The young girl murmured, half sadly, half cheerfully: ‘It’s a pity you’re married. But there we are. There’s nothing to be done. That’s that!’
He turned abruptly towards her and said, his face very close to hers: ‘If I were free, would you marry me?’
She replied in a sincere tone: ‘Yes, Bel-Ami, I would marry you, because I like you much better than all the others.’
He stood up, stammering: ‘Thank you… thank you… I beg you, don’t say “yes” to anyone. Wait a little longer. I beg you! Will you promise me that?’
Feeling a little upset, and not understanding what he wanted, she said softly: ‘I promise.’
Du Roy flung into the water the big chunk of bread he still held in his hands, and fled like someone who had taken leave of his senses, without saying goodbye.
The fish all pounced avidly on the mass of crumbs which, not having been kneaded into a ball, was still floating, and tore at it with their voracious mouths. They dragged it to the other end of the pool, moving feverishly beneath it, then forming into a mobile cluster, a kind of animated, whirling flower, a living flower that had fallen head first into the water.
Suzanne, astounded and uneasy, stood up, and went slowly back. The journalist had left.
He returned home very calmly and, as Madeleine was writing letters, he asked her: ‘Will you be dining on Friday at the Walters’? I’m going.’
She hesitated. ‘No. I’m not feeling very well. I’d rather stay here.’
He replied: ‘Just as you wish. No one’s forcing you.’
Then he picked up his hat again and promptly departed.
He had been spying on her for some time, watching her and following her, aware of everything she did. The moment he had been waiting for had finally arrived. He was not deceived by the tone in which she had answered: ‘I’d rather stay here.’
He was charming to her during the days that followed. He even appeared cheerful, which was unusual for him. She kept telling him: ‘You’ve become nice once again.’
He dressed early on the Friday, in order, he said, to do a few errands before visiting the Walters. Then at about six, after kissing his wife, he left, and went to find a cab in the Place Notre-Dame-de-Lorette.
He said to the cab driver: ‘Stop in front of number 17, rue Fontaine, and remain there until I give you the order to leave. Then you can take me to the Restaurant du Coq-Faisan, in the Rue Lafayette.’
The cab lumbered off at the horse’s slow pace, and Du Roy lowered the blinds. From the moment he was opposite his door, he kept his eyes fixed upon it. After a ten minute wait, he saw Madeleine emerge and walk in the direction of the outer boulevards.
As soon as she was some distance away, he stuck his head out of the window and cried: ‘Off you go.’
The cab set off again, and deposited him in front of Le Coq-Faisan, a popular middle-class restaurant in the area. Georges went into the main dining-room and ate in a leisurely way, occasionally checking the time on his watch. At seven-thirty, having drunk his coffee, enjoyed two glasses of excellent champagne, and slowly smoked a good cigar, he left, hailed another cab that was empty, and had himself driven to the Rue La Rochefoucauld.
Without consulting the concierge he climbed up to the third floor of the house he had asked for, and said, when a servant opened a door: ‘M. Guilbert de Lorme is at home, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, Monsieur.’
He was shown into the drawing-room, where he waited for a few moments. Then a tall, military-looking man wearing decorations came in; his hair was grey although he was still young.
Du Roy bowed, then said: ‘Just as I foresaw, Monsieur le Commissaire de Police, my wife is dining with her lover in the furnished rooms they have taken in the Rue des Martyrs.’*
The superintendent bowed: ‘I am at your service, Monsieur.’
Georges continued: ‘You have until nine, do you not? After that hour, you may no longer enter a private residence to substantiate an adultery.’
‘Correct, Monsieur, seven o’clock in winter, nine o’clock after the 31st of March. Today’s the 5th of April, so we have until nine.’
‘Well, Monsieur le Commissaire, I’ve a cab down in the street, we can pick up the constables you’ll take with you, and then we can wait for a while at the door. The later we arrive, the better chance we have of catching them in the act.’
‘As you wish, Monsieur.’
