VI
George Duroy woke up chapfallen the next morning.
He dressed himself slowly, and then sat down at his window and began toreflect. He felt a kind of aching sensation all over, just as though hehad received a drubbing over night. At last the necessity of findingsome money spurred him up, and he went first to Forestier.
His friend received him in his study with his feet on the fender.
"What has brought you out so early?" said he.
"A very serious matter, a debt of honor."
"At play?"
He hesitated a moment, and then said: "At play."
"Heavy?"
"Five hundred francs."
He only owed two hundred and eighty.
Forestier, skeptical on the point, inquired: "Whom do you owe it to?"
Duroy could not answer right off. "To--to--a Monsieur de Carleville."
"Ah! and where does he live?"
"At--at--"
Forestier began to laugh. "Number ought, Nowhere Street, eh? I know thatgentleman, my dear fellow. If you want twenty francs, I have still thatmuch at your service, but no more."
Duroy took the offered louis. Then he went from door to door among thepeople he knew, and wound up by having collected at about five o'clockthe sum of eighty francs. And he still needed two hundred more; he madeup his mind, and keeping for himself what he had thus gleaned, murmured:"Bah! I am not going to put myself out for that cat. I will pay her whenI can."
For a fortnight he lived regularly, economically, and chastely, his mindfilled with energetic resolves. Then he was seized with a strong longingfor love. It seemed to him that several years had passed since he lastclasped a woman in his arms, and like the sailor who goes wild on seeingland, every passing petticoat made him quiver. So he went one eveningto the Folies Bergere in the hope of finding Rachel. He caught sight ofher indeed, directly he entered, for she scarcely went elsewhere, andwent up to her smiling with outstretched hand. But she merely looked himdown from head to foot, saying: "What do you want with me?"
He tried to laugh it off with, "Come, don't be stuck-up."
She turned on her heels, saying: "I don't associate with ponces."
She had picked out the bitterest insult. He felt the blood rush to hisface, and went home alone.
Forestier, ill, weak, always coughing, led him a hard life at the paper,and seemed to rack his brain to find him tiresome jobs. One day, even,in a moment of nervous irritation, and after a long fit of coughing, asDuroy had not brought him a piece of information he wanted, he growledout: "Confound it! you are a bigger fool than I thought."
The other almost struck him, but restrained himself, and went awaymuttering: "I'll manage to pay you out some day." An idea shot throughhis mind, and he added: "I will make a cuckold of you, old fellow!" Andhe took himself off, rubbing his hands, delighted at this project.
He resolved to set about it the very next day. He paid Madame Forestiera visit as a reconnaissance. He found her lying at full length on acouch, reading a book. She held out her hand without rising, merelyturning her head, and said: "Good-day, Pretty-boy!"
He felt as though he had received a blow. "Why do you call me that?" hesaid.
She replied, with a smile: "I saw Madame de Marelle the other day, andlearned how you had been baptized at her place."
He felt reassured by her amiable air. Besides, what was there for him tobe afraid of?
She resumed: "You spoil her. As to me, people come to see me when theythink of it--the thirty-second of the month, or something like it."
He sat down near her, and regarded her with a new species of curiosity,the curiosity of the amateur who is bargain-hunting. She was charming, asoft and tender blonde, made for caresses, and he thought: "She isbetter than the other, certainly." He did not doubt his success, itseemed to him that he had only to stretch out his hand and take her, asone gathers a fruit.
He said, resolutely: "I did not come to see you, because it was betterso."
She asked, without understanding: "What? Why?"
"No, not at all."
"Because I am in love with you; oh! only a little, and I do not want tobe head over ears."
She seemed neither astonished, nor shocked, nor flattered; she went onsmiling the same indifferent smile, and replied with the sametranquillity: "Oh! you can come all the same. No one is in love with melong."
He was surprised, more by the tone than by the words, and asked: "Whynot?"
"Because it is useless. I let this be understood at once. If you hadtold me of your fear before, I should have reassured you, and invitedyou, on the contrary, to come as often as possible."
He exclaimed, in a pathetic tone: "Can we command our feelings?"
She turned towards him: "My dear friend, for me a man in love is struckoff the list of the living. He becomes idiotic, and not only idiotic,but dangerous. I cease all intimate relations with people who are inlove with me, or who pretend to be so--because they bore me, in thefirst place; and, secondly, because they are as much objects ofsuspicion to me as a mad dog, which may have a fit of biting. Itherefore put them into a kind of moral quarantine until their illnessis over. Do not forget this. I know very well that in your case love isonly a species of appetite, while with me it would be, on the contrary,a kind of--of--of communion of souls, which does not enter into a man'sreligion. You understand its letter, and its spirit. But look me well inthe face." She no longer smiled. Her face was calm and cold, and shecontinued, emphatically: "I will never, never be your mistress; youunderstand. It is therefore absolutely useless, it would even behurtful, for you to persist in this desire. And now that the operationis over, will you agree to be friends--good friends--real friends, Imean, without any mental reservation."
He had understood that any attempt would be useless in face of thisirrevocable sentence. He made up his mind at once, frankly, and,delighted at being able to secure this ally in the battle of life, heldout both hands, saying: "I am yours, madame, as you will."
She read the sincerity of his intention in his voice, and gave him herhands. He kissed them both, one after the other, and then said simply,as he raised his head: "Ah, if I had found a woman like you, how gladlyI would have married her."
