The Guy De Maupassant Megapack: 144 Novels and Short Stories

by Guy de Maupassant

  “Yes sir.”

  He was ushered into the drawing-room, where he waited for a few minutes. Then a gentleman came in, tall, and with a military bearing, gray-haired though still young, and wearing the ribbon of the Legion of Honor. Du Roy bowed, and said: “As I foresaw, Mr. Commissionary, my wife is now dining with her lover in the furnished rooms they have hired in the Rue des Martyrs.”

  The commissary of police bowed, saying: “I am at your service, sir.”

  George continued: “You have until nine o’clock, have you not? That limit of time passed, you can no longer enter a private dwelling to prove adultery.”

  “No, sir; seven o’clock in winter, nine o’clock from the 31st March. It is the 5th of April, so we have till nine o’clock.

  “Very well, Mr. Commissionary, I have a cab downstairs; we can take the officers who will accompany you, and wait a little before the door. The later we arrive the best chance we have of catching them in the act.”

  “As you like, sir.”

  The commissary left the room, and then returned with an overcoat, hiding his tri-colored sash. He drew back to let Du Roy pass out first. But the journalist, who was preoccupied, declined to do so, and kept saying: “After you, sir, after you.”

  The commissary said: “Go first, sir, I am at home.”

  George bowed, and passed out. They went first to the police office to pick up three officers in plain clothes who were awaiting them, for George had given notice during the day that the surprise would take place that evening. One of the men got on the box beside the driver. The other two entered the cab, which reached the Rue des Martyrs. Du Roy said: “I have a plan of the rooms. They are on the second floor. We shall first find a little ante-room, then a dining-room, then the bedroom. The three rooms open into one another. There is no way out to facilitate flight. There is a locksmith a little further on. He is holding himself in readiness to be called upon by you.”

  When they arrived opposite the house it was only a quarter past eight, and they waited in silence for more than twenty minutes. But when he saw the three quarters about to strike, George said: “Let us start now.”

  They went up the stairs without troubling themselves about the doorkeeper, who, indeed, did not notice them. One of the officers remained in the street to keep watch on the front door. The four men stopped at the second floor, and George put his ear to the door and then looked through the keyhole. He neither heard nor saw anything. He rang the bell.

  The commissary said to the officers: “You will remain in readiness till called on.”

  And they waited. At the end of two or three minutes George again pulled the bell several times in succession. They noted a noise from the further end of the rooms, and then a slight step approached. Someone was coming to spy who was there. The journalist then rapped smartly on the panel of the door. A voice, a woman’s voice, that an attempt was evidently being made to disguise asked: “Who is there?”

  The commissary replied: “Open, in the name of the law.”

  The voice repeated: “Who are you?”

  “I am the commissary of police. Open the door, or I will have it broken in.”

  The voice went on: “What do you want?”

  Du Roy said: “It is I. It is useless to seek to escape.”

  The light steps, the tread of bare feet, was heard to withdraw, and then in a few seconds to return.

  George said: “If you won’t open, we will break in the door.”

  He grasped the handle, and pushed slowly with his shoulder. As there was no longer any reply, he suddenly gave such a violent and vigorous shock that the old lock gave way. The screws were torn out of the wood, and he almost fell over Madeleine, who was standing in the ante-room, clad in a chemise and petticoat, her hair down, her legs bare, and a candle in her hand.

  He exclaimed: “It is she, we have them,” and darted forward into the rooms. The commissary, having taken off his hat, followed him, and the startled woman came after, lighting the way. They crossed a drawing-room, the uncleaned table of which displayed the remnants of a repast—empty champagne bottles, an open pot of fatted goose liver, the body of a fowl, and some half-eaten bits of bread. Two plates piled on the sideboard were piled with oyster shells.

