Table of Contents


    Chapter I.   Poverty

   Chapter II.   Madame Forestier

  Chapter III.   First Atempts

   Chapter IV.   Duroy Learns Something

    Chapter V.   The First Intrigue

   Chapter VI.   A Steo Upward

  Chapter VII.   A Duel with an End

 Chapter VIII.   Death and a Proposal

   Chapter IX.   Marriage

    Chapter X.   Jealousy

   Chapter XI.   Madame Walter Takes a Hand

  Chapter XII.   A Meeting and the Result

 Chapter XIII.   Madame Marelle

  Chapter XIV.   The Will

   Chapter XV.   Suzanne

  Chapter XVI.   Divorce

 Chapter XVII.   The Final Plot

Chapter XVIII.   Attainment

Chapter I.

Poverty


After changing his five-franc piece Georges Duroy left the
restaurant. He twisted his mustache in military style and cast a
rapid, sweeping glance upon the diners, among whom were three
saleswomen, an untidy music-teacher of uncertain age, and two women
with their husbands.

When he reached the sidewalk, he paused to consider what route he
should take. It was the twenty-eighth of June and he had only three
francs in his pocket to last him the remainder of the month. That
meant two dinners and no lunches, or two lunches and no dinners,
according to choice. As he pondered upon this unpleasant state of
affairs, he sauntered down Rue Notre Dame de Lorette, preserving his
military air and carriage, and rudely jostled the people upon the
streets in order to clear a path for himself. He appeared to be
hostile to the passers-by, and even to the houses, the entire city.

Tall, well-built, fair, with blue eyes, a curled mustache, hair
naturally wavy and parted in the middle, he recalled the hero of the
popular romances.

It was one of those sultry, Parisian evenings when not a breath of
air is stirring; the sewers exhaled poisonous gases and the
restaurants the disagreeable odors of cooking and of kindred smells.
Porters in their shirt-sleeves, astride their chairs, smoked their
pipes at the carriage gates, and pedestrians strolled leisurely
along, hats in hand.

When Georges Duroy reached the boulevard he halted again, undecided
as to which road to choose. Finally he turned toward the Madeleine
and followed the tide of people.

The large, well-patronized cafes tempted Duroy, but were he to drink
only two glasses of beer in an evening, farewell to the meager
supper the following night! Yet he said to himself: "I will take a
glass at the Americain. By Jove, I am thirsty."

He glanced at men seated at the tables, men who could afford to
slake their thirst, and he scowled at them. "Rascals!" he muttered.
If he could have caught one of them at a corner in the dark he would
have choked him without a scruple! He recalled the two years spent
in Africa, and the manner in which he had extorted money from the
Arabs. A smile hovered about his lips at the recollection of an
escapade which had cost three men their lives, a foray which had
given his two comrades and himself seventy fowls, two sheep, money,
and something to laugh about for six months. The culprits were never
found; indeed, they were not sought for, the Arab being looked upon
as the soldier's prey.

But in Paris it was different; there one could not commit such deeds
with impunity. He regretted that he had not remained where he was;
but he had hoped to improve his condition--and for that reason he
was in Paris!

He passed the Vaudeville and stopped at the Cafe Americain, debating
as to whether he should take that "glass." Before deciding, he
glanced at a clock; it was a quarter past nine. He knew that when
the beer was placed in front of him, he would drink it; and then
what would he do at eleven o'clock? So he walked on, intending to go
as far as the Madeleine and return.

When he reached the Place de l'Opera, a tall, young man passed him,
whose face he fancied was familiar. He followed him, repeating:
"Where the deuce have I seen that fellow?"

For a time he racked his brain in vain; then suddenly he saw the
same man, but not so corpulent and more youthful, attired in the
uniform of a Hussar. He exclaimed: "Wait, Forestier!" and hastening
up to him, laid his hand upon the man's shoulder. The latter turned,
looked at him, and said: "What do you want, sir?"

Duroy began to laugh: "Don't you remember me?"

"No."

"Not remember Georges Duroy of the Sixth Hussars."

Forestier extended both hands.

"Ah, my dear fellow, how are you?"

"Very well. And how are you?"

"Oh, I am not very well. I cough six months out of the twelve as a
result of bronchitis contracted at Bougival, about the time of my
return to Paris four years ago."

"But you look well."

Forestier, taking his former comrade's arm, told him of his malady,
of the consultations, the opinions and the advice of the doctors and
of the difficulty of following their advice in his position. They
ordered him to spend the winter in the south, but how could he? He
was married and was a journalist in a responsible editorial
position.

"I manage the political department on 'La Vie Francaise'; I report
the doings of the Senate for 'Le Salut,' and from time to time I
write for 'La Planete.' That is what I am doing."

Duroy, in surprise, glanced at him. He was very much changed.
Formerly Forestier had been thin, giddy, noisy, and always in good
spirits. But three years of life in Paris had made another man of
him; now he was stout and serious, and his hair was gray on his
temples although he could not number more than twenty-seven years.

Forestier asked: "Where are you going?"

Duroy replied: "Nowhere in particular."

"Very well, will you accompany me to the 'Vie Francaise' where I
have some proofs to correct; and afterward take a drink with me?"

"Yes, gladly."

They walked along arm-in-arm with that familiarity which exists
between schoolmates and brother-officers.

"What are you doing in Paris?" asked Forestier, Duroy shrugged his
shoulders.

"Dying of hunger, simply. When my time was up, I came hither to make
my fortune, or rather to live in Paris--and for six months I have
been employed in a railroad office at fifteen hundred francs a
year."

Forestier murmured: "That is not very much."

"But what can I do?" answered Duroy. "I am alone, I know no one, I
have no recommendations. The spirit is not lacking, but the means
are."

His companion looked at him from head to foot like a practical man
who is examining a subject; then he said, in a tone of conviction:
"You see, my dear fellow, all depends on assurance, here. A shrewd,
observing man can sometimes become a minister. You must obtrude
yourself and yet not ask anything. But how is it you have not found
anything better than a clerkship at the station?"

Duroy replied: "I hunted everywhere and found nothing else. But I
know where I can get three thousand francs at least--as riding-
master at the Pellerin school."

Forestier stopped him: "Don't do it, for you can earn ten thousand
francs. You will ruin your prospects at once. In your office at
least no one knows you; you can leave it if you wish to at any time.
But when you are once a riding-master all will be over. You might as
well be a butler in a house to which all Paris comes to dine. When
you have given riding lessons to men of the world or to their sons,
they will no longer consider you their equal."

He paused, reflected several seconds and then asked:

"Are you a bachelor?"

"Yes, though I have been smitten several times."

"That makes no difference. If Cicero and Tiberius were mentioned
would you know who they were?"

"Yes."

"Good, no one knows any more except about a score of fools. It is
not difficult to pass for being learned. The secret is not to betray
your ignorance. Just maneuver, avoid the quicksands and obstacles,
and the rest can be found in a dictionary."

He spoke like one who understood human nature, and he smiled as the
crowd passed them by. Suddenly he began to cough and stopped to
allow the paroxysm to spend itself; then he said in a discouraged
tone:

"Isn't it tiresome not to be able to get rid of this bronchitis? And
here is midsummer! This winter I shall go to Mentone. Health before
everything."

They reached the Boulevarde Poissoniere; behind a large glass door
an open paper was affixed; three people were reading it. Above the
door was printed the legend, "La Vie Francaise."

Forestier pushed open the door and said: "Come in." Duroy entered;
they ascended the stairs, passed through an antechamber in which two
clerks greeted their comrade, and then entered a kind of waiting-
room.

"Sit down," said Forestier, "I shall be back in five minutes," and
he disappeared.

Duroy remained where he was; from time to time men passed him by,
entering by one door and going out by another before he had time to
glance at them.

Now they were young men, very young, with a busy air, holding sheets
of paper in their hands; now compositors, their shirts spotted with
ink--carefully carrying what were evidently fresh proofs.
Occasionally a gentleman entered, fashionably dressed, some reporter
bringing news.

Forestier reappeared arm-in-arm with a tall, thin man of thirty or
forty, dressed in a black coat, with a white cravat, a dark
complexion, and an insolent, self-satisfied air. Forestier said to
him: "Adieu, my dear sir," and the other pressed his hand with: "Au
revoir, my friend." Then he descended the stairs whistling, his cane
under his arm.

Duroy asked his name.

"That is Jacques Rival, the celebrated writer and duelist. He came
to correct his proofs. Garin, Montel and he are the best witty and
realistic writers we have in Paris. He earns thirty thousand francs
a year for two articles a week."

As they went downstairs, they met a stout, little man with long
hair, who was ascending the stairs whistling. Forestier bowed low.

"Norbert de Varenne," said he, "the poet, the author of 'Les Soleils
Morts,'--a very expensive man. Every poem he gives us costs three
hundred francs and the longest has not two hundred lines. But let us
go into the Napolitain, I am getting thirsty."

When they were seated at a table, Forestier ordered two glasses of
beer. He emptied his at a single draught, while Duroy sipped his
beer slowly as if it were something rare and precious. Suddenly his
companion asked, "Why don't you try journalism?"

Duroy looked at him in surprise and said: "Because I have never
written anything."

"Bah, we all have to make a beginning. I could employ you myself by
sending you to obtain information. At first you would only get two
hundred and fifty francs a month but your cab fare would be paid.
Shall I speak to the manager?"

"If you will."

"Well, then come and dine with me to-morrow; I will only ask five or
six to meet you; the manager, M. Walter, his wife, with Jacques
Rival, and Norbert de Varenne whom you have just seen, and also a
friend of Mme. Forestier, Will you come?"

Duroy hesitated, blushing and perplexed. Finally he, murmured: "I
have no suitable clothes."

Forestier was amazed. "You have no dress suit? Egad, that is
indispensable. In Paris, it is better to have no bed than no
clothes." Then, fumbling in his vest-pocket, he drew from it two
louis, placed them before his companion, and said kindly: "You can
repay me when it is convenient. Buy yourself what you need and pay
an installment on it. And come and dine with us at half past seven,
at 17 Rue Fontaine."

In confusion Duroy picked up the money and stammered: "You are very
kind--I am much obliged--be sure I shall not forget."

Forestier interrupted him: "That's all right, take another glass of
beer. Waiter, two more glasses!" When he had paid the score, the
journalist asked: "Would you like a stroll for an hour?"

"Certainly."

They turned toward the Madeleine. "What shall we do?" asked
Forestier. "They say that in Paris an idler can always find
amusement, but it is not true. A turn in the Bois is only enjoyable
if you have a lady with you, and that is a rare occurrence. The cafe
concerts may divert my tailor and his wife, but they do not interest
me. So what can we do? Nothing! There ought to be a summer garden
here, open at night, where a man could listen to good music while
drinking beneath the trees. It would be a pleasant lounging place.
You could walk in alleys bright with electric light and seat
yourself where you pleased to hear the music. It would be charming.
Where would you like to go?"

Duroy did not know what to reply; finally he said: "I have never
been to the Folies Bergeres. I should like to go there."

His companion exclaimed: "The Folies Bergeres! Very well!"

They turned and walked toward the Faubourg Montmartre. The
brilliantly illuminated building loomed up before them. Forestier
entered, Duroy stopped him. "We forgot to pass through the gate."

The other replied in a consequential tone: "I never pay," and
approached the box-office.

"Have you a good box?"

"Certainly, M. Forestier."

He took the ticket handed him, pushed open the door, and they were
within the hall. A cloud of tobacco smoke almost hid the stage and
the opposite side of the theater. In the spacious foyer which led to
the circular promenade, brilliantly dressed women mingled with
black-coated men.

Forestier forced his way rapidly through the throng and accosted an
usher.

"Box 17?"

"This way, sir."

The friends were shown into a tiny box, hung and carpeted in red,
with four chairs upholstered in the same color. They seated
themselves. To their right and left were similar boxes. On the stage
three men were performing on trapezes. But Duroy paid no heed to
them, his eyes finding more to interest them in the grand promenade.
Forestier remarked upon the motley appearance of the throng, but
Duroy did not listen to him. A woman, leaning her arms upon the edge
of her loge, was staring at him. She was a tall, voluptuous
brunette, her face whitened with enamel, her black eyes penciled,
and her lips painted. With a movement of her head, she summoned a
friend who was passing, a blonde with auburn hair, likewise inclined
to embonpoint, and said to her in a whisper intended to be heard;
"There is a nice fellow!"

Forestier heard it, and said to Duroy with a smile: "You are lucky,
my dear boy. My congratulations!"

The ci-devant soldier blushed and mechanically fingered the two
pieces of gold in his pocket.

The curtain fell--the orchestra played a valse--and Duroy said:

"Shall we walk around the gallery?"

"If you like."

Soon they were carried along in the current of promenaders. Duroy
drank in with delight the air, vitiated as it was by tobacco and
cheap perfume, but Forestier perspired, panted, and coughed.

"Let us go into the garden," he said. Turning to the left, they
entered a kind of covered garden in which two large fountains were
playing. Under the yews, men and women sat at tables drinking.

