The Guy De Maupassant Megapack: 144 Novels and Short Stories

by Guy de Maupassant

  Du Roy rose and said, dryly: “I must ask time to reflect.”

  The notary, who was smiling, bowed, and said in an amiable tone: “I understand the scruples that cause you to hesitate, sir. I should say that the nephew of Monsieur de Vaudrec, who became acquainted this very morning with his uncle’s last wishes, stated that he was prepared to respect them, provided the sum of a hundred thousand francs was allowed him. In my opinion the will is unattackable, but a law-suit would cause a stir, which it may perhaps suit you to avoid. The world often judges things ill-naturedly. In any case, can you give me your answer on all these points before Saturday?”

  George bowed, saying: “Yes, sir.”

  Then he bowed again ceremoniously, ushered out his wife, who had remained silent, and went out himself with so stiff an air that the notary no longer smiled.

  As soon as they got home, Du Roy abruptly closed the door, and throwing his hat onto the bed, said: “You were Vaudrec’s mistress.”

  Madeleine, who was taking off her veil, turned round with a start, exclaiming: “I? Oh!”

  “Yes, you. A man does not leave the whole of his fortune to a woman, unless—”

  She was trembling, and was unable to remove the pins fastening the transparent tissue. After a moment’s reflection she stammered, in an agitated tone: “Come, come—you are mad—you are—you are. Did not you, yourself, just now have hopes that he would leave us something?”

  George remained standing beside her, following all her emotions like a magistrate seeking to note the least faltering on the part of an accused. He said, laying stress on every word: “Yes, he might have left something to me, your husband—to me, his friend—you understand, but not to you—my wife. The distinction is capital, essential from the point of propriety and of public opinion.”

  Madeleine in turn looked at him fixedly in the eyes, in profound and singular fashion, as though seeking to read something there, as though trying to discover that unknown part of a human being which we never fathom, and of which we can scarcely even catch rapid glimpses in those moments of carelessness or inattention, which are like doors left open, giving onto the mysterious depths of the mind. She said slowly: “It seems to me, however, that a legacy of this importance would have been looked on as at least equally strange left to you.”

  He asked abruptly: “Why so?”

  She said: “Because—” hesitated, and then continued: “Because you are my husband, and have only known him for a short time, after all—because I have been his friend for a very long while—and because his first will, made during Forestier’s lifetime, was already in my favor.”

  George began to stride up and down. He said: “You cannot accept.”

  She replied in a tone of indifference: “Precisely so; then it is not worth while waiting till Saturday, we can let Maitre Lamaneur know at once.”

  He stopped short in front of her, and they again stood for some moments with their eyes riveted on one another, striving to fathom the impenetrable secret of their hearts, to cut down to the quick of their thoughts. They tried to see one another’s conscience unveiled in an ardent and mute interrogation; the struggle of two beings who, living side by side, were always ignorant of one another, suspecting, sniffing round, watching, but never understanding one another to the muddy depths of their souls. And suddenly he murmured to her face, in a low voice: “Come, admit that you were De Vaudrec’s mistress.”

  She shrugged her shoulders, saying: “You are ridiculous. Vaudrec was very fond of me, very—but there was nothing more—never.”

  He stamped his foot. “You lie. It is not possible.”

  She replied, quietly: “It is so, though.”

  He began to walk up and down again, and then, halting once more, said: “Explain, then, how he came to leave the whole of his fortune to you.”

  She did so in a careless and disinterested tone, saying: “It is quite simple. As you said just now, he had only ourselves for friends, or rather myself, for he has known me from a child. My mother was a companion at the house of some relatives of his. He was always coming here, and as he had no natural heirs he thought of me. That there was a little love for me in the matter is possible. But where is the woman who has not been loved thus? Why should not such secret, hidden affection have placed my name at the tip of his pen when he thought of expressing his last wishes? He brought me flowers every Monday. You were not at all astonished at that, and yet he did not bring you any, did he? Now he has given me his fortune for the same reason, and because he had no one to offer it to. It would have been, on the contrary, very surprising for him to have left it to you. Why should he have done so? What were you to him?”

