PART TWO
CHAPTER 1
Georges Duroy had resumed all his old habits.
Now installed in the little ground-floor apartment of the Rue de Constantinople, he was leading a quiet life, as befitted a man preparing for a new existence. His relations with Mme de Marelle had even assumed a conjugal air, as if he were practising, in advance, for the approaching event; and his mistress, often amazed at the tranquil regularity of their union, would say laughingly: ‘You’re even more of a home body than my husband, it wasn’t worth the bother of changing.’
Mme Forestier had not returned, she was still in Cannes. He received a letter from her, telling him she would not be back before the middle of April, and making no reference to their farewells. He waited. He was now quite determined to go to any lengths to marry her, if she seemed hesitant. But he had confidence in his luck, confidence in that seductive power he knew he possessed, a vague but irresistible power to which every woman responded.
A brief note informed him that the decisive moment was at hand.
I’m in Paris. Come and see me.
Madeleine Forestier.
Nothing more. It arrived by the nine a.m. post. By three o’clock the same day he was at her door. She stretched out both her hands to him, smiling her pretty, friendly smile; and for a few seconds they looked deep into one another’s eyes.
She murmured: ‘How good it was of you to come down there in those terrible circumstances!’
He replied: ‘I would have done anything you told me to do.’
And they sat down. She asked for news of the Walters, of all the journalists, and of the newspaper. She thought about the paper often, she said.
‘I miss it badly, really badly. I had become a journalist in spirit. Well, what can you expect, I love the profession.’
Then she fell silent. He thought he understood, he thought he could see a kind of invitation in her smile, in her tone of voice, in her very words; and although he had promised himself not to rush things, he stammered:
‘Well then… why… why not get back into it again… into journalism… under… under the name of Duroy?’
Abruptly, she grew serious again, and, putting her hand on his arm, said softly: ‘Don’t let’s talk about that yet.’
But he sensed that she was accepting, and, falling to his knees, he began to kiss her hands passionately, stammering over and over again: ‘Thank you, thank you, oh, how I love you!’
She stood up. He did likewise, and saw that she was extremely pale. Then he realized that she found him attractive, had done so, perhaps, for a long time; and as they were face to face, he took her in his arms, and gravely gave her a long, tender kiss on the forehead.
When she had freed herself, slipping from his embrace, she went on in a serious tone: ‘Listen, Georges, I haven’t yet decided anything. However it’s possible that was a “yes”. But, you must promise me absolute secrecy until I give you leave.’
He made the promise and departed, his heart overflowing with happiness.
From then on he behaved with great circumspection during his visits to her, not seeking a more definite acceptance, for she had a way of talking about the future, of saying ‘later on’, of making plans in which their two existences were intermingled, that continually gave him an answer, in a better, more subtle manner than would a formal acceptance.
Duroy worked hard and spent little, trying to save up some money so as not to be penniless when the time came for his marriage; he became as miserly as he had formerly been extravagant.
The summer passed, and then the autumn, without anyone having the slightest suspicion, for they met rarely, and in the most natural way possible.
One evening Madeleine said to him, looking him straight in the eye: ‘You haven’t told Mme de Marelle of our plans?’
‘No, my dear. Having promised you to keep it a secret, I haven’t breathed a word to a soul.’
‘Well, it’s time to let her know. I myself will tell the Walters. You’ll do it this week, won’t you?’
He had blushed. ‘Yes, tomorrow.’
She gently averted her eyes, as if to avoid seeing his embarrassment, and continued: ‘If you like, we could get married at the beginning of May. That would be very suitable.’
‘It gives me the greatest happiness to obey you.’
‘May the 10th, which is a Saturday,* would please me very much, because it’s my birthday.’
‘May the 10th it is.’
‘Your parents live near Rouen, don’t they? At least that’s what you told me.’
‘Yes, near Rouen, in Canteleu.’
‘What do they do?’
‘They… they have a modest income.’
‘Ah! I’d love to meet them.’
