But having paused to allow a perfumed lady, alighting from her carriage and entering her house, to pass before him, he drew in with eager breath the scent of vervain and orris root floating in the air. His lungs and heart throbbed suddenly with hope and joy, and the recollection of Madame de Marelle, whom he was to see the next day, assailed him from head to foot. All smiled on him, life welcomed him with kindness. How sweet was the realization of hopes!
He fell asleep, intoxicated with this idea, and rose early to take a stroll down the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne before keeping his appointment. The wind having changed, the weather had grown milder during the night, and it was as warm and as sunny as in April. All the frequenters of the Bois had sallied out that morning, yielding to the summons of a bright, clear day. Duroy walked along slowly. He passed the Arc de Triomphe, and went along the main avenue. He watched the people on horseback, ladies and gentlemen, trotting and galloping, the rich folk of the world, and scarcely envied them now. He knew them almost all by name—knew the amount of their fortune, and the secret history of their life, his duties having made him a kind of directory of the celebrities and the scandals of Paris.
Ladies rode past, slender, and sharply outlined in the dark cloth of their habits, with that proud and unassailable air many women have on horseback, and Duroy amused himself by murmuring the names, titles, and qualities of the lovers whom they had had, or who were attributed to them. Sometimes, instead of saying “Baron de Tanquelot,” “Prince de la Tour-Enguerrand,” he murmured “Lesbian fashion, Louise Michot of the Vaudeville, Rose Marquetin of the Opera.”
The game greatly amused him, as if he had verified, beneath grave outward appearances, the deep, eternal infamy of mankind, and as if this had excited, rejoiced, and consoled him. Then he said aloud: “Set of hypocrites!” and sought out with his eye the horsemen concerning whom the worst tales were current. He saw many, suspected of cheating at play, for whom their clubs were, at all events, their chief, their sole source of livelihood, a suspicious one, at any rate. Others, very celebrated, lived only, it was well known, on the income of their wives; others, again, it was affirmed, on that of their mistresses. Many had paid their debts, an honorable action, without it ever being guessed whence the money had come—a very equivocal mystery. He saw financiers whose immense fortune had had its origin in a theft, and who were received everywhere, even in the most noble houses; then men so respected that the lower middle-class took off their hats on their passage, but whose shameless speculations in connection with great national enterprises were a mystery for none of those really acquainted with the inner side of things. All had a haughty look, a proud lip, an insolent eye. Duroy still laughed, repeating: “A fine lot; a lot of blackguards, of sharpers.”
But a pretty little open carriage passed, drawn by two white ponies with flowing manes and tails, and driven by a pretty fair girl, a well-known courtesan, who had two grooms seated behind her. Duroy halted with a desire to applaud this mushroom of love, who displayed so boldly at this place and time set apart for aristocratic hypocrites the dashing luxury earned between her sheets. He felt, perhaps vaguely, that there was something in common between them—a tie of nature, that they were of the same race, the same spirit, and that his success would be achieved by daring steps of the same kind. He walked back more slowly, his heart aglow with satisfaction, and arrived a little in advance of the time at the door of his former mistress.
She received him with proffered lips, as though no rupture had taken place, and she even forgot for a few moments the prudence that made her opposed to all caresses at her home. Then she said, as she kissed the ends of his moustache: “You don’t know what a vexation has happened to me, darling? I was hoping for a nice honeymoon, and here is my husband home for six weeks. He has obtained leave. But I won’t remain six weeks without seeing you, especially after our little tiff, and this is how I have arranged matters. You are to come and dine with us on Monday. I have already spoken to him about you, and I will introduce you.”
Duroy hesitated, somewhat perplexed, never yet having found himself face to face with a man whose wife he had enjoyed. He was afraid lest something might betray him—a slight embarrassment, a look, no matter what. He stammered out: “No, I would rather not make your husband’s acquaintance.”
She insisted, very much astonished, standing before him with wide open, wondering eyes. “But why? What a funny thing. It happens every day. I should not have thought you such a goose.”
