CHAPTER X.
JEALOUSY
The Du Roys had been in Paris two days and the journalist had resumedwork; he had given up his own especial province to assume that ofForestier, and to devote himself entirely to politics. On thisparticular evening he turned his steps toward home with a light heart.As he passed a florist's on Rue Notre Dame de Lorette he bought abouquet of half-open roses for Madeleine. Having forgotten his key, onarriving at his door, he rang and the servant answered his summons.
Georges asked: "Is Madame at home?"
"Yes, sir."
In the dining-room he paused in astonishment to see covers laid forthree: the door of the salon being ajar, he saw Madeleine arranging ina vase on the mantelpiece a bunch of roses similar to his.
He entered the room and asked: "Have you invited anyone to dinner?"
She replied without turning her head and continuing the arrangement ofher flowers: "Yes and no: it is my old friend, Count de Vaudrec, who isin the habit of dining here every Monday and who will come now as healways has."
Georges murmured: "Very well."
He stopped behind her, the bouquet in his hand, the desire strongwithin him to conceal it--to throw it away. However, he said:
"Here, I have brought you some roses!"
She turned to him with a smile and said: "Ah, how thoughtful of you!"and she kissed him with such evident affection that he felt consoled.
She took the flowers, inhaled their perfume, and put them in an emptyvase. Then she said as she noted the effect: "Now I am satisfied; mymantelpiece looks pretty," adding with an air of conviction:
"Vaudrec is charming; you will become intimate with him at once,"
A ring announced the Count. He entered as if he were at home. Aftergallantly kissing Mme. Du Roy's hand, he turned to her husband andcordially offered his hand, saying: "How are you, my dear Du Roy?"
He had no longer that haughty air, but was very affable. One would havethought in the course of five minutes, that the two men had known oneanother for ten years. Madeleine, whose face was radiant, said: "I willleave you together. I have work to superintend in the kitchen." Thedinner was excellent and the Count remained very late. When he wasgone, Madeleine said to her husband: "Is he not nice? He improves, too,on acquaintance. He is a good, true, faithful friend. Ah, without him--"
She did not complete her sentence and Georges replied: "Yes, he is verypleasant, I think we shall understand each other well."
"You do not know," she said, "that we have work to do to-night beforeretiring. I did not have time to tell you before dinner, for Vaudreccame. Laroche-Mathieu brought me important news of Morocco. We mustmake a fine article of that. Let us set to work at once. Come, take thelamp."
He carried the lamp and they entered the study. Madeleine leaned,against the mantelpiece, and having lighted a cigarette, told him thenews and gave him her plan of the article. He listened attentively,making notes as she spoke, and when she had finished he raisedobjections, took up the question and, in his turn, developed anotherplan. His wife ceased smoking, for her interest was aroused infollowing Georges's line of thought. From time to time she murmured:"Yes, yes; very good--excellent--very forcible--" And when he hadfinished speaking, she said: "Now let us write."
It was always difficult for him to make a beginning and she would leanover his shoulder and whisper the phrases in his ear, then he would adda few lines; when their article was completed, Georges re-read it. Bothhe and Madeleine pronounced it admirable and kissed one another withpassionate admiration.
The article appeared with the signature of "G. du Roy de Cantel," andmade a great sensation. M. Walter congratulated the author, who soonbecame celebrated in political circles. His wife, too, surprised him bythe ingenuousness of her mind, the cleverness of her wit, and thenumber of her acquaintances. At almost any time upon returning home hefound in his salon a senator, a deputy, a magistrate, or a general, whotreated Madeleine with grave familiarity.
Deputy Laroche-Mathieu, who dined at Rue Fontaine every Tuesday, wasone of the largest stockholders of M. Walter's paper and the latter'scolleague and associate in many business transactions. Du Roy hoped,later on, that some of the benefits promised by him to Forestier mightfall to his share. They would be given to Madeleine's new husband--thatwas all--nothing was changed; even his associates sometimes called himForestier, and it made Du Roy furious at the dead. He grew to hate thevery name; it was to him almost an insult. Even at home the obsessioncontinued; the entire house reminded him of Charles.
One evening Du Roy, who liked sweetmeats, asked:
"Why do we never have sweets?"
His wife replied pleasantly: "I never think of it, because Charlesdisliked them."
He interrupted her with an impatient gesture: "Do you know I am gettingtired of Charles? It is Charles here, Charles there, Charles likedthis, Charles liked that. Since Charles is dead, let him rest in peace."
Madeleine ascribed her husband's burst of ill humor to puerilejealousy, but she was flattered and did not reply. On retiring, hauntedby the same thought, he asked:
"Did Charles wear a cotton nightcap to keep the draft out of his ears?"
She replied pleasantly: "No, a lace one!"
Georges shrugged his shoulders and said scornfully: "What a bird!"
From that time Georges never called Charles anything but "poorCharles," with an accent of infinite pity. One evening as Du Roy wassmoking a cigarette at his window, toward the end of June, the heatawoke in him a desire for fresh air. He asked:
"My little Made, would you like to go as far as the Bois?"
"Yes, certainly."
They took an open carriage and drove to the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne.It was a sultry evening; a host of cabs lined the drive, one behindanother. When the carriage containing Georges and Madeleine reached theturning which led to the fortifications, they kissed one another andMadeleine stammered in confusion: "We are as childish as we were atRouen."
The road they followed was not so much frequented, a gentle breezerustled the leaves of the trees, the sky was studded with brilliantstars and Georges murmured, as he pressed his wife to his breast: "Oh,my little Made."
She said to him: "Do you remember how gloomy the forest at Canteleuwas? It seemed to me that it was full of horrible beasts and that itwas interminable, while here it is charming. One can feel the caressingbreezes, and I know that Sevres is on the other side."
He replied: "In our forests there are nothing but stags, foxes,roebucks, and boars, with here and there a forester's house." He pausedfor a moment and then asked: "Did you come here in the evening withCharles occasionally?"
She replied: "Frequently."
He felt a desire to return home at once. Forestier's image haunted him,however; he could think of nothing else. The carriage rolled on towardthe Arc de Triomphe and joined the stream of carriages returning home.As Georges remained silent, his wife, who divined his thoughts, askedin her soft voice: "Of what are you thinking? For half an hour you havenot uttered a word."
He replied with a sneer: "I am thinking of all those fools who kiss oneanother, and I believe truly that there is something else to be done inlife."
She whispered: "Yes, but it is nice sometimes! It is nice when one hasnothing better to do."
Georges' thoughts were busy with the dead; he said to himself angrily:"I am foolish to worry, to torment myself as I have done." Afterremonstrating thus with himself, he felt more reconciled to the thoughtof Forestier, and felt like exclaiming: "Good evening, old fellow!"
Madeleine, who was bored by his silence, asked: "Shall we go toTortoni's for ices before returning home?"
He glanced at her from his corner and thought: "She is pretty; so muchthe better. Tit for tat, my comrade. But if they begin again to annoyme with you, it will get somewhat hot at the North Pole!"
Then he replied: "Certainly, my darling," and before she had time tothink he kissed her. It seemed to Madeleine that her husband's lipswere icy. However he smiled as usua
l and gave her his hand to assisther to alight at the cafe.
Bel Ami; Or, The History of a Scoundrel: A Novel Page 10