He talked with a kind of exuberant verve, spurred on by the wine and by the wish to please, telling little stories about the regiment, describing features of the Arab way of life or adventures on the battlefield. He even found some evocative words to depict those barren yellow lands, everlastingly desolate beneath the all-consuming blaze of the sun.
The women were all gazing at him. Madame Walter said quietly in her unhurried way: ‘With your experiences, you could write a delightful series of articles.’
Hearing this, Walter peered at the young man over the top of his glasses, as was his habit when he wanted to get a good look at a face. To inspect his food he looked under them.
Forestier seized his chance: ‘I spoke to you earlier, Monsieur, about M. Georges Duroy, and asked you to take him on as my assistant for the political column. Ever since Marambot left, I’ve had no one to run around and collect information about urgent, confidential matters. The paper’s suffering as a result.’
Turning serious, old Walter removed his glasses completely in order to look Duroy full in the face. He said: ‘M. Duroy certainly has an original turn of mind. If he will be so good as to come to my office tomorrow at three, we’ll see what we can arrange.’ Then, after a pause, swivelling right round to face the young man: ‘Let me have some entertaining little pieces on Algeria right away. Talk about your experiences, and relate them to the colonial question, as you did just now. It’s topical, highly topical, and I’m sure it’ll be just what our readers want. But hurry! I’ll need the first article tomorrow or the day after, while the debate’s going on in the Chamber, to get the public hooked.’
Mme Walter added, with that grave and gracious air which never left her and which made whatever she said seem like a special favour: ‘And you have an excellent title: “Recollections of an African Cavalryman”; don’t you agree, M. Norbert?’
The old poet, who had come to fame late in life, detested and feared the younger generation. He replied curtly: ‘Yes, excellent, provided that the rest of the stories hit the right note, for that’s what’s so difficult: to hit the right note, what in music they call the right key.’
Mme Forestier was favouring Duroy with a protective, smiling gaze, an experienced gaze which seemed to say: ‘You’re going to succeed.’ Mme de Marelle had several times turned towards him, and the diamond hanging from her ear kept quivering, as if the delicate drop of water was about to slide and fall off.
The little girl sat motionless and solemn, her head bent over her plate.
But the servant was going round the table, pouring a Johannisberg* into the blue glasses; and Forestier raised his glass to M. Walter in a toast, saying: ‘Long life and prosperity to La Vie française!’
They all turned and bowed to the Director, who was smiling; Duroy, intoxicated with success, drained his glass at one gulp. He felt as if he could have drained a whole wine-cask in the same way; he could have devoured an ox or strangled a lion. His limbs were filled with superhuman strength, his spirit imbued with invincible determination and infinite hope. He felt at home, now, amongst these people; he had just secured his position, won his place. His eyes rested on their faces with new-found confidence, and for the first time he dared to address his neighbour.
‘Your earrings, Madame, are the prettiest I have ever seen.’
She turned towards him with a smile: ‘It was my own idea to wear diamonds in this way, just on a wire. You’d think they were drops of dew, wouldn’t you?’
He whispered, amazed at his own audacity, and terrified of making a blunder:
‘Yes, they’re charming… but then the ears show them off so perfectly.’
She thanked him with a glance, one of those bright feminine glances that go straight to the heart.
And as he turned his head, his eyes again met Mme Forestier’s still kindly gaze, but now he thought he saw in it a brighter sparkle, a flash of mischief, of encouragement.
The men were all talking together now, gesticulating and raising their voices; they were discussing the great project of the Paris Métro.* The subject was not exhausted until the end of dessert, for everyone had a great deal to say about the slowness of communications within Paris, the disadvantages of the trams, the problems with the omnibuses,* and the churlishness of the cab drivers.
Then they left the dining-room to have their coffee. Duroy jokingly offered the little girl his arm; she solemnly thanked him, standing on tip-toe to reach up to his elbow with her hand.
