CHAPTER IX.
MARRIAGE
Georges Duroy resumed his old habits. Installed in the cozy apartmentson Rue de Constantinople, his relations with Mme. de Marelle becamequite conjugal.
Mme. Forestier had not returned; she lingered at Cannes. He, however,received a letter from her announcing her return about the middle ofApril, but containing not a word as to their parting. He waited. He wasresolved to employ every means to marry her if she seemed to hesitate;he had faith in his good fortune, in that power of attraction which hefelt within him--a power so irresistible that all women yielded to it.
At length a short note admonished him that the decisive moment hadarrived.
"I am in Paris. Come to see me."
"Madeleine Forestier."
Nothing more. He received it at nine o'clock. At three o'clock of thesame day he called at her house. She extended both hands to him with asweet smile, and they gazed into each other's eyes for several seconds,then she murmured:
"How kind of you to come!"
He replied: "I should have come, whensoever you bade me."
They sat down; she inquired about the Walters, his associates, and thenewspaper.
"I miss that very much," said she. "I had become a journalist inspirit. I like the profession." She paused. He fancied he saw in hersmile, in her voice, in her words, a kind of invitation, and althoughhe had resolved not to hasten matters, he stammered:
"Well--why--why do you not resume--that profession--under--the name ofDuroy?"
She became suddenly serious, and placing her hand on his arm, she said:"Do not let us speak of that yet."
Divining that she would accept him, he fell upon his knees, andpassionately kissed her hands, saying:
"Thank you--thank you--how I love you."
She rose, she was very pale. Duroy kissed her brow. When she haddisengaged herself from his embrace, she said gravely: "Listen, myfriend, I have not yet fully decided; but my answer may be 'yes.' Youmust wait patiently, however, until I disclose the secret to you."
He promised and left her, his heart overflowing with joy. He workedsteadily, spent little, tried to save some money that he might not bewithout a sou at the time of his marriage, and became as miserly as hehad once been prodigal. Summer glided by; then autumn, and no onesuspected the tie existing between Duroy and Mme. Forestier, for theyseldom met in public.
One evening Madeleine said to him: "You have not yet told Mme. deMarelle our plans?"
"No, my dear; as you wished them kept secret, I have not mentioned themto a soul."
"Very well; there is plenty of time. I will tell the Walters."
She turned away her head and continued: "If you wish, we can be marriedthe beginning of May."
"I obey you in all things joyfully."
"The tenth of May, which falls on Saturday, would please me, for it ismy birthday."
"Very well, the tenth of May."
"Your parents live near Rouen, do they not?"
"Yes, near Rouen, at Canteleu."
"I am very anxious to see them!"
He hesitated, perplexed: "But--they are--" Then he added more firmly:"My dear, they are plain, country people, innkeepers, who strainedevery nerve to give me an education. I am not ashamed of them, buttheir--simplicity--their rusticity might annoy you."
She smiled sweetly. "No, I will love them very much. We will visitthem; I wish to. I, too, am the child of humble parents--but I lostmine--I have no one in the world"--she held out her hand to him--"butyou."
He was affected, conquered as he had never been by any woman.
"I have been thinking of something," said she, "but it is difficult toexplain."
He asked: "What is it?"
"It is this: I am like all women. I have my--my weaknesses. I shouldlike to bear a noble name. Can you not on the occasion of our marriagechange your name somewhat?" She blushed as if she had proposedsomething indelicate.
He replied simply: "I have often thought of it, but it does not seemeasy to me."
"Why not?"
He laughed. "Because I am afraid I should be ridiculed."
She shrugged her shoulders. "Not at all--not at all. Everyone does it,and no one laughs. Separate your name in this way: Du Roy. It soundsvery well."
He replied: "No, that will not do; it is too common a proceeding. Ihave thought of assuming the name of my native place, first as aliterary pseudonym and then as my surname in conjunction with Duroy,which might later on, as you proposed, be separated."