"Another glass of beer?" asked Forestier.

"Gladly."

They took their seats and watched the promenaders. Occasionally a
woman would stop and ask with a coarse smile: "What have you to
offer, sir?"

Forestier's invariable answer was: "A glass of water from the
fountain." And the woman would mutter, "Go along," and walk away.

At last the brunette reappeared, arm-in-arm with the blonde. They
made a handsome couple. The former smiled on perceiving Duroy, and
taking a chair she calmly seated herself in front of him, and said
in a clear voice: "Waiter, two glasses."

In astonishment, Forestier exclaimed: "You are not at all bashful!"

She replied: "Your friend has bewitched me; he is such a fine
fellow. I believe he has turned my head."

Duroy said nothing.

The waiter brought the beer, which the women swallowed rapidly; then
they rose, and the brunette, nodding her head and tapping Duroy's
arm with her fan, said to him: "Thank you, my dear! However, you are
not very talkative."

As they disappeared, Forestier laughed and said: "Tell, me, old man,
did you know that you had a charm for the weaker sex? You must be
careful."


Without replying, Duroy smiled. His friend asked: "Shall you remain
any longer? I am going; I have had enough."

Georges murmured: "Yes, I will stay a little longer: it is not
late."

Forestier arose: "Very well, then, good-bye until to-morrow. Do not
forget: 17 Rue Fontaine at seven thirty."

"I shall not forget. Thank you."

The friends shook hands and the journalist left Duroy to his own
devices.

Forestier once out of sight, Duroy felt free, and again he joyously
touched the gold pieces in his pocket; then rising, he mingled with
the crowd.

He soon discovered the blonde and the brunette. He went toward them,
but when near them dared not address them.

The brunette called out to him: "Have you found your tongue?"

He stammered: "Zounds!" too bashful to say another word. A pause
ensued, during which the brunette took his arm and together they
left the hall.

Chapter II.

Madame Forestier


"Where does M. Forestier live?"

"Third floor on the left," said the porter pleasantly, on learning
Duroy's destination.

Georges ascended the staircase. He was somewhat embarrassed and ill-
at-ease. He had on a new suit but he was uncomfortable. He felt that
it was defective; his boots were not glossy, he had bought his shirt
that same evening at the Louvre for four francs fifty, his trousers
were too wide and betrayed their cheapness in their fit, or rather,
misfit, and his coat was too tight.


Slowly he ascended the stairs, his heart beating, his mind anxious.
Suddenly before him stood a well-dressed gentleman staring at him.
The person resembled Duroy so close that the latter retreated, then
stopped, and saw that it was his own image reflected in a pier-
glass! Not having anything but a small mirror at home, he had not
been able to see himself entirely, and had exaggerated the
imperfections of his toilette. When he saw his reflection in the
glass, he did not even recognize himself; he took himself for some
one else, for a man-of-the-world, and was really satisfied with his
general appearance. Smiling to himself, Duroy extended his hand and
expressed his astonishment, pleasure, and approbation. A door opened
on the staircase, He was afraid of being surprised and began to
ascend more rapidly, fearing that he might have been seen posing
there by some of his friend's invited guests.

On reaching the second floor, he saw another mirror, and once more
slackened his pace to look at himself. He likewise paused before the
third glass, twirled his mustache, took off his hat to arrange his
hair, and murmured half aloud, a habit of his: "Hall mirrors are
most convenient."

Then he rang the bell. The door opened almost immediately, and
before him stood a servant in a black coat, with a grave, shaven
face, so perfect in his appearance that Duroy again became confused
as he compared the cut of their garments.

The lackey asked:

"Whom shall I announce, Monsieur?" He raised a portiere and
pronounced the name.

Duroy lost his self-possession upon being ushered into a world as
yet strange to him. However, he advanced. A young, fair woman
received him alone in a large, well-lighted room. He paused,
disconcerted. Who was that smiling lady? He remembered that
Forestier was married, and the thought that the handsome blonde was
his friend's wife rendered him awkward and ill-at-ease. He stammered
out:

"Madame, I am--"

She held out her hand. "I know, Monsieur--Charles told me of your
meeting last night, and I am very glad that he asked you to dine
with us to-day."

Duroy blushed to the roots of his hair, not knowing how to reply; he
felt that he was being inspected from his head to his feet. He half
thought of excusing himself, of inventing an explanation of the
carelessness of his toilette, but he did not know how to touch upon
that delicate subject.

He seated himself upon a chair she pointed out to him, and as he
sank into its luxurious depths, it seemed to him that he was
entering a new and charming life, that he would make his mark in the
world, that he was saved. He glanced at Mme. Forestier. She wore a
gown of pale blue cashmere which clung gracefully to her supple form
and rounded outlines; her arms and throat rose in, lily-white purity
from the mass of lace which ornamented the corsage and short
sleeves. Her hair was dressed high and curled on the nape of her
neck.

Duroy grew more at his ease under her glance, which recalled to him,
he knew not why, that of the girl he had met the preceding evening
at the Folies-Bergeres. Mme. Forestier had gray eyes, a small nose,
full lips, and a rather heavy chin, an irregular, attractive face,
full of gentleness and yet of malice.

After a short silence, she asked: "Have you been in Paris a long
time?"

Gradually regaining his self-possession, he replied: "a few months,
Madame. I am in the railroad employ, but my friend Forestier has
encouraged me to hope that, thanks to him, I can enter into
journalism."

She smiled kindly and murmured in a low voice: "I know."

The bell rang again and the servant announced: "Mme. de Marelle."
She was a dainty brunette, attired in a simple, dark robe; a red
rose in her black tresses seemed to accentuate her special
character, and a young girl, or rather a child, for such she was,
followed her.

Mme. Forestier said: "Good evening, Clotilde."

"Good evening, Madeleine."

They embraced each other, then the child offered her forehead with
the assurance of an adult, saying:

"Good evening, cousin."

Mme. Forestier kissed her, and then made the introductions:

"M. Georges Duroy, an old friend of Charles. Mme. de Marelle, my
friend, a relative in fact." She added: "Here, you know, we do not
stand on ceremony."

Duroy bowed. The door opened again and a short man entered, upon his
arm a tall, handsome woman, taller than he and much younger, with
distinguished manners and a dignified carriage. It was M. Walter,
deputy, financier, a moneyed man, and a man of business, manager of
"La Vie Francaise," with his wife, nee Basile Ravalade, daughter of
the banker of that name.

Then came Jacques Rival, very elegant, followed by Norbert de
Varenne. The latter advanced with the grace of the old school and
taking Mme. Forestier's hand kissed it; his long hair falling upon
his hostess's bare arm as he did so.

Forestier now entered, apologizing for being late; he had been
detained.

The servant announced dinner, and they entered the dining-room.
Duroy was placed between Mme. de Marelle and her daughter. He was
again rendered uncomfortable for fear of committing some error in
the conventional management of his fork, his spoon, or his glasses,
of which he had four. Nothing was said during the soup; then Norbert
de Varenne asked a general question: "Have you read the Gauthier
case? How droll it was!"

Then followed a discussion of the subject in which the ladies
joined. Then a duel was mentioned and Jacques Rival led the
conversation; that was his province. Duroy did not venture a remark,
but occasionally glanced at his neighbor. A diamond upon a slight,
golden thread depended from her ear; from time to time she uttered a
remark which evoked a smile upon his lips. Duroy sought vainly for
some compliment to pay her; he busied himself with her daughter,
filled her glass, waited upon her, and the child, more dignified
than her mother, thanked him gravely saying, "You are very kind,
Monsieur," while she listened to the conversation with a reflective
air. The dinner was excellent and everyone was delighted with it.

The conversation returned to the colonization of Algeria. M. Walter
uttered several jocose remarks; Forestier alluded to the article he
had prepared for the morrow; Jacques Rival declared himself in favor
of a military government with grants of land to all the officers
after thirty years of colonial service.

"In that way," said he, "you can establish a strong colony, familiar
with and liking the country, knowing its language and able to cope
with all those local yet grave questions which invariably confront
newcomers."

Norbert de Varenne interrupted: "Yes, they would know everything,
except agriculture. They would speak Arabic, but they would not know
how to transplant beet-root, and how to sow wheat. They would be
strong in fencing, but weak in the art of farming. On the contrary,
the new country should be opened to everyone. Intelligent men would
make positions for themselves; the others would succumb. It is a
natural law."

A pause ensued. Everyone smiled. Georges Duroy, startled at the
sound of his own voice, as if he had never heard it, said:

"What is needed the most down there is good soil. Really fertile
land costs as much as it does in France and is bought by wealthy
Parisians. The real colonists, the poor, are generally cast out into
the desert, where nothing grows for lack of water."

All eyes turned upon him. He colored. M. Walter asked: "Do you know
Algeria, sir?"

He replied: "Yes, sir, I was there twenty-eight months." Leaving the
subject of colonization, Norbert de Varenne questioned him as to
some of the Algerian customs. Georges spoke with animation; excited
by the wine and the desire to please, he related anecdotes of the
regiment, of Arabian life, and of the war.

Mme. Walter murmured to him in her soft tones: "You could write a
series of charming articles."

Forestier took advantage of the situation to say to M. Walter: "My
dear sir, I spoke to you a short while since of M. Georges Duroy and
asked you to permit me to include him on the staff of political
reporters. Since Marambot has left us, I have had no one to take
urgent and confidential reports, and the paper is suffering by it."

M. Walter put on his spectacles in order to examine Duroy. Then he
said: "I am convinced that M. Duroy is original, and if he will call
upon me tomorrow at three o'clock, we will arrange matters." After a
pause, turning to the young man, he said: "You may write us a short
sketch on Algeria, M. Duroy. Simply relate your experiences; I am
sure they will interest our readers. But you must do it quickly."

Mme. Walter added with her customary, serious grace: "You will have
a charming title: 'Souvenirs of a Soldier in Africa.' Will he not,
M. Norbert?"

The old poet, who had attained renown late in life, disliked and
mistrusted newcomers. He replied dryly: "Yes, excellent, provided
that it is written in the right key, for there lies the great
difficulty."

Mme. Forestier cast upon Duroy a protecting and smiling glance which
seemed to say: "You shall succeed." The servant filled the glasses
with wine, and Forestier proposed the toast: "To the long prosperity
of 'La Vie Francaise.'" Duroy felt superhuman strength within him,
infinite hope, and invincible resolution. He was at his ease now
among these people; his eyes rested upon their faces with renewed
assurance, and for the first time he ventured to address his
neighbor:

"You have the most beautiful earrings I have ever seen."

She turned toward him with a smile: "It is a fancy of mine to wear
diamonds like this, simply on a thread."

He murmured in reply, trembling at his audacity: "It is charming--
but the ear increases the beauty of the ornament."

She thanked him with a glance. As he turned his head, he met Mme.
Forestier's eyes, in which he fancied he saw a mingled expression of
gaiety, malice, and encouragement. All the men were talking at the
same time; their discussion was animated.

When the party left the dining-room, Duroy offered his arm to the
little girl. She thanked him gravely and stood upon tiptoe in order
to lay her hand upon his arm. Upon entering the drawing-room, the
young man carefully surveyed it. It was not a large room; but there
were no bright colors, and one felt at ease; it was restful. The
walls were draped with violet hangings covered with tiny embroidered
flowers of yellow silk. The portieres were of a grayish blue and the
chairs were of all shapes, of all sizes; scattered about the room
were couches and large and small easy-chairs, all covered with Louis
XVI. brocade, or Utrecht velvet, a cream colored ground with garnet
flowers.

"Do you take coffee, M. Duroy?" Mme. Forestier offered him a cup,
with the smile that was always upon her lips.

"Yes, Madame, thank you." He took the cup, and as he did so, the
young woman whispered to him: "Pay Mme. Walter some attention." Then
she vanished before he could reply.

First he drank his coffee, which he feared he should let fall upon
the carpet; then he sought a pretext for approaching the manager's
wife and commencing a conversation. Suddenly he perceived that she
held an empty cup in her hand, and as she was not near a table, she
did not know where to put it. He rushed toward her:

"Allow me, Madame."

"Thank you, sir."

He took away the cup and returned: "If you, but knew, Madame, what
pleasant moments 'La Vie Francaise' afforded me, when I was in the
desert! It is indeed the only paper one cares to read outside of
France; it contains everything."

She smiled with amiable indifference as she replied: "M. Walter had
a great deal of trouble in producing the kind of journal which was
required."

They talked of Paris, the suburbs, the Seine, the delights of
summer, of everything they could think of. Finally M. Norbert de
Varenne advanced, a glass of liqueur in his hand, and Duroy
discreetly withdrew. Mme. de Marelle, who was chatting with her
hostess, called him: "So, sir," she said bluntly, "you are going to
try journalism?" That question led to a renewal of the interrupted
conversation with Mme. Walter. In her turn Mme. de Marelle related
anecdotes, and becoming familiar, laid her hand upon Duroy's arm. He
felt that he would like to devote himself to her, to protect her--
and the slowness with which he replied to her questions indicated
his preoccupation. Suddenly, without any cause, Mme. de Marelle
called: "Laurine!" and the girl came to her. "Sit down here, my
child, you will be cold near the window."

