She answered plainly and firmly: “No, I want to go out, and I am not going to give way to your fancies.”
He persisted. “I beg of you, I have a reason, a very serious reason.”
She said again: “No; and if you won’t go out with me, I shall go. Good-bye.”
She had freed herself with a jerk, and gained the door. He ran towards her, and clasped her in his arms, crying:
“Listen, Clo, my little Clo; listen, grant me this much.”
She shook her head without replying, avoiding his kisses, and striving to escape from his grasp and go.
He stammered: “Clo, my little Clo, I have a reason.”
She stopped, and looking him full in the face, said: “You are lying. What is it?”
He blushed not knowing what to say, and she went on in an indignant tone: “You see very well that you are lying, you low brute.” And with an angry gesture and tears in her eyes, she escaped him.
He again caught her by the shoulders, and, in despair, ready to acknowledge anything in order to avoid a rupture, he said, in a despairing tone: “I have not a son. That’s what it all means.” She stopped short, and looking into his eyes to read the truth in them, said: “You say?”
He had flushed to the roots of his hair. “I say that I have not a sou. Do you understand? Not twenty sous, not ten, not enough to pay for a glass of cassis in the café we may go into. You force me to confess what I am ashamed of. It was, however, impossible for me to go out with you, and when we were seated with refreshments in front of us to tell you quietly that I could not pay for them.”
She was still looking him in the face. “It is true, then?”
In a moment he had turned out all his pockets, those of his trousers, coat, and waistcoat, and murmured: “There, are you satisfied now?”
Suddenly opening her arms, in an outburst of passion, she threw them around his neck, crying: “Oh, my poor darling, my poor darling, if I had only known. How did it happen?”
She made him sit down, and sat down herself on his knees; then, with her arm round his neck, kissing him every moment on his moustache, his mouth, his eyes, she obliged him to tell her how this misfortune had come about.
He invented a touching story. He had been obliged to come to the assistance of his father, who found himself in difficulties. He had not only handed over to him all his savings, but had even incurred heavy debts on his behalf. He added: “I shall be pinched to the last degree for at least six months, for I have exhausted all my resources. So much the worse; there are crises in every life. Money, after all, is not worth troubling about.”
She whispered: “I will lend you some; will you let me?”
He answered, with dignity: “You are very kind, pet; but do not think of that, I beg of you. You would hurt my feelings.”
She was silent, and then clasping him in her arms, murmured: “You will never know how much I love you.”
It was one of their most pleasant evenings.
As she was leaving, she remarked, smilingly: “How nice it is when one is in your position to find money you had forgotten in your pocket—a coin that had worked its way between the stuff and the lining.”
He replied, in a tone of conviction: “Ah, yes, that it is.”
She insisted on walking home, under the pretense that the moon was beautiful and went into ecstasies over it. It was a cold, still night at the beginning of winter. Pedestrians and horses went by quickly, spurred by a sharp frost. Heels rang on the pavement. As she left him she said: “Shall we meet again the day after tomorrow?”
“Certainly.”
“At the same time?”
“The same time.”
“Good-bye, dearest.” And they kissed lovingly.
Then he walked home swiftly, asking himself what plan he could hit on the morrow to get out of his difficulty. But as he opened the door of his room, and fumbled in his waistcoat pocket for a match, he was stupefied to find a coin under his fingers. As soon as he had a light he hastened to examine it. It was a louis. He thought he must be mad. He turned it over and over, seeking by what miracle it could have found its way there. It could not, however, have fallen from heaven into his pocket.
Then all at once he guessed, and an angry indignation awoke within him. His mistress had spoken of money slipping into the lining, and being found in times of poverty. It was she who had tendered him this alms. How shameful! He swore: “Ah! I’ll talk to her the day after tomorrow. She shall have a nice time over it.”
And he went to bed, his heart filled with anger and humiliation.
He woke late. He was hungry. He tried to go to sleep again, in order not to get up till two o’clock, and then said to himself: “That will not forward matters. I must end by finding some money.” Then he went out, hoping that an idea might occur to him in the street. It did not; but at every restaurant he passed a longing to eat made his mouth water. As by noon he had failed to hit on any plan, he suddenly made up his mind: “I will lunch out of Clotilde’s twenty francs. That won’t hinder me from paying them back tomorrow.”
He, therefore, lunched for two francs fifty centimes. On reaching the office he also gave three francs to the messenger, saying: “Here, Foucart, here is the money you lent me last night for my cab.”
He worked till seven o’clock. Then he went and dined taking another three francs. The two evening bocks brought the expenditure of the day up to nine francs thirty centimes. But as he could not re-establish a credit or create fresh resources in twenty-four hours, he borrowed another six francs fifty centimes the next day from the twenty he was going to return that very evening, so that he came to keep his appointment with just four francs twenty centimes in his pocket.