She asked: "Is your native place Canteleu?"
"Yes."
"I do not like the termination. Could we not modify it?"
She took a pen and wrote down the names in order to study them.Suddenly she cried: "Now I have it," and held toward him a sheet ofpaper on which was written: "Mme. Duroy de Cantel."
Gravely he replied: "Yes, it is very nice."
She was delighted, and repeated: "Duroy de Cantel. Mme. Duroy deCantel. It is excellent, excellent!"
Then she added with an air of conviction: "You will see how easily itwill be accepted by everyone! After to-morrow, sign your articles 'D.de Cantel,' and your 'Echoes' simply 'Duroy.' That is done on the pressevery day and no one will be surprised to see you take a nom de plume.What is your father's name?"
"Alexandre."
She murmured "Alexandre!" two or three times in succession; then shewrote upon a blank sheet:
"M. and Mme. Alexandre du Roy de Cantel announce the marriage of theirson, M. Georges du Roy de Cantel with Mme. Forestier."
She examined her writing, and, charmed with the effect, exclaimed:"With a little method one can succeed in anything."
When Georges reached the street resolved to call himself, henceforth,"Du Roy," or even "Du Roy de Cantel," it seemed to him that he was ofmore importance. He swaggered more boldly, held his head more erect andwalked as he thought gentlemen should. He felt a desire to inform thepassers-by, "My name is Du Roy de Cantel."
Scarcely had he entered his apartments when the thought of Mme. deMarelle rendered him uneasy, and he wrote to her immediately,appointing a meeting for the following day.
"It will be hard," thought he. "There will be a quarrel surely."
The next morning he received a telegram from Madame, informing him thatshe would be with him at one o'clock. He awaited her impatiently,determined to confess at once and afterward to argue with her, to tellher that he could not remain a bachelor indefinitely, and that, as M.de Marelle persisted in living, he had been compelled to choose someone else as a legal companion. When the bell rang, his heart gave abound.
Mme. de Marelle entered and cast herself into his arms, saying: "Goodafternoon, Bel-Ami." Perceiving that his embrace was colder than usual,she glanced up at him and asked: "What ails you?"
"Take a seat," said he. "We must talk seriously."
She seated herself without removing her hat, and waited. He cast downhis eyes; he was preparing to commence.
Finally he said slowly: "My dear friend, you see that I am very muchperplexed, very sad, and very much embarrassed by what I have toconfess to you. I love you; I love you with all my heart, and the fearof giving you pain grieves me more than what I have to tell you."
She turned pale, trembled, and asked: "What is it? Tell me quickly."
He said sadly but resolutely: "I am going to be married."
She sighed like one about to lose consciousness; then she gasped, butdid not speak.
He continued: "You cannot imagine how much I suffered before takingthat resolution. But I have neither position nor money. I am alone inParis, I must have near me some one who can counsel, comfort, andsupport me. What I need is an associate, an ally, and I have foundone!" He paused, hoping that she would reply, expecting an outburst offurious rage, reproaches, and insults. She pressed her hand to herheart and breathed with difficulty. He took the hand resting on the armof the chair, but she drew it away and murmured as if stupefied: "Oh,my God!"
He fell upon his knees before
her, without, however, venturing to touchher, more moved by her silence than he would have been by her anger.
"Clo, my little Clo, you understand my position. Oh, if I could havemarried you, what happiness it would have afforded me! But you weremarried! What could I do? Just think of it! I must make my way in theworld and I can never do so as long as I have no domestic ties. If youknew. There are days when I should like to kill your husband." He spokein a low, seductive voice. He saw two tears gather in Mme. de Marelle'seyes and trickle slowly down her cheeks. He whispered: "Do not weep,Clo, do not weep, I beseech you. You break my heart."
She made an effort to appear dignified and haughty, and asked, thoughsomewhat unsteadily: "Who is it?"
For a moment he hesitated before he replied: "Madeleine Forestier!"