Duroy was seized with an eager desire to embrace the child, as if
part of that embrace would revert to the mother. He asked in a
gallant, yet paternal tone: "Will you permit me to kiss you,
Mademoiselle?" The child raised her eyes with an air of surprise.
Mme. de Marelle said with a smile: "Reply."

"I will allow you to-day, Monsieur, but not all the time."

Seating himself, Duroy took Laurine upon his knee, and kissed her
lips and her fine wavy hair. Her mother was surprised: "Well, that
is strange! Ordinarily she only allows ladies to caress her. You are
irresistible, Monsieur!"

Duroy colored, but did not reply.

When Mme. Forestier joined them, a cry of astonishment escaped her:
"Well, Laurine has become sociable; what a miracle!"

The young man rose to take his leave, fearing he might spoil his
conquest by some awkward word. He bowed to the ladies, clasped and
gently pressed their hands, and then shook hands with the men. He
observed that Jacques Rival's was dry and warm and responded
cordially to his pressure; Norbert de Varenne's was moist and cold
and slipped through his fingers; Walter's was cold and soft, without
life, expressionless; Forestier's fat and warm.

His friend whispered to him: "To-morrow at three o'clock; do not
forget."

"Never fear!"

When he reached the staircase, he felt like running down, his joy
was so great; he went down two steps at a time, but suddenly on the
second floor, in the large mirror, he saw a gentleman hurrying on,
and he slackened his pace, as much ashamed as if he had been
surprised in a crime.

He surveyed himself some time with a complacent smile; then taking
leave of his image, he bowed low, ceremoniously, as if saluting some
grand personage.

Chapter III.

First Attempts


When Georges Duroy reached the street, he hesitated as to what he
should do. He felt inclined to stroll along, dreaming of the future
and inhaling the soft night air; but the thought of the series of
articles ordered by M. Walter occurred to him, and he decided to
return home at once and begin work. He walked rapidly along until he
came to Rue Boursault. The tenement in which he lived was occupied
by twenty families--families of workingmen--and as he mounted the
staircase he experienced a sensation of disgust and a desire to live
as wealthy men do. Duroy's room was on the fifth floor. He entered
it, opened his window, and looked out: the view was anything but
prepossessing.

He turned away, thinking: "This won't do. I must go to work." So he
placed his light upon the table and began to write. He dipped his
pen into the ink and wrote at the head of his paper in a bold hand:
"Souvenirs of a Soldier in Africa." Then he cast about for the first
phrase. He rested his head upon his hand and stared at the blank
sheet before him. What should he say? Suddenly he thought: "I must
begin with my departure," and he wrote: "In 1874, about the
fifteenth of May, when exhausted France was recruiting after the
catastrophe of the terrible years--" Here he stopped short, not
knowing how to introduce his subject. After a few minutes'
reflection, he decided to lay aside that page until the following
day, and to write a description of Algiers. He began: "Algiers is a
very clean city--" but he could not continue. After an effort he
added: "It is inhabited partly by Arabs." Then he threw his pen upon
the table and arose. He glanced around his miserable room; mentally
he rebelled against his poverty and resolved to leave the next day.

Suddenly the desire to work came on him, and he tried to begin the
article again; he had vague ideas of what he wanted to say, but he
could not express his thoughts in words. Convinced of his inability
he arose once more, his blood coursing rapidly through his veins. He
turned to the window just as the train was coming out of the tunnel,
and his thoughts reverted to his parents. He saw their tiny home on
the heights overlooking Rouen and the valley of the Seine. His
father and mother kept an inn, La Belle-Vue, at which the citizens
of the faubourgs took their lunches on Sundays. They had wished to
make a "gentleman" of their son and had sent him to college. His
studies completed, he had entered the army with the intention of
becoming an officer, a colonel, or a general. But becoming disgusted
with military life, he determined to try his fortune in Paris. When
his time of service had expired, he went thither, with what results
we have seen. He awoke from his reflections as the locomotive
whistled shrilly, closed his window, and began to disrobe,
muttering: "Bah, I shall be able to work better to-morrow morning.
My brain is not clear to-night. I have drunk a little too much. I
can't work well under such circumstances." He extinguished his light
and fell asleep.

He awoke early, and, rising, opened his window to inhale the fresh
air. In a few moments he seated himself at his table, dipped his pen
in the ink, rested his head upon his hand and thought--but in vain!
However, he was not discouraged, but in thought reassured himself:
"Bah, I am not accustomed to it! It is a profession that must be
learned like all professions. Some one must help me the first time.
I'll go to Forestier. He'll start my article for me in ten minutes."

When he reached the street, Duroy decided that it was rather early
to present himself at his friend's house, so he strolled along under
the trees on one of the boulevards for a time. On arriving at
Forestier's door, he found his friend going out.

"You here--at this hour! Can I do anything for you?"

Duroy stammered in confusion: "I--I--cannot write that article on
Algeria that M. Walter wants. It is not very surprising, seeing that
I have never written anything. It requires practice. I could write
very rapidly, I am sure, if I could make a beginning. I have the
ideas but I cannot express them." He paused and hesitated.

Forestier smiled maliciously: "I understand that."

Duroy continued: "Yes, anyone is liable to have that trouble at the
beginning; and, well--I have come to ask you to help me. In ten
minutes you can set me right. You can give me a lesson in style;
without you I can do nothing."

The other smiled gaily. He patted his companion's arm and said to
him: "Go to my wife; she will help you better than I can. I have
trained her for that work. I have not time this morning or I would
do it willingly."

But Duroy hesitated: "At this hour I cannot inquire for her."

"Oh, yes, you can; she has risen. You will find her in my study."

"I will go, but I shall tell her you sent me!"

Forestier walked away, and Duroy slowly ascended the stairs,
wondering what he should say and what kind of a reception he would
receive.

The servant who opened the door said: "Monsieur has gone out."

Duroy replied: "Ask Mme. Forestier if she will see me, and tell her
that M. Forestier, whom I met on the street, sent me."

The lackey soon returned and ushered Duroy into Madame's presence.
She was seated at a table and extended her hand to him.

"So soon?" said she. It was not a reproach, but a simple question.

He stammered: "I did not want to come up, Madame, but your husband,
whom I met below, insisted--I dare scarcely tell you my errand--I
worked late last night and early this morning, to write the article
on Algeria which M. Walter wants--and I did not succeed--I destroyed
all my attempts--I am not accustomed to the work--and I came to ask
Forestier to assist me--his once."

She interrupted with a laugh: "And he sent you to me?"

"Yes, Madame. He said you could help me better than he--but--I dared
not--I did not like to."

She rose.

"It will be delightful to work together that way. I am charmed with
your idea. Wait, take my chair, for they know my handwriting on the
paper--we will write a successful article."

She took a cigarette from the mantelpiece and lighted it. "I cannot
work without smoking," she said; "what are you going to say?"

He looked at her in astonishment. "I do not know; I came here to
find that out."

She replied: "I will manage it all right. I will make the sauce but
I must have the dish." She questioned him in detail and finally
said:

"Now, we will begin. First of all we will suppose that you are
addressing a friend, which will allow us scope for remarks of all
kinds. Begin this way: 'My dear Henry, you wish to know something
about Algeria; you shall.'"

Then followed a brilliantly worded description of Algeria and of the
port of Algiers, an excursion to the province of Oran, a visit to
Saida, and an adventure with a pretty Spanish maid employed in a
factory.

When the article was concluded, he could find no words of thanks; he
was happy to be near her, grateful for and delighted with their
growing intimacy. It seemed to him that everything about him was a
part of her, even to the books upon the shelves. The chairs, the
furniture, the air--all were permeated with that delightful
fragrance peculiar to her.

She asked bluntly: "What do you think of my friend Mme. de Marelle?"

"I think her very fascinating," he said; and he would have liked to
add: "But not as much so as you." He had not the courage to do so.

She continued: "If you only knew how comical, original, and
intelligent she is! She is a true Bohemian. It is for that reason
that her husband no longer loves her. He only sees her defects and
none of her good qualities."

Duroy was surprised to hear that Mme. de Marelle was married.

"What," he asked, "is she married? What does her husband do?"

Mme. Forestier shrugged her shoulders. "Oh, he is superintendent of
a railroad. He is in Paris a week out of each month. His wife calls
it 'Holy Week.' or 'The week of duty.' When you get better
acquainted with her, you will see how witty she is! Come here and
see her some day."

As she spoke, the door opened noiselessly, and a gentleman entered
unannounced. He halted on seeing a man. For a moment Mme. Forestier
seemed confused; then she said in a natural voice, though her cheeks
were tinged with a blush:

"Come in, my dear sir; allow me to present to you an old comrade of
Charles, M. Georges Duroy, a future journalist." Then in a different
tone, she said: "Our best and dearest friend, Count de Vaudrec."

The two men bowed, gazed into one another's eyes, and then Duroy
took his leave. Neither tried to detain him.

On reaching the street he felt sad and uncomfortable. Count de
Vaudrec's face was constantly before him. It seemed to him that the
man was displeased at finding him tete-a-tete with Mme. Forestier,
though why he should be, he could not divine.

To while away the time until three o'clock, he lunched at Duval's,
and then lounged along the boulevard. When the clock chimed the hour
of his appointment, he climbed the stairs leading to the office of
"La Vie Francaise."

Duroy asked: "Is M. Walter in?"

"M. Walter is engaged," was the reply. "Will you please take a
seat?"

Duroy waited twenty minutes, then he turned to the clerk and said:
"M. Walter had an appointment with me at three o'clock. At any rate,
see if my friend M. Forestier is here."

He was conducted along a corridor and ushered into a large room in
which four men were writing at a table. Forestier was standing
before the fireplace, smoking a cigarette. After listening to
Duroy's story he said:

"Come with me; I will take you to M. Walter, or else you might
remain here until seven o'clock."

They entered the manager's room. Norbert de Varenne was writing an
article, seated in an easychair; Jacques Rival, stretched upon a
divan, was smoking a cigar. The room had the peculiar odor familiar
to all journalists. When they approached M. Walter, Forestier said:
"Here is my friend Duroy."

The manager looked keenly at the young man and asked:

"Have you brought my article?"

Duroy drew the sheets of manuscript from his pocket.

"Here they are, Monsieur."

The manager seemed delighted and said with a smile: "Very good. You
are a man of your word. Need I look over it, Forestier?"

But Forestier hastened to reply: "It is not necessary, M. Walter; I
helped him in order to initiate him into the profession. It is very
good." Then bending toward him, he whispered: "You know you promised
to engage Duroy to replace Marambot. Will you allow me to retain him
on the same terms?"

"Certainly."

Taking his friend's arm, the journalist drew him away, while M.
Walter returned to the game of ecarte he had been engaged in when
they entered. Forestier and Duroy returned to the room in which
Georges had found his friend. The latter said to his new reporter:

"You must come here every day at three o'clock, and I will tell you
what places to go to. First of all, I shall give you a letter of
introduction to the chief of the police, who will in turn introduce
you to one of his employees. You can arrange with him for all
important news, official and semiofficial. For details you can apply
to Saint-Potin, who is posted; you will see him to-morrow. Above
all, you must learn to make your way everywhere in spite of closed
doors. You will receive two hundred francs a months, two sous a line
for original matter, and two sous a line for articles you are
ordered to write on different subjects."

"What shall I do to-day?" asked Duroy.

"I have no work for you to-day; you can go if you wish to."

"And our--our article?"

"Oh, do not worry about it; I will correct the proofs. Do the rest
to-morrow and come here at three o'clock as you did to-day."

And after shaking hands, Duroy descended the staircase with a light
heart.

Chapter IV.

Duroy Learns Something


Georges Duroy did not sleep well, so anxious was he to see his
article in print. He rose at daybreak, and was on the street long
before the newsboys. When he secured a paper and saw his name at the
end of a column in large letters, he became very much excited. He
felt inclined to enact the part of a newsboy and cry out to the
hurrying throng: "Buy this! it contains an article by me!" He
strolled along to a cafe and seated himself in order to read the
article through; that done he decided to go to the railroad office,
draw his salary, and hand in his resignation.

With great pomposity he informed the chief clerk that he was on the
staff of "La Vie Francaise," and by that means was avenged for many
petty insults which had been offered him. He then had some cards
written with his new calling beneath his name, made several
purchases, and repaired to the office of "La Vie Francaise."
Forestier received him loftily as one would an inferior.

"Ah, here you are! Very well; I have several things for you to do.
Just wait ten minutes till I finish this work." He continued
writing.

At the other end of the table sat a short, pale man, very stout and
bald. Forestier asked him, when his letter was completed, "Saint-
Potin, at what time shall you interview those people?"

"At four o'clock."

"Take Duroy, who is here, with you and initiate him into the
business."

"Very well."

