Bel-Ami (Oxford World's Classics)

by Guy de Maupassant

  Forestier seemed to have grown even thinner since the previous day. The priest was holding his hand. ‘Goodbye, my son, I’ll return tomorrow morning.’ And he departed.

  The instant he had left, the dying man, panting, tried to raise his two hands to his wife and stammered: ‘Save me, save me, darling… I don’t want to die… I don’t want to die… Oh, save me! Tell me what I must do, go and get the doctor… I’ll take anything I’m told to… I don’t want to… I don’t want to…’

  He was crying. Big tears ran down from his eyes over his sunken cheeks; and the emaciated corners of his mouth were puckered up, like the mouth of a miserable little child.

  Then his hands, which had fallen back onto the bed, began an incessant, slow, regular movement, as if trying to pluck something off the sheets.

  His wife, who had also begun to cry, was stammering: ‘But no, this isn’t serious. It’s a bad attack, but you’ll feel better tomorrow, you got tired yesterday, on that outing.’

  Forestier’s breathing was faster than that of a dog who’s been running, so fast that it couldn’t be counted, and so weak that it was barely audible.

  He was still repeating: ‘I don’t want to die! Oh! My God… my God… my God… what’s going to happen to me? I shall see nothing more… nothing more… ever again… Oh! My God!’

  He was gazing in front of him at something invisible to the others, something hideous, the terror of which was reflected in his staring eyes. His two hands continued their dreadful and exhausting movement.

  All at once he gave a sudden shudder which, as they watched, ran right down his body from head to foot, and he stammered: ‘The cemetery… me… my God!’

  And he did not speak again. He lay motionless, haggard and gasping for breath.

  Time passed; the clock of a neighbouring convent struck noon. Duroy left the room to go and eat something. He returned an hour later. Mme Forestier refused to have anything. The sick man had not moved. He was still dragging his thin fingers over the sheet as if to pull it up towards his face.

  The young woman was sitting in an armchair at the foot of the bed. Duroy took another beside her, and they waited in silence.

  A nurse had come, sent by the doctor; she was dozing near the window.

  Duroy himself was beginning to doze off when he had a feeling that something was happening. He opened his eyes just in time to see Forestier close his, like two lights that are going out. A little hiccup shook the dying man’s throat, and two trickles of blood appeared at the corners of his mouth and ran down on to his nightshirt. His hands ceased their grotesque roaming. He had stopped breathing.

  Realizing what had happened, his wife gave a kind of cry, and fell on her knees, sobbing into the sheet. Georges, surprised and frightened, automatically made the sign of the cross. The nurse had woken up and went over to the bed: ‘That’s it,’ she said. And Duroy, his composure returning, murmured with a sigh of relief: ‘It didn’t take as long as I expected.’

  Once the first shock was over and the first tears shed, they began to deal with all the tasks and various procedures that a death entails. Duroy was kept busy running errands until nightfall.

  He was extremely hungry when he returned to the villa. Mme Forestier ate a little; then both of them settled down in the dead man’s room to watch over the corpse.

  Two candles were burning on the night table, beside a dish where a spray of mimosa lay in a little water, for they had been unable to find the requisite sprig of box.

  The young woman and the young man were alone, beside this man who no longer existed. They sat without speaking, deep in thought, looking at him.

  But Georges, who felt uneasy in the shadowy darkness surrounding this dead body, was staring at it doggedly. His eyes as well as his thoughts were drawn in fascination to this gaunt face which, in the uncertain light, appeared even more emaciated; and his gaze remained fixed there. That was his friend, there, Charles Forestier, who was talking to him only yesterday! What a strange and terrible thing it was, this complete cessation of a being! Oh! Now he remembered the words of Norbert de Varenne, who was haunted by the fear of death. ‘No one ever comes back.’ Millions, billions of beings would be born, more or less alike, with eyes, a nose, a mouth, a skull, and thoughts within it, without that particular one who was lying in that bed ever reappearing.