  She spoke so naturally and quietly that George hesitated. He said, however: “All the same, we cannot accept this inheritance under such conditions. The effect would be deplorable. All the world would believe it; all the world would gossip about it, and laugh at me. My fellow journalists are already only too disposed to feel jealous of me and to attack me. I should have, before anyone, a care for my honor and my reputation. It is impossible for me to allow my wife to accept a legacy of this kind from a man whom public report has already assigned to her as a lover. Forestier might perhaps have tolerated it, but not me.”

  She murmured, mildly: “Well, dear, do not let us accept it. It will be a million the less in our pockets, that is all.”

  He was still walking up and down, and began to think aloud, speaking for his wife’s benefit without addressing himself directly to her: “Yes, a million, so much the worse. He did not understand, in making his will, what a fault in tact, what a breach of propriety he was committing. He did not see in what a false, a ridiculous position he would place me. Everything is a matter of detail in this life. He should have left me half; that would have settled everything.”

  He sat down, crossed his legs, and began to twist the end of his moustache, as he did in moments of boredom, uneasiness, and difficult reflection. Madeleine took up some embroidery at which she worked from time to time, and said, while selecting her wools: “I have only to hold my tongue. It is for you to reflect.”

  He was a long time without replying, and then said, hesitatingly: “The world will never understand that Vaudrec made you his sole heiress, and that I allowed it. To receive his fortune in that way would be an acknowledgment on your part of a guilty connection, and on mine of a shameful complaisance. Do you understand now how our acceptance of it would be interpreted? It would be necessary to find a side issue, some clever way of palliating matters. To let it go abroad, for instance, that he had divided the money between us, leaving half to the husband and half to the wife.”

  She observed: “I do not see how that can be done, since the will is plain.”

  “Oh, it is very simple. You could leave me half the inheritance by a deed of gift. We have no children, so it is feasible. In that way the mouth of public malevolence would be closed.”

  She replied, somewhat impatiently: “I do not see any the more how the mouth of public malevolence is to be closed, since the will is there, signed by Vaudrec?”

  He said, angrily: “Have we any need to show it and to paste it up on all the walls? You are really stupid. We will say that the Count de Vaudrec left his fortune between us. That is all. But you cannot accept this legacy without my authorization. I will only give it on condition of a division, which will hinder me from becoming a laughing stock.”

  She looked at him again with a penetrating glance, and said: “As you like. I am agreeable.”

  Then he rose, and began to walk up and down again. He seemed to be hesitating anew, and now avoided his wife’s penetrating glance. He was saying: “No, certainly not. Perhaps it would be better to give it up altogether. That is more worthy, more correct, more honorable. And yet by this plan nothing could be imagined against us—absolutely nothing. The most unscrupulous people could only admit things as they were.” He paused in front of Madeleine. “Well, then, if you like, darling, I will go back alone to Mait
re Lamaneur to explain matters to him and consult him. I will tell him of my scruples, and add that we have arrived at the notion of a division to prevent gossip. From the moment that I accept half this inheritance, it is plain that no one has the right to smile. It is equal to saying aloud: ‘My wife accepts because I accept—I, her husband, the best judge of what she may do without compromising herself. Otherwise a scandal would have arisen.’”

  Madeleine merely murmured: “Just as you like.”

  He went on with a flow of words: “Yes, it is all as clear as daylight with this arrangement of a division in two. We inherit from a friend who did not want to make any difference between us, any distinction; who did not wish to appear to say: ‘I prefer one or the other after death, as I did during life.’ He liked the wife best, be it understood, but in leaving the fortune equally to both, he wished plainly to express that his preference was purely platonic. And you may be sure that, if he had thought of it, that is what he would have done. He did not reflect. He did not foresee the consequences. As you said very appropriately just now, it was you to whom he offered flowers every week, it is to you he wished to leave his last remembrance, without taking into consideration that—”

  She checked him, with a shade of irritation: “All right; I understand. You have no need to make so many explanations. Go to the notary’s at once.”

  He stammered, reddening: “You are right. I am off.”

  He took his hat, and then, at the moment of going out, said: “I will try to settle the difficulty with the nephew for fifty thousand francs, eh?”

  She replied, with dignity: “No. Give him the hundred thousand francs he asks. Take them from my share, if you like.”