The superintendent left the room, then returned wearing an overcoat that concealed his tricoloured sash. He stood aside to let Du Roy pass. But the journalist, his thoughts elsewhere, refused to go first, saying: ‘After you… after you.’ The policeman declared: ‘After you, Monsieur, I’m in my own home.’ The other, bowing, walked out of the door.
They went first to the police station to pick up three constables in civilian dress who were waiting, for Georges had sent word, during the day, that the surprise visit would take place that very evening. One of the men climbed onto the front seat, beside the driver. The other two got inside the cab, which then drove to the Rue des Martyrs.
Du Roy said: ‘I have the plan of the apartment. It’s on the second floor. First there’s a little vestibule, then a dining-room, then the bedroom. The three rooms are connected. There’s no exit they can use to get away. There’s a locksmith a little further down the road. He’s prepared to have his services requisitioned.’
When they had reached the house in question it was only eight-fifteen, and they waited in silence for more than twenty minutes. But when he saw that a quarter to nine was about to strike, Georges said: ‘We’ll go now.’ They climbed the stairs without troubling the porter, who in any case did not see them. One of the policemen remained in the street to guard the exit.
The four men halted at the second floor, and first Du Roy placed his ear against the door, and then his eye to the keyhole. He heard nothing and saw nothing. He rang.
The superintendent said to his men: ‘You’re to stay here, ready in case we call.’
And they waited. After two or three minutes Georges rang the bell again, several times in a row. They heard a noise at the rear of the flat, and then a light step approaching. Someone was coming to check. Then the journalist rapped sharply with his knuckles on the wooden panels.
A voice, a woman’s voice, that someone was trying to disguise, asked: ‘Who’s there?’
The superintendent replied: ‘Open, in the name of the law.’
The voice repeated: ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m the Superintendent of Police. Open the door, or I’ll break it in.’
The voice went on: ‘What do you want?’
And Du Roy said: ‘It’s me. It’s useless to try to escape us.’
The light step, the step of feet that were bare, withdrew, then returned after a few seconds.
Georges said: ‘If you won’t open, we’ll break down the door.’ He was gripping the brass door-handle and pushing slowly with one shoulder. As there was no reply, he suddenly gave such a violent, powerful shove that the old lock of this furnished apartment house gave way. The screws pulled right out of the wood and the young man almost fell onto Madeleine, who was standing in the vestibule dressed in a bodice and petticoat, her hair down, her legs bare, holding a candle in her hand.
He exclaimed: ‘That’s her, we’ve got them.’ And he shot into the apartment. The superintendent, who had removed his hat, followed him. The frightened young woman came behind, lighting their way.
They passed through a dining-room with a table still laden with the remains of a meal: empty champagne bottles, an opened terrine of foie gras, a chicken carcass and some half-eaten pieces of bread. Two plates lying on the dresser bore piles of oyster shells.
The bedroom looked as if it had been wrecked in a fight. A dress covered a chair, a pair of men’s trousers straddled the arm of an easy chair. Four boots, two small and two large, lay on their sides at the foot of the bed.
It was one of those bedrooms typical of furnished flats, wi
th inferior furniture and that horrible stale smell of hotel rooms, a smell that comes from the curtains, the mattresses, the walls, and the chairs, the smell of all the individuals who have slept or lived, for a single day or for six months, in this public lodging, leaving there something of their scent, of that human scent which, added to that of their predecessors, eventually becomes a mixed, sweet, intolerable stench, the same in all such places.
A plate of cakes, a bottle of Chartreuse, and two little glasses–still half-full–stood on the mantelpiece. The ornament decorating the bronze clock was hidden by a man’s large hat.
The superintendent turned sharply and, looking Madeleine straight in the eye: ‘You are indeed Mme Claire-Madeleine Du Roy, the lawful wife of M. Prosper-Georges Du Roy, journalist, here present?’ She said in a hoarse voice: ‘Yes, Monsieur.’
‘What are you doing here?’
She made no reply. The official asked again: ‘What are you doing here? I find you away from your home, half-dressed, in a furnished room. What did you come here for?’
He waited for a few moments. Then, as she still kept silent: ‘Since you refuse to admit anything, Madame, I shall be obliged to establish the facts.’
