Bel-Ami (Oxford World's Classics)

by Guy de Maupassant

  Before long a soft murmuring attracted his attention. He had seen no one in that part of the church. So where was this whispering coming from? Rising to his feet to investigate, he noticed, in the next chapel, the doors of the confessionals. The edge of a dress protruded from one of them, trailing over the flagstones. He went nearer and studied the woman. He recognized her. She was making her confession!…

  He felt a violent urge to take her by the shoulders and drag her from the box. Then he thought: ‘Who cares! Today it’s the priest’s turn, tomorrow it’ll be mine.’ And he sat calmly down opposite the confessional, biding his time, now laughing to himself derisively at how it had turned out.

  He waited a long time. Finally, Mme Walter arose, turned round, saw him and came over to him. Her face was cold and severe: ‘Monsieur,’ she said, ‘I must ask you not to accompany me, not to follow me, and not to come alone to my home. You will not be received. Goodbye!’

  And away she walked, her manner stately.

  He let her go, for it was one of his principles never to force matters. Then, as the priest was emerging somewhat uneasily from his lair, he went straight up to him, looked deep into his eyes, and growled into his face: ‘If you weren’t wearing skirts, what a punch I’d give you right on your ugly snout, wouldn’t I just!’

  Then he turned on his heels and left the church, whistling.

  Tired of waiting, the stout gentleman was standing under the portal, his hat on his head and his hands behind his back, scrutinizing the vast square and all the streets that run into it. When Du Roy passed by him, they nodded to one another.

  Finding himself at a loose end, the journalist walked down to La Vie française. As soon as he went in he saw, from the flurried manner of the employees, that something most unusual was going on, and he hurried to the Director’s office.

  Old man Walter was on his feet, excitedly dictating an article in disconnected sentences, and between paragraphs issuing orders to the reporters round him, giving Boisrenard advice, and opening letters.

  When Du Roy came in, M. Walter cried delightedly: ‘Oh! What luck, here’s Bel-Ami!’

  He stopped dead, a little embarrassed, and apologized: ‘I beg your pardon for calling you that, I’m very flustered by what’s happening. And then, I hear my wife and daughters calling you “Bel-Ami” all day long, and so I’ve picked up the habit myself. You’re not annoyed with me?’

  Georges laughed: ‘Not in the least. I’ve no objection to that nickname.’

  M. Walter went on: ‘Fine, so I’ll christen you Bel-Ami like everyone else. Well now! Some very important things are going on.* The ministry has fallen–the vote was 310 to 102. The recess has been postponed again, indefinitely, and today’s the 28th of July. Spain is getting angry about Morocco, that’s what brought down Durand de l’Aine and his followers. We’re up to our necks in the mess. Marrot has agreed to form a new cabinet. He’s giving the War Office to General Boutin d’Ancre and the Foreign Office to our friend Laroche-Mathieu. He himself will be Minister of the Interior and President of the Council. We’re going to become an official newspaper. I’m writing the leader, a simple declaration of principles, with suggestions on how the government should proceed.’

  The old boy smiled, and added: ‘I mean of course suggestions in keeping with their declared intentions. But we need something interesting on the Moroccan question, something current, sensational, an attention-getter… oh I don’t know… Give me something of that sort, Bel-Ami.’

  Du Roy reflected for a moment, then replied: ‘I’ve just the thing. I’ll give you an analysis of the politics of all our African colonies, with Tunisia to the left, Algeria in the centre, and Morocco to the right, the history of the races that live in this vast territory, and an account of an excursion along the Moroccan frontier as far as the great oasis at Figuig,* where no European has ever set foot and which is the cause of the present conflict. Does that suit you?’

  Old Walter exclaimed: ‘Admirable! And the title? “From Tunis to Tangier!”’

  ‘Excellent.’

  And off Du Roy went, to hunt through the archives of La Vie française for his first article: ‘Recollections of an African Cavalryman’ which, retitled, reconfigured, and rewritten, was from start to finish precisely what was wanted, since it dealt with colonial politics, the Algerian population, and an expedition into the province of Oran.

  In three-quarters of an hour the thing was redone, cobbled together, adapted, updated, with praises for the new cabinet tacked on.

