Bel-Ami (Oxford World's Classics)

by Guy de Maupassant

  She also proved to him that it was he who, in La Vie française, had led the whole political campaign that made this affair possible, and that not to profit from it would be very simple-minded.

  He still hesitated. She added: ‘But, just think, in fact it’s Walter who’s lending you these ten thousand francs, and you’ve rendered him services that are worth more than that.’

  ‘All right! Agreed. I’ll go halves with you. If we lose, I’ll repay you ten thousand francs.’

  She was so pleased that she stood up, grasped his head in her two hands and began kissing him avidly.

  At first he did not resist, then, as she grew bolder, hugging him and devouring him with kisses, he remembered that Clotilde would soon be arriving, and that if he weakened he would be wasting time, and exhausting, in the arms of the old woman, an ardour which it would be better to save for the young one.

  So then he pushed her gently away: ‘Come on, be good,’ he said.

  She looked at him with sorrowful eyes. ‘Oh, Georges, I can’t even kiss you any more.’

  He replied: ‘No, not today. I’ve a bit of a headache, and it hurts me.’

  So then she sat down again obediently between his legs, and asked: ‘Will you come and have dinner tomorrow at my house? It would make me so happy!’

  He hesitated, but did not dare refuse. ‘Yes, certainly.’

  ‘Thank you, sweetheart.’

  She was rubbing her cheek against the young man’s chest in a slow, regular caress, and one of her long black hairs caught in his waistcoat. When she noticed this, a wild idea flashed into her mind, one of those superstitious notions that in women often take the place of reasoning. Very quietly, she began twisting this hair around the button. Then she attached another to the next button, and still another to the button lower down. To each button she affixed a hair.

  In a moment, when he stood up, he would pull them out. He would hurt her, what happiness! And, without realizing it, he would carry away something of her, he would carry away a tiny lock of her hair, for which he had never asked. It was a bond by which she was attaching him, a secret, invisible link, a talisman she was leaving on him. Without wanting to, he would think of her, he would dream of her, he would love her a little better on the morrow.

  Suddenly he said: ‘I’m going to have to leave you, because I’m expected at the Chamber for the end of the session. I can’t miss it today.’

  ‘Oh! So soon’ she sighed. Then, in a resigned tone: ‘Off you go, darling, but come for dinner tomorrow.’

  And she pulled away quickly. On her head she felt a brief, sharp pain as if her skin had been stuck with needles. Her heart was beating; she was happy to have suffered a little on his account.

  ‘Goodbye!’ she said. And, with a compassionate smile, he took her in his arms and coldly kissed her eyes. But, maddened by this contact, she murmured again: ‘So soon!’ Her beseeching gaze turned to the bedroom, where the door stood open. He pushed her away, saying hurriedly: ‘I must be off, I’m going to be late.’

  So she offered him her lips which he barely brushed with his, and, handing her her parasol which she would have left there, he continued: ‘Come, come, we must hurry, it’s after three.’ She went out first, repeating: ‘Tomorrow, seven o’clock,’ and he replied: ‘Tomorrow, seven o’clock.’

  They separated. She turned to the right, he to the left.

  Du Roy walked up as far as the outer boulevard. Then he turned back down the Boulevard Malesherbes, which he followed, walking slowly. Passing in front of a confectioners, he noticed some marrons glaces in a crystal bowl, and thought: ‘I’ll take a pound back for Clotilde.’ He bought a bag of those sugared fruits which she absolutely adored.

  By four he had returned and was waiting for his young mistress.

  She came a little late because her husband had arrived for a week’s stay. She asked: ‘Can you come for dinner tomorrow? He’ll be delighted to see you.’

  ‘No, I’m having dinner with the Director. We’ve a lot of political and financial plans that we’re working on.’

  She had removed her hat. Now she took off her bodice; it was too tight. He indicated the bag on the mantelpiece: ‘I’ve brought you some marrons glacés,’ and she clapped her hands: ‘Wonderful! You are sweet.’ She took them and tasted one, declaring: ‘They’re delicious. I’ve a feeling I shan’t leave a single one.’ Then, gazing at Georges with playful sensuality: ‘So, you pander to all my vices?’