When they went into the drawing-room, he again had the impression of entering a conservatory. In each corner of the room a tall palm tree unfurled its elegant leaves, reaching high up to the ceiling, then fanning out like a fountain.
Rubber trees stood on either side of the fireplace, their trunks, like cylindrical columns, bearing layer upon layer of long, dark green leaves, while on the piano two round, unfamiliar plants, covered with blossom, one all pink, the other all white, seemed improbable, artificial, too beautiful to be real.
The air was fresh and full of a vague, soft, indefinable perfume, impossible to name.
And the young man, now feeling surer of himself, studied the room attentively. It was not large; nothing, apart from the greenery, drew the eye; there were no bright colours; but you felt at ease there, calm and relaxed; it enveloped you gently, pleasingly, enfolding you in something like a caress.
The walls were hung with an old-fashioned fabric of faded purple, sprinkled with tiny yellow silk flowers no bigger than a fly. The curtains over the doors, made of blue-grey military cloth, were decorated with a few carnations embroidered in red silk; chairs of every shape and size, scattered haphazardly round the room, chaises longues, enormous armchairs, tiny armchairs, pouffes, and footstools were all covered in Louis XVI silk or a beautiful Utrecht velvet, figured in garnet-red on a cream background.
‘Will you take coffee, M. Duroy?’ And Mme Forestier, as she handed him a filled cup, gave him that invariably friendly smile of hers.
‘Yes, thank you, Madame.’
He accepted the cup, and as he leant anxiously forward to take, with the silver sugar-tongs, a lump of sugar from the bowl the little girl was carrying, the young woman said to him in a low voice: ‘Now’s your chance to make a good impression on Mme Walter.’
She moved away before he could say anything in reply.
Fearful of spilling his coffee on the carpet, he drank it immediately; then, feeling more relaxed, he cast about for an excuse to approach the wife of his new employer, and begin a conversation.
All of a sudden he noticed that she was holding her empty cup in her hand; and as she was not near a table, she had nowhere to put it down. He leapt forward.
‘Allow me, Madame.’
‘Thank you, Monsieur.’
He took the cup away, then returned. ‘You can have no idea, Madame, how much I enjoyed reading La Vie française when I was out there in the desert. It’s really and truly the only paper to read outside France, because it’s more literary, it’s wittier and less boring than all the others. You can find a bit of everything in it.’
She gave him a politely amiable smile and replied gravely:
‘M. Walter found it very difficult to start a newspaper of that kind, which filled a new need.’
And they began to chat. His small talk was fluent and trite, his voice attractive, his glance captivating and his moustache irresistibly seductive. Crinkly, curly, and delightful, it sprang thickly out over his lip, blond with auburn tints, slightly paler where it bristled at each end.
They spoke of Paris and its surroundings, the banks of the Seine, watering-places, the delights of summer, all those commonplace topics which you can discuss indefinitely without wearying the mind. Then, seeing M. Norbert de Varenne approaching with a glass of liqueur in his hand, Duroy moved discreetly away.
Mme de Marelle, who had been chatting to Mme Forestier, called him over: ‘Well, Monsieur,’ she said to him without preamble, ‘so you want to have a go at journalism?’
He talked in vague terms of his plans, then began the same conversation with her that he had just had with Mme Walter; but, as he was now more in command of his subject, he acquitted himself better, repeating things he had heard as if they were his own. And all the time he gazed into his companion’s eyes, as though seeking to confer some profound significance on what he was saying.
She, in her turn, told him a number of stories, in the easy, lively manner of a woman who knows she is witty and always wants to be amusing; then, laying her hand familiarly on his arm, she lowered her voice as she babbled on, thus bestowing a tone of intimacy on her inconsequential talk. Deep down, he felt excited by the proximity of this young woman who was taking such an interest in him. He would have liked to do her some signal service there on the spot, to spring to her defence, to show what he was made of; and the slowness of his replies revealed the preoccupation of his mind.
But suddenly, for no apparent reason, Mme de Marelle called ‘Laurine!’ and the little girl came over.