She was touched this time--soothed by this phrase, as women are by thecompliments which reach their hearts, and she gave him one of thoserapid and grateful looks which make us their slaves. Then, as he couldfind no change of subject to renew the conversation, she said softly,laying her finger on his arm: "And I am going to play my part of afriend at once. You are clumsy." She hesitated a moment, and then asked:"May I speak plainly?"
"Yes."
"Quite plainly?"
"Quite."
"Well, go and see Madame Walter, who greatly appreciates you, and doyour best to please her. You will find a place there for yourcompliments, although she is virtuous, you understand me, perfectlyvirtuous. Oh! there is no hope of--of poaching there, either. You mayfind something better, though, by showing yourself. I know that youstill hold an inferior position on the paper. But do not be afraid, theyreceive all their staff with the same kindness. Go there--believe me."
He said, with a smile: "Thanks, you are an angel, a guardian angel."
They spoke of one thing and another. He stayed for some time, wishing toprove that he took pleasure in being with her, and on leaving, remarked:"It is understood, then, that we are friends?"
"It is."
As he had noted the effect of the compliment he had paid her shortlybefore, he seconded it by adding: "And if ever you become a widow, Ienter the lists."
Then he hurried away, so as not to give her time to get angry.
A visit to Madame Walter was rather awkward for Duroy, for he had notbeen authorized to call, and he did not want to commit a blunder. Thegovernor displayed some good will towards him, appreciated his services,and employed him by preference on difficult jobs, so why should he notprofit by this favor to enter the house? One day, then, having risenearly, he went
to the market while the morning sales were in progress,and for ten francs obtained a score of splendid pears. Having carefullypacked them in a hamper to make it appear that they had come from adistance, he left them with the doorkeeper at Madame Walter's with hiscard, on which he had written: "George Duroy begs Madame Walter toaccept a little fruit which he received this morning from Normandy."
He found the next morning, among his letters at the office, an envelopein reply, containing the card of Madame Walter, who "thanked MonsieurGeorge Duroy, and was at home every Saturday."
On the following Saturday he called. Monsieur Walter occupied, on theBoulevard Malesherbes, a double house, which belonged to him, and ofwhich a part was let off, in the economical way of practical people. Asingle doorkeeper, quartered between the two carriage entrances, openedthe door for both landlord and tenant, and imparted to each of theentrances an air of wealth by his get-up like a beadle, his big calvesin white stockings, and his coat with gilt buttons and scarlet facings.The reception-rooms were on the first floor, preceded by an ante-roomhung with tapestry, and shut in by curtains over the doorways. Twofootmen were dozing on benches. One of them took Duroy's overcoat andthe other relieved him of his cane, opened the door, advanced a fewsteps in front of the visitor, and then drawing aside, let him pass,calling out his name, into an empty room.
The young fellow, somewhat embarrassed, looked round on all sides whenhe perceived in a glass some people sitting down who seemed very faroff. He was at sea at first as to the direction in which they were, themirror having deceived his eyes. Then he passed through two emptydrawing-rooms and reached a small boudoir hung with blue silk, wherefour ladies were chatting round a table bearing cups of tea. Despite theassurance he had acquired in course of his Parisian life, and above allin his career as a reporter, which constantly brought him into contactwith important personages, Duroy felt somewhat intimidated by the get-upof the entrance and the passage through the deserted drawing-room. Hestammered: "Madame, I have ventured," as his eyes sought the mistress ofthe house.
She held out her hand, which he took with a bow, and having remarked:"You are very kind sir, to call and see me," she pointed to a chair, inseeking to sit down in which he almost fell, having thought it muchhigher.
They had become silent. One of the ladies began to talk again. It was aquestion of the frost, which was becoming sharper, though not enough,however, to check the epidemic of typhoid fever, nor to allow skating.Every one gave her opinion on this advent of frost in Paris, then theyexpressed their preference for the different seasons with all thetrivial reasons that lie about in people's minds like dust in rooms. Thefaint noise made by a door caused Duroy to turn his head, and he saw ina glass a stout lady approaching. As soon as she made her appearance inthe boudoir one of the other visitors rose, shook hands and left, andthe young fellow followed her black back glittering with jet through thedrawing-rooms with his eyes. When the agitation due to this change hadsubsided they spoke without transition of the Morocco question and thewar in the East and also of the difficulties of England in South Africa.These ladies discussed these matters from memory, as if they had beenreciting passages from a fashionable play, frequently rehearsed.
A fresh arrival took place, that of a little curly-headed blonde, whichbrought about the departure of a tall, thin lady of middle age. They nowspoke of the chance Monsieur Linet had of getting into theAcademie-Francaise. The new-comer formerly believed that he would bebeaten by Monsieur Cabanon-Lebas, the author of the fine dramaticadaption of Don Quixote in verse.
"You know it is to be played at the Odeon next winter?"
"Really, I shall certainly go and see such a very excellent literaryeffort."
Madame Walter answered gracefully with calm indifference, without everhesitating as to what she should say, her mind being always made upbeforehand. But she saw that night was coming on, and rang for thelamps, while listening to the conversation that trickled on like astream of honey, and thinking that she had forgotten to call on thestationer about the invitation cards for her next dinner. She was alittle too stout, though still beautiful, at the dangerous age when thegeneral break-up is at hand. She preserved herself by dint of care,hygienic precautions, and salves for the skin. She seemed discreet inall matters; moderate and reasonable; one of those women whose mind iscorrectly laid out like a French garden. One walks through it withsurprise, but experiencing a certain charm. She had keen, discreet, andsound sense, that stood her instead of fancy, generosity, and affection,together with a calm kindness for everybody and everything.