Then turning to his friend, Forestier added: "Have you brought the
other paper on Algeria? The article this morning was very
successful."

Duroy stammered: "No, I thought I should have time this afternoon. I
had so much to do--I could not."

The other shrugged his shoulders. "If you are not more careful, you
will spoil your future. M. Walter counted on your copy. I will tell
him it will be ready to-morrow. If you think you will be paid for
doing nothing, you are mistaken." After a pause, he added: "You
should strike while the iron is hot."

Saint-Potin rose: "I am ready," said he.

Forestier turned around in his chair and said, to Duroy: "Listen.
The Chinese general Li-Theng-Fao, stopping at the Continental, and
Rajah Taposahib Ramaderao Pali, stopping at Hotel Bishop, have been
in Paris two days. You must interview them." Addressing Saint-Potin,
he said: "Do not forget the principal points I indicated to you. Ask
the general and the rajah their opinions on the dealings of England
in the extreme East, their ideas of their system of colonization and
government, their hopes relative to the intervention of Europe and
of France in particular." To Duroy he said: "Observe what Saint-
Potin says; he is an excellent reporter, and try to learn how to
draw out a man in five minutes." Then he resumed his work.

The two men walked down the boulevard together, while Saint-Potin
gave Duroy a sketch of all the officials connected with the paper,
sparing no one in his criticism. When he mentioned Forestier, he
said: "As for him, he was fortunate in marrying his wife."

Duroy asked: "What about his wife?"

Saint-Potin rubbed his hands. "Oh, she is beloved by an old fellow
named Vaudrec--he dotes upon her."

Duroy felt as if he would like to box Saint-Potin's ears. To change
the subject he said: "It seems to me that it is late, and we have
two noble lords to call upon!"

Saint-Potin laughed: "You are very innocent! Do you think that I am
going to interview that Chinese and that Indian? As if I did not
know better than they do what they should think to please the
readers of 'La Vie Francaise'! I have interviewed five hundred
Chinese, Prussians, Hindoos, Chilians, and Japanese. They all say
the same thing. I need only copy my article on the last comer, word
for word, changing the heading, names, titles, and ages: in that
there must be no error, or I shall be hauled over the coals by the
'Figaro' or 'Gaulois.' But on that subject the porter of the hotels
will post me in five minutes. We will smoke our cigars and stroll in
that direction. Total--one hundred sous for cabfare. That is the
way, my dear fellow."

When they arrived at the Madeleine, Saint-Potin said to his
companion: "If you have anything to do, I do not need you."

Duroy shook hands with him and walked away. The thought of the
article he had to write that evening haunted him. Mentally he
collected the material as he wended his way to the cafe at which he
dined. Then he returned home and seated himself at his table to
work. Before his eyes was the sheet of blank paper, but all the
material he had amassed had escaped him. After trying for an hour,
and after filling five pages with sentences which had no connection
one with the other, he said: "I am not yet familiar with the work. I
must take another lesson."

At ten o'clock the following morning he rang the bell, at his
friend's house. The servant who opened the door, said: "Monsieur is
busy."

Duroy had not expected to find Forestier at home. However he said:
"Tell him it is M. Duroy on important business."

In the course of five minutes he was ushered into the room in which
he had spent so happy a morning. In the place Mme. Forestier had
occupied, her husband was seated writing, while Mme. Forestier stood
by the mantelpiece and dictated to him, a cigarette between her
lips.

Duroy paused upon the threshold and murmured: "I beg your pardon, I
am interrupting you."

His friend growled angrily: "What do you want again? Make haste; we
are busy."

Georges stammered: "It is nothing."

But Forestier persisted: "Come, we are losing time; you did not
force your way into the house for the pleasure of bidding us good
morning."

Duroy, in confusion, replied: "No, it is this: I cannot complete my
article, and you were--so--so kind the last time that I hoped--that
I dared to come--"

Forestier interrupted with: "So you think I will do your work and
that you have only to take the money. Well, that is fine!" His wife
smoked on without interfering.

Duroy hesitated: "Excuse me. I believed--I--thought--" Then, in a
clear voice, he said: "I beg a thousand pardons, Madame, and thank
you very much for the charming article you wrote for me yesterday."
Then he bowed, and said to Charles: "I will be at the office at
three o'clock."

He returned home saying to himself: "Very well, I will write it
alone and they shall see." Scarcely had he entered than he began to
write, anger spurring him on. In an hour he had finished an article,
which was a chaos of absurd matter, and took it boldly to the
office. Duroy handed Forestier his manuscript. "Here is the rest of
Algeria."

"Very well, I will hand it to the manager. That will do."

When Duroy and Saint-Potin, who had some political information to
look up, were in the hall, the latter asked: "Have you been to the
cashier's room?"

"No, why?"

"Why? To get your pay? You should always get your salary a month in
advance. One cannot tell what might happen. I will introduce you to
the cashier."

Duroy drew his two hundred francs together with twenty-eight francs
for his article of the preceding day, which, in addition to what
remained to him of his salary from the railroad office, left him
three hundred and forty francs. He had never had so much, and he
thought himself rich for an indefinite time. Saint-Potin took him to
the offices of four or five rival papers, hoping that the news he
had been commissioned to obtain had been already received by them
and that he could obtain it by means of his diplomacy.

When evening came, Duroy, who had nothing more to do, turned toward
the Folies-Bergeres, and walking up to the office, he said: "My name
is Georges Duroy. I am on the staff of 'La Vie Francaise.' I was
here the other night with M. Forestier, who promised to get me a
pass. I do not know if he remembered it."

The register was consulted, but his name was not inscribed upon it.
However, the cashier, a very affable man, said to him: "Come in, M.
Duroy, and speak to the manager yourself; he will see that
everything is all right."

He entered and almost at once came upon Rachel, the woman he had
seen there before. She approached him: "Good evening, my dear; are
you well?"

"Very well; how are you?"

"I am not ill. I have dreamed of you twice since the other night."

Duroy smiled. "What does that mean?"

"That means that I like you"; she raised her eyes to the young man's
face, took his arm and leaning upon it, said: "Let us drink a glass
of wine and then take a walk. I should like to go to the opera like
this, with you, to show you off."

      *       *       *       *       *       *       *

At daybreak he again sallied forth to obtain a "Vie Francaise." He
opened the paper feverishly; his article was not there. On entering
the office several hours later, he said to M. Walter: "I was very
much surprised this morning not to see my second article on
Algeria."

The manager raised his head and said sharply: "I gave it to your
friend, Forestier, and asked him to read it; he was dissatisfied
with it; it will have to be done over."

Without a word, Duroy left the room, and entering his friend's
office, brusquely asked: "Why did not my article appear this
morning?"

The journalist, who was smoking a cigar, said calmly: "The manager
did not consider it good, and bade me return it to you to be
revised. There it is." Duroy revised it several times, only to have
it rejected. He said nothing more of his "souvenirs," but gave his
whole attention to reporting. He became acquainted behind the scenes
at the theaters, and in the halls and corridors of the chamber of
deputies; he knew all the cabinet ministers, generals, police
agents, princes, ambassadors, men of the world, Greeks, cabmen,
waiters at cafes, and many others. In short he soon became a
remarkable reporter, of great value to the paper, so M. Walter said.
But as he only received ten centimes a line in addition to his fixed
salary of two hundred francs and as his expenses were large, he
never had a sou. When he saw certain of his associates with their
pockets full of money, he wondered what secret means they employed
in order to obtain it. He determined to penetrate that mystery, to
enter into the association, to obtrude himself upon his comrades,
and make them share with him. Often at evening, as he watched the
trains pass his window, he dreamed of the conduct he might pursue.

Chapter V.

The First Intrigue


Two months elapsed. It was September. The fortune which Duroy had
hoped to make so rapidly seemed to him slow in coming. Above all he
was dissatisfied with the mediocrity of his position; he was
appreciated, but was treated according to his rank. Forestier
himself no longer invited him to dinner, and treated him as an
inferior. Often he had thought of making Mme. Forestier a visit, but
the remembrance of their last meeting restrained him. Mme. de
Marelle had invited him to call, saying: "I am always at home about
three o'clock." So one afternoon, when he had nothing to do, he
proceeded toward her house. She lived on Rue Verneuil, on the fourth
floor. A maid answered his summons, and said: "Yes, Madame is at
home, but I do not know whether she has risen." She conducted Duroy
into the drawing-room, which was large, poorly furnished, and
somewhat untidy. The shabby, threadbare chairs were ranged along the
walls according to the servant's fancy, for there was not a trace
visible of the care of a woman who loves her home. Duroy took a seat
and waited some time. Then a door opened and Mme. de Marelle entered
hastily, clad in a Japanese dressing-gown. She exclaimed:

"How kind of you to come to see me. I was positive you had forgotten
me." She held out her hand to him with a gesture of delight; and
Duroy, quite at his ease in that shabby apartment, kissed it as he
had seen Norbert de Varenne do.

Examining him from head to foot, she cried: "How you have changed!
Well; tell me the news."

They began to chat at once as if they were old acquaintances, and in
five minutes an intimacy, a mutual understanding, was established
between those two beings alike in character and kind. Suddenly the
young woman said in surprise: "It is astonishing how I feel with
you. It seems to me as if I had known you ten years. We shall
undoubtedly become good friends; would that please you?"

He replied: "Certainly," with a smile more expressive than words. He
thought her very bewitching in her pretty gown. When near Mme.
Forestier, whose impassive, gracious smile attracted yet held at a
distance, and seemed to say: "I like you, yet take care," he felt a
desire to cast himself at her feet, or to kiss the hem of her
garment. When near Mme. de Marelle, he felt a more passionate
desire.

A gentle rap came at the door through which Mme. de Marelle had
entered, and she cried: "You may come in, my darling."

The child entered, advanced to Duroy and offered him her hand. The
astonished mother murmured: "That is a conquest." The young man,
having kissed the child, seated her by his side, and with a serious
air questioned her as to what she had done since they last met. She
replied in a flute-like voice and with the manner of a woman. The
clock struck three; the journalist rose.

"Come often," said Mme. de Marelle; "it has been a pleasant
causerie. I shall always be glad to welcome you. Why do I never meet
you at the Forestiers?"

"For no particular reason. I am very busy. I hope, however, that we
shall meet there one of these days."

In the course of a few days he paid another visit to the
enchantress. The maid ushered him into the drawing-room and Laurine
soon entered; she offered him not her hand but her forehead, and
said: "Mamma wishes me to ask you to wait for her about fifteen
minutes, for she is not dressed. I will keep you company."

Duroy, who was amused at the child's ceremonious manner, replied:
"Indeed, Mademoiselle, I shall be enchanted to spend a quarter of an
hour with you." When the mother entered they were in the midst of an
exciting game, and Mme. de Marelle paused in amazement, crying:
"Laurine playing? You are a sorcerer, sir!" He placed the child,
whom he had caught in his arms, upon the floor, kissed the lady's
hand, and they seated themselves, the child between them. They tried
to converse, but Laurine, usually so silent, monopolized the
conversation, and her mother was compelled to send her to her room.

When they were alone, Mme. de Marelle lowered her voice and said: "I
have a great project. It is this: As I dine every week at the
Foresters', I return it from time to time by inviting them to a
restaurant. I do not like to have company at home; I am not so
situated that I can have any. I know nothing about housekeeping or
cooking. I prefer a life free from care; therefore I invite them to
the cafe occasionally; but it is not lively when we are only three.
I am telling you this in order to explain such an informal
gathering. I should like you to be present at our Saturdays at the
Cafe Riche at seven-thirty. Do you know the house?"

Duroy accepted gladly. He left her in a transport of delight and
impatiently awaited the day of the dinner. He was the first to
arrive at the place appointed and was shown into a small private
room, in which the table was laid for four; that table looked very
inviting with its colored glasses, silver, and candelabra.

Duroy seated himself upon a low bench. Forestier entered and shook
hands with him with a cordiality he never evinced at the office.

"The two ladies will come together," said he. "These dinners are
truly delightful."

Very soon the door opened and Mesdames Forestier and De Marelle
appeared, heavily veiled, surrounded by the charming mystery
necessary to a rendezvous in a place so public. As Duroy greeted the
former, she took him to task for not having been to see her; then
she added with a smile: "Ah, you prefer Mme. de Marelle; the time
passes more pleasantly with her."

When the waiter handed the wine-list to Forestier, Mme. de Marelle
exclaimed: "Bring the gentle-men whatever they want; as for us, we
want nothing but champagne."

Forestier, who seemed not to have heard her, asked: "Do you object
to my closing the window? My cough has troubled me for several
days."

"Not at all."

His wife did not speak. The various courses were duly served and
then the guests began to chat. They discussed a scandal which was
being circulated about a society belle. Forestier was very much
amused by it. Duroy said with a smile: "How many would abandon
themselves to a caprice, a dream of love, if they did not fear that
they would pay for a brief happiness with tears and an irremediable
scandal?"

Both women glanced at him approvingly. Forestier cried with a
sceptical laugh: "The poor husbands!" Then they talked of love.
Duroy said: "When I love a woman, everything else in the world is
forgotten."