  After reading the article, the Director declared: ‘It’s perfect… perfect… perfect. You’re absolutely invaluable. I do congratulate you.’

  And Du Roy went home for dinner, delighted with his day, despite the setback at the Holy Trinity, for he was convinced that the game was his.

  His wife was waiting for him in a fever of excitement. She exclaimed on seeing him: ‘You know that Laroche is Minister of Foreign Affairs?’

  ‘Yes, in fact I’ve just been writing an article on Algeria in connection with that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know the one, it’s the first we wrote together: “Recollections of an African Cavalryman” revised and corrected for the occasion.’

  She smiled: ‘Ah yes, the very thing.’

  Then after a few moments’ thought: ‘By the way, that sequel that you were going to write then, and that you… abandoned along the way. We can have a go at it now. It will give us a nice series that’s just what’s wanted.’

  As he sat down to his soup he replied: ‘Absolutely. There’s no longer anything to stop us, now that that cuckold Forestier’s dead.’

  She said sharply, in a curt, injured tone: ‘That joke is worse than uncalled for, and I beg you to give it a rest. It’s been going on for too long.’

  He was about to make a sarcastic retort when a message was brought to him containing just these words, with no signature: ‘I lost my head. Forgive me, and come at four tomorrow to the Pare Monceau.’

  He understood; suddenly his heart was filled with joy, and, slipping the blue sheet into his pocket, he said to his wife: ‘I won’t do it any more, my dear. It’s silly. I admit it.’

  And he began his dinner.

  As he ate he kept repeating those few words to himself: ‘I lost my head, forgive me, and come at four tomorrow to the Pare Monceau.’ So she was surrendering. It meant: ‘I give in, I am yours, wherever you want, whenever you want.’

  He began to laugh. Madeleine asked: ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing much, I was thinking of a priest I met recently, who had a funny face.’

  The next day, Du Roy arrived at the rendezvous exactly on time. All the park benches were occupied by Parisians overcome by the heat, and by listless servant-girls who seemed to be dreaming, while the children rolled about on the sandy paths.

  He found Mme Walter in the small classical ruin where there is a spring of water. She was walking round the narrow ring of little columns, her air anxious and unhappy.

  As soon as he had greeted her: ‘What a lot of people there are in this park!’ she said.

  He snatched at the chance: ‘Yes, that’s right; would you like to go somewhere else?’

  ‘But where?’

  ‘Anywhere, in a cab, for instance. You can lower the blind on your side and you’ll be quite safe.’

  ‘Yes, I’d prefer that; I’m scared to death here.’

  ‘All right, meet me in five minutes at the gate onto the outer boulevard. I’ll come there with a cab.’

  And off he went at a run.

  As soon as she had got into the cab and had carefully screened the window on her side, she asked: ‘Where did you tell the driver to take us?’

  Georges replied: ‘Don’t worry about anything, he knows what to do.’

  He had given the man the address of his flat in the Rue de Constantinople.

  She went on: ‘You can’t imagine what I suffer because of you, what torment and agony I endure. Yesterday
in the church I was cruel, but I wanted to get away from you at any price. I’m so frightened of being alone with you. Have you forgiven me?’

  He was pressing her hands. ‘Yes, yes. What wouldn’t I forgive you for, loving you the way I do?’

  She was gazing at him with an air of entreaty. ‘Listen, you must promise to respect me… not to… not to… otherwise I couldn’t see you any more.’

  At first he did not reply; beneath his moustache he was smiling in the subtle way that women found so disturbing. Eventually he murmured: ‘I am your slave.’

  Then she started telling him how she had realized that she loved him when she learnt that he was going to marry Madeleine Forestier. She gave details, little details of dates and other very personal things.

  Suddenly she fell silent. The cab had just halted. Du Roy opened the door.

  ‘Where are we?’ she enquired.

  He replied: ‘Get out and go into the house. We’ll be less disturbed here.’

  ‘But where are we?’

  ‘At my place. It’s my bachelor apartment that I’ve rented again… for a few days… to have somewhere where we could see each other.’

  She had clutched hold of the back of the cab seat, appalled at the idea of such a tête-á-tête, and she stammered:

  ‘No, no, I don’t want to! I don’t want to!’

