CHAPTER VIII.
DEATH AND A PROPOSAL
Duroy moved his effects to the apartments in Rue de Constantinople. Twoor three times a week, Mme. de-Marelle paid him visits. Duroy, tocounterbalance them, dined at her house every Thursday, and delightedher husband by talking agriculture to him.
It was almost the end of February. Duroy was free from care. One night,when he returned home, he found a letter under his door. He examinedthe postmark; it was from Cannes. Having opened it, he read:
"Cannes, Villa Jolie."
"Dear sir and friend: You told me, did you not, that I could count upon you at any time? Very well. I have a favor to ask of you; it is to come and help me--not to leave me alone during Charles's last moments. He may not live through the week, although he is not confined to his bed, but the doctor has warned me. I have not the strength nor the courage to see that agony day and night, and I think with terror of the approaching end I can only ask such a thing of you, for my husband has no relatives. You were his comrade; he helped you to your position; come, I beg of you; I have no one else to ask."
"Your friend,"
"Madeleine Forestier."
Georges murmured: "Certainly I will go. Poor Charles!"
The manager, to whom he communicated the contents of that letter,grumblingly gave his consent. He repeated: "But return speedily, youare indispensable to us."
Georges Duroy left for Cannes the next day by the seven o'clockexpress, after having warned Mme. de Marelle by telegram. He arrivedthe following day at four o'clock in the afternoon. A commissionnaireconducted him to Villa Jolie. The house was small and low, and of theItalian style of architecture.
A servant opened the door and cried: "Oh, sir, Madame is awaiting youpatiently."
Duroy asked: "How is your master?"
"Not very well, sir. He will not be here long."
The floor of the drawing-room which the young man entered was coveredwith a Persian rug; the large windows looked upon the village and thesea.
Duroy murmured: "How cozy it is here! Where the deuce do they get themoney from?"
The rustling of a gown caused him to turn. Mme. Forestier extended bothher hands, saying:
"How kind of you to come."
She was a trifle paler and thinner, but still as bright as ever, andperhaps prettier for being more delicate. She whispered: "It isterrible--he knows he cannot be saved and he tyrannizes over me. I havetold him of your arrival. But where is your trunk?"
Duroy replied: "I left it at the station, not knowing which hotel youwould advise me to stop at, in order to be near you."
She hesitated, then said: "You must stop here, at the villa. Yourchamber is ready. He might die any moment, and if it should come in thenight, I would be alone. I will send for your luggage."
He bowed. "As you will."
"Now, let us go upstairs," said she; he followed her. She opened a dooron the first floor, and Duroy saw a form near a window, seated in aneasy-chair, and wrapped in coverlets. He divined that it was hisfriend, though he scarcely recognized him. Forestier raised his handslowly and with difficulty, saying:
"You are here; you have come to see me die. I am much obliged."
Duroy forced a smile. "To see you die? That would not be a verypleasant sight, and I would not choose that occasion on which to visitCannes. I came here to rest."
"Sit down," said Forestier, and he bowed his head as if deep inhopeless meditation. Seeing that he did not speak, his wife approachedthe window and pointing to the horizon, said, "Look at that? Is it notbeautiful?"
In spite of himself Duroy felt the grandeur of the closing day andexclaimed: "Yes, indeed, it is magnificent."
Forestier raised his head and said to his wife: "Give me more air."
She replied: "You must be careful; it is late, the sun is setting; youwill catch more cold and that would be a serious thing in yourcondition."
He made a feeble gesture of anger with his right hand, and said: "Itell you I am suffocating! What difference does it make if I die a daysooner or later, since I must die?"
She opened the window wide. The air was soft and balmy. Forestierinhaled it in feverish gasps. He grasped the arms of his chair and saidin a low voice: "Shut the window. I would rather die in a cellar."
His wife slowly closed the window, then leaned her brow against thepane and looked out. Duroy, ill at ease, wished to converse with theinvalid to reassure him, but he could think of no words of comfort. Hestammered: "Have you not been better since you are here?"
His friend shrugged his shoulders impatiently: "You will see verysoon." And he bowed his head again.
Duroy continued: "At home it is still wintry. It snows, hails, rains,and is so dark that they have to light the lamps at three o'clock inthe afternoon."
Forestier asked: "Is there anything new at the office?"
"Nothing. They have taken little Lacrin of the 'Voltaire' to fill yourplace, but he is incapable. It is time you came back."
The invalid muttered: "I? I will soon be writing under six feet ofsod." A long silence ensued.