  She was slowly eating the chestnuts, glancing constantly into the bottom of the bag as if to see if there were still some left.

  She said: ‘Here, sit down in the armchair, I’ll squat between your legs to nibble my bonbons. I’ll be very comfortable.’

  He smiled, sat down, and held her between his legs exactly as he had just held Mme Walter.

  She raised her head to speak to him, and said, her mouth full: ‘Can you imagine, sweetheart, I dreamt of you, I dreamt we were on a long journey, the two of us, on a camel. It had two humps, we were each riding on a hump and we were crossing the desert. We’d brought with us packets of sandwiches and a bottle of wine, and were having a picnic sitting on our humps. But I didn’t like that because we couldn’t do anything else; we were too far away from each other, and for my part, I wanted to get down.’

  He replied: ‘I want to get down too.’

  He was laughing, amused by the story, and he egged her on to go on prattling away with her childish, tender nonsense in the way lovers do. This girlishness, which he found appealing in Mme de Marelle, would have exasperated him in Mme Walter.

  Clotilde, too, called him ‘my sweetheart, my little pet, my kitten’. These words sounded sweet and caressing to him. When the other woman had used them, a little while before, they had annoyed and sickened him. For the unchanging language of passion takes its flavour from the lips from which it comes.

  But, while enjoying this nonsense, he was thinking about the seventy thousand francs he was going to make; and suddenly he gave a couple of little taps with his finger on his lover’s head and stopped her flow of words: ‘Listen, my kitten. I’m going to give you a message to pass on to your husband. Tell him, from me, to buy, tomorrow, ten thousand francs’ worth of the Moroccan loan which is at seventy-two; I promise him he’ll have made between sixty and eighty thousand francs before three months are up. Tell him not to breathe a word about this. Tell him, from me, that the military expedition to Tangiers is a certainty and that the French Government will underwrite the loan. But don’t cut anyone else in. This is a state secret I’m passing on.’

  She listened to him attentively, then said in a low voice: ‘Thank you. I’ll tell my husband this evening. You can trust him; he won’t say anything. He’s completely reliable. There’s no danger.’

  But she had eaten all the chestnuts. She squashed up the bag in her hands and threw it into the fireplace. Then she said: ‘Let’s go to bed.’ And without getting up, she began unbuttoning Georges’s waistcoat.

  She stopped abruptly, and, drawing out a long hair from a buttonhole, began to laugh: ‘Look, you’ve brought away a hair of Madeleine’s. Now there’s a faithful husband!’

  Then, turning serious, she stared for a long time at her hand, at the almost invisible hair she had found; she murmured: ‘This isn’t Madeleine’s, it’s brown.’

  He smiled: ‘It’s probably the chambermaid’s.’

  But she was inspecting his waistcoat as closely as a detective, and culled a second hair twisted round a button; then she saw a third, and, pale and trembling, exclaimed: ‘Oh! You’ve slept with a woman who’s put hairs round all your buttons.’

  He stuttered in astonishment: ‘No, no, you’re mad…’ Suddenly he remembered and understood; at first he was flustered, but then he denied the charge with a giggle, not really all that upset that she should suspect him of casual affairs.

  She went on looking and went on finding hairs, which she rapidly unwound and then threw onto the carpet.

  With her astut
e feminine instinct she had guessed, and, furiously angry, on the verge of tears, she stammered: ‘She loves you, this one… and she wanted you to take away something of her… Oh, what a sod you are!’ But then she gave a cry, a strident cry of nervous pleasure: ‘Oh!… Oh!… she’s old… here’s a white hair… Ah yes, you go with old women now… Tell me, do they pay you… do they pay you… Ah! You’ve got old women… you don’t need me any more… you keep her…’

  She stood up, ran over to her bodice which she had thrown over a chair, and quickly put it on.

  Full of shame, he tried to stop her, stuttering: ‘No, no, Clo, you’re being silly… I don’t know what this is… listen… don’t go… look, don’t go…’

  She was saying over and over again: ‘Keep your old woman… keep her… get yourself a ring made with her hair, her white hair… You’ve enough of it for that..’