He hesitated, completely at a loss. ‘But, the thing is… they’re…’ Then he went on, with manly decisiveness: ‘My dear, they’re peasants, tavern-keepers, who bled themselves white to get me educated. I’m not ashamed of them myself, but their… simplicity… their lack of refinement might perhaps embarrass you.’
She gave an enchanting smile, that lit up her face with a gentle goodness.
‘No, I shall like them very much. We’ll go and see them. I want to. I’ll talk of this later. I too am the child of humble people… but I’ve lost mine, my parents are dead. I no longer have anybody in the whole world’–she gave him her hand and added–’except you.’
He felt himself moved, stirred, won over, to a degree he had never before experienced with any woman.
‘I’ve thought of something else,’ she said, ‘but it’s a bit difficult to explain.’
He asked: ‘What is it?’
‘Well, you see, Georges, I’m just like other women, I’ve my little weaknesses, my foibles, I love things that look and sound impressive. I’d have adored to have a title. Might you not be able–to mark the occasion of our marriage–to get yourself a bit of a title?’
She, in her turn, had blushed, as if she had suggested something faintly discreditable.
He replied simply: ‘I’ve often thought of it, but I don’t think it would be easy.’
‘Why not?’
He began to laugh. ‘Because I’m afraid of looking ridiculous.’
She shrugged. ‘No, not at all, not at all. Everybody does it and nobody laughs at it. Divide your name in two: “Du Roy”. That sounds very good.’
He replied immediately, like an expert on such matters: ‘No, that won’t do. It’s too simple a way, too common, too well-known. I myself had thought of taking the name of the place I come from, at first as a pseudonym, then add it–very gradually–to my name, and then, later, even break my name in two as you suggested.’
She enquired: ‘You come from Canteleu?’
‘Yes.’
But she hesitated. ‘No. I don’t like the ending. Let’s see, couldn’t we change that word a bit… Canteleu?’
She had picked up a pen from the table and was scribbling names, studying how they looked. Suddenly she exclaimed: ‘Wait, wait, what about this.’
And she handed him a sheet of paper on which he read: ‘Madame Duroy de Cantel.’
He considered for a few seconds, then gravely announced: ‘Yes, that’s very good.’
And she, delighted, kept repeating: ‘Duroy de Cantel, Duroy de Cantel, Mme Duroy de Cantel. It’s very good, very!’
She added, with great conviction: ‘You’ll see how easy it is to get everybody to accept it. But you mustn’t miss your chance. It would be too late afterwards. From tomorrow you’ll sign your reports D. de Cantel, and your gossip items Duroy pure and simple. In journalism people do it all the time, and no one will be surprised to see you using a pseudonym. At the time of our marriage we can modify it a little more, and tell our friends that you had given up your “du” out of modesty, in view of your position, or even not say anything at all. What’s your father’s first name?’
‘Alexandre.’
Two or three times she murmured ‘Alexandre, Alexa
ndre,’ listening to the resonance of the syllables, then she wrote on a completely clean sheet of paper:
‘Monsieur and Madame Alexandre du Roy de Cantel have the honour to inform you of the marriage of their son, Monsieur Georges du Roy de Cantel, to Madame Madeleine Forestier.’
Thrilled with the effect of what she had written, she studied it from a distance, and declared: ‘If you just put your mind to it, you can do anything you want.’
When he was outside in the street, fully determined to call himself ‘du Roy’ or even ‘du Roy de Cantel’ from then on, it seemed to him that he had just acquired a new importance. He walked along more jauntily, his head higher, his moustache bolder, the way a gentleman should walk. He felt a kind of joyful urge to tell passers-by: ‘My name is du Roy de Cantel.’
But hardly was he back home, than he was overcome with anxiety at the thought of Mme de Marelle, and he wrote to her immediately, asking for a meeting the following day.
‘It’s going to be very difficult,’ he thought. ‘I’m in for a first-class tongue-lashing.’