She noted that Duroy had not said anything, that he had not been spokento, and that he seemed slightly ill at ease; and as the ladies had notyet quitted the Academy, that favorite subject always occupying themsome time, she said: "And you who should be better informed than anyone, Monsieur Duroy, who is your favorite?"
He replied unhesitatingly: "In this matter, madame, I should neverconsider the merit, always disputable, of the candidates, but their ageand their state of health. I should not ask about their credentials, buttheir disease. I should not seek to learn whether they have made ametrical translation of Lope de Vega, but I should take care to obtaininformation as to the state of their liver, their heart, their lungs,and their spinal marrow. For me a good hypertrophy, a good aneurism, andabove all, a good beginning of locomotor ataxy, would be a hundred timesmore valuable than forty volumes of disgressions on the idea ofpatriotism as embodied in barbaric poetry."
An astonished silence followed this opinion, and Madame Walter askedwith a smile: "But why?"
He replied: "Because I never seek aught else than the pleasure that anyone can give the ladies. But, Madame, the Academy only has any realinterest for you when an Academician dies. The more of them die thehappier you must be. But in order that they may die quickly they must beelected sick and old." As they still remained somewhat surprised, hecontinued. "Besides, I am like you, and I like to read of the death ofan Academician. I at once ask myself: 'Who will replace him?' And I drawup my list. It is a game, a very pretty little game that is played inall Parisian salons at each decease of one of the Immortals, the game of'Death and the Forty Fogies.'"
The ladies, still slightly disconcerted, began however, to smile, sotrue were his remarks. He concluded, as he rose: "It is you who reallyelect them, ladies, and you only elect them to see them die. Choose themold, therefore, very old; as old as possible, and do not troubleyourselves about anything else."
He then retired very gracefully. As soon as he was gone, one of theladies said: "He is very funny, that young fellow. Who is he?"
Madame Walter replied: "One of the staff of our paper, who does not domuch yet; but I feel sure that he will get on."
Duroy strode gayly down the Boulevard Malesherbes, content with hisexit, and murmuring: "A capital start."
He made it up with Rachel that evening.
The following week two things happened to him. He was appointed chiefreporter and invited to dinner at Madame Walter's. He saw at once aconnection between these things. The _Vie Francaise_ was beforeeverything a financial paper, the head of it being a financier, to whomthe press and the position of a deputy served as levers. Making use ofevery cordiality as a weapon, he had always worked under the smilingmask of a good fellow; but he only employed men whom he had sounded,tried, and proved; whom he knew to be crafty, bold, and supple. Duroy,appointed chief of the reporting staff, seemed to him a valuable fellow.
This duty had been filled up till then by the chief sub-editor, MonsieurBoisrenard, an old journalist, as correct, punctual, and scrupulous as aclerk. In course of thirty years he had been sub-editor of elevendifferent papers, without in any way modifying his way of thinking oracting. He passed from one office to another as one changes one'srestaurant, scarcely noticing that the cookery was not quite the same.Political and religious opinions were foreign to him. He was devoted tohis paper, whatever it might be, well up in his work, and valuable fromhis experience. He worked like a blind man who sees nothing, lik
e a deafman who hears nothing, and like a dumb man who never speaks of anything.He had, however, a strong instinct of professional loyalty, and wouldnot stoop to aught he did not think honest and right from the specialpoint of view of his business.
Monsieur Walter, who thoroughly appreciated him, had however, oftenwished for another man to whom to entrust the "Echoes," which he held tobe the very marrow of the paper. It is through them that rumors are setafloat and the public and the funds influenced. It is necessary to knowhow to slip the all-important matter, rather hinted at than said rightout, in between the description of two fashionable entertainments,without appearing to intend it. It is necessary to imply a thing byjudicious reservations; let what is desired be guessed at; contradict insuch a fashion as to confirm, or affirm in such a way that no one shallbelieve the statement. It is necessary that in the "Echoes" everyoneshall find every day at least one line of interest, in order that everyone may read them. Every one must be thought of, all classes, allprofessions, Paris and the provinces, the army and the art world, theclergy and the university, the bar and the world of gallantry. The manwho has the conduct of them, and who commands an army of reporters, mustbe always on the alert and always on his guard; mistrustful, far-seeing,cunning, alert, and supple; armed with every kind of cunning, and giftedwith an infallible knack of spotting false news at the first glance, ofjudging which is good to announce and good to hide, of divining whatwill catch the public, and of putting it forward in such a way as todouble its effect.
Monsieur Boisrenard, who had in his favor the skill acquired by longhabit, nevertheless lacked mastery and dash; he lacked, above all, thenative cunning needed to put forth day by day the secret ideas of themanager. Duroy could do it to perfection, and was an admirable additionto the staff. The wire-pullers and real editors of the _Vie Francaise_were half a dozen deputies, interested in all the speculations broughtout or backed up by the manager. They were known in the Chamber as"Walter's gang," and envied because they gained money with him andthrough him. Forestier, the political editor, was only the man of strawof these men of business, the worker-out of ideas suggested by them.They prompted his leaders, which he always wrote at home, so as to do soin quiet, he said. But in order to give the paper a literary and trulyParisian smack, the services of two celebrated writers in differentstyles had been secured--Jacques Rival, a descriptive writer, andNorbert de Varenne, a poet and story-writer. To these had been added, ata cheap rate, theatrical, musical and art critics, a law reporter, and asporting reporter, from the mercenary tribe of all-round pressmen. Twoladies, "Pink Domino" and "Lily Fingers," sent in fashion articles, anddealt with questions of dress, etiquette, and society.