  With sharp, rapid movements she had dressed, put on her hat and tied the veil; and when he tried to grab hold of her she gave him a tremendous slap on the face. While he was standing there in a daze she opened the door and fled.

  As soon as he was alone, he was overcome with rage at that old bitch Mme Walter. Oh, he would tell her where to go, that one, and in no uncertain fashion.

  He sponged his red cheek with water. Then he, in his turn, left, pondering his revenge. He wouldn’t forgive her this time. No, definitely not!

  He walked down as far as the boulevard, and, wandering along, stopped in front of a jeweller’s to look at a watch which he had long coveted, and which cost eighteen hundred francs.

  He suddenly thought, his heart jumping with joy: ‘If I make my seventy thousand francs I’ll be able to treat myself to it.’ And he began dreaming of all the things he could do with those seventy thousand francs. First, he’d be elected a deputy. Then he would buy his watch, then he would gamble on the stock exchange, and then… and then…

  He did not want to go to the newspaper, preferring to talk to Madeleine before seeing Walter again and writing his article; and so he set off for home.

  He was nearing the Rue Drouot when he stopped dead; he had forgotten to enquire after the Comte de Vaudrec, who lived on the Chaussée-d’Antin.* So he turned round, and, still strolling slowly along, in a happy reverie, let his mind dwell on a host of things, on delightful things and good things, on his approaching wealth, but also on that scoundrel Laroche and that old shrew Mme Walter. He did not, however, worry about Clotilde’s anger, knowing perfectly well that she would soon forgive him.

  When he asked the concierge of the building where the Comte de Vaudrec lived: ‘How is M. de Vaudrec? I understand he’s been unwell these last few days,’ the man replied: ‘The count is very ill, Monsieur. They’re afraid he won’t last the night. The gout is affecting his heart.’

  Du Roy felt so shocked that he couldn’t think what to do. Vaudrec dying! A mass of confused ideas shot through his mind, disturbing ideas that he did not dare admit to himself. He stammered: ‘Thank you… I’ll be back…’ without knowing what he was saying.

  Then he jumped into a cab and had himself driven home.

  His wife had returned. He rushed breathlessly into her room and immediately said to her: ‘You haven’t heard? Vaudrec’s dying!’

  She was sitting reading a letter. She looked up and repeated three times: ‘Eh? What did you say?… What did you say?… What did you say?’

  ‘I said that Vaudrec’s dying, an attack of gout has affected his heart.’ Then he added: ‘What are you going to do?’

  She had leapt to her feet, deathly pale, her cheeks trembling nervously, and began to sob in a heart-broken way, hiding her face in her hands. She went on standing there, shaken by sobs, rent by grief.

  But, suddenly mastering her anguish, she wiped her eyes: ‘I’m… I’m going there… don’t worry about me… I don’t know what time I’ll be back… don’t wait for me…’

  He replied: ‘All right, you go.’

  They clasped hands, and she left so quickly that she forgot her gloves.

  Georges, having dined alone, began writing his article. He did it exactly as the minister had wished, giving the reader the impression that the military expedition to Morocco would not take place. Then he took it to the newspaper, chatted for a few moments with the Director, and departed smoking a cigar and feeling cheerful, without knowing why.

  His wife had not returned. He went to bed and slept.

  Madeleine came back about midnight. Georges, awakening suddenly, sat up in bed. He asked: ‘Well?’

  He had never seen her so pale and upset. She murmured: ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Ah! And… he didn’t speak to you?’

  ‘No. He was unconscious when I arrived.’

  Georges reflected. Questions came to his lips that he dared not voice.

  ‘Come to bed,’ he said.

  She undressed quickly, and slipped in beside him.

  He continued: ‘Was any of his family at his deathbed?’

  ‘Only a nephew.’

  ‘Oh! Did he see this nephew often?’

  ‘Never. They hadn’t met for ten years.’

  ‘Had he other relatives?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘So… it’s this nephew who’ll inherit?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Was he very rich, Vaudrec?’

  ‘Very rich.’

  ‘Do you know, more or less, what he had?’

