Bel Ami - Guy de Maupassant (best new books to read .txt) 📗

sensation. M. Walter congratulated the author, who soon became celebrated in political circles. His wife, too, surprised him by the ingenuousness of her mind, the cleverness of her wit, and the number of her acquaintances. At almost any time upon returning home he found in his salon a senator, a deputy, a magistrate, or a general, who treated Madeleine with grave familiarity.

Deputy Laroche-Mathieu, who dined at Rue Fontaine every Tuesday, was one of the largest stockholders of M. Walter’s paper and the latter’s colleague and associate in many business transactions. Du Roy hoped, later on, that some of the benefits promised by him to Forestier might fall to his share. They would be given to Madeleine’s new husband—that was all—nothing was changed; even his associates sometimes called him Forestier, and it made Du Roy furious at the dead. He grew to hate the very name; it was to him almost an insult. Even at home the obsession continued; the entire house reminded him of Charles.

One evening Du Roy, who liked sweetmeats, asked:

“Why do we never have sweets?”

His wife replied pleasantly: “I never think of it, because Charles disliked them.”

He interrupted her with an impatient gesture: “Do you know I am getting tired of Charles? It is Charles here, Charles there, Charles liked this, Charles liked that. Since Charles is dead, let him rest in peace.”

Madeleine ascribed her husband’s burst of ill humor to puerile jealousy, but she was flattered and did not reply. On retiring, haunted by the same thought, he asked:

“Did Charles wear a cotton nightcap to keep the draft out of his ears?”

She replied pleasantly: “No, a lace one!”

Georges shrugged his shoulders and said scornfully: “What a bird!”

From that time Georges never called Charles anything but “poor Charles,” with an accent of infinite pity. One evening as Du Roy was smoking a cigarette at his window, toward the end of June, the heat awoke in him a desire for fresh air. He asked:

“My little Made, would you like to go as far as the Bois?”

“Yes, certainly.”

They took an open carriage and drove to the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne. It was a sultry evening; a host of cabs lined the drive, one behind another. When the carriage containing Georges and Madeleine reached the turning which led to the fortifications, they kissed one another and Madeleine stammered in confusion: “We are as childish as we were at Rouen.”

The road they followed was not so much frequented, a gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the trees, the sky was studded with brilliant stars and Georges murmured, as he pressed his wife to his breast: “Oh, my little Made.”

She said to him: “Do you remember how gloomy the forest at Canteleu was? It seemed to me that it was full of horrible beasts and that it was interminable, while here it is charming. One can feel the caressing breezes, and I know that Sevres is on the other side.”

He replied: “In our forests there are nothing but stags, foxes, roebucks, and boars, with here and there a forester’s house.” He paused for a moment and then asked: “Did you come here in the evening with Charles occasionally?”

She replied: “Frequently.”

He felt a desire to return home at once. Forestier’s image haunted him, however; he could think of nothing else. The carriage rolled on toward the Arc de Triomphe and joined the stream of carriages returning home. As Georges remained silent, his wife, who divined his thoughts, asked in her soft voice: “Of what are you thinking? For half an hour you have not uttered a word.”

He replied with a sneer: “I am thinking of all those fools who kiss one another, and I believe truly that there is something else to be done in life.”

She whispered: “Yes, but it is nice sometimes! It is nice when one has nothing better to do.”

Georges’ thoughts were busy with the dead; he said to himself angrily: “I am foolish to worry, to torment myself as I have done.” After remonstrating thus with himself, he felt more reconciled to the thought of Forestier, and felt like exclaiming: “Good evening, old fellow!”

Madeleine, who was bored by his silence, asked: “Shall we go to Tortoni’s for ices before returning home?”

He glanced at her from his corner and thought: “She is pretty; so much the better. Tit for tat, my comrade. But if they begin again to annoy me with you, it will get somewhat hot at the North Pole!”

Then he replied: “Certainly, my darling,” and before she had time to think he kissed her. It seemed to Madeleine that her husband’s lips were icy. However he smiled as usual and gave her his hand to assist her to alight at the cafe.

 

CHAPTER XI.

MADAME WALTER TAKES A HAND

On entering the office the following day, Du Roy sought Boisrenard and told him to warn his associates not to continue the farce of calling him Forestier, or there would be war. When Du Roy returned an hour later, no one called him by that name. From the office he proceeded to his home, and hearing the sound of ladies’ voices in the drawing-room, he asked the servant: “Who is here?”

“Mme. Walter and Mme. de Marelle,” was the reply.

His heart pulsated violently as he opened the door. Clotilde was seated by the fireplace; it seemed to Georges that she turned pale on perceiving him.

Having greeted Mme. Walter and her two daughters seated like sentinels beside her, he turned to his former mistress. She extended her hand; he took and pressed it as if to say: “I love you still!” She returned the pressure.

He said: “Have you been well since we last met?”

“Yes; have you, Bel-Ami?” And turning to Madeleine she added: “Will you permit me to call him Bel-Ami?”

“Certainly, my dear; I will permit anything you wish.”

A shade of irony lurked beneath those words, uttered so pleasantly.