Duroy was in all the joy of his appointment as chief of the "Echoes"when he received a printed card on which he read: "Monsieur and MadameWalter request the pleasure of Monsieur Geo. Duroy's company at dinner,on Thursday, January 20." This new mark of favor following on the otherfilled him with such joy that he kissed the invitation as he would havedone a love letter. Then he went in search of the cashier to deal withthe important question of money. A chief of the reporting staff on aParis paper generally has his budget out of which he pays his reportersfor the intelligence, important or trifling, brought in by them, asgardeners bring in their fruits to a dealer. Twelve hundred francs amonth were allotted at the outset to Duroy, who proposed to himself toretain a considerable share of it. The cashier, on his pressinginstances, ended by advancing him four hundred francs. He had at firstthe intention of sending Madame de Marelle the two hundred and eightyfrancs he owed her, but he almost immediately reflected that he wouldonly have a hundred and twenty left, a sum utterly insufficient to carryon his new duties in suitable fashion, and so put off this resolution toa future day.
During a couple of days he was engaged in settling down, for he hadinherited a special table and a set of pigeon holes in the large roomserving for the whole of the staff. He occupied one end of the room,while Boisrenard, whose head, black as a crow's, despite his age, wasalways bent over a sheet of paper, had the other. The long table in themiddle belonged to the staff. Generally it served them to sit on, eitherwith their legs dangling over the edges, or squatted like tailors in thecenter. Sometimes five or six would be sitting on it in that fashion,perseveringly playing cup and ball. Duroy had ended by having a tastefor this amusement, and was beginning to get expert at it, under theguidance, and thanks to the advice of Saint-Potin. Forestier, grownworse, had lent him his fine cup and ball in West Indian wood, the lasthe had bought, and which he found rather too heavy for him, and Duroyswung with vigorous arm the big black ball at the end of its string,counting quickly to himself: "One--two--three--four--five--six." Ithappened precisely that for the first time he spiked the ball twentytimes running, the very day that he was to dine at Madame Walter's. "Agood day," he thought, "I am successful in everything." For skill atcup and ball really conferred a kind of superiority in the office ofthe _Vie Francaise_.
He left the office early to have time to dress, and was going up the Ruede Londres when he saw, trotting along in front of him, a little womanwhose figure recalled that of Madame de Marelle. He felt his cheeksflush, and his heart began to beat. He crossed the road to get a view ofher. She stopped, in order to cross over, too. He had made a mistake,and breathed again. He had often asked how he ought to behave if he mether face to face. Should he bow, or should he seem not to have seenher. "I should not see her," he thought.
It was cold; the gutters were frozen, and the pavement dry and gray inthe gas-light. When he got home he thought: "I must change my lodgings;this is no longer good enough for me." He felt nervous and lively,capable of anything; and he said aloud, as he walked from his bed to thewindow: "It is fortune at last--it is fortune! I must write to father."From time to time he wrote to his father, and the letter always broughthappiness to the little Norman inn by the roadside, at the summit of theslope overlooking Rouen and the broad valley of the Seine. From time totime, too, he received a blue envelope, addressed in a large, shakyhand, and read the same unvarying lines at the beginning of the paternalepistle. "My Dear Son: This leaves your mother and myself in goodhealth. There is not much news here. I must tell you, however," etc. Inhis heart he retained a feeling of interest for the village matters, forthe news of the neighbours, and the condition of the crops.
He repeated to himself, as he tied his white tie before his littlelooking-glass: "I must write to father to-morrow. Wouldn't the oldfellow be staggered if he could see me this evening in the house I amgoing to? By Jove! I am going to have such a dinner as he never tasted."And he suddenly saw the dark kitchen behind the empty _cafe_; the copperstewpans casting their yellow reflections on the wall; the cat on thehearth, with her nose to the fire, in sphinx-like attitude; the woodentable, greasy with time and spilt liquids, a soup tureen smoking uponit, and a lighted candle between two plates. He saw them, too--hisfather and mother, two slow-moving peasants, eating their soup. He knewthe smallest wrinkles on their old faces, the slightest movements oftheir arms and heads. He knew even what they talked about every eveningas they sat at supper. He thought, too: "I must really go and see them;"but his toilet being ended, he blew out his light and went downstairs.
As he passed along the outer boulevard girls accosted him from time totime. He replied, as he pulled away his arm: "Go to the devil!" with aviolent disdain, as though they had insulted him. What did they take himfor? Could not these hussies tell what a man was? The sensation of hisdress coat, put on in order to go to dinner with such well-known andimportant people, inspired him with the sentiment of a newimpersonality--the sense of having become another man, a man in society,genuine society.
He entered the ante-room, lit by tall bronze candelabra, withconfidence, and handed in easy fashion his cane and overcoat to twovalets who approached. All the drawing-rooms were lit up. Madame Walterreceived her guests in the second, the largest. She welcomed him with acharming smile, and he shook hands with two gentlemen who had arrivedbefore him--Monsieur Firmin and
Monsieur Laroche-Mathieu, deputies, andanonymous editors of the _Vie Francaise_. Monsieur Laroche-Mathieu had aspecial authority at the paper, due to a great influence he enjoyed inthe Chamber. No one doubted his being a minister some day. Then came theForestiers; the wife in pink, and looking charming. Duroy was stupefiedto see her on terms of intimacy with the two deputies. She chatted inlow tones beside the fireplace, for more than five minutes, withMonsieur Laroche-Mathieu. Charles seemed worn out. He had grown muchthinner during the past month, and coughed incessantly as he repeated:"I must make up my mind to finish the winter in the south." Norbert deVarenne and Jacques Rival made their appearance together. Then a doorhaving opened at the further end of the room, Monsieur Walter came inwith two tall young girls, of from sixteen to eighteen, one ugly and theother pretty.