‘Sit here, child; you’ll be cold by the window.’
Duroy felt a fierce urge to kiss the little girl, as if some part of that kiss might transfer itself to the mother. He asked, in a flirtatious, fatherly tone: ‘Would you allow me to kiss you, Mademoiselle?’
The child looked up at him in surprise. Mme de Marelle said with a laugh: ‘Answer: “You may today, Monsieur, but don’t imagine you can always do so.”’
Duroy promptly sat down, taking Laurine on his knee, then brushed his lips over the soft curls of her forehead.
The mother was amazed: ‘My goodness, that’s extraordinary, she didn’t run away. Usually she only lets herself be kissed by women. You’re irresistible, M. Duroy.’
He blushed without replying, as he rocked the little girl gently on his knee.
Mme Forestier came up and exclaimed in astonishment: ‘Heavens, you’ve made a conquest of Laurine, how very remarkable!’
Jacques Rival, a cigar in his mouth, was also approaching the group, and Duroy stood up to take his leave, afraid of ruining, by some inappropriate remark, the work he had accomplished, the campaign of conquest he had begun.
He bowed, softly pressing the small hands the women held out, then vigorously shaking those of the men. He noticed that Jacques Rival’s hand was warm and dry, and responded cordially to his grasp; Norbert de Varenne’s was damp and cold and slid away from between his fingers; old man Walter had a cold, flabby hand, quite without energy or character, while Forestier’s was plump and warm. His friend whispered to him: ‘Tomorrow at three, don’t forget.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, I won’t forget.’
When he was back on the stairs, his joy was so intense that he felt like running down them, and he began to take the steps two at a time; but, suddenly noticing, in the large mirror on the second floor landing, a gentleman who was coming bounding along to meet him, he stopped dead, as mortified as if he had been caught doing something wrong.
Then he stared at himself for a long time, astounded at being such a very handsome young man; then he smiled complacently at himself; then he took leave of his reflection with a low bow, a ceremonious bow, the kind of bow reserved for people of high rank.
CHAPTER 3
Once he was back in the street, Georges Duroy hesitated over what he should do next. He longed to keep moving, to dream, to walk on and on thinking about the future and breathing in the soft night air; but his mind kept returning to the series of articles old Walter had asked for, and he decided to go home immediately and set to work.
He strode rapidly along towards the outer boulevard, which he then followed as far as the Rue Boursault,* where he lived. His building, which had six floors, was inhabited by a score of small working-class or lower-middle-class households, and as he climbed upstairs, using taper matches to light the dirty steps littered with scraps of paper, cigarette ends, and kitchen refuse, he felt a nauseating wave of disgust and an urge to move out of there as soon as possible, to live as the rich do, in well-kept homes, with carpets. A heavy smell of food, privies, and humanity, a stagnant odour of filth and crumbling plaster walls that no draught of fresh air could have swept away, filled the building from top to bottom.
The young man’s room was on the fifth floor, and looked out, as though over a deep chasm, onto the immense cutting of the Western Railway,* exactly above the point where it emerges from the tunnel by the Batignolles station.* Duroy opened his window and leant on the rusty iron railing.
Below him, in the depths of the dark pit, three motionless red signal lights glowed like the eyes of animals; further away, other lights were visible, and then, even further off, still others. Every moment, short or long blasts of train whistles were carried on the night air, some close by, others, from over by Asnières,* barely audible. They modulated, like voices calling out. One of them was coming nearer, still emitting its plaintive cry which grew louder by the instant, and soon a big yellow light appeared, hurtling along very noisily; Duroy watched as the long string of carriages was swallowed up by the tunnel.
Then he told himself: ‘To work!’ He put his lamp on the table; but just as he was about to start writing, he realized that all he had in his room was a folded sheet of notepaper.
Well, he would just have to open it out and manage with that. He dipped his pen into the ink and wrote at the top of the page, in his best handwriting, ‘Recollections of an African Cavalryman’. Then he tried to think of how to begin his first sentence.