Mme. Forestier murmured:, "There is no happiness comparable to that
first clasp of the hand, when one asks: 'Do you love me?' and the
other replies: 'Yes, I love you.'" Mme. de Marelle cried gaily as
she drank a glass of champagne: "I am less Platonic."

Forestier, lying upon the couch, said in serious tone: "That
frankness does you honor and proves you to be a practical woman. But
might one ask, what is M. de Marelle's opinion?"

She shrugged her shoulders disdainfully and said: "M. de Marelle has
no opinion on that subject."

The conversation grew slow. Mme. de Marelle seemed to offer
provocation by her remarks, while Mme. Forestier's charming reserve,
the modesty in her voice, in her smile, all seemed to extenuate the
bold sallies which issued from her lips. The dessert came and then
followed the coffee. The hostess and her guests lighted cigarettes,
but Forestier suddenly began to cough. When the attack was over, he
growled angrily: "These parties are not good for me; they are
stupid. Let us go home."

Mme. de Marelle summoned the waiter and asked for her bill. She
tried to read it, but the figures danced before her eyes; she handed
the paper to Duroy.

"Here, pay it for me; I cannot see." At the same time, she put her
purse in his hand.

The total was one hundred and thirty francs. Duroy glanced at the
bill and when it was settled, whispered: "How much shall I give the
waiter?"

"Whatever you like; I do not know."

He laid five francs upon the plate and handed the purse to its
owner, saying: "Shall I escort you home?"

"Certainly; I am unable to find the house."

They shook hands with the Forestiers and were soon rolling along in
a cab side by side. Duroy could think of nothing to say; he felt
impelled to clasp her in his arms. "If I should dare, what would she
do?" thought he. The recollection of their conversation at dinner
emboldened, but the fear of scandal restrained him. Mme. de Marelle
reclined silently in her corner. He would have thought her asleep,
had he not seen her eyes glisten whenever a ray of light penetrated
the dark recesses of the carriage. Of what was she thinking?
Suddenly she moved her foot, nervously, impatiently. That movement
caused him to tremble, and turning quickly, he cast himself upon
her, seeking her lips with his. She uttered a cry, attempted to
repulse him and then yielded to his caresses as if she had not the
strength to resist.

The carriage stopped at her door, but she did not rise; she did not
move, stunned by what had just taken place. Fearing that the cabman
would mistrust something, Duroy alighted from the cab first and
offered his hand to the young woman. Finally she got out, but in
silence. Georges rang the bell, and when the door was opened, he
asked timidly: "When shall I see you again?"

She whispered so low that he could barely hear her: "Come and lunch
with me to-morrow." With those words she disappeared.

Duroy gave the cabman a five-franc piece, and turned away with a
triumphant, joyful air. He had at last conquered a married woman! A
woman of the world! A Parisian! How easy it had been!

He was somewhat nervous the following day as he ascended Mme. de
Marelle's staircase. How would she receive him? Suppose she forbade
him to enter her house? If she had told--but no, she could not tell
anything without telling the whole truth! He was master of the
situation!

The little maid-servant opened the door. She was as pleasant as
usual. Duroy felt reassured and asked: "Is Madame well?"

"Yes, sir; as well as she always is," was the reply, and he was
ushered into the salon. He walked to the mantelpiece to see what
kind of an appearance he presented: he was readjusting his cravat
when he saw in the mirror the young woman standing on the threshold
looking at him. He pretended not to have seen her, and for several
moments they gazed at one another in the mirror. Then he turned. She
had not moved; she seemed to be waiting. He rushed toward her
crying: "How I love you!" He clasped her to his breast. He thought:
"It is easier than I thought it would be. All is well." He looked at
her with a smile, without uttering a word, trying to put into his
glance a wealth of love. She too smiled and murmured: "We are alone.
I sent Laurine to lunch with a friend."

He sighed, and kissing her wrists said: "Thanks; I adore you." She
took his arm as if he had been her husband, and led him to a couch,
upon which they seated themselves side by side. Duroy stammered,
incoherently: "You do not care for me."

She laid her hand upon his lips. "Be silent!"

"How I love you!" said he.

She repeated: "Be silent!"

They could hear the servant laying the table in the dining-room. He
rose: "I cannot sit so near you. I shall lose my head."

The door opened: "Madame is served!"

He offered her his arm gravely. They lunched without knowing what
they were eating. The servant came and went without seeming to
notice anything. When the meal was finished, they returned to the
drawing-room and resumed their seats on the couch side by side.
Gradually he drew nearer her and tried to embrace her.

"Be careful, some one might come in."

He whispered: "When can I see you alone to tell you how I love you?"

She leaned toward him and said softly: "I will pay you a visit one
of these days."

He colored. "My rooms--are--are--very modest."

She smiled: "That makes no difference. I shall come to see you and
not your rooms."

He urged her to tell him when she would come. She fixed a day in the
following week, while he besought her with glowing eyes to hasten
the day. She was amused to see him implore so ardently and yielded a
day at a time. He repeated: "To-morrow, say--to-morrow." Finally she
consented. "Yes, to-morrow at five o'clock."

He drew a deep breath; then they chatted together as calmly as if
they had known one another for twenty years. A ring caused them to
start; they separated. She murmured: "It is Laurine."

The child entered, paused in surprise, then ran toward Duroy
clapping her hands, delighted to see him, and crying: "Ah, 'Bel-
Ami!'"

Mme. de Marelle laughed. "Bel-Ami! Laurine has christened you. It is
a pretty name. I shall call you Bel-Ami, too!"

He took the child upon his knee. At twenty minutes of three he rose
to go to the office; at the half-open door he whispered: "To-morrow,
five o'clock." The young woman replied: "Yes," with a smile and
disappeared.

After he had finished his journalistic work, he tried to render his
apartments more fit to receive his expected visitor. He was well
satisfied with the results of his efforts and retired, lulled to
rest by the whistling of the trains. Early the next morning he
bought a cake and a bottle of Madeira. He spread the collation on
his dressing-table which was covered with a napkin. Then he waited.
She came at a quarter past five and exclaimed as she entered: "Why,
it is nice here. But there were a great many people on the stairs."

He took her in his arms and kissed her hair. An hour and a half
later he escorted her to a cab-stand on the Rue de Rome. When she
was seated in the cab, he whispered: "Tuesday, at the same hour."

She repeated his words, and as it was night, she kissed him. Then as
the cabman started up his horse, she cried:" Adieu, Bel-Ami!" and
the old coupe rumbled off.

For three weeks Duroy received Mme. de Marelle every two or three
days, sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the evening.

As he was awaiting her one afternoon, a noise on the staircase drew
him to his door. A child screamed. A man's angry voice cried: "What
is the brat howling about?"

A woman's voice replied: "Nicolas has been tripped up on the
landing-place by the journalist's sweetheart."

Duroy retreated, for he heard the rustling of skirts. Soon there was
a knock at his door, which he opened, and Mme. de Marelle rushed in,
crying: "Did you hear?" Georges feigned ignorance of the matter.

"No; what?"

"How they insulted me?"

"Who?"

"Those miserable people below."

"Why, no; what is it? Tell me."

She sobbed and could not speak. He was forced to place her upon his
bed and to lay a damp cloth upon her temples. When she grew calmer,
anger succeeded her agitation. She wanted Duroy to go downstairs at
once, to fight them, to kill them.

He replied: "They are working-people. Just think, it would be
necessary to go to court where you would be recognized; one must not
compromise oneself with such people."

She said: "What shall we do? I cannot come here again."

He replied: "That is very simple. I will move."

She murmured: "Yes, but that will take some time."

Suddenly she said: "Listen to me, I have found a means; do not worry
about it. I will send you a 'little blue' to-morrow morning." She
called a telegram a "little blue."

She smiled with delight at her plans, which she would not reveal.
She was, however, very much affected as she descended the staircase
and leaned with all her strength upon her lover's arm. They met no
one.

He was still in bed the following morning when the promised telegram
was handed him. Duroy opened it and read:

    "Come at five o'clock to Rue de Constantinople, No. 127. Ask
     for the room rented by Mme. Duroy. CLO."

At five o'clock precisely he entered a large furnished house and
asked the janitor: "Has Mme. Duroy hired a room here?"

"Yes, sir."

"Will you show me to it, if you please?"

The man, accustomed no doubt to situations in which it was necessary
to be prudent, looked him straight in the eyes; then selecting a
key, he asked: "Are you M. Duroy?"

"Certainly."

He opened a small suite, comprising two rooms on the ground floor.

Duroy thought uneasily: "This will cost a fortune. I shall have to
run into debt. She has done a very foolish thing."

The door opened and Clotilde rushed in. She was enchanted. "Is it
not fine? There are no stairs to climb; it is on the ground floor!
One could come and go through the window without the porter seeing
one."

He embraced her nervously, not daring to ask the question that
hovered upon his lips. She had placed a large package on the stand
in the center of the room. Opening it she took out a tablet of soap,
a bottle of Lubin's extract, a sponge, a box of hairpins, a button-
hook, and curling-tongs. Then she amused herself by finding places
in which to put them.

She talked incessantly as she opened the drawers: "I must bring some
linen in order to have a change. We shall each have a key, besides
the one at the lodge, in case we should forget ours. I rented the
apartments for three months--in your name, of course, for I could
not give mine."

Then he asked: "Will you tell me when to pay?"

She replied simply: "It is paid, my dear."

He made a pretense of being angry: "I cannot permit that."

She laid her hand upon his shoulder and said in a supplicatory tone:
"Georges, it will give me pleasure to have the nest mine. Say that
you do not care, dear Georges," and he yielded. When she had left
him, he murmured: "She is kind-hearted, anyway."

Several days later he received a telegram which read:

    "My husband is coming home this evening. We shall therefore not
     meet for a week. What a bore, my dearest!"

    "YOUR CLO."

Duroy was startled; he had not realized the fact that Mme. de
Marelle was married. He impatiently awaited her husband's departure.
One morning he received the following telegram:

     "Five o'clock.--CLO."

When they met, she rushed into his arms, kissed him passionately,
and asked: "After a while will you take me to dine?"

"Certainly, my darling, wherever you wish to go."

"I should like to go to some restaurant frequented by the working-
classes."

They repaired to a wine merchant's where meals were also served.
Clotilde's entrance caused a sensation on account of the elegance of
her dress. They partook of a ragout of mutton and left that place to
enter a ball-room in which she pressed more closely to his side. In
fifteen minutes her curiosity was satisfied and he conducted her
home. Then followed a series of visits to all sorts of places of
amusement. Duroy soon began to tire of those expeditions, for he had
exhausted all his resources and all means of obtaining money. In
addition to that he owed Forestier a hundred francs, Jacques Rival
three hundred, and he was hampered with innumerable petty debts
ranging from twenty francs to one hundred sous.

On the fourteenth of December, he was left without a sou in his
pocket. As he had often done before, he did not lunch, and spent the
afternoon working at the office. At four o'clock he received a
telegram from Mme. de Marelle, saying: "Shall we dine together and
afterward have a frolic?"

He replied at once: "Impossible to dine," then he added: "But I will
expect you at our apartments at nine o'clock." Having sent a boy
with the note in order to save the money for a telegram, he tried to
think of some way by which he could obtain his evening meal. He
waited until all of his associates had gone and when he was alone,
he rang for the porter, put his hand in his pocket and said:
"Foucart, I have left my purse at home and I have to dine at the
Luxembourg. Lend me fifty sous to pay for my cab."

The man handed him three francs and asked:

"Is that enough?"

"Yes, thank you." Taking the coins, Duroy rushed down the staircase
and dined at a cookshop.

At nine o'clock, Mme. de Marelle, whom he awaited in the tiny salon,
arrived. She wished to take a walk and he objected. His opposition
irritated her.

"I shall go alone, then. Adieu!"

Seeing that the situation was becoming grave, he seized her hands
and kissed them, saying:

"Pardon me, darling; I am nervous and out of sorts this evening. I
have been annoyed by business matters."

Somewhat appeased but still, vexed, she replied:

"That does not concern me; I will not be the butt for your ill
humor."

He clasped her in his arms and murmured his apologies. Still she
persisted in her desire to go out.

"I beseech you, remain here by the fire with me. Say yes."

"No," she replied, "I will not yield to your caprices."

He insisted: "I have a reason, a serious reason--"

"If you will not go with me, I shall go alone. Adieu!"

She disengaged herself from his embrace and fled to the door. He
followed her:

"Listen Clo, my little Clo, listen to me--"

She shook her head, evaded his caresses and tried to escape from his
encircling arms.

"I have a reason--"

Looking him in the face, she said: "You lie! What is it?"

He colored, and in order to avoid a rupture, confessed in accents of
despair: "I have no money!"

She would not believe him until he had turned all his pockets inside
out, to prove his words. Then she fell upon his breast: "Oh, my poor
darling! Had I known! How did it happen?"

He invented a touching story to this effect: That his father was in
straitened circumstances, that he had given him not only his
savings, but had run himself into debt.