  The bedroom seemed disordered, as though by a struggle. A dress was thrown over a chair, a pair of trousers hung astride the arm of another. Four boots, two large and two small, lay on their sides at the foot of the bed. It was the room of a house let out in furnished lodgings, with commonplace furniture, filled with that hateful and sickening smell of all such places, the odor of all the people who had slept or lived there a day or six months. A plate of cakes, a bottle of chartreuse, and two liqueur glasses, still half full, encumbered the mantel-shelf. The upper part of the bronze clock was hidden by a man’s hat.

  The commissary turned round sharply, and looking Madeleine straight in the face, said: “You are Madame Claire Madeleine Du Roy, wife of Monsieur Prosper George Du Roy, journalist, here present?”

  She uttered in a choking voice: “Yes, sir.”

  “What are you doing here?” She did not answer.

  The commissary went on: “What are you doing here? I find you away from home, almost undressed, in furnished apartments. What did you come here for?” He waited for a few moments. Then, as she still remained silent, he continued: “Since you will not confess, madame, I shall be obliged to verify the state of things.”

  In the bed could be seen the outline of a form hidden beneath the clothes. The commissary approached and said: “Sir.”

  The man in bed did not stir. He seemed to have his back turned, and his head buried under a pillow. The commissary touched what seemed to be his shoulder, and said: “Sir, do not, I beg of you, force me to take action.”

  But the form still remained as motionless as a corpse. Du Roy, who had advanced quickly, seized the bed-clothes, pulled them down, and tearing away the pillow, revealed the pale face of Monsieur Laroche-Mathieu. He bent over him, and, quivering with the desire to seize him by the throat and strangle him, said, between his clenched teeth: “Have at least the courage of your infamy.”

  The commissary again asked: “Who are you?”

  The bewildered lover not replying, he continued: “I am a commissary of police, and I summon you to tell me your name.”

  George, who was quivering with brutal wrath, shouted: “Answer, you coward, or I will tell your name myself.”

  Then the man in the bed stammered: “Mr. Commissary, you ought not to allow me to be insulted by this person. Is it with you or with him that I have to do? Is it to you or to him that I have to answer?”

  His mouth seemed to be dried up as he spoke.

  The commissary replied: “With me, sir; with me alone. I ask you who you are?”

  The other was silent. He held the sheet close up to his neck, and rolled his startled eyes. His little, curled-up moustache showed up black upon his blanched face.

  The commissary continued: “You will not answer, eh? Then I shall be forced to arrest you. In any case, get up. I will question you when you are dressed.”

  The body wriggled in the bed, and the head murmured: “But I cannot, before you.”

  The commissary asked: “Why not?”

  The other stammered: “Because I am—I am—quite naked.”

  Du Roy began to chuckle sneeringly, and picking up a shirt that had fallen onto the floor, threw it onto the bed, exclaiming: “Come, get up. Since you have undressed in my wife’s presence, you can very well dress in mine.”

  Then he turned his back, and returned towards the fireplace. Madeleine had recovered all her coolness, and seeing that all was lost, was ready to dare anything. Her eyes glittered with bravado, and twisting up a piece of paper she lit, as though for a reception, the ten candles in the ugly candelabra, placed at the corners of the mantel-shelf. Then, leaning against this, and holding out backwards to the dying fire one of her bare feet which she lifted up behind the petticoat, scarcely sticking t
o her hips, she took a cigarette from a pink paper case, lit it, and began to smoke. The commissary had returned towards her, pending that her accomplice got up.

  She inquired insolently: “Do you often have such jobs as these, sir?”

  He replied gravely: “As seldom as possible, madame.”

  She smiled in his face, saying: “I congratulate you; it is dirty work.”

  She affected not to look at or even to see her husband.

  But the gentleman in the bed was dressing. He had put on his trousers, pulled on his boots, and now approached putting on his waistcoat. The commissary turned towards him, saying: “Now, sir, will you tell me who you are?”

  He made no reply, and the official said: “I find myself obliged to arrest you.”

  Then the man exclaimed suddenly: “Do not lay hands on me. My person is inviolable.”