  ‘No, not really. One or two million, perhaps?’

  He said nothing more. She blew out the candle. And they lay stretched out side by side in the night, not speaking, wide awake, thinking.

  He no longer felt sleepy. The seventy thousand francs Mme Walter had promised now struck him as paltry. Suddenly he thought Madeleine was crying. He asked, to be certain:

  ‘Are you asleep?’

  ‘No.’

  Her voice sounded tearful and tremulous. He went on: ‘I forgot to tell you just now that your minister’s cheated us.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  And he described to her, in full, with all the details, the scheme thought up by Laroche and Walter.

  When he had finished, she asked: ‘How do you know this?’

  He replied: ‘You must allow me not to tell you. You have your methods of getting information that I don’t enquire into. I have mine that I’d rather keep secret. In any event, I’m certain my information is correct.’

  Then she murmured: ‘Yes… it’s possible… I suspected they were up to something without telling us.’

  But Georges, who did not feel sleepy, had moved closer to his wife, and was gently kissing her ear. She pushed him away sharply: ‘Please will you leave me alone? I’m not in the mood for fooling about.’

  He turned over resignedly, closed his eyes and, eventually, fell asleep.

  CHAPTER 6

  The church was draped with black, and over the entrance a large coat of arms surmounted by a coronet informed the passers-by that this was the funeral of a man of noble birth.

  The ceremony had just finished and the mourners were slowly departing, filing past the coffin and then past the Comte de Vaudrec’s nephew, who was shaking their hands and returning their greetings.

  Georges Du Roy and his wife left the church and set off together to walk home. They walked in silence, deep in thought. Eventually, as though talking to himself, Georges declared: ‘Really, it’s quite astonishing!’

  ‘What is, my dear?’ enquired Madeleine.

  ‘That Vaudrec hasn’t left us anything!’

  She instantly turned pink, as though a rosy veil had suddenly been spread over her white skin from her breast to her face, and she said: ‘Why should he have left us anything? He had no reason to.’ Then, after a few moments of silence, she went on: ‘There may perhaps be a will at his notary’s. We wouldn’t know anything yet.’

  After some reflection, he murmured: ‘Yes, it’s likely, for after all he was our best friend, for both of us. He dined with us twice
a week, and dropped in constantly. Our house was like home to him, just like home. He loved you like a father, and he’d no family, no children, no brothers or sisters, only a nephew, a distant nephew. Yes, there must be a will. I wouldn’t want anything much, a memento, to show that he’d thought of us, that he loved us, that he recognized the affection we felt for him. He certainly owed us a token of friendship.’

  She said, her manner thoughtful and unconcerned: ‘Yes, it’s entirely possible that there’s a will.’

  As they entered the house, the servant gave Madeleine a letter. She opened it, and then handed it to her husband.

  Maître Lamaneur, Notary. 17, rue des Vosges.*

  Madame:

  I have the honour to request you to call at my office between two and four o’clock on Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday, regarding a matter which concerns you.

  Believe me, etc.,

  Lamaneur.

  Georges, in his turn, had blushed. ‘That must be it. It’s funny that it’s you he’s sending for, and not me, who am the legal head of the household.’

  She did not reply at first, then, after a moment’s thought: ‘Would you like us to go straight away?’

  ‘Yes, I’d like that.’

  They set off as soon as they had lunched.

  When they entered Maitre Lamaneur’s office, the head clerk rose with great alacrity and ushered them into his employer’s presence.

  The notary was a little man, completely round, round in every part. His head looked like a ball nailed onto another ball, supported by two legs that were so tiny and so short that they also closely resembled balls.

  He bowed, gestured to some chairs and said, turning towards Madeleine: ‘Madame, I sent for you in order to apprise you of the Comte de Vaudrec’s will, which concerns you.’

  Georges could not resist muttering: ‘Just as I thought.’

  The notary added: ‘I’m going to read the document to you, it’s very short.’

  He reached for a document from a box in front of him, and read: ‘I the undersigned, Paul-Émile-Cyprien-Gontran, Comte de Vaudrec, being sound in body and mind, hereby state my final wishes.