Forestier, who did not seem to have heard, said: “Would you mind the window being closed? My chest has been rather queer the last few days.”
“No, not at all.”
He pushed too the sash left open, and returned to his place with a reassured and tranquil countenance. His wife said nothing. Seemingly lost in thought, and with her eyes lowered towards the table, she smiled at the glasses with that vague smile which seemed always to promise and never to grant.
The Ostend oysters were brought in, tiny and plump like little ears enclosed in shells, and melting between the tongue and the palate like salt bon-bons. Then, after the soup, was served a trout as rose-tinted as a young girl, and the guests began to talk.
They spoke at first of a current scandal; the story of a lady of position, surprised by one of her husband’s friends supping in a private room with a foreign prince. Forestier laughed a great deal at the adventure; the two ladies declared that the indiscreet gossip was nothing less than a blackguard and a coward. Duroy was of their opinion, and loudly proclaimed that it is the duty of a man in these matters, whether he be actor, confidant, or simple spectator, to be silent as the grave. He added: “How full life would be of pleasant things if we could reckon upon the absolute discretion of one another. That which often, almost always, checks women is the fear of the secret being revealed. Come, is it not true?” he continued. “How many are there who would yield to a sudden desire, the caprice of an hour, a passing fancy, did they not fear to pay for a short-lived and fleeting pleasure by an irremediable scandal and painful tears?”
He spoke with catching conviction, as though pleading a cause, his own cause, as though he had said: “It is not with me that one would have to dread such dangers. Try me and see.”
They both looked at him approvingly, holding that he spoke rightly and justly, confessing by their friendly silence that their flexible morality as Parisians would not have held out long before the certainty of secrecy. And Forestier, leaning back in his place on the divan, one leg bent under him, and his napkin thrust into his waistcoat, suddenly said with the satisfied laugh of a skeptic: “The deuce! yes, they would all go in for it if they were certain of silence. Poor husbands!”
And they began to talk of love. Without admitting it to be eternal, Duroy understood it as lasting, creating a bond, a tender friendship, a confidence. The union of the senses was only a seal to the union of hearts. But he was angry at the outrageous jealousies, melodramatic scenes, and unpleasantness which almost always accompany ruptures.
When he ceased speaking, Madame de Marelle replied: “Yes, it is the only pleasant thing in life, and we often spoil it by preposterous unreasonableness.”
Madame Forestier, who was toying with her knife, added: “Yes—yes—it is pleasant to be loved.”
And she seemed to be carrying her dream further, to be thinking things that she dared not give words to.
As the first entreé was slow in coming, they sipped from time to time a mouthful of champagne, and nibbled bits of crust. And the idea of love, entering into them, slowly intoxicated their souls, as the bright wine, rolling drop by drop down their throats, fired their blood and perturbed their minds.
The waiter brought in some lamb cutlets, delicate and tender, upon a thick bed of asparagus tips.
“Ah! this is good,” exclaimed Forestier; and they ate slowly, savoring the delicate meat and vegetables as smooth as cream.
Duroy resumed: “For my part, when I love a woman everything else in the world disappears.” He said this in a tone of conviction.
Madame Forestier murmured, with her let-me-alone air:
“There is no happiness comparable to that of the first hand-clasp, when the one asks, ‘Do you love me?’ and the other replies, ‘Yes.’”
Madame de Marelle, who had just tossed a fresh glass of champagne off at a draught, said gayly, as she put down her glass: “For my part, I am not so Platonic.”
And all began to smile with kindling eyes at these words.
Forestier, stretched out in his seat on the divan, opened his arms, rested them on the cushions, and said in a serious tone: “This frankness does you honor, and proves that you are a practical woman. But may one ask you what is the opinion of Monsieur de Marelle?”
She shrugged her shoulders slightly, with infinite and prolonged disdain; and then in a decided tone remarked: “Monsieur de Marelle has no opinions on this point. He only has—abstentions.”
And the conversation, descending from the elevated theories, concerning love, strayed into the flowery garden of polished blackguardism. It was the moment of clever double meanings; veils raised by words, as petticoats are lifted by the wind; tricks of language; clever disguised audacities; sentences which reveal nude images in covered phrases; which cause the vision of all that may not be said to flit rapidly before the eye and the mind, and allow the well-bred people the enjoyment of a kind of subtle and mysterious love, a species of impure mental contact, due to the simultaneous evocation of secret, shameful, and longed-for pleasures. The roast, consisting of partridges flanked by quails, had been served; then a dish of green peas, and then a terrine of foie gras, accompanied by a curly-leaved salad, filling a salad bowl as though with green foam. They had partaken of all these things without tasting them, without knowing, solely taken up by what they were talking of, plunged as it were in a bath of love.
The two ladies were now going it strongly in their remarks. Madame de Marelle, with a native audacity which resembled a direct provocation, and Madame Forestier with a charming reserve, a modesty in her tone, voice, smile, and bearing that underlined while seeming to soften the bold remarks falling from her lips. Forestier, leaning quite back on the cushions, laughed, drank and ate without leaving off, and sometimes threw in a word so risque or so crude that the ladies, somewhat shocked by its appearance, and for appearance sake, put on a little air of embarrassment that lasted two or three seconds. When he had given vent to something a little too coarse, he added: “You are going ahead nicely, my children. If you go on like that you will end by making fools of yourselves.”