Mme. Walter mentioned a fencing-match to be given at Jacques Rival’s apartments, the proceeds to be devoted to charities, and in which many society ladies were going to assist. She said: “It will be very entertaining; but I am in despair, for we have no one to escort us, my husband having an engagement.”

Du Roy offered his services at once. She accepted, saying: “My daughters and I shall be very grateful.”

He glanced at the younger of the two girls and thought: “Little Suzanne is not at all bad, not at all.”

She resembled a doll, being very small and dainty, with a well-proportioned form, a pretty, delicate face, blue-gray eyes, a fair skin, and curly, flaxen hair. Her elder sister, Rose, was plain—one of those girls to whom no attention is ever paid. Her mother rose, and turning to Georges, said: “I shall count on you next Thursday at two o’clock.”

He replied: “Count upon me, Madame.”

When the door closed upon Mme. Walter, Mme. de Marelle, in her turn, rose.

“Au revoir, Bel-Ami.”

This time she pressed his hand and he was moved by that silent avowal. “I will go to see her tomorrow,” thought he.

Left alone with his wife, she laughed, and looking into his eyes said: “Mme. Walter has taken a fancy to you!”

He replied incredulously: “Nonsense!”

“But I know it. She spoke of you to me with great enthusiasm. She said she would like to find two husbands like you for her daughters. Fortunately she is not susceptible herself.”

He did not understand her and repeated: “Susceptible herself?”

She replied in a tone of conviction: “Oh, Mme. Walter is irreproachable. Her husband you know as well as I. But she is different. Still she has suffered a great deal in having married a Jew, though she has been true to him; she is a virtuous woman.”

Du Roy was surprised: “I thought her a Jewess.”

“She a Jewess! No, indeed! She is the prime mover in all the charitable movements at the Madeleine. She was even married by a priest. I am not sure but that M. Walter went through the form of baptism.”

Georges murmured: “And—she—likes—me—”

“Yes. If you were not married I should advise you to ask for the hand of—Suzanne—would you not prefer her to Rose?”

He replied as he twisted his mustache: “Eh! the mother is not so bad!”

Madeleine replied: “I am not afraid of her. At her age one does not begin to make conquests—one should commence sooner.”

Georges thought: “If I might have had Suzanne, ah!” Then he shrugged his shoulders: “Bah, it is absurd; her father would not have consented.”

He determined to treat Mme. Walter very considerately in order to retain her regard. All that evening he was haunted by recollections of his love for Clotilde; he recalled their escapades, her kindness. He repeated to himself: “She is indeed nice. Yes, I shall call upon her tomorrow.”

When he had lunched the following morning he repaired to Rue Verneuil. The same maid opened the door, and with the familiarity of an old servant she asked: “Is Monsieur well?”

He replied: “Yes, my child,” and entered the drawing-room in which some one was practising scales. It was Laurine. He expected she would fall upon his neck. She, however, rose ceremoniously, bowed coldly, and left the room with dignity; her manner was so much like that of an outraged woman that he was amazed. Her mother entered. He kissed her hand.

“How much I have thought of you,” said he.

“And I of you,” she replied.

They seated themselves and smiled as they gazed into one another’s eyes.

“My dear little Clo, I love you.”

“And I love you.”

“Still—still—you did not miss me.”

“Yes and no. I was grieved, but when I heard your reason, I said to myself: ‘Bah, he will return to me some day.’”

“I dared not come. I did not know how I should be received. I dared not, but I longed to come. Now, tell me what ails Laurine; she scarcely bade me good morning and left the room with an angry air.”

“I do not know, but one cannot mention you to her since your marriage; I really believe she is jealous.”

“Nonsense.”

“Yes, my dear, she no longer calls you Bel-Ami, but M. Forestier instead.”

Du Roy colored, then drawing nearer the young woman, he said: “Kiss me.”

She obeyed him.

“Where can we meet again?” he asked.

“At Rue de Constantinople.”

“Ah, are the apartments not rented?”

“No, I kept them.”

“You did?”

“Yes, I thought you would return.”

His heart bounded joyfully. She loved him then with a lasting love! He whispered: “I adore you.” Then he asked: “Is your husband well?”

“Yes, very well. He has just been home for a month; he went away the day before yesterday.”

Du Roy could not suppress a smile: “How opportunely that always happens!”

She replied naively: “Yes, it happens opportunely, but he is not in the way when he is here; is he?”

“That is true; he is a charming man!”

“How do you like your new life?”

“Tolerably; my wife is a comrade, an associate, nothing more; as for my heart—”

“I understand; but she is good.”

“Yes, she does not trouble me.”

He drew near Clotilde and murmured: “When shall we meet again?”

“Tomorrow, if you will.”

“Yes, tomorrow at two o’clock.”

He rose to take his leave somewhat embarrassed.

“You know I intend to take back the rooms on Rue de Constantinople myself. I wish to; it is not necessary for you to pay for them.”

She kissed his hands, saying: “You may do as you like. I am satisfied to have kept them until we met again.” And Du Roy took his leave very well satisfied.

When Thursday came, he asked Madeleine: “Are going