In the bed, the outline of a body could be seen, hidden by the sheet.
The superintendent approached and called: ‘Monsieur?’
The man in the bed did not move. He seemed to have turned his back, and buried his head under a pillow.
The official touched what appeared to be his shoulder, and repeated: ‘Monsieur, do not oblige me, I beg you, to resort to force.’ But the veiled form remained as motionless as if it were dead.
Du Roy, who had quickly moved forward, grabbed the coverlet, pulled it off, and, snatching up the pillow, revealed the dreadfully white face of M. Laroche-Mathieu. He bent over him and, trembling with the desire to grab him by the neck and strangle him, said between clenched teeth:
‘At least have the courage to admit your infamy.’
The official asked again: ‘Who are you?’
As the terrified lover made no answer, he went on: ‘I am a Superintendent of Police and I require you to tell me your name!’
Georges, trembling with savage fury, cried: ‘Answer him, you coward, or I myself will name you.’
At that, the man in the bed stammered: ‘Monsieur le Commissaire, you should not allow me to be insulted by this individual. Am I dealing with him or with you? Am I answerable to you or to him?’
He appeared to have no more saliva left in his mouth.
The official replied: ‘To me, Monsieur, to me alone. I am asking who you are?’
The other said nothing. He was holding the sheet tightly round his neck and rolling his eyes in fright. His little curly moustache looked dead black against his white face.
The superintendent continued: ‘You don’t wish to reply? Then I shall be forced to arrest you. In any case, get up. I shall question you when you are dressed.’
The body moved restlessly in the bed, and the head muttered: ‘But I can’t, in front of you.’
The policeman asked: ‘Why not?’
The other stammered: ‘Because I’m… because I’m… I’m completely naked.’
Du Roy gave a nasty laugh and, picking up a shirt that had fallen on the floor, he threw it on to the bed, crying: ‘Come on… get up… Since you undressed in front of my wife, you can perfectly well dress in front of me.’
Then he turned his back, and walked towards the fireplace.
Madeleine had recovered her composure and, seeing that all was lost, was ready to dare anything. Her eyes gleamed in brazen defiance as she twisted a scrap of paper and lit, as if for a party, the ten candles in the ugly candelabra that stood on the ends of the mantelpiece. Then she leaned her back against the marble and holding one of her bare feet to the dying fire–thereby raising up the back of her petticoat which barely covered her hips–she took a cigarette from a pink paper packet, lit it, and began to smoke.
The superintendent had returned to her, while waiting for her accomplice to get up.
She asked insolently: ‘Do you do this work often, Monsieur?’
He replied gravely: ‘As little as possible, Madame.’
She smiled at him defiantly: ‘I congratulate you, it’s a dirty job.’
She made a show of not looking at, not seeing, her husband.
But the gentleman in the bed was getting dressed. He had put on his trousers and his boots, and walked over, slipping on his waistcoat.
The police official turned towards him: ‘Now, Monsieur, will you tell me who you are?’ There was no reply. The superintendent declared: ‘I find myself forced to arrest you.’
Then the man suddenly exclaimed: ‘Don’t touch me, I am immune from the law!’*
Du Roy leapt at him, as if to knock him down, and growled into his face: ‘It’s a case of flagrante delicto… flagrante delicto. I can have you arrested, if I want to… yes, I can.’
Then, in ringing tones: ‘This man’s name is Laroche-Mathieu; he’s the Minister for Foreign Affairs.’
The police superintendent stepped back in astonishment, stammering: ‘For the last time, Monsieur, will you tell me who you are?’
The man made up his mind, and said forcefully: ‘For once, the bastard didn’t lie. I am indeed Laroche-Mathieu, the minister.’
Then, reaching out to point at Georges’s chest, where a little red dot gleamed like a tiny light, he added: ‘And this scoundrel’s wearing on his coat the Legion of Honour I gave him.’
Du Roy had gone dreadfully pale. With a rapid movement he snatched the small flame-coloured ribbon from his button-hole and, throwing it into the fireplace: ‘Here’s what a decoration that comes from swine like you is worth.’