Duroy knew that the governor was the father of a family; but he wasstruck with astonishment. He had never thought of his daughters, save asone thinks of distant countries which one will never see. And then hehad fancied them quite young, and here they were grown-up women. Theyheld out their hands to him after being introduced, and then went andsat down at a little table, without doubt reserved to them, at whichthey began to turn over a number of reels of silk in a work-basket. Theywere still awaiting someone, and all were silent with that sense ofoppression, preceding dinners, between people who do not find themselvesin the same mental atmosphere after the different occupations of theday.
Duroy having, for want of occupation, raised his eyes towards the wall,Monsieur Walter called to him from a distance, with an evident wish toshow off his property: "Are you looking at my pictures? I will show themto you," and he took a lamp, so that the details might be distinguished.
"Here we have landscapes," said he.
In the center of the wall was a large canvas by Guillemet, a bit of theNormandy coast under a lowering sky. Below it a wood, by Harpignies, anda plain in Algeria, by Guillemet, with a camel on the horizon, a tallcamel with long legs, like some strange monument. Monsieur Walter passedon to the next wall, and announced in a grave tone, like a master of theceremonies: "High Art." There were four: "A Hospital Visit," by Gervex;"A Harvester," by Bastien-Lepage; "A Widow," by Bouguereau; and "AnExecution," by Jean Paul Laurens. The last work represented a Vendeanpriest shot against the wall of his church by a detachment of Blues. Asmile flitted across the governor's grave countenance as he indicatedthe next wall. "Here the fanciful school." First came a little canvas byJean Beraud, entitled, "Above and Below." It was a pretty Parisianmounting to the roof of a tramcar in motion. Her head appeared on alevel with the top, and the gentlemen on the seats viewed withsatisfaction the pretty face approaching them, while those standing onthe platform below considered the young woman's legs with a differentexpression of envy and desire. Monsieur Walter held the lamp at arm'slength, and repeated, with a sly laugh: "It is funny, isn't it?" Then helit up "A Rescue," by Lambert. In the middle of a table a kitten,squatted on its haunches, was watching with astonishment and perplexitya fly drowning in a glass of water. It had its paw raised ready to fishout the insect with a rapid sweep of it. But it had not quite made upits mind. It hesitated. What would it do? Then the governor showed aDetaille, "The Lesson," which represented a soldier in a barrack-roomteaching a poodle to play the drum, and said: "That is very witty."
Duroy laughed a laugh of approbation, and exclaimed: "It is charming,charm--" He stopped short on hearing behind him the voice of Madame deMarelle, who had just come in.
The governor continued to light up the pictures as he explained them. Henow showed a water-color by Maurice Leloir, "The Obstacle." It was asedan chair checked on its way, the street being blocked by a fightbetween two laborers, two fellows struggling like Hercules. From out ofthe window of the chair peered the head of a charming woman, who watchedwithout impatience, without alarm, and with a certain admiration, thecombat of these two brutes. Monsieur Walter continued: "I have others inthe adjoining rooms, but they are by less known men. I buy of the youngartists now, the very young ones, and hang their works in the more
private rooms until they become known." He then went on in a low tone:"Now is the time to buy! The painters are all dying of hunger! They havenot a sou, not a sou!"
But Duroy saw nothing, and heard without understanding. Madame deMarelle was there behind him. What ought he to do? If he spoke to her,might she not turn her back on him, or treat him with insolence? If hedid not approach her, what would people think? He said to himself: "Iwill gain time, at any rate." He was so moved that for a moment hethought of feigning a sudden illness, which would allow him to withdraw.The examination of the walls was over. The governor went to put down hislamp and welcome the last comer, while Duroy began to re-examine thepictures as if he could not tire of admiring them. He was quite upset.What should he do? Madame Forestier called to him: "Monsieur Duroy." Hewent to her. It was to speak to him of a friend of hers who was aboutto give a fete, and who would like to have a line to that effect in the_Vie Francaise_. He gasped out: "Certainly, Madame, certainly."
Madame de Marelle was now quite close to him. He dared not turn round togo away. All at once he thought he was going mad; she had said aloud:"Good evening, Pretty-boy. So you no longer recognize me."
He rapidly turned on his heels. She stood before him smiling, her eyesbeaming with sprightliness and affection, and held out her hand. He tookit tremblingly, still fearing some trick, some perfidy. She added,calmly: "What has become of you? One no longer sees anything of you."
He stammered, without being able to recover his coolness: "I have agreat deal to do, Madame, a great deal to do. Monsieur Walter hasentrusted me with new duties which give me a great deal of occupation."
She replied, still looking him in the face, but without his being ableto discover anything save good will in her glance: "I know it. But thatis no reason for forgetting your friends."
They were separated by a lady who came in, with red arms and red face, astout lady in a very low dress, got up with pretentiousness, and walkingso heavily that one guessed by her motions the size and weight of herlegs. As she seemed to be treated with great attention, Duroy askedMadame Forestier: "Who is that lady?"
"The Viscomtesse de Percemur, who signs her articles 'Lily Fingers.'"
He was astounded, and seized on by an inclination to laugh.
