And he began his toilet. While shaving he again experienced a moment of weakness, when he thought that it was perhaps the last time he would look at his face. But he swallowed another mouthful of brandy, and finished dressing.
The hour that followed was difficult to get through. He walked up and down, forcing his mind into a state of total quiescence. When he heard someone knock at his door, he very nearly collapsed, so violent was the shock. It was his seconds. Already!
They were enveloped in fur coats. Rival announced, after shaking his charge’s hand: ‘It’s as cold as Siberia.’ Then he enquired: ‘Everything all right?’
‘Yes, fine.’
‘You’re feeling calm?’
‘Yes, very calm.’
‘Good, you’ll do. Have you had something to eat and drink?’
‘Yes, I don’t need anything.’
In honour of the occasion, Boisrenard was wearing a foreign decoration in green and yellow, that Duroy had never seen on him before.
They went down. A gentleman was waiting for them in the landau. Rival introduced him: ‘Doctor Le Brument.’ Duroy shook hands, stammering: ‘Thank you,’ then tried to take his place on the front bench, where he sat down on top of something hard that made him leap to his feet as if he were on a spring. It was the case containing the pistols.
Rival kept saying: ‘No! The principal and the doctor sit in the back!’ Eventually Duroy understood and sank down beside the doctor. Then the two seconds climbed in and the coachman set off. He knew where to go.
But the pistol-case was in everybody’s way, and particularly bothered Duroy, who would have preferred not to be able to see it. They tried putting it behind their backs, which was terribly uncomfortable; then they stood it between Rival and Boisrenard, and it fell over constantly. Finally they slipped it under their feet.
Conversation flagged, although the doctor told some stories. Only Rival answered him. Duroy would have liked to demonstrate his self-possession, but he was afraid of losing the thread of his ideas and revealing the agitation of his mind; and he was haunted by the agonizing fear that he might start trembling.
Soon the carriage was in open country. It was about nine in the morning. It was one of those bitter winter mornings when the whole of nature is shiny, brittle, and hard, like crystal. The trees, decked out in frost, seem to have sweated ice; the earth resounds beneath one’s feet; the tiniest sounds carry a long way in the dry air; the blue sky is bright as a mirror, and the sun moves through space in icy brilliance, casting on the frozen world rays which bestow no warmth upon anything.
Rival was telling Duroy: ‘I got the pistols from Gastine Renette.* He himself loaded them, the case is sealed. In any case, we’ll draw lots for which we use, these or your opponent’s.’
Duroy replied automatically: ‘Thank you.’
Then Rival gave him very detailed advice, for he was determined that his charge should commit no error. He repeated each point several times: ‘When you’re asked: “Are you ready, gentlemen?” you’ll answer in a loud voice: “Yes!”
‘When you hear the order: “Fire!” you’ll quickly raise your arm, and fire before they get to three.’
And Duroy repeated to himself: ‘When I hear the order “fire!”, I’ll raise my arm. When I hear the order “fire!”, I’ll raise my arm.’ He was learning this the way children learn their lessons, muttering it over and over again to get it firmly fixed in his memory. ‘When I hear the order “fire!”, I’ll raise my arm.’
The landau entered a wood, turned right into an avenue, then right again. Rival suddenly opened the door to shout to the coachman: ‘There, up that little track.’ The carriage started along a rutted path between two thickets quivering with dead, ice-rimmed leaves.
Duroy was still mumbling: ‘When I hear the order to fire, I’ll raise my arm.’ And it occurred to him that an accident with the carriage would solve everything. Oh, what luck if they could overturn! If he could break his leg!…
But he saw another carriage halted at the end of a clearing, and four gentlemen who were stamping their feet to keep them warm; and he was forced to keep his mouth open, it was so difficult to breathe.