  He muttered, shamefacedly: “Oh, no; we will share that. Giving up fifty thousand francs apiece, there still remains to us a clear million.” He added: “Good-bye, then, for the present, Made.” And he went off to explain to the notary the plan which he asserted had been imagined by his wife.

  They signed the next day a deed of gift of five hundred thousand francs, which Madeleine Du Roy abandoned to her husband. On leaving the notary’s office, as the day was fine, George suggested that they should walk as far as the boulevards. He showed himself pleasant and full of attention and affection. He laughed, pleased at everything, while she remained thoughtful and somewhat severe.

  It was a somewhat cool autumn day. The people in the streets seemed in a hurry, and walked rapidly. Du Roy led his wife to the front of the shop in which he had so often gazed at the longed-for chronometer. “Shall I stand you some jewelry?” said he.

  She replied, indifferently: “Just as you like.”

  They went in, and he asked: “What would you prefer—a necklace, a bracelet, or a pair of earrings?”

  The sight of the trinkets in gold, and precious stones overcame her studied coolness, and she scanned with kindling and inquisitive eyes the glass cases filled with jewelry. And, suddenly moved by desire, said: “That is a very pretty bracelet.”

  It was a chain of quaint pattern, every link of which had a different stone set in it.

  George inquired: “How much is this bracelet?”

  “Three thousand francs, sir,” replied the jeweler.

  “If you will let me have it for two thousand five hundred, it is a bargain.”

  The man hesitated, and then replied: “No, sir; that is impossible.”

  Du Roy went on: “Come, you can throw in that chronometer for fifteen hundred; that will make four thousand, which I will pay at once. Is it agreed? If not, I will go somewhere else.”

  The jeweler, in a state of perplexity, ended by agreeing, saying: “Very good, sir.”

  And the journalist, after giving his address, added: “You will have the monogram, G. R. C., engraved on the chronometer under a baron’s coronet.”

  Madeleine, surprised, began to smile, and when they went out, took his arm with a certain affection. She found him really clever and capable. Now that he had an income, he needed a title. It was quite right.

  The jeweler bowed them out, saying: “You can depend upon me; it will be ready on Thursday, Baron.”

  They paused before the Vaudeville, at which a new piece was being played.

  “If you like,” said he, “we will go to the theater this evening. Let us see if we can have a box.”

  They took a box, and he continued: “Suppose we dine at a restaurant.”

  “Oh, yes; I should like that!”

  He was as happy as a king, and sought what else they could do. “Suppose we go and ask Madame de Marelle to spend the evening with us. Her husband is at home, I hear, and I shall be delighted to see him.”

  They went there. George, who slightly dreaded the first meeting with his mistress, was not ill-pleased that his wife was present to prevent anything like an explanation. But Clotilde did not seem to remember anything against him, and even obliged her husband to accept the invitation.

  The dinner was lovely, and the evening pleasant. George and Madeleine got home late. The gas was out, and to light them upstairs, the journalist struck a wax match from time to time. On reaching the first-floor landing the flame, suddenly starting forth as he struck, caused their two lit-up faces to show in the glass standing out against the darkness of the staircase. They resembled phantoms, appearing and ready to vanish into the night.

  Du Roy raised his hand to light up their reflections, and said, with a laugh of triumph: “Behold the millionaires!”

  XV

  The conquest of Morocco had been accomplished two months back. France, mistress of Tangiers, held the whole of the African shore of the Mediterranean as far as Tripoli, and had guaranteed the debt of the newly annexed territory. It was said that two ministers had gained a score of millions over the business, and Laroche-Mathieu was almost openly named. As to Walter, no one in Paris was ignorant of the fact that he had brought down two birds with one stone, and made thirty or forty millions out of the loan and eight to ten millions out of the copper and iron mines, as well as out of a large stretch of territory bought for almost nothing prior to the conquest, and sold after the French occupation to companies formed to promote colonization. He had become in a few days one of the lords of creation, one of those omnipotent financiers more powerful than monarchs who cause heads to bow, mouths to stammer, and all that is base, cowardly, and envious, to well up from the depths of the human heart. He was no longer the Jew Walter, head of a shady bank, manager of a fishy paper, deputy suspected of illicit jobbery. He was Monsieur Walter, the wealthy Israelite.