  Du Roy darted towards him as though to throw him down, and growled in his face: “Caught in the act, in the act. I can have you arrested if I choose; yes, I can.” Then, in a ringing tone, he added: “This man is Laroche-Mathieu, Minister of Foreign Affairs.”

  The commissary drew back, stupefied, and stammered: “Really, sir, will you tell me who you are?”

  The other had made up his mind, and said in forcible tones: “For once that scoundrel has not lied. I am, indeed, Laroche-Mathieu, the minister.” Then, holding out his hand towards George’s chest, in which a little bit of red ribbon showed itself, he added: “And that rascal wears on his coat the cross of honor which I gave him.”

  Du Roy had become livid. With a rapid movement he tore the bit of ribbon from his buttonhole, and, throwing it into the fireplace, exclaimed: “That is all that is fit for a decoration coming from a swine like you.”

  They were quite close, face to face, exasperated, their fists clenched, the one lean, with a flowing moustache, the other stout, with a twisted one. The commissary stepped rapidly between the pair, and pushing them apart with his hands, observed: “Gentlemen, you are forgetting yourselves; you are lacking in self-respect.”

  They became quiet and turned on their heels. Madeleine, motionless, was still smoking in silence.

  The police official resumed: “Sir, I have found you alone with Madame Du Roy here, you in bed, she almost naked, with your clothes scattered about the room. This is legal evidence of adultery. You cannot deny this evidence. What have you to say for yourself?”

  Laroche-Mathieu murmured: “I have nothing to say; do your duty.”

  The commissary addressed himself to Madeleine: “Do you admit, madame, that this gentleman is your lover?”

  She said with a certain swagger: “I do not deny it; he is my lover.”

  “That is enough.”

  The commissary made some notes as to the condition and arrangement of the rooms. As he was finishing writing, the minister, who had finished dressing, and was waiting with his greatcoat over his arm and his hat in his hand, said: “Have you still need of me, sir? What am I to do? Can I withdraw?”

  Du Roy turned towards him, and smiling insolently, said: “Why so? We have finished. You can go to bed again, sir; we will leave you alone.” And placing a finger on the official’s arm, he continued: “Let us retire, Mr. Commissary, we have nothing more to do in this place.”

  Somewhat surprised, the commissary followed, but on the threshold of the room George stopped to allow him to pass. The other declined, out of politeness. Du Roy persisted, saying: “Pass first, sir.”

  “After you, sir,” replied the commissary.

  The journalist bowed, and in a tone of ironical politeness, said: “It is your turn, sir; I am almost at home here.”

  Then he softly reclosed the door with an air of discretion.

  An hour later George Du Roy entered the offices of the Vie Francaise. Monsieur Walter was already there, for he continued to manage and supervise with solicitude his paper, which had enormously increased in circulation, and greatly helped the schemes of his bank. The manager raised his head and said: “Ah! here you are. You look very strange. Why did you not come to dinner with us? What have you been up to?”

  The young fellow, sure of his effect, said, emphasizing every word: “I have just upset the Minister of Foreign Affairs.”

  The other thought he was joking, and said: “Upset what?”

  “I am going to turn out the Cabinet. That is all. It is quite time to get rid of that rubbish.”

  The old man thought that his leader-writer must be drunk. He murmured: “Come, you are talking nonsense.”

  “Not at all. I have just caught Monsieur Laroche-Mathieu committing adultery with my wife. The commissary of police has verified the fact. The minister is done for.”

  Walter, amazed, pushed his spectacles right back on his forehead, and said: “You are not joking?”

  “Not at all. I am even going to write an article on it.”

  “But what do you want to do?”

  “To upset that scoundrel, that wretch, that open evil-doer.” George placed his hat on an armchair, and added: “Woe to those who cross my path. I never forgive.”

  The manager still hesitated at understanding matters. He murmured: “But—your wife?”

  “My application for a divorce will be lodged tomorrow morning. I shall send her back to the departed Forestier.”