He was in a deuce of a temper, and promised himself that he would pretty soon explain things. He would say to his mistress: “You know, I found the twenty francs you slipped into my pocket the other day. I cannot give them back to you now, because my situation is unaltered, and I have not had time to occupy myself with money matters. But I will give them to you the next time we meet.”
She arrived, loving, eager, full of alarm. How would he receive her? She kissed him persistently to avoid an explanation at the outset.
He said to himself: “It will be time enough to enter on the matter by-and-by. I will find an opportunity of doing so.”
He did not find the opportunity, and said nothing, shirking before the difficulty of opening this delicate subject. She did not speak of going out, and was in every way charming. They separated about midnight, after making an appointment for the Wednesday of the following week, for Madame de Marelle was engaged to dine out several days in succession.
The next day, as Duroy, on paying for his breakfast, felt for the four coins that ought to be remaining to him, he perceived that they were five, and one of them a gold one. At the outset he thought that he had received it by mistake in his change the day before, then he understood it, and his heart throbbed with humiliation at this persistent charity. How he now regretted not having said anything! If he had spoken energetically this would not have happened.
For four days he made efforts, as numerous as they were fruitless, to raise five louis, and spent Clotilde’s second one. She managed, although he had said to her savagely, “Don’t play that joke of the other evening’s again, or I shall get angry,” to slip another twenty francs into his trouser pockets the first time they met. When he found them he swore bitterly, and transferred them to his waistcoat to have them under his hand, for he had not a rap. He appeased his conscience by this argument: “I will give it all back to her in a lump. After all, it is only borrowed money.”
At length the cashier of the paper agreed, on his desperate appeals, to let him have five francs daily. It was just enough to live upon, but not enough to repay sixty francs with. But as Clotilde was again seized by her passion for nocturnal excursions in all the suspicious localities in Paris, he ended by not being unbearably annoyed to find a yellow boy in one of his pockets, once even
in his boot, and another time in his watch-case, after their adventurous excursions. Since she had wishes which he could not for the moment gratify himself, was it not natural that she should pay for them rather than go without them? He kept an account, too, of all he received in this way, in order to return it to her some day.
One evening she said to him: “Would you believe that I have never been to the Folies-Bergère? Will you take me there?”
He hesitated a moment, afraid of meeting Rachel. Then he thought: “Bah! I am not married, after all. If that girl sees me she will understand the state of things, and will not speak to me. Besides, we will have a box.”
Another reason helped his decision. He was well pleased of this opportunity of offering Madame de Marelle a box at the theater without its costing anything. It was a kind of compensation.
He left her in the cab while he got the order for the box, in order that she might not see it offered him, and then came to fetch her. They went in, and were received with bows by the acting manager. An immense crowd filled the lounge, and they had great difficulty in making their way through the swarm of men and women. At length they reached the box and settled themselves in it, shut in between the motionless orchestra and the eddy of the gallery. But Madame de Marelle rarely glanced at the stage. Wholly taken up with the women promenading behind her back, she constantly turned round to look at them, with a longing to touch them, to feel their bodices, their skirts, their hair, to know what these creatures were made of.
Suddenly she said: “There is a stout, dark girl who keeps watching us all the time. I thought just now that she was going to speak to us. Did you notice her?”
He answered: “No, you must be mistaken.” But he had already noticed her for some time back. It was Rachel who was prowling about in their neighborhood, with anger in her eyes and hard words upon her lips.
Duroy had brushed against her in making his way through the crowd, and she had whispered, “Good evening,” with a wink which signified, “I understand.” But he had not replied to this mark of attention for fear of being seen by his mistress, and he had passed on coldly, with haughty look and disdainful lip. The woman, whom unconscious jealousy already assailed, turned back, brushed against him again, and said in louder tones: “Good evening, George.” He had not answered even then. Then she made up her mind to be recognized and bowed to, and she kept continually passing in the rear of the box, awaiting a favorable moment.
As soon as she saw that Madame de Marelle was looking at her she touched Duroy’s shoulder, saying: “Good evening, are you quite well?”
He did not turn round, and she went on: “What, have you grown deaf since Thursday?” He did not reply, affecting a contempt which would not allow him to compromise himself even by a word with this slut.
She began to laugh an angry laugh, and said: “So you are dumb, then? Perhaps the lady has bitten your tongue off?”
He made an angry movement, and exclaimed, in an exasperated tone: “What do you mean by speaking to me? Be off, or I will have you locked up.”
Then, with fiery eye and swelling bosom, she screeched out: “So that’s it, is it? Ah! you lout. When a man sleeps with a woman the least he can do is to nod to her. It is no reason because you are with someone else that you should cut me today. If you had only nodded to me when I passed you just now, I should have left you alone. But you wanted to do the grand. I’ll pay you out! Ah, so you won’t say good evening when you meet me!”