"I shall have to starve for the next six months."

"Shall I lend you some?" she whispered.

He replied with dignity: "You are very kind, dearest; but do not
mention that again; it wounds me."

She murmured: "You will never know how much I love you." On taking
leave of him, she asked: "Shall we meet again the day after to-
morrow?"

"Certainly."

"At the same time?"

"Yes, my darling."

They parted.

When Duroy opened his bedroom door and fumbled in his vest pocket
for a match, he was amazed to find in it a piece of money--a twenty-
franc piece! At first he wondered by what miracle it had got there;
suddenly it occurred to him that Mme. de Marelle had given him alms!
Angry and humiliated, he determined to return it when next they met.
The next morning it was late when he awoke; he tried to overcome his
hunger. He went out and as he passed the restaurants he could
scarcely resist their temptations. At noon he said: "Bah, I shall
lunch upon Clotilde's twenty francs; that will not hinder me from
returning the money to-morrow."

He ate his lunch, for which he paid two francs fifty, and on
entering the office of "La Vie Francaise" he repaid the porter the
three francs he had borrowed from him. He worked until seven
o'clock, then he dined, and he continued to draw upon the twenty
francs until only four francs twenty remained. He decided to say to
Mme. de Marelle upon her arrival:

"I found the twenty-franc piece you slipped into my pocket. I will
not return the money to-day, but I will repay you when we next
meet."

When Madame came, he dared not broach the delicate subject. They
spent the evening together and appointed their next meeting for
Wednesday of the following week, for Mme. de Marelle had a number of
engagements. Duroy continued to accept money from Clotilde and
quieted his conscience by assuring himself: "I will give it back in
a lump. It is nothing but borrowed money anyway." So he kept account
of all that he received in order to pay it back some day.

One evening, Mme. de Marelle said to him: "Would you believe that I
have never been to the Folies-Bergeres; will you take me there?"

He hesitated, fearing a meeting with Rachel. Then he thought: "Bah,
I am not married after all. If she should see me, she would take in
the situation and not accost me. Moreover, we would have a box."

When they entered the hall, it was crowded; with difficulty they
made their way to their seats. Mme. de Marelle did not look at the
stage; she was interested in watching the women who were
promenading, and she felt an irresistible desire to touch them, to
see of what those beings were made. Suddenly she said:

"There is a large brunette who stares at us all the time. I think
every minute she will speak to us. Have you seen her?"

He replied: "No, you are mistaken."

He told an untruth, for he had noticed the woman, who was no other
than Rachel, with anger in her eyes and violent words upon her lips.

Duroy had passed her when he and Mme. de Marelle entered and she had
said to him: "Good evening," in a low voice and with a wink which
said "I understand." But he had not replied; for fear of being seen
by his sweetheart he passed her coldly, disdainfully. The woman, her
jealousy aroused, followed the couple and said in a louder key:
"Good evening, Georges." He paid no heed to her. Then she was
determined to be recognized and she remained near their box,
awaiting a favorable moment. When she saw that she was observed by
Mme. de Marelle, she touched Duroy's shoulder with the tip of her
finger, and said:

"Good evening. How are you?"

But Georges did not turn his head.

She continued: "Have you grown deaf since Thursday?"

Still he did not reply. She laughed angrily and cried:

"Are you dumb, too? Perhaps Madame has your tongue?"

With a furious glance, Duroy then exclaimed:

"How dare you accost me? Go along or I will have you arrested."

With flaming eyes, she cried: "Ah, is that so! Because you are with
another is no reason that you cannot recognize me. If you had made
the least sign of recognition when you passed me, I would not have
molested you. You did not even say good evening to me when you met
me."

During that tirade Mme. de Marelle in affright opened the door of
the box and fled through the crowd seeking an exit. Duroy rushed
after her. Rachel, seeing him disappear, cried: "Stop her! she has
stolen my lover!"

Two men seized the fugitive by the shoulder, but Duroy, who had
caught up with her, bade them desist, and together he and Clotilde
reached the street.

They entered a cab. The cabman asked: "Where shall I drive to?"
Duroy replied: "Where you will!"

Clotilde sobbed hysterically. Duroy did not know what to say or do.
At length he stammered:

"Listen Clo--my dearest Clo, let me explain. It is not my fault. I
knew that woman--long ago--"

She raised her head and with the fury of a betrayed woman, she cried
disconnectedly: "Ah, you miserable fellow--what a rascal you are! Is
it possible? What disgrace, oh, my God! You gave her my money--did
you not? I gave him the money--for that woman--oh, the wretch!"

For several moments she seemed to be vainly seeking an epithet more
forcible. Suddenly leaning forward she grasped the cabman's sleeve.
"Stop!" she cried, and opening the door, she alighted. Georges was
about to follow her but she commanded: "I forbid you to follow me,"
in a voice so loud that the passers-by crowded around her, and Duroy
dared not stir for fear of a scandal.

She drew out her purse, and taking two francs fifty from it, she
handed it to the cabman, saying aloud: "Here is the money for your
hour. Take that rascal to Rue Boursault at Batignolles!"

The crowd applauded; one man said: "Bravo, little one!" and the cab
moved on, followed by the jeers of the bystanders.

Chapter VI.

A Step Upward


The next morning Georges Duroy arose, dressed himself, and
determined to have money; he sought Forestier. His friend received
him in his study.

"What made you rise so early?" he asked.

"A very serious matter. I have a debt of honor."

"A gaming debt?"

He hesitated, then repeated: "A gaming debt."

"Is it large?"

"Five hundred francs." He only needed two hundred and eighty.

Forestier asked sceptically: "To whom do you owe that amount?"

Duroy did not reply at once. "To--to--a--M. de Carleville."

"Ah, where does he live?"

"Rue--Rue--"

Forestier laughed. "I know the gentleman! If you want twenty francs
you can have them, but no more."

Duroy took the gold-piece, called upon more friends, and by five
o'clock had collected eighty francs. As he required two hundred
more, he kept what he had begged and muttered: "I shall not worry
about it. I will pay it when I can."

For two weeks he lived economically, but at the end of that time,
the good resolutions he had formed vanished, and one evening he
returned to the Folies Bergeres in search of Rachel; but the woman
was implacable and heaped coarse insults upon him, until he felt his
cheeks tingle and he left the hall.

Forestier, out of health and feeble, made Duroy's existence at the
office insupportable. The latter did not reply to his rude remarks,
but determined to be avenged. He called upon Mme. Forestier. He
found her reclining upon a couch, reading. She held out her hand
without rising and said: "Good morning, Bel-Ami!"

"Why do you call me by that name?"

She replied with a smile: "I saw Mme. de Marelle last week and I
know what they have christened you at her house."

He took a seat near his hostess and glanced at her curiously; she
was a charming blonde, fair and plump, made for caresses, and he
thought: "She is certainly nicer than the other one." He did not
doubt that he would only have to extend his hand in order to gather
the fruit. As he gazed upon her she chided him for his neglect of
her.

He replied: "I did not come because it was for the best--"

"How? Why?"

"Why? Can you not guess?"

"No!"

"Because I loved you; a little, only a little, and I did not wish to
love you any more."

She did not seem surprised, nor flattered; she smiled indifferently
and replied calmly: "Oh, you can come just the same; no one loves me
long."

"Why not?"

"Because it is useless, and I tell them so at once. If you had
confessed your fears to me sooner, I would have reassured you. My
dear friend, a man in love is not only foolish but dangerous. I
cease all intercourse with people who love me or pretend to;
firstly, because they bore me, and secondly, because I look upon
them with dread, as I would upon a mad dog. I know that your love is
only a kind of appetite; while with me it would be a communion of
souls. Now, look me in the face--" she no longer smiled. "I will
never be your sweetheart; it is therefore useless for you to persist
in your efforts. And now that I have explained, shall we be
friends?"

He knew that that sentence was irrevocable, and delighted to be able
to form such an alliance as she proposed, he extended both hands,
saying:

"I am yours, Madame, to do with as you will"

He kissed her hands and raising his head said: "If I had found a
woman like you, how gladly would I have married her."

She was touched by those words, and in a soft voice, placing her
hand upon his arm, she said: "I am going to begin my offices at
once. You are not diplomatic--" she hesitated. "May I speak freely?"

"Yes."

"Call upon Mme. Walter who has taken a fancy to you. But be guarded
as to your compliments, for she is virtuous. You will make a better
impression there by being careful in your remarks. I know that your
position at the office is unsatisfactory, but do not worry; all
their employees are treated alike."

He said: "Thanks; you are an angel--a guardian angel."

As he took his leave, he asked again: "Are we friends--is it
settled?"

"It is."

Having observed the effect of his last compliment, he said: "If you
ever become a widow, I have put in my application!" Then he left the
room hastily in order not to allow her time to be angry.

Duroy did not like to call on Mme. Walter, for he had never been
invited, and he did not wish to commit a breach of etiquette. The
manager had been kind to him, appreciated his services, employed him
to do difficult work, why should he not profit by that show of favor
to call at his house? One day, therefore, he repaired to the market
and bought twenty-five pears. Having carefully arranged them in a
basket to make them appear as if they came from a distance he took
them to Mme. Walter's door with his card on which was inscribed:

    "Georges Duroy begs Mme. Walter to accept the fruit which he
     received this morning from Normandy."

The following day he found in his letter-box at the office an
envelope containing Mme, Walter's card on which was written:

    "Mme. Walter thanks M. Georges Duroy very much, and is at home
     on Saturdays."

The next Saturday he called. M. Walter lived on Boulevard
Malesherbes in a double house which he owned. The reception-rooms
were on the first floor. In the antechamber were two footmen; one
took Duroy's overcoat, the other his cane, put it aside, opened a
door and announced the visitor's name. In the large mirror in the
apartment Duroy could see the reflection of people seated in another
room. He passed through two drawing-rooms and entered a small
boudoir in which four ladies were gathered around a tea-table.
Notwithstanding the assurance he had gained during his life in
Paris, and especially since he had been thrown in contact with so
many noted personages, Duroy felt abashed. He stammered:

"Madame, I took the liberty."

The mistress of the house extended her hand and said to him: "You
are very kind, M. Duroy, to come to see me." She pointed to a chair.
The ladies chatted on. Visitors came and went. Mme. Walter noticed
that Duroy said nothing, that no one addressed him, that he seemed
disconcerted, and she drew him into the conversation which dealt
with the admission of a certain M. Linet to the Academy. When Duroy
had taken his leave, one of the ladies said: "How odd he is! Who is
he?"

Mme. Walter replied: "One of our reporters; he only occupies a minor
position, but I think he will advance rapidly."

In the meantime, while he was being discussed, Duroy walked gaily
down Boulevard Malesherbes.

The following week he was appointed editor of the "Echoes," and
invited to dine at Mme. Walter's. The "Echoes" were, M. Walter said,
the very pith of the paper. Everything and everybody should be
remembered, all countries, all professions, Paris and the provinces,
the army, the arts, the clergy, the schools, the rulers, and the
courtiers. The man at the head of that department should be wide
awake, always on his guard, quick to judge of what was best to be
said and best to be omitted, to divine what would please the public
and to present it well. Duroy was just the man for the place.

He was enjoying the fact of his promotion, when he received an
engraved card which read:

    "M. and Mme. Walter request the pleasure of M. Georges Duroy's
     company at dinner on Thursday, January 20."

He was so delighted that he kissed the invitation as if it had been
a love-letter.

Then he sought the cashier to settle the important question of his
salary. At first twelve hundred francs were allowed Duroy, who
intended to save a large share of the money. He was busy two days
getting settled in his new position, in a large room, one end of
which he occupied, and the other end of which was allotted to
Boisrenard, who worked with him.

The day of the dinner-party he left the office in good season, in
order to have time to dress, and was walking along Rue de Londres
when he saw before him a form which resembled Mme. de Marelle's. He
felt his cheeks glow and his heart throb. He crossed the street in
order to see the lady's face; he was mistaken, and breathed more
freely. He had often wondered what he should do if he met Clotilde
face to face. Should he bow to her or pretend not to see her? "I
should not see her," thought he.

When Duroy entered his rooms he thought: "I must change my
apartments; these will not do any longer." He felt both nervous and
gay, and said aloud to himself: "I must write to my father."
Occasionally he wrote home, and his letters always delighted his old
parents. As he tied his cravat at the mirror he repeated: "I must
write home to-morrow. If my father could see me this evening in the
house to which I am going, he would be surprised. Sacristi, I shall
soon give a dinner which has never been equaled!"

Then he recalled his old home, the faces of his father and mother.
He saw them seated at their homely board, eating their soup. He
remembered every wrinkle on their old faces, every movement of their
hands and heads; he even knew what they said to each other every
evening as they supped. He thought: "I will go to see them some
day." His toilette completed, he extinguished his light and
descended the stairs.