Mme. de Marelle started; her tears continued to flow. She rose. Duroysaw that she was going to leave him without a word of reproach orpardon, and he felt humbled, humiliated. He seized her gown andimplored:
"Do not leave me thus."
She looked at him with that despairing, tearful glance so charming andso touching, which expresses all the misery pent-up in a woman's heart,and stammered: "I have nothing--to say; I can do nothing. You--you areright; you have made a good choice."
And disengaging herself she left the room.
With a sigh of relief at escaping so easily, he repaired to Mme.Forestier's, who asked him: "Have you told Mme. de Marelle?"
He replied calmly: "Yes."
"Did it affect her?"
"Not at all. On the contrary, she thought it an excellent plan."
The news was soon noised abroad. Some were surprised, others pretendedto have foreseen it, and others again smiled, inferring that they werenot at all astonished. The young man, who signed his articles, "D. deCantel," his "Echoes," "Duroy," and his political sketches, "Du Roy,"spent the best part of his time with his betrothed, who had decidedthat the date fixed for the wedding should be kept secret, that theceremony should be celebrated in the presence of witnesses only, thatthey should leave the same evening for Rouen, and that the dayfollowing they should visit the journalist's aged parents and spendseveral days with them. Duroy had tried to persuade Madeleine toabandon that project, but not succeeding in his efforts he was finallycompelled to submit.
The tenth of May arrived. Thinking a religious ceremony unnecessary, asthey had issued no invitations, the couple were married at amagistrate's and took the six o'clock train for Normandy.
As the train glided along, Duroy seated in front of his wife, took herhand, kissed it, and said: "When we return we will dine at Chatousometimes."
She murmured: "We shall have a great many things to do!" in a tonewhich seemed to say: "We must sacrifice pleasure to duty."
He retained her hand wondering anxiously how he could manage to caressher. He pressed her hand slightly, but she did not respond to thepressure.
He said: "It seems strange that you should be my wife."
She appeared surprised: "Why?"
"I do not know. It seems droll. I want to embrace you and I amsurprised that I have the right."
She calmly offered him her cheek which he kissed as he would havekissed his sister's. He continued:
"The first time I saw you (you remember, at that dinner to which I wasinvited at Forestier's), I thought: 'Sacristi, if I could only find awife like that!' And now I have one."
She glanced at him with smiling eyes.
He said to himself: "I am too cold. I am stupid. I should make moreadvances." And he asked: "How did you make Forestier's acquaintance?"
She replied with provoking archness: "Are we going to Rouen to talk ofhim?"
He colored. "I am a fool. You intimidate me."
She was delighted. "I? Impossible."
He seated himself beside her. She exclaimed: "Ah! a stag!" The trainwas passing through the forest of Saint-Germain and she had seen afrightened deer clear an alley at a bound. As she gazed out of the openwindow, Duroy bending over her, pressed a kiss upon her neck. Forseveral moments she remained motionless, then raising her head, shesaid: "You tickle me, stop!"
But he did not obey her.
She repeated: "Stop, I say!"
He seized her head with his right hand, turned it toward him andpressed his lips to hers. She struggled, pushed him away and repeated:"Stop!"
He did not heed her. With an effort, she freed herself and rising,said: "Georges, have done. We are not children, we shall soon reachRouen."
"Very well," said he, gaily, "I will wait."
Reseating herself near him she talked of what they would do on theirreturn; they would keep the apartments in which she had lived with herfirst husband, and Duroy would receive Forestier's position on "La VieFrancaise." In the meantime, forgetting her injunctions and hispromise, he slipped his arm around her waist, pressed her to him andmurmured: "I love you dearly, my little Made."
The gentleness of his tone moved the young woman, and leaning towardhim she offered him her lips; as she did so, a whistle announced theproximity of the station. Pushing back some stray locks upon hertemples, she exclaimed:
"We are foolish."
He kissed her hands feverishly and replied:
"I adore you, my little Made."