She would have gone on for a long time, but Madame de Marelle had opened the door of the box and fled through the crowd, blindly seeking the way out. Duroy started off in her rear and strove to catch her up, while Rachel, seeing them flee, yelled triumphantly: “Stop her, she has stolen my sweetheart.”
People began to laugh. Two gentlemen for fun seized the fugitive by the shoulders and sought to bring her back, trying, too, to kiss her. But Duroy, having caught her up, freed her forcibly and led her away into the street. She jumped into an empty cab standing at the door. He jumped in after her, and when the driver asked, “Where to, sir?” replied, “Wherever you like.”
The cab slowly moved off, jolting over the paving stones. Clotilde, seized by a kind of hysterical attack, sat choking and gasping with her hands covering her face, and Duroy neither knew what to do nor what to say. At last, as he heard her sobbing, he stammered out: “Clo, my dear little Clo, just listen, let me explain. It is not my fault. I used to know that woman, some time ago, you know—”
She suddenly took her hands from her face, and overcome by the wrath of a loving and deceitful woman, a furious wrath that enabled her to recover her speech, she pantingly jerked out, in rapid and broken sentences: “Oh!—you wretch—you wretch—what a scoundrel you are—can it be possible? How shameful—O Lord—how shameful!” Then, getting angrier and angrier as her ideas grew clearer and arguments suggested themselves to her, she went on: “It was with my money you paid her, wasn’t it? And I was giving him money—for that creature. Oh, the scoundrel!” She seemed for a few minutes to be seeking some stronger expression that would not come, and then all at once she spat out, as it were, the words: “Oh! you swine—you swine—you swine—you paid her with my money—you swine—you swine!” She could not think of anything else, and kept repeating, “You swine, you swine!”
Suddenly she leant out of the window, and catching the driver by the sleeve, cried, “Stop,” and opening the door, sprang out.
George wanted to follow, but she cried, “I won’t have you get out,” in such loud tones that the passers-by began to gather about her, and Duroy did not move for fear of a scandal. She took her purse from her pocket and looked for some change by the light of the cab lantern, then taking two francs fifty centimes she put them in the driver’s hand, saying, in ringing tones: “There is your fare—I pay you, now take this blackguard to the Rue Boursault, Batignolles.”
Mirth was aroused in the group surrounding her. A gentleman said: “Well done, little woman,” and a young rapscallion standing close to the cab thrust his head into the open door and sang out, in shrill tones, “Good-night, lovey!” Then the cab started off again, followed by a burst of laughter.
VI
George Duroy woke up chapfallen the next morning.
He dressed himself slowly, and then sat down at his window and began to reflect. He felt a kind of aching sensation all over, just as though he had received a drubbing over night. At last the necessity of finding some 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 that gentleman, my dear fellow. If you want twenty francs, I have still that much at your service, but no more.”
Duroy took the offered louis. Then he went from door to door among the people he knew, and wound up by having collected at about five o’clock the sum of eighty francs. And he still needed two hundred more; he made up 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 when I can.”
For a fortnight he lived regularly, economically, and chastely, his mind filled with energetic resolves. Then he was seized with a strong longing for love. It seemed to him that several years had passed since he last clasped a woman in his arms, and like the sailor who goes wild on seeing land, every passing petticoat made him quiv
er. So he went one evening to the Folies Bergère in the hope of finding Rachel. He caught sight of her indeed, directly he entered, for she scarcely went elsewhere, and went up to her smiling with outstretched hand. But she merely looked him down 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 his face, 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, as Duroy had not brought him a piece of information he wanted, he growled out: “Confound it! you are a bigger fool than I thought.”
The other almost struck him, but restrained himself, and went away muttering: “I’ll manage to pay you out some day.” An idea shot through his mind, and he added: “I will make a cuckold of you, old fellow!” And he took himself off, rubbing his hands, delighted at this project.
He resolved to set about it the very next day. He paid Madame Forestier a visit as a reconnaissance. He found her lying at full length on a couch, reading a book. She held out her hand without rising, merely turning her head, and said: “Good-day, Pretty-boy!”
He felt as though he had received a blow. “Why do you call me that?” he said.
She replied, with a smile: “I saw Madame de Marelle the other day, and learned how you had been baptized at her place.”
He felt reassured by her amiable air. Besides, what was there for him to be afraid of?
She resumed: “You spoil her. As to me, people come to see me when they think 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, a soft and tender blonde, made for caresses, and he thought: “She is better than the other, certainly.” He did not doubt his success, it seemed to him that he had only to stretch out his hand and take her, as one gathers a fruit.
The Guy De Maupassant Megapack: 144 Novels and Short Stories Page 157