"'Lily Fingers!' 'Lily Fingers!' and I imagined her young likeyourself. So that is 'Lily Fingers.' That is very funny, very funny."
A servant appeared in the doorway and announced dinner. The dinner wascommonplace and lively, one of those dinners at which people talk abouteverything, without saying anything. Duroy found himself between theelder daughter of the master of the house, the ugly one, MademoiselleRose and Madame de Marelle. The neighborhood of the latter made him feelvery ill at ease, although she seemed very much at her ease, and chattedwith her usual vivacity. He was troubled at first, constrained,hesitating, like a musician who has lost the keynote. By degrees,however, he recovered his assurance, and their eyes continually meetingquestioned one another, exchanging looks in an intimate, almost sensual,fashion as of old. All at once he thought he felt something brushagainst his foot under the table. He softly pushed forward his leg andencountered that of his neighbor, which did not shrink from the contact.They did not speak, each being at that moment turned towards theirneighbor. Duroy, his heart beating, pushed a little harder with hisknee. A slight pressure replied to him. Then he understood that theirloves were beginning anew. What did they say then? Not much, but theirlips quivered every time that they looked at one another.
The young fellow, however, wishing to do the amiable to his employer'sdaughter, spoke to her from time to time. She replied as the motherwould have done, never hesitating as to what she should say. On theright of Monsieur Walter the Viscomtesse de Percemur gave herself theairs of a princess, and Duroy, amused at watching her, said in a lowvoice to Madame de Marelle. "Do you know the other, the one who signsherself 'Pink Domino'?"
"Yes, very well, the Baroness
de Livar."
"Is she of the same breed?"
"No, but quite as funny. A tall, dried-up woman of sixty, false curls,projecting teeth, ideas dating from the Restoration, and toilets of thesame epoch."
"Where did they unearth these literary phenomena?"
"The scattered waifs of the nobility are always sheltered by enrichedcits."
"No other reason?"
"None."
Then a political discussion began between the master of the house, thetwo deputies, Norbert de Varenne, and Jacques Rival, and lasted tilldessert.
When they returned to the drawing-room, Duroy again approached Madame deMarelle, and looking her in the eyes, said: "Shall I see you hometo-night?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because Monsieur Laroche Mathieu, who is my neighbor, drops me at mydoor every time I dine here."
"When shall I see you?"
"Come and lunch with me to-morrow."
And they separated without saying anything more.
Duroy did not remain late, finding the evening dull. As he wentdownstairs he overtook Norbert de Varenne, who was also leaving. The oldpoet took him by the arm. No longer having to fear any rivalry asregards the paper, their work being essentially different, he nowmanifested a fatherly kindness towards the young fellow.
"Well, will you walk home a bit of my way with me?" said he.
"With pleasure, my dear master," replied Duroy.
And they went out, walking slowly along the Boulevard Malesherbes. Pariswas almost deserted that night--a cold night--one of those nights thatseem vaster, as it were, than others, when the stars seem higher above,and the air seems to bear on its icy breath something coming fromfurther than even the stars. The two men did not speak at first. ThenDuroy, in order to say something, remarked: "Monsieur Laroche Mathieuseems very intelligent and well informed."
The old poet murmured: "Do you think so?"
The young fellow, surprised at this remark, hesitated in replying: "Yes;besides, he passes for one of the most capable men in the Chamber."
"It is possible. In the kingdom of the blind the one-eyed man is king.All these people are commonplace because their mind is shut in betweentwo walls, money and politics. They are dullards, my dear fellow, withwhom it is impossible to talk about anything we care for. Their mindsare at the bottom mud, or rather sewage; like the Seine Asnieres. Ah!how difficult it is to find a man with breadth of thought, one whocauses you the same sensation as the breeze from across the broad oceanone breathes on the seashore. I have known some such; they are dead."
Norbert de Varenne spoke with a clear but restrained voice, which wouldhave rung out in the silence of the night had he given it rein. Heseemed excited and sad, and went on: "What matter, besides, a little
more or less talent, since all must come to an end."
He was silent, and Duroy, who felt light hearted that evening, said witha smile: "You are gloomy to-day, dear master."
The poet replied: "I am always so, my lad, so will you be in a fewyears. Life is a hill. As long as one is climbing up one looks towardsthe summit and is happy, but when one reaches the top one suddenlyperceives the descent before one, and its bottom, which is death. Oneclimbs up slowly, but one goes down quickly. At your age a man is happy.He hopes for many things, which, by the way, never come to pass. Atmine, one no longer expects anything--but death."
Duroy began to laugh: "You make me shudder all over."
Norbert de Varenne went on: "No, you do not understand me now, but lateron you will remember what I am saying to you at this moment. A daycomes, and it comes early for many, when there is an end to mirth, forbehind everything one looks at one sees death. You do not evenunderstand the word. At your age it means nothing; at mine it isterrible. Yes, one understands it all at once, one does not know how orwhy, and then everything in life changes its aspect. For fifteen years Ihave felt death assail me as if I bore within me some gnawing beast. Ihave felt myself decaying little by little, month by month, hour byhour, like a house crumbling to ruin. Death has disfigured me socompletely that I do not recognize myself. I have no longer anythingabout me of myself--of the fresh, strong man I was at thirty. I haveseen death whiten my black hairs, and with what skillful and spitefulslowness. Death has taken my firm skin, my muscles, my teeth, my wholebody of old, only leaving me a despairing soul, soon to be taken too.Every step brings me nearer to death, every moment, every breath hastenshis odious work. To breathe, sleep, drink, eat, work, dream, everythingwe do is to die. To live, in short, is to die. I now see death so nearthat I often want to stretch my arms to push it back. I see iteverywhere. The insects crushed on the path, the falling leaves, thewhite hair in a friend's head, rend my heart and cry to me, "Behold it!"It spoils for me all I do, all I see, all that I eat and drink, all thatI love; the bright moonlight, the sunrise, the broad ocean, the noblerivers, and the soft summer evening air so sweet to breathe."