Mme. Forestier did not stir; she stood with her back to the room, herface toward the window. At length Forestier broke the silence in agasping voice, heartrending to listen to: "How many more sunsets shallI see--eight--ten--fifteen--twenty--or perhaps thirty--no more. Youhave more time, you two--as for me--all is at an end. And everythingwill go on when I am gone as if I were here." He paused a few moments,then continued: "Everything that I see reminds me that I shall not seethem long. It is horrible. I shall no longer see the smallestobjects--the glasses--the dishes--the beds on which we rest--thecarriages. It is fine to drive in the evening. How I loved all that."
Again Norbert de Varenne's words occurred to Duroy. The room grew dark.Forestier asked irritably:
"Are we to have no lamp to-night? That is what is called caring for aninvalid!"
The form outlined against the window disappeared and an electric bellwas heard to ring. A servant soon entered and placed a lamp upon themantel-piece. Mme. Forestier asked her husband: "Do you wish to retire,or will you go downstairs to dinner?"
"I will go down to dinner."
The meal seemed to Duroy interminable, for there was no conversation,only the ticking of a clock broke the silence. When they had finished,Duroy, pleading fatigue, retired to his room and tried in vain toinvent some pretext for returning home as quickly as possible. Heconsoled himself by saying: "Perhaps it will not be for long."
The next morning Georges rose early and strolled down to the beach.When he returned the servant said to him: "Monsieur has asked for youtwo or three times. Will you go upstairs?"
He ascended the stairs. Forestier appeared to be in a chair; his wife,reclining upon a couch, was reading. The invalid raised his head. Duroyasked:
"Well, how are you? You look better this morning."
Forestier murmured: "Yes, I am better and stronger. Lunch as hastily asyou can with Madeleine, because we are going to take a drive."
When Mme. Forestier was alone with Duroy, she said to him: "You see,to-day he thinks he is better! He is making plans for to-morrow. We arenow going to Gulf Juan to buy pottery for our rooms in Paris. He isdetermined to go, but he cannot stand the jolting on the road."
The carriage arrived, Forestier descended the stairs, step by step,supported by his servant. When he saw the closed landau, he wanted ituncovered. His wife opposed him: "It is sheer madness! You will takecold."
He persisted: "No, I am going to be better, I know it."
They first drove along a shady road and then took the road by the sea.Forestier explained the different points of interest. Finally theyarrived at a pavilion over which were these words: "Gulf Juan ArtPottery," and the carriage drew up at the door. Forestier wanted to buya vase to put on his bookcase. As he could not leave the carriage, theybrought the pieces to him one by one. It took him a long time tochoose, consulting his wife and Duroy: "You know it is
for my study.From my easy-chair I can see it constantly. I prefer the ancientform--the Greek."
At length he made his choice. "I shall return to Paris in a few days,"said he.
On their way home along the gulf a cool breeze suddenly sprang up, andthe invalid began to cough. At first it was nothing, only a slightattack, but it grew worse and turned to a sort of hiccough--a rattle;Forestier choked, and every time he tried to breathe he coughedviolently. Nothing quieted him. He had to be carried from the landau tohis room. The heat of the bed did not stop the attack, which lasteduntil midnight. The first words the sick man uttered were to ask for abarber, for he insisted on being shaved every morning. He rose to beshaved, but was obliged to go to bed at once, and began to breathe sopainfully that Mme. Forestier in affright woke Duroy and asked him tofetch the doctor. He returned almost immediately with Dr. Gavant whoprescribed for the sick man. When the journalist asked him his opinion,he said: "It is the final stage. He will be dead to-morrow morning.Prepare that poor, young wife and send for a priest. I can do nothingmore. However, I am entirely at your disposal" Duroy went to Mme.Forestier. "He is going to die. The doctor advises me to send for apriest. What will you do?"
She hesitated a moment and then said slowly:
"I will go and tell him that the cure wishes to see him. Will you bekind enough to procure one who will require nothing but the confession,and who will not make much fuss?"
The young man brought with him a kind, old priest who accommodatedhimself to circumstances. When he had entered the death chamber, Mme.Forestier went out and seated herself with Duroy in an adjoining room.
"That has upset him," said she. "When I mentioned the priest to him,his face assumed a scared expression. He knew that the end was near. Ishall never forget his face."
At that moment they heard the priest saying to him: "Why no, you arenot so low as that. You are ill, but not in danger. The proof of thatis that I came as a friend, a neighbor." They could not hear his reply.The priest continued: "No, I shall not administer the sacrament. Wewill speak of that when you are better. If you will only confess, I askno more. I am a pastor; I take advantage of every occasion to gather inmy sheep."