  For a number of years he had lived, eaten, laughed, loved, hoped, like everyone else. And for him it was over, over for good. A life! A few days, and then nothing! You’re born, you grow up, you’re happy, you wait, then you die. Goodbye! Man or woman, you’ll never return to this earth! And yet each of us bears within him the fierce, unrealizable longing for eternity, each of us is a kind of universe within the universe, and each of us soon vanishes completely into the dunghill of new organisms. Plants, animals, men, stars, worlds, everything quickens, then dies, in order to transform itself. And nothing ever returns, whether insect, man, or planet!

  A confused, immense, crushing terror was weighing upon Duroy’s soul, the terror of this infinite, inevitable nothingness, endlessly destroying each fleeting, miserable life. Already, he was bowing his head before its threat. He thought of flies, that live a few hours, of animals, that live a few days, of men who live a few years, of worlds that live a few centuries. So what difference was there between them? Only one or two more dawns, nothing else.

  He turned away his eyes so as to look no longer at the corpse.

  Mme Forestier, her head bent, also seemed to be absorbed in painful thoughts. Her fair hair looked so pretty round her sad face, that a sweet sensation like the presence of hope stirred in the young man’s heart. Why grieve when he still had so many years ahead of him?

  He began to gaze at her. Lost in meditation, she was unaware of him. He was thinking: ‘Yes, this is the only good thing in life: love! To hold a woman you love in your arms! That is the ultimate in human happiness.’

  What luck he’d had, the dead man, to find this intelligent, charming companion. How had they met? How had she come to agree to marry this commonplace, impecunious young man? How had she eventually succeeded in making something of him?

  Then he thought about all the hidden mysteries in people’s lives. He recalled all the rumours about the Comte de Vaudrec, how it had been said that he had arranged her dowry and marriage. What would she do now? Whom would she marry? A deputy, as Mme de Marelle believed, or some fine young fellow with a future, a superior Forestier? Had she schemes, plans, definite ideas? How he would have loved to know! But why was he concerned about what she might do? He asked himself that question, and realized that his anxiety came from one of those elusive, confused, secret thoughts that we conceal from ourselves, and uncover only by probing deep into our hearts.

  Yes, why should he himself not try to win her? How strong he would be, with her beside him, how formidable! How rapidly and far he would advance, and how surely!

  And why should he not succeed? He was convinced that she was drawn to him, that what she felt for him was more than just liking, that it was one of those affections that arise between two people with similar natures, and that derive both from a mutual attraction and from a sort of wordless complicity. She knew him to be intelligent, determined, and tenacious; she could rely on him.

  Had she not sent for him at this difficult time? And why had she done so? Ought he not to see in it some sort of choice, of admission, of signal? If she had thought of him, at the very moment when she was about to become a widow, might it not be, perhaps, that she had thought of the man who was to be her new companion and ally?

  He was seized by an impatient urge to know the facts, to question her, to learn what her intentions were. He had to leave in two days’ time, since he could not remain alone with that young woman in that house. So he must be quick; before going back to Paris, by employing tact and skill he must get her to reveal her plans, and not let her return home and perhaps, by yielding to another’s pleas, commit herself irrevocably.

  The silence in the
room was profound; you could hear nothing but the metallic, regular beat of the clock’s pendulum, ticking on the mantelpiece.

  He whispered: ‘You must be very tired?’

  She replied: ‘Yes, but most of all I feel terribly depressed.’

  The sound of their voices astonished them, echoing strangely in that ill-omened room. And, rapidly, they glanced at the face of the dead man, as if expecting to see him move, to hear him speak to them, as he had been doing a few hours earlier.

  Duroy went on: ‘Oh, it’s a dreadful blow for you, and such a complete change in your life, a real upheaval for your feelings and your whole existence.’

  She gave a long sigh, without replying.

  He continued: ‘It’s so sad for a young woman to find herself alone, as you are going to be.’

  Then he fell silent. She said nothing. He stammered: ‘In any case, you know the agreement we made. You can count on me in any way you wish. I am yours.’