He walked on slowly, dreaming aloud, almost forgetting that he had alistener: "And no one ever returns--never. The model of a statue may bepreserved, but my body, my face, my thoughts, my desires will neverreappear again. And yet millions of beings will be born with a nose,eyes, forehead, cheeks, and mouth like me, and also a soul like me,without my ever returning, without even anything recognizable of meappearing in these countless different beings. What can we cling to?What can we believe in? All religions are stupid, with their puerilemorality and their egoistical promises, monstrously absurd. Death aloneis certain."
He stopped, reflected for a few moments, and then, with a look ofresignation, said: "I am a lost creature. I have neither father normother, nor sister nor brother; no wife, no children, no God."
He added, after a pause: "I have only verse."
They reached the Pont de la Concorde, crossed it in silence, and walkedpast the Palais Bourbon. Norbert de Varenne began to speak again,saying: "Marry, my friend; you do not know what it is to live alone atmy age. Solitude now fills me with horrible agony--solitude at home bythe fireside of a night. It is so profound, so sad; the silence of theroom in which one dwells alone. It is not alone silence about the body,but silence about the soul; and when the furniture creaks I shudder tothe heart, for no sound but is unexpected in my gloomy dwelling." He wassilent again for a moment, and then added: "When one is old it is well,all the same, to have children."
They had got half way down the Rue de Bourgoyne. The poet halted infront of a tall house, rang the bell, shook Duroy by the hand, and said:"Forget all this old man's doddering, youngster, and live as befits yourage. Good-night."
And he disappeared in the dark passage.
Duroy resumed his route with a pain at his heart. It seemed to him asthough he had been shown a hole filled with bones, an unavoidable gulfinto which all must fall one day. He muttered: "By Jove, it can't bevery lively in his place. I should not care for a front seat to see theprocession of his thoughts go by. The deuce, no."
But having paused to allow a perfumed lady, alighting from her carriageand entering her house, to pass before him, he drew in with eager breaththe scent of vervain and orris root floating in the air. His lungs andheart throbbed suddenly with hope and joy, and the recollection ofMadame de Marelle, whom he was to see the next day, assailed him fromhead to foot. All smiled on him, life welcomed him with kindness. Howsweet was the realization of hopes!
He fell asleep, intoxicated with this idea, and rose early to take astroll down the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne before keeping hisappointment. The wind having changed, the weather had grown milderduring the night, and it was as warm and as sunny as in April. All thefrequenters of the Bois had sallied out that morning, yielding to thesummons of a bright, clear day. Duroy walked along slowly. He passed theArc de Triomphe, and went along the main avenue. He watched the peopleon horseback, ladies and gentlemen, trotting and galloping, the richfolk of the world, and scarcely envied them now. He knew them almost allby name--knew the amount of their fortune, and the secret history oftheir life, his duties
having made him a kind of directory of thecelebrities and the scandals of Paris.
Ladies rode past, slender, and sharply outlined in the dark cloth oftheir habits, with that proud and unassailable air many women have onhorseback, and Duroy amused himself by murmuring the names, titles, andqualities of the lovers whom they had had, or who were attributed tothem. Sometimes, instead of saying "Baron de Tanquelot," "Prince de laTour-Enguerrand," he murmured "Lesbian fashion, Louise Michot of theVaudeville, Rose Marquetin of the Opera."
The game greatly amused him, as if he had verified, beneath graveoutward appearances, the deep, eternal infamy of mankind, and as if thishad excited, rejoiced, and consoled him. Then he said aloud: "Set ofhypocrites!" and sought out with his eye the horsemen concerning whomthe worst tales were current. He saw many, suspected of cheating atplay, for whom their clubs were, at all events, their chief, their solesource of livelihood, a suspicious one, at any rate. Others, verycelebrated, lived only, it was well known, on the income of their wives;others, again, it was affirmed, on that of their mistresses. Many hadpaid their debts, an honorable action, without it ever being guessedwhence the money had come--a very equivocal mystery. He saw financierswhose immense fortune had had its origin in a theft, and who werereceived everywhere, even in the most noble houses; then men sorespected that the lower middle-class took off their hats on theirpassage, but whose shameless speculations in connection with greatnational enterprises were a mystery for none of those really acquaintedwith the inner side of things. All had a haughty look, a proud lip, aninsolent eye. Duroy still laughed, repeating: "A fine lot; a lot ofblackguards, of sharpers."
But a pretty little open carriage passed, drawn by two white ponies withflowing manes and tails, and driven by a pretty fair girl, a well-knowncourtesan, who had two grooms seated behind her. Duroy halted with adesire to applaud this mushroom of love, who displayed so boldly at thisplace and time set apart for aristocratic hypocrites the dashing luxuryearned between her sheets. He felt, perhaps vaguely, that there wassomething in common between them--a tie of nature, that they were of thesame race, the same spirit, and that his success would be achieved bydaring steps of the same kind. He walked back more slowly, his heartaglow with satisfaction, and arrived a little in advance of the time atthe door of his former mistress.