Dessert came, and then coffee; and the liquors poured a yet warmer dose of commotion into the excited minds.
As she had announced on sitting down to table, Madame de Marelle was intoxicated, and acknowledged it in the lively and graceful rabble of a woman emphasizing, in order to amuse her guests, a very real commencement of drunkenness.
Madame Forestier was silent now, perhaps out of prudence, and Duroy, feeling himself too much excited not to be in danger of compromising himself, maintained a prudent reserve.
Cigarettes were lit, and all at once Forestier began to cough. It was a terrible fit, that seemed to tear his chest, and with red face and forehead damp with perspiration, he choked behind his napkin. When the fit was over he growled angrily: “These feeds are very bad for me; they are ridiculous.” All his good humor had vanished before his terror of the illness that haunted his thoughts. “Let us go home,” said he.
Madame de Marelle rang for the waiter, and asked for the bill. It was brought almost immediately. She tried to read it, but the figures danced before her eyes, and she passed it to Duroy, saying: “Here, pay for me; I can’t see, I am too tipsy.”
And at the same time she threw him her purse. The bill amounted to one hundred and thirty francs. Duroy checked it, and then handed over two notes and received back the change, saying in a low tone: “What shall I give the waiter?”
“What you like; I do not know.”
He put five francs on the salver, and handed back the purse, saying: “Shall I see you to your door?”
“Certainly. I am incapable of finding my way home.”
They shook hands with the Forestiers, and Duroy found himself alone with Madame de Marelle in a cab. He felt her close to him, so close, in this dark box, suddenly lit up for a moment by the lamps on the sidewalk. He felt through his sleeve the warmth of her shoulder, and he could find nothing to say to her, absolutely nothin
g, his mind being paralyzed by the imperative desire to seize her in his arms.
“If I dared to, what would she do?” he thought. The recollection of all the things uttered during dinner emboldened him, but the fear of scandal restrained him at the same time.
Nor did she say anything either, but remained motionless in her corner. He would have thought that she was asleep if he had not seen her eyes glitter every time that a ray of light entered the carriage.
“What was she thinking?” He felt that he must not speak, that a word, a single word, breaking this silence would destroy his chance; yet courage failed him, the courage needed for abrupt and brutal action. All at once he felt her foot move. She had made a movement, a quick, nervous movement of impatience, perhaps of appeal. This almost imperceptible gesture caused a thrill to run through him from head to foot, and he threw himself upon her, seeking her mouth with his lips, her form with his hands.
But the cab having shortly stopped before the house in which she resided, Duroy, surprised, had no time to seek passionate phrases to thank her, and express his grateful love. However, stunned by what had taken place, she did not rise, she did not stir. Then he was afraid that the driver might suspect something, and got out first to help her to alight.
At length she got out of the cab, staggering and without saying a word. He rang the bell, and as the door opened, said, tremblingly: “When shall I see you again?”
She murmured so softly that he scarcely heard it: “Come and lunch with me tomorrow.” And she disappeared in the entry, pushed to the heavy door, which closed with a noise like that of a cannon. He gave the driver five francs, and began to walk along with rapid and triumphant steps, and heart overflowing with joy.
He had won at last—a married woman, a lady. How easy and unexpected it had all been. He had fancied up till then that to assail and conquer one of these so greatly longed-for beings, infinite pains, interminable expectations, a skillful siege carried on by means of gallant attentions, words of love, sighs, and gifts were needed. And, lo! suddenly, at the faintest attack, the first whom he had encountered had yielded to him so quickly that he was stupefied at it.
“She was tipsy,” he thought; “tomorrow it will be another story. She will meet me with tears.” This notion disturbed him, but he added: “Well, so much the worse. Now I have her, I mean to keep her.”
He was somewhat agitated the next day as he ascended Madame de Marelle’s staircase. How would she receive him? And suppose she would not receive him at all? Suppose she had forbidden them to admit him? Suppose she had said—but, no, she could not have said anything without letting the whole truth be guessed. So he was master of the situation.
The little servant opened the door. She wore her usual expression. He felt reassured, as if he had anticipated her displaying a troubled countenance, and asked: “Is your mistress quite well?”
She replied: “Oh! yes, sir, the same as usual,” and showed him into the drawing-room.
He went straight to the chimney-glass to ascertain the state of his hair and his toilet, and was arranging his necktie before it, when he saw in it the young woman watching him as she stood at the door leading from her room. He pretended not to have noticed her, and the pair looked at one another for a few moments in the glass, observing and watching before finding themselves face to face. He turned round. She had not moved, and seemed to be waiting. He darted forward, stammering: “My darling! my darling!”
She opened her arms and fell upon his breast; then having lifted her head towards him, their lips met in a long kiss.
He thought: “It is easier than I should have imagined. It is all going on very well.”
And their lips separating, he smiled without saying a word, while striving to throw a world of love into his looks. She, too, smiled, with that smile by which women show their desire, their consent, their wish to yield themselves, and murmured: “We are alone. I have sent Laurine to lunch with one of her young friends.”