  She stretched out her hand to him, giving him one of those sad, sweet looks that stir us to the marrow of our bones: ‘Thank you, you are so good, so very good. If I dared, and if there was something I could do for you, I too would say: You can count on me.’

  He had grasped the proffered hand and kept it in his, squeezing it and longing desperately to kiss it. Finally deciding to do so, he raised it slowly to his mouth, for a long time holding the warm, delicate, febrile, perfumed skin against his lips.

  Then, when he felt that this friendly caress was becoming too prolonged, he had the good sense to release the little hand. It returned gently to the lap of the young woman, who said gravely: ‘Yes, I shall certainly be very lonely, but I’m going to try to be brave.’

  He did not know how to make her understand that he would be happy, most happy, to become her husband in his turn. He certainly could not tell her that, now, at this moment, in this place, in the presence of this corpse; nevertheless he could, he believed, find one of those ambiguous, acceptable, complicated statements whose words have a hidden significance, and which can, by their calculated reservations, express everything you intend.

  But the corpse inhibited him, the corpse that lay rigidly in front of them and that he could feel between them. Besides, for some time he had thought he could detect a suspicious odour in the stuffy air of the room, a fetid breath coming from those rotted lungs, the first carrion breath that the poor dead bodies lying on their beds exhale over the relatives keeping vigil beside them, a foul breath with which they soon fill the hollow box that is their coffin.

  Duroy asked: ‘Might we open the window a little? The air seems to me to be tainted.’

  She said: ‘Of course. I’d just noticed it too.’

  He went to the window and opened it. All the scented freshness of the night came in, making the flames of the two bedside candles flicker. Just as it had done on the previous evening, the moon spread its calm, generous light over the white walls of the villas and the vast shining expanse of the sea. Duroy, breathing deeply, unexpectedly felt a great surge of hope, as if he were being buoyed up by the tremulous approach of happiness.

  He turned round: ‘Come and breathe some fresh air,’ he said. ‘It’s a beautiful night.’

  She came calmly over and leant on the sill beside him.

  Then, in a low voice, he murmured: ‘Listen to me, and please don’t misunderstand what I say. Above all, don’t be angry with me for speaking of such a matter at a moment like this; but I’ll be leaving you the day after tomorrow, and when you return to Paris it might be too late. So… I’m just a poor devil with no money who still has his career to make, as you know. But I have the will, I believe I’m quite intelligent, and I’ve made a beginning, a good beginning. With a man who’s made it you know what you’re getting; with a man who’s starting out you don’t know where he’ll go. So much the worse, or so much the better. To come to the point–I once told you, in your home, that my dearest wish would have been to marry a woman like you. Today, I am telling you again that that is my wish. Don’t answer. Let me go on. I am not asking you to marry me. The place and the time would make such a proposal revolting. It’s just that I do not want you to be unaware that a word from you can make me happy, that you can make of me either a devoted friend or a husband, as you prefer, that my heart and my whole self are yours. I do not want you to answer me now; nor do I want us to speak of this again, here. When we meet again, in Paris, you can let me know what you have decided. Not another word until then, do you agree?’

  He had said this without looking at her, as if he were scattering his words into the night before him. And she seemed not to have heard, so motionless had she remained, she too gazing out, with eyes that were fixed and vague, at the broad pale landscape lit up by the moon.

  For a long time they continued there side by side, elbow by elbow, silent and thoughtful.

  Then, whispering: ‘It’s a little cold,’ she turned and came back towards the bed. He followed her.

  As he approached, he realized that Forestier actually was beginning to smell; he moved his chair away, for he could not have stood that odour of decay for long. He said: ‘He must be put in his coffin in the morning.’

  She replied: ‘Yes, yes, of course; the carpenter’s coming about eight.’

  And, when Duroy sighed: ‘Poor fellow!’ she in her turn gave a long sigh of heart-broken resignation.

  They were looking at him less often now, already used to the idea of this death, beginning to accept, in their minds, this disappearance, which only a short while before had shocked and angered them, they who were mortal also. They said no more, but continued to keep vigil in the traditional way, without falling asleep. But, towards midnight, Duroy was the first to doze off. When he awoke, he saw that Mme Forestier was also dozing, and, settling himself more comfortably, he closed his eyes again, grumbling: ‘It’s a hell of a lot more comfortable in a bed!’