The seconds got out first, then the doctor and the principal. Rival had picked up the case of pistols, and, with Boisrenard, approached two of the strangers who were coming towards them. Duroy saw them bow ceremoniously to one another, then walk together through the clearing, examining now the ground, now the trees, as if they were looking for something that might perhaps have fallen, or been blown away. Then they counted out the paces, and with great difficulty stuck two walking-sticks into the frozen ground. Then they collected in a group and went through the motions of tossing for heads or tails, like children at play.
Doctor Le Brument asked Duroy:
‘Do you feel all right? Is there anything you need?’
‘No, nothing, thank you.’
He felt as if he’d gone mad, or was sleeping, or dreaming, as if something supernatural had occurred, in which he was swept up. Was he afraid? Possibly. But he did not know. Everything around him was different.
Jacques Rival came back and in a gratified voice quietly informed him: ‘Everything’s ready. Luck was on our side over the pistols.’
That was a matter of indifference to Duroy. They removed his overcoat. He made no objection. They felt the pockets of his jacket to make sure that he was not carrying any papers or wallet that might protect him.
He kept repeating to himself, like a prayer: ‘When I hear the order to fire, I’ll raise my arm.’
Next they led him to one of the walking-sticks stuck into the ground, and gave him his pistol. Then he saw a man standing opposite him, very close, a bald, pot-bellied little man wearing glasses. It was his adversary.
He could see him very clearly, but he was thinking only of this: ‘When I hear the order to fire, I’ll raise my arm and shoot.’ A voice rang out in the deep empty silence, a voice that seemed to come from a long way off; it asked:
‘Are you ready, gentlemen?’
Georges cried: ‘Yes!’
Then the same voice ordered: ‘Fire!’
He listened to nothing more, he noticed nothing more, he was aware of nothing more, he felt only that he was raising his arm and pressing as hard as he could on the trigger.
And he heard nothing.
But, instantly, he saw a small amount of smoke at the end of the barrel of his pistol; and, seeing that the man opposite was still standing upright, also in the same posture, he noticed another little white cloud flying up over the head of his adversary.
Both of them had fired. It was over.
His seconds and the doctor were touching him, feeling him, unbuttoning his clothes as they anxiously enquired: ‘You’re not wounded?’ He answered without thinking: ‘No, I don’t believe so.’
Moreover Langremont was as unscathed as his enemy, and Jacques Rival muttered in a dissatisfied tone: ‘With a confounded pistol, that’s what it’s always like, you either miss each other or kill each other. What a damnable weapon!’
Duroy was standing motionless, paralysed with surprise and joy: ‘It was over!’ They had to take his pistol, which he was still clutching tightly, away from him. It seemed to him now that he would have fought the entire universe. It was over. How wonderful! Suddenly he felt brave enough to challenge absolutely anybody.
The seconds conferred for a few moments, arranging a time to meet later in the day to draw up an official report of the proceedings, then they got back into the landau; and the cabbie, who was laughing up there on his seat, set off again, cracking his whip.
The four of them had lunch on the boulevard, and talked over the event. Duroy described his impressions: ‘It had no effect on me, none whatever. Anyway, you must have seen that?’
Rival replied: ‘Yes, you acquitted yourself well.’
When the report had been drawn up it was given to Duroy to put into the gossip column. He was astonished to see that he had exchanged tw
o shots with M. Louis Langremont, and, somewhat uneasy, he questioned Rival: ‘But we only fired one shot.’
The other smiled: ‘Yes, one shot… one each… that makes two shots.’
And Duroy, satisfied with this explanation, let the matter drop. Old Walter embraced him: ‘Well done, well done! You’ve defended the flag of La Vie française, well done!’
That evening Georges put in an appearance at the principal large newspaper offices and at the principal large cafes on the boulevard. Twice he met his adversary, who was doing the rounds in similar fashion. They did not greet one another. If one of them had been wounded, they would have shaken hands. Moreover each solemnly swore that he had heard the other man’s bullet whistle past.
About eleven the following day Duroy received a telegram: ‘My God, I’ve been so frightened! Please come right away to the Rue de Constantinople, so I can kiss you, my love. How brave you are–I adore you. Clo.’