Face to face they stood there, jaw to jaw, enraged, their fists clenched, one thin, his moustache flowing, the other fat, his moustache curling up.
The superintendent moved quickly between the two of them, and, separating them with his hands: ‘Gentlemen, you forget yourselves, this is beneath you!’ In silence, they turned on their heels. Madeleine stood motionless, still smoking, smiling.
The policeman continued: ‘Minister, I found you alone with Mme Du Roy here present, you in bed, with her almost naked. Since your clothes were lying in disorder about the room, this constitutes a case of adultery in flagrante delicto. You cannot deny the evidence. What have you to say?’
Laroche-Mathieu murmured: ‘I’ve nothing to say, do your duty.’
The superintendent addressed himself to Madeleine: ‘Do you admit, Madame, that this gentleman is your lover?’
She declared brazenly: ‘I don’t deny it, he is my lover!’
‘That is sufficient.’
Then the policeman made some notes on the condition and the arrangement of the flat. As he was completing these notes, the minister, who had finished dressing and was waiting with his overcoat on his arm and his hat in his hand, asked:
‘Do you still need me, Monsieur? What should I do? May I go?’
Du Roy turned towards him, smiling insolently. ‘Why go? We’ve finished. You may get back into bed, Monsieur, we’re going to leave you alone.’
And, putting his hand on the superintendent’s arm: ‘Let us leave, Monsieur le Commissaire, we’ve no further business here.’
Somewhat taken aback, the official followed him; but on the threshold of the bedroom Georges halted to let him go first. The other politely refused. Du Roy insisted: ‘After you, Monsieur.’ The policeman said: ‘After you.’ At that the journalist bowed, and declared in a tone of ironic courtesy: ‘It’s your turn, Monsieur le Commissaire. I am almost in my own home, here.’ Then, discreetly, he gently closed the door behind him.
An hour later, Georges Du Roy walked into the offices of La Vie française.
M. Walter was there already, for he continued vigilantly to direct and oversee his newspaper, which had grown enormously, and which was very valuable to the ever-increasing business of his bank.
&n
bsp; The Director raised his head and enquired: ‘Goodness, you here? You look ever so strange. Why didn’t you come to the house for dinner? Where have you been?’
The young man, certain of the effect, declared, emphasizing every word: ‘I’ve just brought down the Minister for Foreign Affairs.’
The other thought he was joking. ‘Brought down… what did you say?’
‘I’m going to change the cabinet. That’s all! It’s high time we got rid of that filthy skunk.’
Stupefied, the old man believed his reporter must be drunk. He muttered: ‘Come on, you’re raving.’
‘Not at all. I’ve just caught M. Laroche-Mathieu in flagrante delicto with my wife. The Commissaire de Police has proof of the affair. The minister’s done for.’
Walter, bewildered, pushed his glasses right up on his forehead and asked: ‘You’re not having me on?’
‘By no means. I’m even going to write a paragraph for the gossip column about it.’
‘But what is it you want, then?’
‘To disgrace that rogue, that wretch, that public menace!’ Georges put his hat on an armchair, then added: ‘Woe betide anyone who gets in my way. I never forgive.’
The Director was still not sure he understood. He murmured: ‘But… your wife?’
‘I’m going to file for divorce* first thing in the morning. I’m giving her back to the late lamented M. Forestier.’
‘You mean to divorce?’
‘I most certainly do! I was a ridiculous figure. But I had to act stupid in order to catch them. I’ve done it. I’ve got the upper hand.’
M. Walter could not take it in; and he gazed at Du Roy in bewilderment, thinking: ‘God! Here’s a fellow one should handle with kid gloves.’
Georges continued: ‘I’ m free now… I’ve a little money. I’ll stand for election at the October polls, back home, where I’m very well known. I couldn’t establish myself as a man of good standing, a man to be respected, with that wife whom everybody mistrusted. Like an idiot I was taken in by her, she conned me and she caught me. But since I discovered what she was up to, I’ve kept my eye on the bitch.’
Bel-Ami (Oxford World's Classics) Page 38