He sighed as he kissed her. “Thanks, I will worship you.”
Then she took his arm, as if he had been her husband, to go to the sofa, on which they sat down side by side. He wanted to start a clever and attractive chat, but not being able to do so to his liking, stammered: “Then you are not too angry with me?”
She put her hand on his mouth, saying “Be quiet.”
They sat in silence, looking into one another’s eyes, with burning fingers interlaced.
“How I did long for you!” said he.
She repeated: “Be quiet.”
They heard the servant arranging the table in the adjoining dining-room, and he rose, saying: “I must not remain so close to you. I shall lose my head.”
The door opened, and the servant announced that lunch was ready. Duroy gravely offered his arm.
They lunched face to face, looking at one another and constantly smiling, solely taken up by themselves, and enveloped in the sweet enchantment of a growing love. They ate, without knowing what. He felt a foot, a little foot, straying under the table. He took it between his own and kept it there, squeezing it with all his might. The servant came and went, bringing and taking away the dishes with a careless air, without seeming to notice anything.
When they had finished they returned to the drawing-room, and resumed their place on the sofa, side by side. Little by little he pressed up against her, striving to take her in his arms. But she calmly repulsed him, saying: “Take care; someone may come in.”
He murmured: “When can I see you quite alone, to tell you how I love you?”
She leant over towards him and whispered: “I will come and pay you a visit one of these days.”
He felt himself redden. “You know—you know—my place is very small.”
She smiled: “That does not matter. It is you I shall call to see, and not your rooms.”
Then he pressed her to know when she would come. She named a day in the latter half of the week. He begged of her to advance the date in broken sentences, playing with and squeezing her hands, with glittering eyes, and flushed face, heated and torn by desire, that imperious desire which follows tête-à-tête repasts. She was amazed to see him implore her with such ardor, and yielded a day from time to time. But he kept repeating: “Tomorrow, only say tomorrow.”
She consented at length. “Yes, tomorrow; at five o’clock.”
He gave a long sigh of joy, and they then chatted almost quietly with an air of intimacy, as though they had known one another twenty years. The sound of the door bell made them start, and with a bound they separated to a distance. She murmured: “It must be Laurine.”
The child made her appearance, stopped short in amazement, and then ran to Duroy, clapping her hands with pleasure at seeing him, and exclaiming: “Ah! pretty boy.”
Madame de Marelle began to laugh. “What! Pretty boy! Laurine has baptized you. It’s a nice little nickname for you, and I will call you Pretty-boy, too.”
He had taken the little girl on his knee, and he had to play with her at all the games he had taught her. He rose to take his leave at twenty minutes to three to go to the office of the paper, and on the staircase, through the half-closed door, he still whispered: “Tomorrow, at five.”
She answered “Yes,” with a smile, and disappeared.
As soon as he had got through his day’s work, he speculated how he should arrange his room to receive his mistress, and hide as far as possible the poverty of the place. He was struck by the idea of pinning a lot of Japanese trifles on the walls, and he bought for five francs quite a collection of little fans and screens, with which he hid the most obvious of the marks on the wall paper. He pasted on the window panes transparent pictures representing boats floating down rivers, flocks of birds flying across rosy skies, multi-colored ladies on balconies, and processions of little black men over plains covered with snow. His room, just big enough to sleep and sit down in, soon looked like the inside of a Chinese lantern. He thought the effect satisfactory, and passed the evening in pasting o
n the ceiling birds that he had cut from the colored sheets remaining over. Then he went to bed, lulled by the whistle of the trains.
He went home early the next day, carrying a paper bag of cakes and a bottle of Madeira, purchased at the grocer’s. He had to go out again to buy two plates and two glasses, and arranged this collation on his dressing-table, the dirty wood of which was covered by a napkin, the jug and basin being hidden away beneath it.
Then he waited.
She came at about a quarter-past five; and, attracted by the bright colors of the pictures, exclaimed: “Dear me, yours is a nice place. But there are a lot of people about on the staircase.”
He had clasped her in his arms, and was eagerly kissing the hair between her forehead and her bonnet through her veil.
An hour and a half later he escorted her back to the cab-stand in the Rue de Rome. When she was in the carriage he murmured: “Tuesday at the same time?”
She replied: “Tuesday at the same time.” And as it had grown dark, she drew his head into the carriage and kissed him on the lips. Then the driver, having whipped up his beast, she exclaimed: “Good-bye, Pretty-boy,” and the old vehicle started at the weary trot of its old white horse.
For three weeks Duroy received Madame de Marelle in this way every two or three days, now in the evening and now in the morning. While he was expecting her one afternoon, a loud uproar on the stairs drew him to the door. A child was crying. A man’s angry voice shouted: “What is that little devil howling about now?” The yelling and exasperated voice of a woman replied: “It is that dirty hussy who comes to see the penny-a-liner upstairs; she has upset Nicholas on the landing. As if dabs like that, who pay no attention to children on the staircase, should be allowed here.”
The Guy De Maupassant Megapack (R) Page 155