  He wished to show himself off. Aware of the monetary embarrassments of the Prince de Carlsbourg, who owned one of the finest mansions in the Rue de Faubourg, Saint Honoré, with a garden giving onto the Champs Elysées, he proposed to him to buy house and furniture, without shifting a stick, within twenty-four hours. He offered three millions, and the prince, tempted by the amount, accepted. The following day Walter installed himself in his new domicile. Then he had another idea, the idea of a conqueror who wishes to conquer Paris, the idea of a Bonaparte. The whole city was flocking at that moment to see a great painting by the Hungarian artist, Karl Marcowitch, exhibited at a dealer’s named Jacques Lenoble, and representing Christ walking on the water. The art critics, filled with enthusiasm, declared the picture the most superb masterpiece of the century. Walter bought it for four hundred thousand francs, and took it away, thus cutting suddenly short a flow of public curiosity, and forcing the whole of Paris to speak of him in terms of envy, blame, or approbation. Then he had it announced in the papers that he would invite everyone known in Parisian society to view at his house some evening this triumph of the foreign master, in order that it might not be said that he had hidden away a work of art. His house would be open; let those who would, come. It would be enough to show at the door the letter of invitation.

  This ran as follows: “Monsieur and Madame Walter beg of you to honor them with your company on December 30th, between 9 and 12 p. m., to view the picture by Karl Marcowitch,
‘Jesus Walking on the Waters,’ lit up by electric light.” Then, as a postscript, in small letters: “Dancing after midnight.” So those who wished to stay could, and out of these the Walters would recruit their future acquaintances. The others would view the picture, the mansion, and their owners with worldly curiosity, insolent and indifferent, and would then go away as they came. But Daddy Walter knew very well that they would return later on, as they had come to his Israelite brethren grown rich like himself. The first thing was that they should enter his house, all these titled paupers who were mentioned in the papers, and they would enter it to see the face of a man who had gained fifty millions in six weeks; they would enter it to see and note who else came there; they would also enter it because he had had the good taste and dexterity to summon them to admire a Christian picture at the home of a child of Israel. He seemed to say to them: “You see I have given five hundred thousand francs for the religious masterpiece of Marcowitch, ‘Jesus Walking on the Waters.’ And this masterpiece will always remain before my eyes in the house of the Jew, Walter.”

  In society there had been a great deal of talk over these invitations, which, after all, did not pledge one in any way. One could go there as one went to see watercolors at Monsieur Petit’s. The Walters owned a masterpiece, and threw open their doors one evening so that everyone could admire it. Nothing could be better. The Vie Francaise for a fortnight past had published every morning a note on this coming event of the 30th December, and had striven to kindle public curiosity.

  Du Roy was furious at the governor’s triumph. He had thought himself rich with the five hundred thousand francs extorted from his wife, and now he held himself to be poor, fearfully poor, when comparing his modest fortune with the shower of millions that had fallen around him, without his being able to pick any of it up. His envious hatred waxed daily. He was angry with everyone—with the Walters, whom he had not been to see at their new home; with his wife, who, deceived by Laroche-Mathieu, had persuaded him not to invest in the Morocco loan; and, above all, with the minister who had tricked him, who had made use of him, and who dined at his table twice a week. George was his agent, his secretary, his mouthpiece, and when he was writing from his dictation felt wild longings to strangle this triumphant foe. As a minister, Laroche-Mathieu had shown modesty in mien, and in order to retain his portfolio, did not let it be seen that he was gorged with gold. But Du Roy felt the presence of this gold in the haughtier tone of the parvenu barrister, in his more insolent gestures, his more daring affirmation, his perfect self-confidence. Laroche-Mathieu now reigned in the Du Roy household, having taken the place and the days of the Count de Vaudrec, and spoke to the servants like a second master. George tolerated him with a quiver running through him like a dog who wants to bite, and dares not. But he was often harsh and brutal towards Madeleine, who shrugged her shoulders and treated him like a clumsy child. She was, besides, astonished at his continual ill-humor, and repeated: “I cannot make you out. You are always grumbling, and yet your position is a splendid one.”