On reaching Rouen they repaired to a hotel where they spent the night.The following morning, when they had drunk the tea placed upon thetable in their room, Duroy clasped his wife in his arms and said: "Mylittle Made, I feel that I love you very, very much."
She smiled trustfully and murmured as she returned his kisses: "I loveyou too--a little."
The visit to his parents worried Georges, although he had prepared hiswife. He began again: "You know they are peasants, real, not sham,comic-opera peasants."
She smiled. "I know it, you have told me often enough."
"We shall be very uncomfortable. There is only a straw bed in my room;they do not know what hair mattresses are at Canteleu."
She seemed delighted. "So much the better. It would be charming tosleep badly--when--near you--and to be awakened by the crowing of thecocks."
He walked toward the window and lighted a cigarette. The sight of theharbor, of the river filled with ships moved him and he exclaimed:"Egad, but that is fine!"
Madeleine joined him and placing both of her hands on her husband'sshoulder, cried: "Oh, how beautiful! I did not know that there were somany ships!"
An hour later they departed in order to breakfast with the old couple,who had been informed several days before of their intended arrival.Both Duroy and his wife were charmed with the beauties of the landscapepresented to their view, and the cabman halted in order to allow themto get a better idea of the panorama before them. As he whipped up hishorse, Duroy saw an old couple not a hundred meters off, approaching,and he leaped from the carriage crying: "Here they are, I know them."
The man was short, corpulent, florid, and vigorous, notwithstanding hisage; the woman was tall, thin, and melancholy, with stoopingshoulders--a woman who had worked from childhood, who had never laughednor jested.
Madeleine, too, alighted and watched the couple advance, with acontraction of her heart she had not anticipated. They did notrecognize their son in that fine gentleman, and they would never havetaken that handsome lady for their daughter-in-law. They walked along,passed the child they were expecting, without glancing at the "cityfolks."
Georges cried with a laugh: "Good day, Father Duroy."
Both the old man and his wife were struck dumb with astonishment; thelatter recovered her self-possession first and asked: "Is it you, son?"
The young man replied: "Yes, it is I, Mother Duroy," and approachingher, he kissed her upon both cheeks and said: "This is my wife."
The two rustics stared at Madeleine as if she were a curiosity, withanxious fear, combined with a sort of satisfied approbation on the partof the father and of jealous enmity on that of the mother.
M. Duroy, senior, who was naturally jocose, made so bold as to ask witha twinkle in his ey
e: "May I kiss you too?" His son uttered anexclamation and Madeleine offered her cheek to the old peasant; whoafterward wiped his lips with the back of his hand. The old woman, inher turn, kissed her daughter-in-law with hostile reserve. Her idealwas a stout, rosy, country lass, as red as an apple and as round.
The carriage preceded them with the luggage. The old man took his son'sarm and asked him: "How are you getting on?"
"Very well."
"That is right. Tell me, has your wife any means?"
Georges replied: "Forty thousand francs."
His father whistled softly and muttered: "Whew!" Then he added: "She isa handsome woman." He admired his son's wife, and in his day hadconsidered himself a connoisseur.
Madeleine and the mother walked side by side in silence; the two menjoined them. They soon reached the village, at the entrance to whichstood M. Duroy's tavern. A pine board fastened over the door indicatedthat thirsty people might enter. The table was laid. A neighbor, whohad come to assist, made a low courtesy on seeing so beautiful a ladyappear; then recognizing Georges, she cried: "Oh Lord, is it you?"
He replied merrily: "Yes, it is I, Mother Brulin," and he kissed her ashe had kissed his father and mother. Then he turned to his wife:
"Come into our room," said he, "you can lay aside your hat."
They passed through a door to the right and entered a room paved withbrick, with whitewashed walls and a bed with cotton hangings.
A crucifix above a holy-water basin and two colored prints,representing Paul and Virginia beneath a blue palm-tree, and NapoleonI. on a yellow horse, were the only ornaments in that neat, but bareroom.