He sat there, leaning his head on his hand, his eyes fixed on the blank sheet spread out before him.
What was he going to say? He could no longer remember, now, anything he’d just been talking about, not a single incident, not a single fact, nothing. Suddenly he thought: ‘I must begin with my departure.’ So he wrote: ‘It was in 1874, about the 15th of May, when an exhausted France was resting after the disasters of the terrible year…’* And there he stopped, not knowing how to lead into what followed, his boarding the ship, the voyage, his first reactions.
After thinking about it for ten minutes he decided to postpone the introductory page until the next day, and launch straight into a description of Algiers.
On his sheet of paper he wrote: ‘The town of Algiers is completely white…’ but was unable to say anything more.
In his mind’s eye, he could see the lovely bright city, its low, flat-roofed houses cascading down the mountain into the sea; but he could no longer find a single word to express what he had seen, what he had felt. After a great struggle, he added: ‘It is partly inhabited by Arabs…’ Then he flung his pen down on the table, and stood up.
His little iron bed, where the weight of his body had made a hollow, was covered with his discarded everyday clothes, empty, tired, and limp, ugly as garments left unclaimed at the Morgue. And, on a straw-bottomed chair, his silk hat, his only hat, lay upturned as if ready to receive charitable coins.
His walls, papered in grey with a pattern of blue flowers, displayed quite as many stains as flowers, ancient, unidentifiable stains of dubious origin, which could have been squashed insects or splashes of oil, marks of fingers greasy with pomade, or soap scum splashed from the wash-basin. Everything reeked of shameful poverty, the poverty of Parisian furnished rooms. He was filled with rage at the wretchedness of his life. He told himself that he must escape from there without delay, that he must, the very next day, leave this impecunious existence behind him.
Suddenly feeling a renewed zeal for work, he sat down again at his table, and once more began searching for words to do justice to the strange charm of Algiers, that gateway to Africa with its impenetrable mysteries, the Africa of nomadic Arabs and strange black men, the undiscovered and seductive Africa whose incredible fauna we sometimes see displayed in zoos, fauna that might have been created for fairy-tales–the fantastic fowl the ostrich, the gazelle like a divine goat, the astounding, grotesque giraffe, the ponderous camel, the monstrous hippopotamus, the misshapen rhinoceros, and our alarming relative, the
gorilla. A few ideas dimly began to take shape; he might perhaps have been able to talk about them, but he was quite unable to formulate them in writing. Feverish with frustration, he stood up once more, his hands damp with sweat and his temples throbbing.
His glance fell on his laundry bill, which the concierge had brought up that very evening, and he was suddenly overcome by a feeling of frantic despair. All his high spirits vanished in an instant, along with his self-confidence and his faith in the future. It was over, it was all over, he would achieve nothing, he would be nothing; he felt empty, ineffectual, useless, doomed to failure.
Duroy went back to the window and leant out, just at the very moment when a train emerged from the tunnel with a sudden, harsh blast of sound. It was heading over there, across the fields and the plains, to the sea.* And he found himself thinking of his parents.
That train would pass close by them, just a few miles from their house. He saw, in his mind’s eye, the little building high up on the hill, overlooking Rouen and the immense valley of the Seine, on the outskirts of the village of Canteleu.*
His father and mother kept a small inn, A la Belle Vue, a country tavern where middle-class couples came from the city suburbs for their Sunday lunch. His parents had planned to make a gentleman of Duroy, and had sent him to secondary school. He had completed his schooling but failed the baccalauréat, so had gone off to do his military service, intending to become an officer, a colonel or a general. But, growing disenchanted with military life long before his five years were up, he began to dream of making his fortune in Paris.
When his time was up he had moved there, despite the entreaties of his parents, who, seeing their dreams evaporate, now wanted to keep him with them. He had his own hopes for his future; he foresaw a triumphal success, attained by means of circumstances which he could only vaguely imagine, but which he would surely be able to bring into being and use to his advantage.
Bel-Ami (Oxford World's Classics) Page 10