On reaching his destination, he boldly entered the antechamber,
lighted by bronze lamps, and gave his cane and his overcoat to the
two lackeys who approached him. All the salons were lighted. Mme.
Walter received in the second, the largest. She greeted Duroy with a
charming smile, and he shook hands with two men who arrived after
him, M. Firmin and M. Laroche-Mathieu; the latter had especial
authority at the office on account of his influence in the chamber
of deputies.

Then the Forestiers arrived, Madeleine looking charming in pink.
Charles had become very much emaciated and coughed incessantly.

Norbert de Varenne and Jacques Rival came together. A door opened at
the end of the room, and M. Walter entered with two tall young girls
of sixteen and seventeen; one plain, the other pretty. Duroy knew
that the manager was a paterfamilias, but he was astonished. He had
thought of the manager's daughters as one thinks of a distant
country one will never see. Then, too, he had fancied them children,
and he saw women. They shook hands upon being introduced and seated
themselves at a table set apart for them. One of the guests had not
arrived, and that embarrassing silence which precedes dinners in
general reigned supreme.

Duroy happening to glance at the walls, M. Walter said: "You are
looking at my pictures? I will show them all to you." And he took a
lamp that they might distinguish all the details. There were
landscapes by Guillemet; "A Visit to the Hospital," by Gervex; "A
Widow," by Bouguereau; "An Execution," by Jean Paul Laurens, and
many others.

Duroy exclaimed: "Charming, charming, char--" but stopped short on
hearing behind him the voice of Mme. de Marelle who had just
entered. M. Walter continued to exhibit and explain his pictures;
but Duroy saw nothing--heard without comprehending. Mme. de Marelle
was there, behind him. What should he do? If he greeted her, might
she not turn her back upon him or utter some insulting remark? If he
did not approach her, what would people think? He was so ill at ease
that at one time he thought he should feign indisposition and return
home.

The pictures had all been exhibited. M. Walter placed the lamp on
the table and greeted the last arrival, while Duroy recommenced
alone an examination of the canvas, as if he could not tear himself
away. What should he do? He heard their voices and their
conversation. Mme. Forestier called him; he hastened toward her. It
was to introduce him to a friend who was on the point of giving a
fete, and who wanted a description of it in "La Vie Francaise."

He stammered: "Certainly, Madame, certainly."

Madame de Marelle was very near him; he dared not turn to go away.
Suddenly to his amazement, she exclaimed: "Good evening, Bel-Ami; do
you not remember me?"

He turned upon his heel hastily; she stood before him smiling, her
eyes overflowing with roguishness and affection. She offered him her
hand; he took it doubtfully, fearing some perfidy. She continued
calmly: "What has become of you? One never sees you!"

Not having regained his self-possession, he murmured: "I have had a
great deal to do, Madame, a great deal to do. M. Walter has given me
another position and the duties are very arduous."

"I know, but that is no excuse for forgetting your friends."

Their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a large woman,
decollette, with red arms, red cheeks, and attired in gay colors. As
she was received with effusion, Duroy asked Mme. Forestier: "Who is
that person?"

"Viscountess de Percemur, whose nom de plume is 'Patte Blanche.'"

He was surprised and with difficulty restrained a burst of laughter.

"Patte Blanche? I fancied her a young woman like you. Is that Patte
Blanche? Ah, she is handsome, very handsome!"

A servant appeared at the door and announced: "Madame is served."

Duroy was placed between the manager's plain daughter, Mlle. Rose,
and Mme. de Marelle. The proximity of the latter embarrassed him
somewhat, although she appeared at ease and conversed with her usual
spirit. Gradually, however, his assurance returned, and before the
meal was over, he knew that their relations would be renewed.
Wishing, too, to be polite to his employer's daughter, he addressed
her from time to time. She responded as her mother would have done,
without any hesitation as to what she should say. At M. Walter's
right sat Viscountess de Percemur, and Duroy, looking at her with a
smile, asked Mme. de Marelle in a low voice: "Do you know the one
who signs herself 'Domino Rose'?"

"Yes, perfectly; Baroness de Livar."

"Is she like the Countess?"

"No. But she is just as comical. She is sixty years old, has false
curls and teeth, wit of the time of the Restoration, and toilettes
of the same period."

When the guests returned to the drawing-room, Duroy asked Mme. de
Marelle: "May I escort you home?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because M. Laroche-Mathieu, who is my neighbor, leaves me at my
door every time that I dine here."

"When shall I see you again?"

"Lunch with me to-morrow."

They parted without another word. Duroy did not remain late; as he
descended the staircase, he met Norbert de Varenne, who was likewise
going away. The old poet took his arm; fearing no rivalry on the
newspaper, their work being essentially different, he was very
friendly to the young man.

"Shall we walk along together?"

"I shall be pleased to," replied Duroy.

The streets were almost deserted that night. At first the two men
did not speak. Then Duroy, in order to make some remark, said: "That
M. Laroche-Mathieu looks very intelligent."

The old poet murmured: "Do you think so?"

The younger man hesitated in surprise: "Why, yes! Is he not
considered one of the most capable men in the Chamber?"

"That may be. In a kingdom of blind men the blind are kings. All
those people are divided between money and politics; they are
pedants to whom it is impossible to speak of anything that is
familiar to us. Ah, it is difficult to find a man who is liberal in
his ideas! I have known several, they are dead. Still, what
difference does a little more or a little less genius make, since
all must come to an end?" He paused, and Duroy said with a smile:

"You are gloomy to-night, sir!"

The poet replied: "I always am, my child; you will be too in a few
years. While one is climbing the ladder, one sees the top and feels
hopeful; but when one has reached that summit, one sees the descent
and the end which is death. It is slow work ascending, but one
descends rapidly. At your age one is joyous; one hopes for many
things which never come to pass. At mine, one expects nothing but
death."

Duroy laughed: "Egad, you make me shudder."

Norbert de Varenne continued: "You do not understand me now, but
later on you will remember what I have told you. We breathe, sleep,
drink, eat, work, and then die! The end of life is death. What do
you long for? Love? A few kisses and you will be powerless. Money?
What for? To gratify your desires. Glory? What comes after it all?
Death! Death alone is certain."

He stopped, took Duroy by his coat collar and said slowly: "Ponder
upon all that, young man; think it over for days, months, and years,
and you will see life from a different standpoint. I am a lonely,
old man. I have neither father, mother, brother, sister, wife,
children, nor God. I have only poetry. Marry, my friend; you do not
know what it is to live alone at my age. It is so lonesome. I seem
to have no one upon earth. When one is old it is a comfort to have
children."

When they reached Rue de Bourgogne, the poet halted before a high
house, rang the bell, pressed Duroy's hand and said: "Forget what I
have said to you, young man, and live according to your age. Adieu!"
With those words he disappeared in the dark corridor.

Duroy felt somewhat depressed on leaving Varenne, but on his way a
perfumed damsel passed by him and recalled to his mind his
reconciliation with Mme. de Marelle. How delightful was the
realization of one's hopes!

The next morning he arrived at his lady-love's door somewhat early;
she welcomed him as if there had been no rupture, and said as she
kissed him:

"You do not know how annoyed I am, my beloved; I anticipated a
delightful honeymoon and now my husband has come home for six weeks.
But I could not let so long a time go by without seeing you,
especially after our little disagreement, and this is how I have
arranged matters: Come to dinner Monday. I will introduce you to M.
de Marelle, I have already spoken of you to him."

Duroy hesitated in perplexity; he feared he might betray something
by a word, a glance. He stammered:

"No, I would rather not meet your husband."

"Why not? How absurd! Such things happen every day. I did not think
you so foolish."

"Very well, I will come to dinner Monday."

"To make it more pleasant, I will have the Forestiers, though I do
not like to receive company at home."

On Monday as he ascended Mme. de Marelle's staircase, he felt
strangely troubled; not that he disliked to take her husband's hand,
drink his wine, and eat his bread, but he dreaded something, he knew
not what. He was ushered into the salon and he waited as usual. Then
the door opened, and a tall man with a white beard, grave and
precise, advanced toward him and said courteously:

"My wife has often spoken of you, sir; I am charmed to make your
acquaintance."

Duroy tried to appear cordial and shook his host's proffered hand
with exaggerated energy. M. de Marelle put a log upon the fire and
asked:

"Have you been engaged in journalism a long time?"

Duroy replied: "Only a few months." His embarrassment wearing off,
he began to consider the situation very amusing. He gazed at M. de
Marelle, serious and dignified, and felt a desire to laugh aloud. At
that moment Mme. de Marelle entered and approached Duroy, who in the
presence of her husband dared not kiss her hand. Laurine entered
next, and offered her brow to Georges. Her mother said to her:

"You do not call M. Duroy Bel-Ami to-day."

The child blushed as if it were a gross indiscretion to reveal her
secret.

When the Forestiers arrived, Duroy was startled at Charles's
appearance. He had grown thinner and paler in a week and coughed
incessantly; he said they would leave for Cannes on the following
Thursday at the doctor's orders. They did not stay late; after they
had left, Duroy said, with a shake of his head:

"He will not live long."

Mme. de Marelle replied calmly: "No, he is doomed! He was a lucky
man to obtain such a wife."

Duroy asked: "Does she help him very much?"

"She does all the work; she is well posted on every subject, and she
always gains her point, as she wants it, and when she wants it! Oh,
she is as maneuvering as anyone! She is a treasure to a man who
wishes to succeed."

Georges replied: "She will marry very soon again, I have no doubt."

"Yes! I should not even be surprised if she had some one in view--a
deputy! but I do not know anything about it."

M. de Marelle said impatiently: "You infer so many things that I do
not like! We should never interfere in the affairs of others.
Everyone should make that a rule."

Duroy took his leave with a heavy heart. The next day he called on
the Forestiers, and found them in the midst of packing. Charles lay
upon a sofa and repeated: "I should have gone a month ago." Then he
proceeded to give Duroy innumerable orders, although everything had
been arranged with M. Walter. When Georges left him, he pressed his
comrade's hand and said:

"Well, old fellow, we shall soon meet again."

Mme. Forestier accompanied him to the door and he reminded her of
their compact. "We are friends and allies, are we not? If you should
require my services in any way, do not hesitate to call upon me.
Send me a dispatch or a letter and I will obey."

She murmured: "Thank you, I shall not forget."

As Duroy descended the staircase, he met M. de Vaudrec ascending.
The Count seemed sad--perhaps at the approaching departure.

The journalist bowed, the Count returned his salutation courteously
but somewhat haughtily.

On Thursday evening the Forestiers left town.

Chapter VII.

A Duel with an End


Charles's absence gave Duroy a more important position on "La Vie
Francaise." Only one matter arose to annoy him, otherwise his sky
was cloudless.

An insignificant paper, "La Plume," attacked him constantly, or
rather attacked the editor of the "Echoes" of "La Vie Francaise."

Jacques Rival said to him one day: "You are very forbearing."

"What should I do? It is no direct attack."

But, one afternoon when he entered the office, Boisrenard handed him
a number of "La Plume."

"See, here is another unpleasant remark for you."

"Relative to what?"

"To the arrest of one Dame Aubert."

Georges took the paper and read a scathing personal denunciation.
Duroy, it seems, had written an item claiming that Dame Aubert who,
as the editor of "La Plume," claimed, had been put under arrest, was
a myth. The latter retaliated by accusing Duroy of receiving bribes
and of suppressing matter that should be published.

As Saint-Potin entered, Duroy asked him: "Have you seen the
paragraph in 'La Plume'?"

"Yes, and I have just come from Dame Aubert's; she is no myth, but
she has not been arrested; that report has no foundation."

Duroy went at once to M. Walter's office. After hearing the case,
the manager bade him go to the woman's house himself, find out the
details, and reply, to the article.

Duroy set out upon his errand and on his return to the office, wrote
the following:

    "An anonymous writer in 'La Plume' is trying to pick a quarrel
     with me on the subject of an old woman who, he claims, was
     arrested for disorderly conduct, which I deny. I have myself
     seen Dame Aubert, who is sixty years old at least; she told me
     the particulars of her dispute with a butcher as to the weight
     of some cutlets, which dispute necessitated an explanation
     before a magistrate. That is the whole truth in a nutshell. As
     for the other insinuations I scorn them. One never should reply
     to such things, moreover, when they are written under a mask.
                                               GEORGES DUROY."

M. Walter and Jacques Rival considered that sufficient, and it was
decided that it should be published in that day's issue.

Duroy returned home rather agitated and uneasy. What would this
opponent reply? Who was he? Why that attack? He passed a restless
night. When he re-read his article in the paper the next morning, he
thought it more aggressive in print than it was in writing. He
might, it seemed to him, have softened certain terms. He was excited
all day and feverish during-the night. He rose early to obtain an
issue of "La Plume" which should contain the reply to his note. He
ran his eyes over the columns and at first saw nothing. He was
beginning to breathe more freely when these words met his eye:

    "M. Duroy of 'La Vie Francaise' gives us the lie! In doing so,
     he lies. He owns, however, that a woman named Aubert exists,
     and that she was taken before a magistrate by an agent. Two
     words only remain to be added to the word 'agent,' which are
    'of morals' and all is told. But the consciences of certain
     journalists are on a par with their talents."