When they were alone, Georges embraced Madeleine.
"Good morning, Made! I am glad to see the old people once more. Whenone is in Paris one does not think of this place, but when one returns,one enjoys it just the same."
At that moment his father cried, knocking on the partition with hisfist: "Come, the soup is ready."
They re-entered the large public-room and took their seats at thetable. The meal was a long one, served in a truly rustic fashion.Father Duroy, enlivened by the cider and several glasses of wine,related many anecdotes, while Georges, to whom they were all familiar,laughed at them.
Mother Duroy did not speak, but sat at the board, grim and austere,glancing at her daughter-in-law with hatred in her heart.
Madeleine did not speak nor did she eat; she was depressed. Wherefore?She had wished to come; she knew that she was coming to a simple home;she had formed no poetical ideas of those peasants, but she had perhapsexpected to find them somewhat more polished, refined. She recalled herown mother, of whom she never spoke to anyone--a governess who had beenbetrayed and who had died of grief and shame when Madeleine was twelveyears old. A stranger had had the little girl educated. Her fatherwithout doubt. Who was he? She did not know positively, but she hadvague suspicions.
The meal was not yet over when customers entered, shook hands with M.Duroy, exclaimed on seeing his son, and seating themselves at thewooden tables began to drink, smoke, and play dominoes. The smoke fromthe clay pipes and penny cigars filled the room.
Madeleine choked and asked: "Can we go out? I cannot remain here anylonger."
Old Duroy grumbled at being disturbed. Madeleine rose and placed herchair at the door in order to wait until her father-in-law and his wifehad finished their coffee and wine.
Georges soon joined her.
"Would you like to stroll down to the Seine?"
Joyfully she cried: "Yes."
They descended the hillside, hired a boat at Croisset, and spent theremainder of the afternoon beneath the willows in the soft, warm,spring air, and rocked gently by the rippling waves of the river. Theyreturned at nightfall. The evening repast by candle-light was morepainful to Madeleine than that of the morning. Neither Father Duroy norhis wife spoke. When the meal was over, Madeleine drew her husbandoutside in order not to have to remain in that room, the atmosphere ofwhich was heavy with smoke and the fumes of liquor.
When they were alone, he said: "You are already weary."
She attempted to protest; he interrupted her:
"I have seen it. If you wish we will leave tomorrow."
She whispered: "I should like to go."
They walked along and entered a narrow path among high trees, hedged inon either side by impenetrable brushwood.
She asked: "Where are we?"
He replied: "In the forest--one of the largest in France."
Madeleine, on raising her head, could see the stars between thebranches and hear the rustling of the leaves. She felt strangelynervous. Why, she could not tell. She seemed to be lost, surrounded byperils, abandoned, alone, beneath that vast vaulted sky.
She murmured: "I am afraid; I should like to return."
"Very well, we will."
On their return they found the old people in bed. The next morningMadeleine rose early and was ready to leave at daybreak. When Georgestold his parents that they were going to return home, they guessedwhose wish it was.
His father asked simply: "Shall I see you soon again?"
"Yes--in the summer-time."
"Very well."
His mother grumbled: "I hope you will not regret what you have done."
Georges gave them two hundred francs to appease them, and the cabarriving at ten o'clock, the couple kissed the old peasants and set out.
As they were descending the side of the hill, Duroy laughed. "You see,"said he, "I warned you. I should, however, not have presented you to M.and Mme. du Roy de Cantel, senior."
She laughed too and replied: "I am charmed now! They are nice peoplewhom I am beginning to like very much. I shall send them confectionsfrom Paris." Then she murmured: "Du Roy de Cantel. We will say that wespent a week at your parents' estate," and drawing near him, she kissedhim saying:
"Good morning, Georges."
He replied: "Good morning, Madeleine," as he slipped his arm around herwaist.
Bel Ami; Or, The History of a Scoundrel: A Novel Page 9