A long silence followed. Then suddenly the priest said, in the tone ofone officiating at the altar:
"The mercy of God is infinite; repeat the 'Confiteor,' my son. Perhapsyou have forgotten it; I will help you. Repeat with me: 'Confiteor Deoomnipotenti; Beata Mariae semper virgini.'" He paused from time to timeto permit the dying man to catch up to him.
Then he said: "Now, confess." The sick man murmured something. Thepriest repeated: "You have committed sins: of what kind, my son?"
The young woman rose and said simply: "Let us go into the garden. Wemust not listen to his secrets."
They seated themselves upon a bench before the door, beneath ablossoming rosebush. After several moments of silence Duroy asked:"Will it be some time before you return to Paris?"
"No," she replied; "when all is over, I will go back."
"In about ten days?"
"Yes, at most."
He continued; "Charles has no relatives then?"
"None, save cousins. His father and mother died when he was very young."
In the course of a few minutes, the servant came to tell them that thepriest had finished, and together they ascended the stairs. Forestierseemed to have grown thinner since the preceding day. The priest washolding his hand.
"Au revoir, my son. I will come again to-morrow morning"; and he left.When he was gone, the dying man, who was panting, tried to raise histwo hands toward his wife and gasped:
"Save me--save me, my darling. I do not want to die--oh, save me--gofor the doctor. I will take anything. I do not want to die." He wept;the tears coursed down his pallid cheeks. Then his hands commenced towander hither and thither continually, slowly, and regularly, as ifgathering something on the coverlet. His wife, who was also weeping,sobbed:
"No, it is nothing. It is only an attack; you will be better to-morrow;you tired yourself with that drive."
Forestier drew his breath quickly and so faintly that one couldscarcely hear him. He repeated:
"I do not want to die! Oh, my God--my God--what has happened to me? Icannot see. Oh, my God!" His staring eyes saw something invisible tothe others; his hands plucked continually at the counterpane. Suddenlyhe shuddered and gasped: "The cemetery--me--my God!" He did not speakagain. He lay there motionless and ghastly. The hours dragged on; theclock of a neighboring convent chimed noon.
Duroy left the room to obtain some food. He returned an hour later;Mme. Forestier would eat nothing. The invalid had not stirred. Theyoung woman was seated in an easy-chair at the foot of the bed. Duroylikewise seated himself, and they watched in silence. A nurse, sent bythe doctor, had arrived and was dozing by the window.
Duroy himself was almost asleep when he felt a presentiment thatsomething was about to happen. He opened his eyes just in time to seeForestier close his. He coughed slightly, and two streams of bloodissued from the corners of his mouth and flowed upon his night robe;his hands ceased their perpetual motion; he had breathed his last. Hiswife, perceiving it, uttered a cry and fell upon her knees by thebedside. Georges, in surprise and affright, mechanically made the signof the cross.
The nurse, awakening, approached the bed and said: "It has come."Duroy, recovering his self-possession, murmured with a sigh of relief:"It was not as hard as I feared it would be."
That night Mme. Forestier and Duroy watched in the chamber of death.They were alone beside him who was no more. They did not speak,Georges's eyes seemed attracted to that emaciated face which theflickering light made more hollow. That was his friend, CharlesForestier, who the day before had spoken to him. For several years hehad lived, eaten, laughed, loved, and hoped as did everyone--and nowall was ended for him forever.
Life lasted a few months or years, and then fled! One was born, grew,was happy, and died. Adieu! man or woman, you will never return toearth! He thought of the insects which live several hours, of thefeasts which live several days, of the men who live several years, ofthe worlds which last several centuries. What was the differencebetween one and the other? A few more dawns, that was all.
Duroy turned away his eyes in order not to see the corpse. Mme.Forestier's head was bowed; her fair hair enhanced the beauty of hersorrowful face. The young man's heart grew hopeful. Why should helament when he had so many years still before him? He glanced at thehandsome widow. How had she ever consented to marry that man? Then hepondered upon all the hidden secrets of their lives. He remembered thathe had been told of a Count de Vaudrec who had dowered and given her inmarriage. What would she do now? Whom would she marry? Had sheprojects, plans? He would have liked to know. Why that anxiety as towhat she would do?
Georges questioned himself, and found that it was caused by a desire towin her for himself. Why should he not succeed? He was positive thatshe liked him; she would have confidence in him, for she knew that hewas intelligent, resolute, tenacious. Had she not sent for him? Was notthat a kind of avowal? He was impatient to question her, to find outher intentions. He would soon have to leave that villa, for he couldnot remain alone with the young widow; therefore he must find out herplans before returning to Paris, in order that she might not yield toanother's entreaties. He broke the oppressive silence by saying:
"You must be fatigued."
"Yes, but above all I am grieved."