  “You mean to get a divorce?”

  “Yes. I was ridiculous. But I had to play the idiot in order to catch them. That’s done. I am master of the situation.”

  Monsieur Walter could not get over it, and watched Du Roy with startling eyes, thinking: “Hang it, here is a fellow to be looked after.”

  George went on: “I am now free. I have some money. I shall offer myself as a candidate at the October elections for my native place, where I am well known. I could not take a position or make myself respected with that woman, who was suspected by every one. She had caught me like a fool, humbugged and ensnared me. But since I became alive to her little game I kept watch on her, the slut.” He began to laugh, and added: “It was poor Forestier who was cuckold, a cuckold without imagining it, confiding and tranquil. Now I am free from the leprosy he left me. My hands are free. Now I shall get on.” He had seated himself astride a chair, and repeated, as though thinking aloud, “I shall get on.”

  And Daddy Walter, still looking at him with unveiled eyes, his spectacles remaining pushed up on his forehead, said to himself: “Yes, he will get on, the rascal.”

  George rose. “I am going to write the article. It must be done discreetly. But you know it will be terrible for the minister. He has gone to smash. He cannot be picked up again. The Vie Francaise has no longer any interest to spare him.”

  The old fellow hesitated for a few moments, and then made up his mind. “Do so,” said he; “so much the worse for those who get into such messes.”

  XVII

  Three months had elapsed. Du Roy’s divorce had just been granted. His wife had resumed the name of Forestier, and, as the Walters were to leave on the 15th of July for Trouville, it was decided that he and they should spend a day in the country together before they started. A Thursday was selected, and they started at nine in the morning in a large traveling landau with six places, drawn by four horses with postilions. They were going to lunch at the Pavilion Henri-Quatre at Saint Germain. Pretty-boy had asked to be the only man of the party, for he could not endure the presence of the Marquis de Cazolles. But at the last moment it was decided that the Count de Latour-Yvelin should be called for on the way. He had been told the day before.

  The carriage passed up the Avenue of the Champs Elyseés at a swinging trot, and then traversed the Bois de Boulogne. It was splendid summer weather, not too warm. The swallows traced long sweeping lines across the blue sky that one fancied one could still see after they had passed. The three ladies occupied the back seat, the mother between her daughters, and the men were with their backs to the horses, Walter between the two guests. They crossed the Seine, skirted Mount Valerien, and gained Bougival in order to
follow the river as far as Le Pecq.

  The Count de Latour-Yvelin, a man advancing towards middle-age, with long, light whiskers, gazed tenderly at Rose. They had been engaged for a month. George, who was very pale, often looked at Susan, who was pale too. Their eyes often met, and seemed to concert something, to understand one another, to secretly exchange a thought, and then to flee one another. Madame Walter was quiet and happy.

  The lunch was a long one. Before starting back for Paris, George suggested a turn on the terrace. They stopped at first to admire the view. All ranged themselves in a line along the parapet, and went into ecstasies over the far-stretching horizon. The Seine at the foot of a long hill flowed towards Maisons-Lafitte like an immense serpent stretched in the herbage. To the right, on the summit of the slope, the aqueduct of Marly showed against the skyline its outline, resembling that of a gigantic, long-legged caterpillar, and Marly was lost beneath it in a thick cluster of trees. On the immense plain extending in front of them, villages could be seen dotted. The pieces of water at Le Vesinet showed like clear spots amidst the thin foliage of the little forest. To the left, away in the distance, the pointed steeple of Sastrouville could be seen.

  Walter said: “Such a panorama is not to be found anywhere in the world. There is not one to match it in Switzerland.”

  Then they began to walk on gently, to have a stroll and enjoy the prospect. George and Susan remained behind. As soon as they were a few paces off, he said to her in a low and restrained voice: “Susan, I adore you. I love you to madness.”

  She murmured: “So do I you, Pretty-boy.”

  He went on: “If I do not have you for my wife, I shall leave Paris and this country.”