He was hurt, and said: “Very well, I will come to dinner on Monday.”
She went on: “In order that it may seem more natural I will ask the Forestiers, though I really do not like entertaining people at home.”
Until Monday Duroy scarcely thought any more about the interview, but on mounting the stairs at Madame de Marelle’s he felt strangely uneasy, not that it was so repugnant to him to take her husband’s hand, to drink his wine, and eat his bread, but because he felt afraid of something without knowing what. He was shown into the drawing-room and waited as usual. Soon the door of the inner room opened, and he saw a tall, white-bearded man, wearing the ribbon of the Legion of Honor, grave and correct, who advanced towards him with punctilious politeness, saying: “My wife has often spoken to me of you, sir, and I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”
Duroy stepped forward, seeking to impart to his face a look of expressive cordiality, and grasped his host’s hand with exaggerated energy. Then, having sat down, he could find nothing to say.
Monsieur de Marelle placed a log upon the fire, and inquired: “Have you been long engaged in journalism?”
“Only a few months.”
“Ah! you have got on quickly?”
“Yes, fairly so,” and he began to chat at random, without thinking very much about what he was saying, talking of all the trifles customary among men who do not know one another. He was growing seasoned now, and thought the situation a very amusing one. He looked at Monsieur de Marelle’s serious and respectable face, with a temptation to laugh, as he thought: “I have cuckolded you, old fellow, I have cuckolded you.” A vicious, inward satisfaction stole over him—the satisfaction of a thief who has been successful, and is not even suspected—a delicious, roguish joy. He suddenly longed to be the friend of this man, to win his confidence, to get him to relate the secrets of his life.
Madame de Marelle came in suddenly, and having taken them in with a smiling and impenetrable glance, went toward Duroy, who dared not, in the presence of her husband, kiss her hand as he always did. She was calm, and light-hearted as a person accustomed to everything, finding this meeting simple and natural in her frank and native trickery. Laurine appeared, and went and held up her forehead to George more quietly than usual, her father’s presence intimidating her. Her mother said to her: “Well, you don’t call him Pretty-boy today.” And the child blushed as if a serious indiscretion had been committed, a thing that ought not to have been mentioned, revealed, an intimate and, so to say, guilty secret of her heart laid bare.
When the Forestiers arrived, all were alarmed at the condition of Charles. He had grown frightfully thin and pale within a week, and coughed incessantly. He stated, besides, that he was leaving for Cannes on the following Thursday, by the doctor’s imperative orders. They left early, and Duroy said, shaking his head: “I think he is very bad. He will never make old bones.”
Madame de Marelle said, calmly: “Oh! he is done for. There is a man who was lucky in finding the wife he did.”
Duroy asked: “Does she help him much?”
“She does everything. She is acquainted with everything that is going on; she knows everyone without seeming to go and see anybody; she obtains what she wants as she likes. Oh! she is keen, clever, and intriguing as no one else is. She is a treasure for anyone wanting to get on.”
George said: “She will marry again very quickly, no doubt?”
Madame de Marelle replied: “Yes. I should not be surprised if she had some one already in her eye—a de
puty, unless, indeed, he objects—for—for—there may be serious—moral—obstacles. But then—I don’t really know.”
Monsieur de Marelle grumbled with slow impatience: “You are always suspecting a number of things that I do not like. Do not let us meddle with the affairs of others. Our conscience is enough to guide us. That should be a rule with everyone.”
Duroy withdrew, uneasy at heart, and with his mind full of vague plans. The next day he paid a visit to the Forestiers, and found them finishing their packing up. Charles, stretched on a sofa, exaggerated his difficulty of breathing, and repeated: “I ought to have been off a month ago.”