  He said very firmly: ‘I swear to respect you. Come. You can see people are looking at us, soon they’ll be crowding round us. Hurry… hurry… get out.’ And he repeated: ‘I swear to respect you.’

  A barkeeper was standing at his door watching them in an inquisitive way. Overcome with terror, she fled into the house.

  She started to climb the stairs. Holding her back by the arm, he said: ‘It’s here, on the ground floor.’ And he pushed her into his flat.

  The instant he closed the door, he pounced on her like a bird of prey. She struggled, fighting him off, stammering: ‘Oh, my God! Oh, my God!’

  He was passionately kissing her neck, her eyes, her lips, without her being able to avoid his savage caresses; and, even as she was pushing him away, and retreating from his mouth, she was, in spite of herself, returning his kisses.

  Quite suddenly she stopped struggling; defeated and resigned, she let herself be undressed by him. Skilfully and speedily, with the light touch of a lady’s maid, he removed her clothing item by item.

  She had snatched her bodice from his hands to hide her face in, and she stood there, all white, surrounded by her garments that lay discarded at her feet.

  Leaving her boots on, he carried her in his arms to the bed. Then, in a broken voice, she whispered in his ear: ‘I swear to you… I swear… I’ve never had a lover…’ just as a young girl might have said: ‘I swear I’m a virgin.’

  And he was thinking: ‘As if I care!’

  CHAPTER 5

  It was autumn. The Du Roys had spent the entire summer in Paris, waging a vigorous campaign in La Vie française in support of the new cabinet, during the deputies’ brief recess.

  In spite of the fact that it was only the beginning of October, the two Chambers* were about to reconvene, for the Moroccan affair was becoming increasingly threatening.

  Basically no one believed that an expeditionary force would be sent to Tangiers, although on the day Parliament was dissolved, a right-wing deputy, the Comte de Lambert-Sarrazin,* in an extremely witty speech that even the centrists had applauded, had offered to wager his moustache–and to hand it over as security just as a famous viceroy of India had once done in the past–against the side-whiskers of the President of the Council,* that the new cabinet would not be able to resist imitating the old one, and sending a force to Tangier to counterbalance the one in Tunis, out of love of symmetry, just as people put two vases above a fireplace.

  He had added: ‘Africa is in fact a fireplace for France, gentlemen, a fireplace that burns our best wood, a fireplace with a powerful draught, and which uses the paper of the Bank for kindling.

  ‘You have allowed yourselves the artistic licence of decorating the left-hand corner with a Tunisian knick-knack which is costing you dear; and you’ll see that M. Marrot will want to imitate his predecessor, and decorate the right-hand corner with a knick-knack from Morocco.’

  This speech, which has gone down in history, provided Du Roy with a central theme for ten articles about the colony of Algeria, indeed for the whole series which had been stopped when he was first working for the paper, and he had strongly supported the idea of a military expedition, although he was convinced it would not materialize. He had harped on about patriotism and had blasted Spain with the entire arsenal of scornful arguments that people use against nations whose interests conflict with their own.

  La Vie française had acquired considerable importance thanks to its known connections with those in power. It published items of political news ahead of the more serious papers, and revealed, through subtle hints, the plans of the ministers who were its friends; so that all the Parisian and provincial newspapers looked to it for their information. It was quoted, it was feared, it was beginning to be respected. It was no longer the suspect organ of a group of political speculators, but the acknowledged voice of the cabinet. Laroche-Mathieu was the soul of the paper and Du Roy his mouthpiece. Old man Walter, who as deputy never spoke, and as Director was invariably wary and skilled at self-effacement, remained in the background negotiating, it was said, an important deal involving some copper mines in Morocco.

  Madeleine’s drawing-room had become a centre of influence, for several members of the cabinet would meet there each week. The President of the Council had even dined twice at her table; and statesmen’s wives, who in the past had hesitated to cross her threshold, now boasted of being her friends, and called on her more often than she on them.

  The Foreign Secretary reigned over the household almost as if he were its master. He dropped in at all hours, bringing dispatches, reports, and information, which he would dictate to either husband or wife, as if they were his secretaries.