Their voices sounded strange in that room. They glanced involuntarilyat the corpse as if they expected to see it move. Duroy continued:
"It is a heavy blow for you, and will make a complete change in yourlife."
She sighed deeply, but did not reply. He added:
"It is very sad for a young woman like you to be left alone." Hepaused; she still did not reply, and he stammered: "At any rate, youwill remember the compact between us; you can command me as you will. Iam yours."
She held out her hand to him and said mournfully and gently: "Thanks,you are very
kind. If I can do anything for you, I say too: 'Count onme.'"
He took her proffered hand, gazed at it, and was seized with an ardentdesire to kiss it. Slowly he raised it to his lips and thenrelinquished it. As her delicate fingers lay upon her knee the youngwidow said gravely:
"Yes, I shall be all alone, but I shall force myself to be brave."
He did not know how to tell her that he would be delighted to wed her.Certainly it was no time to speak to her on such a subject; however, hethought he might be able to express himself by means of some phrasewhich would have a hidden meaning and would infer what he wished tosay. But that rigid corpse lay between them. The atmosphere becameoppressive, almost suffocating. Duroy asked: "Can we not open thewindow a little? The air seems to be impure."
"Certainly," she replied; "I have noticed it too."
He opened the window, letting in the cool night air. He turned: "Comeand look out, it is delightful."
She glided softly to his side. He whispered: "Listen to me. Do not beangry that I broach the subject at such a time, but the day afterto-morrow I shall leave here and when you return to Paris it might betoo late. You know that I am only a poor devil, who has his position tomake, but I have the will and some intelligence, and I am advancing. Aman who has attained his ambition knows what to count on; a man who hashis way to make does not know what may come--it may be better or worse.I told you one day that my most cherished dream was to have a wife likeyou."
"I repeat it to you to-day. Do not reply, but let me continue. This isno proposal--the time and place would render it odious. I only wish totell you that by a word you can make me happy, and that you can make ofme as you will, either a friend or a husband--for my heart and my bodyare yours. I do not want you to answer me now. I do not wish to speakany more on the subject here. When we meet in Paris, you can tell meyour decision."
He uttered these words without glancing at her, and she seemed not tohave heard them, for she stood by his side motionless, staring vaguelyand fixedly at the landscape before her, bathed in moonlight.
At length she murmured: "It is rather chilly," and turned toward thebed. Duroy followed her. They did not speak but continued their watch.Toward midnight Georges fell asleep. At daybreak the nurse entered andhe started up. Both he and Mme. Forestier retired to their rooms toobtain some rest. At eleven o'clock they rose and lunched together;while through the open window was wafted the sweet, perfumed air ofspring. After lunch, Mme. Forestier proposed that they take a turn inthe garden; as they walked slowly along, she suddenly said, withoutturning her head toward him, in a low, grave voice:
"Listen to me, my dear friend; I have already reflected upon what youproposed to me, and I cannot allow you to depart without a word ofreply. I will, however, say neither yes nor no. We will wait, we willsee; we will become better acquainted. You must think it well over too.Do not yield to an impulse. I mention this to you before even poorCharles is buried, because it is necessary, after what you have said tome, that you should know me as I am, in order not to cherish the hopeyou expressed to me any longer, if you are not a man who can understandand bear with me."
"Now listen carefully: Marriage, to me, is not a chain but anassociation. I must be free, entirely unfettered, in all my actions--mycoming and my going; I can tolerate neither control, jealousy, norcriticism as to my conduct. I pledge my word, however, never tocompromise the name of the man I marry, nor to render him ridiculous inthe eyes of the world. But that man must promise to look upon me as anequal, an ally, and not as an inferior, or as an obedient, submissivewife. My ideas, I know, are not like those of other people, but I shallnever change them. Do not answer me, it would be useless. We shall meetagain and talk it all over later. Now take a walk; I shall return tohim. Good-bye until to-night."
He kissed her hand and left her without having uttered a word. Thatnight they met at dinner; directly after the meal they sought theirrooms, worn out with fatigue.
Charles Forestier was buried the next day in the cemetery at Canneswithout any pomp, and Georges returned to Paris by the express whichleft at one-thirty. Mme. Forestier accompanied him to the station. Theywalked up and down the platform awaiting the hour of departure andconversing on indifferent subjects.
The train arrived, the journalist took his seat; a porter cried:"Marseilles, Lyons, Paris! All aboard!" The locomotive whistled and thetrain moved slowly out of the station.
The young man leaned out of the carriage, and looked at the youthfulwidow standing on the platform gazing after him. Just as she wasdisappearing from his sight, he threw her a kiss, which she returnedwith a more discreet wave of her hand.
Bel Ami; Or, The History of a Scoundrel: A Novel Page 8