Then he gave George a series of recommendations concerning the paper, although everything had been agreed upon and settled with Monsieur Walter. As George left, he energetically squeezed his old comrade’s hand, saying: “Well, old fellow, we shall have you back soon.” But as Madame Forestier was showing him out, he said to her, quickly: “You have not forgotten our agreement? We are friends and allies, are we not? So if you have need of me, for no matter what, do not hesitate. Send a letter or a telegram, and I will obey.”
She murmured: “Thanks, I will not forget.” And her eye, too, said “Thanks,” in a deeper and tenderer fashion.
As Duroy went downstairs, he met slowly coming up Monsieur de Vaudrec, whom he had met there once before. The Count appeared sad, at this departure, perhaps. Wishing to show his good breeding, the journalist eagerly bowed. The other returned the salutation courteously, but in a somewhat dignified manner.
The Forestiers left on Thursday evening.
VII
Charles’s absence gave Duroy increased importance in the editorial department of the Vie Francaise. He signed several leaders besides his “Echoes,” for the governor insisted on everyone assuming the responsibility of his “copy.” He became engaged in several newspaper controversies, in which he acquitted himself creditably, and his constant relations with different statesmen were gradually preparing him to become in his turn a clever and perspicuous political editor. There was only one cloud on his horizon. It came from a little free-lance newspaper, which continually assailed him, or rather in him assailed the chief writer of “Echoes” in the Vie Francaise, the chief of “Monsieur Walter’s startlers,” as it was put by the anonymous writer of the Plume. Day by day cutting paragraphs, insinuations of every kind, appeared in it.
One day Jacques Rival said to Duroy: “You are very patient.”
Duroy replied: “What can I do, there is no direct attack?”
But one afternoon, as he entered the editor’s room, Boisrenard held out the current number of the Plume, saying: “Here’s another spiteful dig at you.”
“Ah! what about?”
“Oh! a mere nothing—the arrest of a Madame Aubert by the police.”
George took the paper, and read, under the heading, “Duroy’s Latest”:
“The illustrious reporter of the Vie Francaise today informs us that Madame Aubert, whose arrest by a police agent belonging to the odious brigade des mœurs we announced, exists only in our imagination. Now the person in question lives at 18 Rue de l’Ecureuil, Montmartre. We understand only too well, however, the interest the agents of Walter’s bank have in supporting those of the Prefect of Police, who tolerates their commerce. As to the reporter of whom it is a question, he would do better to give us one of those good sensational bits of news of which he has the secret—news of deaths contradicted the following day, news of battles which have never taken place, announcements of important utterances by sovereigns who have not said anything—all the news, in short, which constitutes Walter’s profits, or even one of those little indiscretions concerning entertainments given by would-be fashionable ladies, or the excellence of certain articles of consumption which are of such resource to some of our compeers.”
The young fellow was more astonished than annoyed, only understanding that there was something very disagreeable for him in all this.
Boisrenard went on: “Who gave you this ‘Echo’?”
Duroy thought for a moment, having forgotten. Then all at once the recollection occurred to him, “Saint-Potin.” He re-read the paragraph in the Plume and reddened, roused by the accusation of venality. He exclaimed: “What! do they mean to assert that I am paid—”
Boisrenard interrupted him: “They do, though. It is very annoying for you. The governor is very strict about that sort of thing. It might happen so often in the ‘Echoes.’”
Saint-Potin came in at that moment. Duroy hastened to him. “Have you seen the paragraph in the Plume?”
“Yes, and I have just come from Madame Aubert. She does exist, but she was not arrested. That much of the report has no foundation.”
Duroy hastened to the room of the governor, whom he found somewhat cool, and with a look of suspicion in his eye. After having listened to the statement of the case, Monsieur Walter said: “Go and see the woman yourself, and contradict the paragraph in such terms as will put a stop to such things being written about you any more. I mean the latter part of the paragraph. It is very annoying for the paper, for yourself, and for me. A journalist should no more be suspected than Cæsar’s wife.”
Duroy got into a cab, with Saint-Potin as his guide, and called out to the driver: “Number 18 Rue de l’Ecureuil, Montmartre.”