He went to the rendezvous and she flung herself into his arms, covering him with kisses: ‘Oh, sweetheart, if you knew how agitated I was this morning when I read the papers. Oh, do describe it to me. Tell me everything. I want to know.’
He had to tell her every tiny detail. She asked: ‘What an awful night you must have spent, before the duel!’
‘No, I slept well.’
‘If it had been me, I shouldn’t have slept a wink. And at the actual duel, tell me how that went.’
He made a dramatic story of it: ‘When we were face to face, at a distance of twenty paces–that’s only four times the length of this room–Jacques, after asking whether we were ready, gave the order: “Fire.” I raised my arm immediately, nice and straight, but I made the mistake of trying to aim at the head. I had a weapon with an extremely stiff trigger, and I’m used to pistols with very light ones, so that the resistance of the trigger pulled up the shot. It doesn’t matter, it can’t have been far out. The other devil’s a good shot too. His bullet skimmed past my temple. I felt the draught of air from it.’
She was sitting on his knee with her arms round him, as if to share in his danger. She said falteringly: ‘Oh, my poor darling, my poor darling…’
Then, when he had finished his story, she told him: ‘You know, I can’t do without you any longer. I must see you; and with my husband in Paris, it’s not easy to arrange. I’ll often be free for an hour in the morning, before you’re up, and I could come and give you a kiss, but I don’t want to go into that dreadful house of yours again. What are we to do?’
He had a sudden inspiration and enquired: ‘How much do you pay here?’
‘A hundred francs a month.’
‘Well, I’ll take these rooms myself and I’ll live here all the time. My place is no longer adequate for me, in my new position.’
She thought for a few moments, then replied: ‘No. I don’t want that.’
He was astonished: ‘Why ever not?’
‘Because…’
‘That’s not a reason. These rooms suit me very well. Here I am, and here I stay.’ He began to laugh. ‘Besides, they’re in my name.’
But she still refused. ‘No, no, I don’t want you to…’
‘But why not, for goodness’ sake?’
Then, softly and tenderly, she whispered: ‘Because you’d bring women here, and I don’t want that.’
Indignantly he protested: ‘Heavens, I wouldn’t dream of doing that, never, I promise you.’
‘No, you would bring them, just the same.’
‘I swear I wouldn’t.’
‘Really and truly?’
‘Really and truly. Word of honour. This is our place, just ours.’
Overcome with emotion, she gave him a hug. ‘Then yes, I’d really like that, my love. But you know, if ever you cheat on me, even just once, everything will be finished between us, finished for good.’
He again gave her his solemn word, repeating his protestations, and it was agreed that he would move in that very day, so that she could visit him when she passed by the door. Then she said to him: ‘In any case, come for dinner on Sunday. My husband thinks you’re charming.’
He was flattered. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, you’ve made a conquest. And listen, you told me you’d been brought up in a chateau in the country, isn’t that so?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘So you must know a bit about agriculture?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, talk to him about gardening and crops, he loves that.’
‘All right. I won’t forget.’
She left him, after showering him with endless kisses, for the duel had intensified her love.
Duroy was thinking, as he made his way to the paper: ‘What a strange creature she is! What a birdbrain! Who knows what she wants or what she likes? And what a strange couple! Whatever kind of prankster can it be that arranged to pair that old man with that giddy little thing! Whatever can have induced that surveyor to marry that schoolgirl? What a mystery! Who knows? Perhaps it was love.’
Then he concluded: ‘Anyway, she’s a most delightful mistress; I’d be a real idiot to let her go.’
CHAPTER 8
His duel had established Duroy as one of the principal staff writers on La Vie française; however, as he found it extremely difficult to come up with ideas, he made it his speciality to rail against moral decline, a new weakness of character, the demise of patriotism, and the anaemia affecting the French sense of honour. (He himself had discovered the word ‘anaemia,’ and was very proud of it.)