  When the minister had departed and Du Roy was alone with his wife, he would lose his temper over the way that insignificant upstart behaved, and make insidious suggestions in a threatening tone.

  But she, shrugging her shoulders disdainfully, would answer: ‘Why don’t you like him? Become a minister: then you can do as you like. Until then, keep quiet.’

  Giving her a sidelong glance, he twirled his moustache. ‘No one knows what I’m capable of,’ he said. ‘Maybe one day people will find out.’

  She replied imperturbably: ‘Time will tell.’

  The morning when the Chambers reconvened, the young woman, still in bed, was showering her husband with advice while he dressed for a lunch engagement with M. Laroche-Mathieu at which he was to receive instructions, before the session, for the next day’s political article in La Vie française; this article was to be a kind of semi-official announcement of the cabinet’s real intentions.

  Madeleine was saying: ‘Be sure not to forget to ask him if General Belloncle* is being sent to Oran, as they were thinking of doing. That would be very significant.’

  Georges replied edgily: ‘I know as well as you what I have to do. Leave me alone! Stop harping on it all.’

  Calmly she said: ‘Georges dear, you always forget half the things I want you to ask the minister.’

  He growled: ‘Your minister gets on my nerves, he really does. He’s an idiot.’

  Madeleine’s reply was cool: ‘He’s no more my minister than yours. He’s more useful to you than to me.’

  He turned a little towards her, curling his lip: ‘I beg your pardon, but it’s not me he’s making up to.’

  She said, slowly: ‘Nor me, as a matter of fact; but it’s because of him that we’re doing so well.’

  He fell silent, then, after a few moments: ‘If I had to choose among your admirers, I’d prefer that old fogy Vaudrec. What’s become of him, anyway? I haven’t seen him for a week.’

  She replied unemotion
ally: ‘He’s ill, he wrote me that he’s actually in bed with an attack of gout. You ought to call and ask after him. You know he’s very fond of you, and it would please him.’

  Georges replied: ‘Yes, certainly, I’ll go round later on.’

  He had finished dressing, and stood there, with his hat on, wondering if there was something he had forgotten. Not having thought of anything, he went up to the bed and kissed his wife on the forehead: ‘See you later, sweetheart, I shan’t be home before seven at the earliest.’

  And off he went.

  M. Laroche-Mathieu was expecting him, for he was lunching at ten that day, since the Council was due to meet at noon, before the start of the new Parliamentary session.

  As soon as they were seated at table, alone except for the minister’s private secretary, for Mme Laroche-Mathieu had not wanted to change her lunch hour, Du Roy talked about his article, describing its argument and referring to notes scribbled on visiting cards; then, when he had finished: ‘Do you see anything you would like to change, my dear minister?’

  ‘Very little, my good fellow. You may perhaps be a trifle too emphatic over the Morocco business. Talk about the military expedition as though it will take place, while making it clear that it isn’t going to, and that you yourself don’t even begin to believe in it. Make sure the public can easily read between the lines that we’re not going to poke our nose into that affair.’

  ‘Quite. I understand, and I’ll make myself perfectly clear. On that subject, my wife told me to ask you if General Belloncle would be sent to Oran. In view of what you’ve just said, I assume not.’

  The statesman replied: ‘No.’

  Then they chatted about the session that was about to open. Laroche-Mathieu began making speeches, trying out the phrases that he would be showering his colleagues with in a few hours’ time. He flapped his right hand about, waving in the air now a fork, now a knife, now a chunk of bread, never looking at anyone but addressing the invisible Assembly, his handsome well-groomed head spitting out its gobs of sugary eloquence. On his lip, a tiny twirly moustache poked up in two points like scorpion tails, and his brilliantined hair, parted in the centre of his brow, was combed into two curls on his temples, after the style of a provincial dandy. Despite his youth he was a trifle overweight, a trifle puffy; his waistcoat stretched tightly across his stomach. The private secretary sat calmly eating and drinking, no doubt accustomed to these showers of loquacity; but Du Roy, consumed with jealousy at Laroche-Mathieu’s success, was thinking: ‘Oh, give it a rest, you half-wit; what morons these politicos are!’