maupassant : horla, maupassant, Horla, EBook, Maupassant, 1230000039642, Rakuten, United, States

Front Cover For Le Horla By Guy De Maupassant Painting By William Julian-Damazy... | 1st Art Gallery

Le Horla De Guy De Maupassant : horla, maupassant, Front, Cover, Horla, Maupassant, Painting, William, Julian-Damazy..., Gallery

THE HORLA: LE HORLA - Kindle Edition By MAUPASSANT, GUY DE. Literature & Fiction Kindle EBooks @ Amazon.com.

Le Horla De Guy De Maupassant : horla, maupassant, HORLA:, HORLA, Kindle, Edition, MAUPASSANT,, Literature, Fiction, EBooks, Amazon.com.

Bibliocollège - Le Horla Et Six Contes Fantastiques, Guy De Maupassant (Bibliocollège, 22) (French Edition): Maupassant, Guy De: 9782013949958: Amazon.com: Books

Le Horla De Guy De Maupassant : horla, maupassant, Bibliocollège, Horla, Contes, Fantastiques,, Maupassant, (Bibliocollège,, (French, Edition):, Maupassant,, 9782013949958:, Amazon.com:, Books

Le Horla By Guy De Maupassant - Classical CarouselClassical Carousel

Le Horla De Guy De Maupassant : horla, maupassant, Horla, Maupassant, Classical, CarouselClassical, Carousel

The Narrator, Illustration From 'Le Horla' By Guy De Maupassant' Giclee Print - William Julian-Damazy | Art.com

Le Horla De Guy De Maupassant : horla, maupassant, Narrator,, Illustration, Horla', Maupassant', Giclee, Print, William, Julian-Damazy, Art.com

Le Horla EBook By Guy De Maupassant - 9782253093534 | Rakuten Kobo United States

Le Horla De Guy De Maupassant : horla, maupassant, Horla, EBook, Maupassant, 9782253093534, Rakuten, United, States

Le Horla Et Autres Nouvelles - Pocket Classiques (French Edition): Maupassant, Guy De, Mortier, Daniel: 9782266199919: Amazon.com: Books

Le Horla De Guy De Maupassant : horla, maupassant, Horla, Autres, Nouvelles, Pocket, Classiques, (French, Edition):, Maupassant,, Mortier,, Daniel:, 9782266199919:, Amazon.com:, Books