Then, with that innate heedlessness that made him ignore the disagreeable things in life, he pushed it aside and settled down to writing a playful article on the new taxes that should be introduced to balance the budget. The upper classes would be taxed a hundred francs per annum for a name with ‘de’ in it, while the tax on titles would range from five hundred francs for Baron to five thousand francs for Prince. He signed it: D. de Cantel.
The next morning he received an ‘express’ from his mistress stating that she would come at one o’clock.
He waited for her a little feverishly, resolved, however, to be blunt, to tell her everything straight away, then, when the first shock had passed, to present her with clever arguments proving that he could not remain a bachelor indefinitely, and that as M. de Marelle seemed determined to stay alive, he had had to think of someone else to be his lawful companion.
But all the same, he felt anxious. When he heard the bell ring, his heart began to pound.
She threw herself into his arms. ‘Hallo, Bel-Ami.’ Then, finding his embrace lacked warmth, she looked at him, and asked:
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Sit down’, he said. ‘We must have a serious talk.’
She sat down without removing her hat, simply raising her veil from her forehead, and waited.
He had lowered his eyes; he was working out what to say first. In a slow voice, he began: ‘My dear, as you can see, I feel very upset, very sad and very embarrassed by what I have to confess to you. I love you very much, I truly love you from the bottom of my heart, so that the fear of hurting you distresses me even more than what I’m actually going to tell you.’
Turning white, and feeling herself start to tremble, she stammered: ‘What is it? Tell me quickly!’
He declared in a sad but resolute tone, with that feigned dejection people assume to announce bad news they rejoice over: ‘I’m getting married.’
She gave a sigh as if she were about to faint, an anguished sigh that came from deep down in her breast, then she began to choke, gasping so for breath that she could not speak.
Seeing that she was saying nothing, he went on: ‘You can have no idea how much I’ve suffered in making this decision. But I’ve neither position nor money. I’m entirely alone, lost in Paris. I needed someone at my side, someone who above all will give me advice, comfort and support. It’s a partner, an ally, that I’ve been looking for, and that’s what I’ve found!’
He stopped, waiting for her to reply, expecting raging anger, violence, abuse.
She had placed one hand on her heart as if to calm it, and her breath was still coming in painful, heaving gasps that lifted her breasts and made her head jerk spasmodically.
He took the hand resting on the arm of the chair, but she abruptly pulled it away. Then, as though in a stupor, she murmured: ‘Oh!… My God…’
He knelt down in front of her, but without daring to touch her, and, more moved by this silence than he would have been by passionate outbursts, he stammered: ‘Clo, my little Clo, think carefully about my situation, think carefully about what I am. Oh, if I’d been able to marry you, Clo, how happy I’d have been! But you’re married. What could I do? Consider, please consider! I need to establish myself in society, and I can’t do that as long as I haven’t a home. If you only knew… There’ve been moments when I’ve wanted to kill your husband…’
His voice as he spoke was gentle, husky, seductive, a voice that fell like music upon the ear.
He watched as, in his mistress’s staring eyes, two tears slowly grew larger, then ran down her cheeks, while two others were already forming on the edge of her lids.
He whispered: ‘Oh! Don’t cry, Clo, don’t cry, I beg you. You’re breaking my heart.’
So then she made an effort, a tremendous effort to behave with dignity and pride; and she asked, in that tremulous voice of a woman on the verge of tears: ‘Who is it?’
He hesitated for a moment, then, realizing that he had no choice: ‘Madeleine Forestier.’
A shudder ran through Mme de Marelle’s whole body, then she sat absolutely silent, so lost in thought that she seemed to have forgotten he was kneeling at her feet.
And, in her eyes, two transparent drops continued to form, to fall, and to reform again.
She stood up. Duroy sensed that she was going to leave without saying a word, without reproach or forgiveness; and he felt hurt, humiliated, to the depths of his soul. In an attempt to stop her, he put his arms round the skirt of her dress, embracing, through the fabric, her shapely legs which stiffened in resistance.