  A sudden noise made him start. The nurse was entering the room. It was broad daylight. The young woman, in the armchair opposite him, seemed as surprised as he was. She was rather pale, but still pretty, fresh, pleasing, in spite of having spent the night sitting up.

  Then, glancing at the corpse, Duroy gave a shudder, crying: ‘Oh! His beard!’ In a few hours the beard had grown, on that decaying flesh, as much as it would have grown in a few days on the face of a living man. And they were shocked and bewildered by this evidence of life still persisting on the corpse, as if they were witnessing some horrifying trick of nature, some supernatural intimation of resurrection, one of those abnormal, terrifying things that overwhelm and confound the mind.

  They both went to rest until eleven. Then they put Charles in his coffin, and immediately felt relieved and soothed. They sat down opposite one another for lunch with an eager readiness to talk of comforting, more cheerful subjects, to get back into life, now that they had finished dealing with death.

  Through the window, which stood wide open, came the sweet warmth of spring, bringing with it the perfumed breath of the carnations flowering in the bed in front of the door.

  Mme Forestier suggested that they take a turn together in the garden, and they began to walk slowly around the little lawn, delightedly breathing in the mild air that was full of the fragrance of pine and eucalyptus. And, suddenly, she spoke to him, without turning her head towards him, just as he had done during the night, in the room up there. She spoke slowly, in a quiet, grave voice:

  ‘Listen, my dear; I’ve already thought carefully… about what you proposed, and I don’t want to let you leave without giving you some kind of reply. I shall not, however, say either yes or no. We’ll wait, we’ll see what happens, we’ll get to know each other better. For your part, think about it carefully. Don’t let yourself be carried away by a superficial attraction. But, if I speak to you about this even before my poor Charles is in his grave, it’s because it’s important, after what you said to me, that you should really understand what kind of person I am, so that you may not continue to cherish the
hope you spoke of, if your… character… is such that you cannot understand me and give me your support.

  ‘You must understand me. Marriage, for me, is not a bond, but a partnership. I expect to be free, completely free, in what I do, whom I see, where I go, always. I could not tolerate either supervision, or jealousy, or any discussion of my behaviour. I would of course undertake never to compromise the name of the man I had married, never to make him seem hateful or ridiculous. But that man would also have to see me as an equal, an ally, not as an inferior or an obedient, submissive wife. I know my ideas are not shared by everyone, but I shan’t change them. So that’s the way it is.

  ‘I’ll also add: Don’t answer me, it would be pointless, and unseemly. We shall see each other again, and we may perhaps speak again about all this, later. Why don’t you go out for a walk now. As for me, I’m going back to him. I’ll see you this evening.’

  He gave her hand a lingering kiss, and left without saying a word.

  In the evening, they met only at dinner time. Afterwards they went up to their rooms, for they were both utterly exhausted.

  The next morning Charles Forestier was buried without any pomp, in the cemetery at Cannes. Georges Duroy decided to catch the Paris express that stops at one-thirty.

  Mme Forestier went with him to the station. They walked calmly up and down the platform, talking of indifferent matters, as they waited for the time of departure. The train, a very short one, drew up; it was a genuine express, with only five carriages.

  The journalist chose his seat, then got out again to chat a little longer with her, feeling unexpectedly overcome with sadness and regret and an intense sense of loss at leaving her, as if he were about to lose her for ever.

  A railway employee shouted: ‘All aboard for Marseilles, Lyons, Paris!’ Duroy climbed up, then leant on the window-sill to say a few more words to her. The engine whistled and the train gently began to move. The young man, leaning out of the carriage, gazed at the young woman standing motionless on the platform, following him with her eyes. And suddenly, when she was almost out of sight, he threw her a kiss with both hands. She returned it hesitantly, with a more discreet gesture, a mere suggestion of a kiss.