She received him with proffered lips, as though no rupture had takenplace, and she even forgot for a few moments the prudence that made heropposed to all caresses at her home. Then she said, as she kissed theends of his moustache: "You don't know what a vexation has happened tome, darling? I was hoping for a nice honeymoon, and here is my husbandhome for six weeks. He has obtained leave. But I won't remain six weekswithout seeing you, especially after our little tiff, and this is how Ihave arranged matters. You are to come and dine with us on Monday. Ihave already spoken to him about you, and I will introduce you."
Duroy hesitated, somewhat perplexed, never yet having found himself faceto face with a man whose wife he had enjoyed. He was afraid lestsomething might betray him--a slight embarrassment, a look, no matterwhat. He stammered out: "No, I would rather not make your husband'sacquaintance."
She insisted, very much astonished, standing before him with wide open,wondering eyes. "But why? What a funny thing. It happens every day. Ishould not have thought you such a goose."
He was hurt, and said: "Very well, I will come to dinner on Monday."
She went on: "In order that it may seem more natural I will ask theForestiers, though I really do not like entertaining people at home."
Until Monday Duroy scarcely thought any more about the interview, but onmounting the stairs at Madame de Marelle's he felt strangely uneasy, notthat it was so repugnant to him to take her husband's hand, to drink hiswine, and eat his bread, but because he felt afraid of something withoutknowing what. He was shown into the drawing-room and waited as usual.Soon the door of the inner room opened, and he saw a tall, white-beardedman, wearing the ribbon of the Legion of Honor, grave and correct, whoadvanced towards him with punctilious politeness, saying: "My wife hasoften spoken to me of you, sir, and I am delighted to make youracquaintance."
Duroy stepped forward, seeking to impart to his face a look ofexpressive cordiality, and grasped his host's hand with exaggeratedenergy. Then, having sat down, he could find nothing to say.
Monsieur de Marelle placed a log upon the fire, and inquired: "Have youbeen long engaged in journalism?"
"Only a few months."
"Ah! you have got on quickly?"
"Yes, fairly so," and he began to chat at random, without thinking verymuch about what he was saying, talking of all the trifles customaryamong men who do not know one another. He was growing seasoned now, andthought the situation a very amusing one. He looked at Monsieur deMarelle's serious and respectable face, with a temptation to laugh, ashe thought: "I have cuckolded you, old fellow, I have cuckolded you." Avicious, inward satisfaction stole over him--the satisfaction of a thiefwho has been successful, and is not even suspected--a delicious, roguishjoy. He suddenly longed to be the friend of this man, to win hisconfidence, to get him to relate the secrets of his life.
Madame de Marelle came in suddenly, and having taken them in with asmiling and impenetrable glance, went toward Duroy, who dared not, inthe presence of her husband, kiss her hand as he always did. She wascalm, and light-hearted as a person accustomed to everything, findingthis meeting simple and natural in her frank and native trickery.Laurine appeared, and went and held up her forehead to George morequietly than usual, her father's presence intimidating her. Her mothersaid to her: "Well, you don't call him Pretty-boy to-day." And the childblushed as if a serious indiscretion had been committed, a thing thatought not to have been mentioned, revealed, an intimate and, so to say,guilty secret of her heart laid bare.
When the Forestiers arrived, all were alarmed at the condition ofCharles. He had grown frightfully thin and pale within a week, andcoughed incessantly. He stated, besides, that he was leaving for Canneson the following Thursday, by the doctor's imperative orders. They leftearly, and Duroy said, shaking his head: "I think he is very bad. Hewill never make old bones."
Madame de Marelle said, calmly: "Oh! he is done for. There is a man whowas lucky in finding the wife he did."
Duroy asked: "Does she help him much?"
"She does everything. She is acquainted with everything that is goingon; she knows everyone without seeming to go and see anybody; sheobtains what she wants as she likes. Oh! she is keen, clever, andintriguing as no one else is. She is a treasure for anyone wanting toget on."
George said: "She will marry again very quickly, no doubt?"
Madame de Marelle replied: "Yes. I should not be surprised if she hadsome one already in her eye--a deputy, unless, indeed, heobjects--for--for--there may be serious--moral--obstacles. But then--Idon't really know."
Monsieur de Marelle grumbled with slow impatience: "You are alwayssuspecting a number of things that I do not like. Do not let us meddlewith the affairs of others. Our conscience is enough to guide us. Thatshould be a rule with everyone."
Duroy withdrew, uneasy at heart, and with his mind full of vague plans.The next day he paid a visit to the Forestiers, and found them finishingtheir packing up. Charles, stretched on a sofa, exaggerated hisdifficulty of breathing, and repeated: "I ought to have been off a monthago."
Then he gave George a series of recommendations concerning the paper,although everything had been agreed upon and settled with MonsieurWalter. As George left, he energetically squeezed his old comrade'shand, saying: "Well, old fellow, we shall have you back soon." But asMadame Forestier was showing him out, he said to her, quickly: "You havenot forgotten our agreement? We are friends and allies, are we not? Soif you have need of me, for no matter what, do not hesitate. Send aletter or a telegram, and I will obey."
She murmured: "Thanks, I will not forget." And her eye, too, said"Thanks," in a deeper and tenderer fashion.
As Duroy went downstairs, he met slowly coming up Monsieur de
Vaudrec,whom he had met there once before. The Count appeared sad, at thisdeparture, perhaps. Wishing to show his good breeding, the journalisteagerly bowed. The other returned the salutation courteously, but in asomewhat dignified manner.
The Forestiers left on Thursday evening.
Bel Ami (A Ladies' Man) Page 6