It was a huge house, in which they had to go up six flights of stairs. An old woman in a woolen jacket opened the door to them. “What is it you want with me now?” said she, on catching sight of Saint-Potin.
He replied: “I have brought this gentleman, who is an inspector of police, and who would like to hear your story.”
Then she let him in, saying: “Two more have been here since you, for some paper or other, I don’t know which,” and turning towards Duroy, added: “So this gentleman wants to know about it?”
“Yes. Were you arrested by an agent des mœurs?”
She lifted her arms into the air. “Never in my life, sir, never in my life. This is what it is all about. I have a butcher who sells good meat, but who gives bad weight. I have often noticed it without saying anything; but the other day, when I asked him for two pounds of chops, as I had my daughter and my son-in-law to dinner, I caught him weighing in bits of trimmings—trimmings of chops, it is true, but not of mine. I could have made a stew of them, it is true, as well, but when I ask for chops it is not to get other people’s trimmings. I refused to take them, and he calls me an old shark. I called him an old rogue, and from one thing to another we picked up such a row that there were over a hundred people round the shop, some of them laughing fit to split. So that at last a police agent came up and asked us to settle it before the commissary. We went, and he dismissed the case. Since then I get my meat elsewhere, and don’t even pass his door, in order to avoid his slanders.”
She ceased talking, and Duroy asked: “Is that all?”
“It is the whole truth, sir,” and having offered him a glass of cordial, which he declined, the old woman insisted on the short weight of the butcher being spoken of in the report.
On his return to the office, Duroy wrote his reply:
“An anonymous scribbler in the Plume seeks to pick a quarrel with me on the subject of an old woman whom he states was arrested by an agent des mœurs, which fact I deny. I have myself seen Madame Aubert—who is at least sixty years of age—and she told me in detail her quarrel with the butcher over the weighing of some chops, which led to an explanation before the commissary of police. This is the whole truth. As to the other insinuations of the writer in the Plume, I despise them. Besides, a man does not reply to such things when they are written under a mask.
“GEORGE DUROY.”
Monsieur Walter and Jacques Rival, who had come in, thought this note satisfactory, and it was settled that it should go in at once.
Duroy went home early, somewhat agitated and slightly uneasy. What reply would the other man make? Who was he? Why this brutal attack? With the brusque manners of journalists this affair migh
t go very far. He slept badly. When he read his reply in the paper next morning, it seemed to him more aggressive in print than in manuscript. He might, it seemed to him, have softened certain phrases. He felt feverish all day, and slept badly again at night. He rose at dawn to get the number of the Plume that must contain a reply to him.
The weather had turned cold again, it was freezing hard. The gutters, frozen while still flowing, showed like two ribbons of ice alongside the pavement. The morning papers had not yet come in, and Duroy recalled the day of his first article, “The Recollections of a Chasseur d’Afrique.” His hands and feet getting numbed, grew painful, especially the tips of his fingers, and he began to trot round the glazed kiosque in which the newspaper seller, squatting over her foot warmer, only showed through the little window a red nose and a pair of cheeks to match in a woolen hood. At length the newspaper porter passed the expected parcel through the opening, and the woman held out to Duroy an unfolded copy of the Plume.
He glanced through it in search of his name, and at first saw nothing. He was breathing again, when he saw between two dashes:
“Monsieur Duroy, of the Vie Francaise, contradicts us, and in contradicting us, lies. He admits, however, that there is a Madame Aubert, and that an agent took her before the commissary of police. It only remains, therefore, to add two words, ‘des mœurs,’ after the word ‘agent,’ and he is right. But the conscience of certain journalists is on a level with their talent. And I sign,
“LOUIS LANGREMONT.”
George’s heart began to beat violently, and he went home to dress without being too well aware of what he was doing. So he had been insulted, and in such a way that no hesitation was possible. And why? For nothing at all. On account of an old woman who had quarreled with her butcher.
The Guy De Maupassant Megapack: 144 Novels and Short Stories Page 160