And when Mme de Marelle, in that teasing, sceptical, mocking style that is called Parisian wit, poked fun at his tirades that she would deflate with an epigram, he replied with a smile: ‘Bah! It’s giving me a good reputation for later on.’
He was living now in the Rue de Constantinople, where he had conveyed his trunk, his hairbrush, his razor, and his soap, which was all his removal had entailed. Two or three times a week, the young woman arrived before he was up, undressed in an instant and, shivering all over from the cold outside, slipped into his bed.
Duroy, by contrast, went for dinner every Thursday at the couple’s home and made up to the husband by talking to him about agriculture; and as he himself loved things to do with the land, both of them sometimes became so absorbed in their conversation that they forgot all about their woman, sitting dozing on the sofa.
Laurine, too, would fall asleep, sometimes on her father’s lap, sometimes on Bel-Ami’s.
And when the journalist had left, M. de Marelle never failed to declare in that doctrinaire tone which he used for even the most trivial remarks: ‘That young man is really most agreeable. He has a very good mind.’
It was almost the end of February. In the streets, now, in the morning, you could smell violets as you passed the flower-vendors’ barrows.
For Duroy, there was not a cloud in the sky.
On returning home one night, however, he found a letter slipped under his door. He looked at the stamp, and saw ‘Cannes’. Opening it, he read:
Dear friend,
You told me, didn’t you, that I could rely on you for absolutely anything? Well I am asking a grim favour of your friendship: to come and help me, so that I am not alone during Charles’s last hours, for he is dying. He may not live through the week, although he is still able to get up; but the doctor has warned me.
I no longer have the strength or the courage to watch this agony day and night. And I am terrified when I think of his last moments, which are very close. You are the only person of whom I can ask a thing like this, for my husband has no family left. You were his comrade; he gave you your start at the newspaper. Come, I beg you. I have no one to turn to.
Your most devoted friend,
Madeleine Forestier.
Like a breath of air, an extraordinary feeling filled Georges’s heart, a feeling of deliverance, of space opening up before him, and he murmured: ‘Of course I’ll go. That poor Charles! But, really, isn’t life strange!’
The Director, to
whom he showed the young woman’s letter, grumblingly gave his permission. He kept repeating: ‘But come back quickly, we can’t do without you.’
Georges Duroy left for Cannes the following day by the seven o’clock express, after letting the Marelles know by telegram. He arrived the next afternoon about four.
A porter showed him the way to the Villa Jolie, which was built half-way up the hill, in the pine-wood dotted with white villas which stretches from Le Cannet to Golfe Juan.*
Italian in style, the house was small and low, and stood on the edge of the road that zigzags up through the trees, affording superb views at every bend.
The servant opened the door, and exclaimed: ‘Oh, Monsieur, Madame has been so anxious for you to get here.’
Duroy asked: ‘How’s your master?’
‘Oh, not at all well, Monsieur. It won’t be long now.’
The drawing-room the young man entered was hung with rose-pink chintz patterned in blue. The tall, wide window looked over the town and the sea.
Duroy muttered: ‘My goodness, this is very elegant for a country villa. Where the devil do they get the money?’ At the sound of a gown he turned round.
Mme Forestier was holding out her hands: ‘How kind you are, how kind to have come!’ And suddenly she gave him a kiss. Then they looked at one another.
She was a little paler, a little thinner, but still glowingly fresh, and perhaps, with her air of greater fragility, prettier than ever. She murmured: ‘He’s terrible, you see, he knows he’s dying and he bullies me atrociously. I’ve told him you’ve come. But where’s your trunk?’
Duroy replied: ‘I left it at the station, not knowing which hotel you would suggest I should stay at, so as to be near you.’
She hesitated, then went on: ‘You must stay here, in the villa. In any case, your room is prepared. He may die at any moment, and if that were to happen at night, I should be alone. I’ll send for your luggage.’
Bel-Ami (Oxford World's Classics) Page 22