He begged her: ‘Please, please, don’t leave like this.’
Then she looked down at him, she looked down with that tearful, despairing look–so charming and so sad–that reveals all the pain in a woman’s heart, and stammered: “I’ve nothing… nothing to say… there’s nothing… nothing I can do… You’re right… you’ve… you’ve chosen exactly what you needed…’
And, stepping back to free herself, she went out of the room, without his trying to detain her any longer.
Left alone, he got to his feet, feeling as dazed as if he had been hit on the head; then, making the best of it, he muttered: ‘Oh well, it could have been worse! It’s over, and without any fuss. That suits me.’ And, relieved of a great burden, feeling suddenly free, liberated, comfortable with his new life, he began pounding the wall with great blows of his fist, as if intoxicated with his success and strength, as if he had been fighting against Destiny.
When Mme Forestier asked him: ‘Have you told Mme de Marelle?’ he replied calmly: ‘Of course…’
Her clear eyes gazed at him searchingly.
‘And she wasn’t upset?’
‘No, not at all. On the contrary, she thought it a good idea.’
The news was soon common knowledge. Some expressed astonishment, others claimed to have foreseen it, while yet others smiled, letting it be understood that it did not surprise them.
The young man, who now signed his reports D. de Cantel, his gossip column Duroy, and du Roy for the political articles that he was beginning occasionally to produce, spent half his time with his fiancée who treated him with a sisterly familiarity which nevertheless comprised a genuine, though concealed, affection, a kind of desire she hid as though it were a weakness. She had decided that the marriage would take place privately, with only the witnesses present, and that they would leave that very evening for Rouen. The following morning they would go to receive the congratulations of the journalist’s elderly parents, with whom they were to spend a few days. Duroy had done his best to make her abandon this plan, but, meeting with no success, he had finally given way.
Therefore, on the 10th of May, the newly married couple, having deemed a religious ceremony pointless since they had not invited anyone, went home to finish their packing after a brief trip to the town hall, and then, from the Gare Saint Lazare, caught the six o’clock evening tra
in, which carried them off towards Normandy.
They had barely exchanged twenty words up to the moment of finding themselves alone in the carriage. As soon as they felt the train begin to move, they looked at one another and began laughing, to disguise a certain unease that they did not want to show.
The train travelled slowly through the long station at Les Batignolles, then crossed the desolate plain which stretches from the fortifications* to the Seine. From time to time Duroy and his wife exchanged a few meaningless words, then turned back to the window.
When they crossed the bridge at Asnières, they were filled with elation by the sight of the river thronged with boats, anglers, and people rowing. The sun, a powerful May sun, cast its slanting rays over the boats and over the calm river which lay motionless, without currents or eddies, solidified by the heat and brightness of the dying day. In the middle of the river, a sailing boat had unfurled a huge triangle of white canvas over either side, to catch the smallest breath of a breeze. It looked like a giant bird about to fly away.
Duroy murmured: ‘I adore the outskirts of Paris, I can remember meals of fried fish that were the best in my whole life.’
She replied: ‘And the boats! It’s so lovely to glide over the water as the sun is setting!’
Then, falling silent, as if they did not dare continue these revelations about the past, they sat without speaking, already, perhaps, savouring the poetry of regret.
Duroy, opposite his wife, took her hand and kissed it, slowly.
‘After we come back,’ he said, “we’ll go to Chatou* for dinner sometimes.’
She murmured: ‘We’ll have so much to do!’ in a tone which seemed to mean: ‘We’ll have to put duty before pleasure!’
He was still holding her hand, wondering anxiously how to make the transition to more intimate caresses. The inexperience of a young girl would not have troubled him in the same way, but the lively, subtle intelligence that he sensed in Madeleine disconcerted him. He was afraid of seeming inept in her eyes, too timid or too rough, too slow or too fast. He kept giving her hand little squeezes, but without eliciting any response. He said:
Bel-Ami (Oxford World's Classics) Page 25