    "I sign myself, Louis Langremont."

Georges's heart throbbed violently, and he returned home in order to
dress himself. He had been insulted and in such a manner that it was
impossible to hesitate. Why had he been insulted? For nothing! On
account of an old woman who had quarreled with her butcher.

He dressed hastily and repaired to M. Walter's house, although it
was scarcely eight o'clock. M. Walter was reading "La Plume."

"Well," he said gravely, on perceiving Duroy, "you cannot let that
pass." The young man did not reply.

The manager continued: "Go at once in search of Rival, who will look
after your interests."

Duroy stammered several vague words and set out for Rival's house.
Jacques was still in bed, but he rose when the bell rang, and having
read the insulting paragraph, said: "Whom would you like to have
besides me?"

"I do not know."

"Boisrenard?"

"Yes."

"Are you a good swordsman?"

"No."

"A good shot?"

"I have used a pistol a good deal."

"Good! Come and exercise while I attend to everything. Wait a
moment."

He entered his dressing-room and soon reappeared, washed, shaven,
and presentable.

"Come with me," said he. He lived on the ground floor, and he led
Duroy into a cellar converted into a room for the practice of
fencing and shooting. He produced a pair of pistols and began to
give his orders as briefly as if they were on the dueling ground. He
was well satisfied with Duroy's use of the weapons, and told him to
remain there and practice until noon, when he would return to take
him to lunch and tell him the result of his mission. Left to his own
devices, Duroy aimed at the target several times and then sat down
to reflect.

Such affairs were abominable anyway! What would a respectable man
gain by risking his life? And he recalled Norbert de Varenne's
remarks, made to him a short while before. "He was right!" he
declared aloud. It was gloomy in that cellar, as gloomy as in a
tomb. What o'clock was it? The time dragged slowly on. Suddenly he
heard footsteps, voices, and Jacques Rival reappeared accompanied by
Boisrenard. The former cried on perceiving Duroy: "All is settled!"

Duroy thought the matter had terminated with a letter of apology;
his heart gave a bound and he stammered: "Ah--thank you!"

Rival continued: "M. Langremont has accepted every condition.
Twenty-five paces, fire when the pistol is leveled and the order
given." Then he added: "Now let us lunch; it is past twelve
o'clock."

They repaired to a neighboring restaurant. Duroy was silent. He ate
that they might not think he was frightened, and went in the
afternoon with Boisrenard to the office, where he worked in an
absent, mechanical manner. Before leaving, Jacques Rival shook hands
with him and warned him that he and Boisrenard would call for him in
a carriage the next morning at seven o'clock to repair to the wood
at Vesinet, where the meeting was to take place.

All had been settled without his saying a word, giving his opinion,
accepting or refusing, with such rapidity that his brain whirled and
he scarcely knew what was taking place. He returned home about nine
o'clock in the evening after having dined with Boisrenard, who had
not left him all day. When he was alone, he paced the floor; he was
too confused to think. One thought alone filled his mind and that
was: a duel to-morrow! He sat down and began to meditate. He had
thrown upon his table his adversary's card brought him by Rival. He
read it for the twentieth time that day:

    "Louis LANGREMONT,
     176 Rue Montmartre."

Nothing more! Who was the man? How old was he? How tall? How did he
look? How odious that a total stranger should without rhyme or
reason, out of pure caprice, annoy him thus on account of an old,
woman's quarrel with her butcher! He said aloud: "The brute!" and
glared angrily at the card.

He began to feel nervous; the sound of his voice made him start; he
drank a glass of water and laid down. He turned from his right side
to his left uneasily. He was thirsty; he rose, he felt restless

"Am I afraid?" he asked himself.

Why did his heart palpitate so wildly at the slightest sound? He
began to reason philosophically on the possibility of being afraid.
No, certainly he was not, since he was ready to fight. Still he felt
so deeply moved that he wondered if one could be afraid in spite of
oneself. What would happen if that state of things should exist? If
he should tremble or lose his presence of mind? He lighted his
candle and looked in the glass; he scarcely recognized his own face,
it was so changed.

Suddenly he thought: "To-morrow at this time I may be dead." He
turned to his couch and saw himself stretched lifeless upon it. He
hastened to the window and opened it; but the night air was so
chilly that he closed it, lighted a fire, and began to pace the
floor once more, saying mechanically: "I must be more composed. I
will write to my parents, in case of accident." He took a sheet of
paper and after several attempts began:

     "My dear father and mother:"

     "At daybreak I am going to fight a duel, and as something
     might happen--"

He could write no more, he rose with a shudder. It seemed to him
that notwithstanding his efforts, he would not have the strength
necessary to face the meeting. He wondered if his adversary had ever
fought before; if he were known? He had never heard his name.
However, if he had not been a remarkable shot, he would not have
accepted that dangerous weapon without hesitation. He ground his
teeth to prevent his crying aloud. Suddenly he remembered that he
had a bottle of brandy; he fetched it from the cupboard and soon
emptied it. Now he felt his blood course more warmly through his
veins. "I have found a means," said he.

Day broke. He began to dress; when his heart failed him, he took
more brandy. At length there was a knock at the door. His friends
had come; they were wrapped in furs. After shaking hands, Rival
said: "It is as cold as Siberia. Is all well?"

"Yes."

"Are you calm?"

"Very calm."

"Have you eaten and drunk something?"

"I do not need anything."

They descended the stairs. A gentleman was seated in the carriage.
Rival said: "Dr. Le Brument." Duroy shook hands with him and
stammered: "Thank you," as he entered the carriage. Jacques Rival
and Boisrenard followed him, and the coachman drove off. He knew
where to go.

The conversation flagged, although the doctor related a number of
anecdotes. Rival alone replied to him. Duroy tried to appear self-
possessed, but he was haunted continually by the fear of showing his
feelings or of losing his self-possession. Rival addressed him,
saying: "I took the pistols to Gastine Renette. He loaded them. The
box is sealed."

Duroy replied mechanically: "Thank you."

Then Rival proceeded to give him minute directions, that he might
make no mistakes. Duroy repeated those directions as children learn
their lessons in order to impress them upon his memory. As he
muttered the phrases over and over, he almost prayed that some
accident might happen to the carriage; if he could only break his
leg!

At the end of a glade he saw a carriage standing and four gentlemen
stamping their feet in order to keep them warm, and he was obliged
to gasp in order to get breath. Rival and Boisrenard alighted first,
then the doctor and the combatant.

Rival took the box of pistols, and with Boisrenard approached the
two strangers, who were advancing toward them. Duroy saw them greet
one another ceremoniously, then walk through the glade together as
they counted the paces.

Dr. Le Brument asked Duroy: "Do you feel well? Do you not want
anything?"

"Nothing, thank you." It seemed to him that he was asleep, that he
was dreaming. Was he afraid? He did not know. Jacques Rival returned
and said in a low voice: "All is ready. Fortune has favored us in
the drawing of the pistols." That was a matter of indifference to
Duroy. They helped him off with his overcoat, led him to the ground
set apart for the duel, and gave him his pistol. Before him stood a
man, short, stout, and bald, who wore glasses. That was his
adversary. A voice broke the silence--a voice which came from afar:
"Are you ready, sirs?"

Georges cried: "Yes."

The same voice commanded: "Fire!"

Duroy heard nothing more, saw nothing more; he only knew that he
raised his arm and pressed with all his strength upon the trigger.
Soon he saw a little smoke before him; his opponent was still
standing in the same position, and there was a small white cloud
above his head. They had both fired. All was over! His second and
the doctor felt him, unbuttoned his garments, and asked anxiously:
"Are you wounded?" He replied: "No, I think not."

Langremont was not wounded either, and Jacques Rival muttered
discontentedly: "That is always the way with those cursed pistols,
one either misses or kills one's opponent"

Duroy was paralyzed with surprise and joy. All was over! He felt
that he could fight the entire universe. All was over! What bliss!
He felt brave enough to provoke anyone. The seconds consulted
several moments, then the duelists and their friends entered the
carriages and drove off. When the official report was drawn up, it
was handed to Duroy who was to insert it in the "Echoes." He was
surprised to find that two balls had been fired.

He said to Rival: "We only fired once!"

The latter smiled: "Yes--once--once each--that makes twice!"

And Duroy, satisfied with that explanation, asked no more questions.
M. Walter embraced him.

"Bravo! you have defended the colors of 'La Vie Francaise'! Bravo!"

The following day at eleven o'clock in the forenoon, Duroy received
a telegram:

"My God! I have been frightened. Come at once to Rue de
Constantinople that I may embrace you, my love. How brave you are. I
adore you. Clo."

He repaired to the place appointed, and Mme. de Marelle rushed into
his arms, covering him with kisses.

"Oh, my darling, if you only knew how I felt when I read the morning
papers! Tell me, tell me all about it."

Duroy was obliged to give her a detailed account.

"You must have had a terrible night before the duel!"

"Why, no; I slept very well."

"I should not have closed my eyes. Tell me what took place on the
ground."

Forthwith he proceeded to give her a graphic description of the
duel. When he had concluded, she said to him: "I cannot live without
you! I must see you, and with my husband in Paris it is not very
convenient. I often have an hour early in the morning when I could
come and embrace you, but I cannot enter that horrible house of
yours! What can we do?"

He asked abruptly: "How much do you pay here?"

"One hundred francs a month."

"Very well, I will take the apartments on my own account, and I will
move at once. Mine are not suitable anyway for me now."

She thought a moment and then replied: "No I do not want you to."

He asked in surprise: "Why not?"

"Because!"

"That is no reason. These rooms suit me very well. I am here; I
shall remain." He laughed. "Moreover, they were hired in my name!"

But she persisted: "No, no, I do not wish you to."

"Why not, then?"

She whispered softly, tenderly: "Because you would bring others
here, and I do not wish you to."

Indignantly he cried: "Never, I promise you!"

"You would do so in spite of your promise."

"I swear I will not."

"Truly?"

"Truly--upon my word of honor. This is our nest--ours alone!"

She embraced him in a transport of delight. "Then I agree, my
dearest. But if you deceive me once--just once, that will end all
between us forever."

He protested, and it was agreed that he should settle in the rooms
that same day. She said to him:

"You must dine with us Sunday. My husband thinks you charming."

He was flattered. "Indeed?"

"Yes, you have made a conquest. Did you not tell me that your home
was in the country?"

"Yes; why?"

"Then you know something about agriculture?"

"Yes."

"Very well; talk to him of gardening and crops; he enjoys those
subjects."

"All right. I shall not forget."

She left him, after lavishing upon him innumerable caresses.

Chapter VIII.

Death and a Proposal


Duroy moved his effects to the apartments in Rue de Constantinople.
Two or three times a week, Mme. de-Marelle paid him visits. Duroy,
to counterbalance them, dined at her house every Thursday, and
delighted her husband by talking agriculture to him.

It was almost the end of February. Duroy was free from care. One
night, when he returned home, he found a letter under his door. He
examined the postmark; it was from Cannes. Having opened it, he
read:

     "Cannes, Villa Jolie."

     "Dear sir and friend: You told me, did you not, that I could
     count upon you at any time? Very well. I have a favor to ask
     of you; it is to come and help me--not to leave me alone during
     Charles's last moments. He may not live through the week,
     although he is not confined to his bed, but the doctor has
     warned me. I have not the strength nor the courage to see that
     agony day and night, and I think with terror of the approaching
     end I can only ask such a thing of you, for my husband has no
     relatives. You were his comrade; he helped you to your
     position; come, I beg of you; I have no one else to ask."

     "Your friend,"

     "Madeleine Forestier."

Georges murmured: "Certainly I will go. Poor Charles!"

The manager, to whom he communicated the contents of that letter,
grumblingly gave his consent. He repeated: "But return speedily, you
are indispensable to us."

Georges Duroy left for Cannes the next day by the seven o'clock
express, after having warned Mme. de Marelle by telegram. He arrived
the following day at four o'clock in the afternoon. A
commissionnaire conducted him to Villa Jolie. The house was small
and low, and of the Italian style of architecture.

A servant opened the door and cried: "Oh, sir, Madame is awaiting
you patiently."

Duroy asked: "How is your master?"

"Not very well, sir. He will not be here long."

The floor of the drawing-room which the young man entered was
covered with a Persian rug; the large windows looked upon the
village and the sea.

Duroy murmured: "How cozy it is here! Where the deuce do they get
the money from?"

The rustling of a gown caused him to turn. Mme. Forestier extended
both her hands, saying:

"How kind of you to come."

She was a trifle paler and thinner, but still as bright as ever, and
perhaps prettier for being more delicate. She whispered: "It is
terrible--he knows he cannot be saved and he tyrannizes over me. I
have told him of your arrival. But where is your trunk?"

Duroy replied: "I left it at the station, not knowing which hotel
you would advise me to stop at, in order to be near you."

She hesitated, then said: "You must stop here, at the villa. Your
chamber is ready. He might die any moment, and if it should come in
the night, I would be alone. I will send for your luggage."

He bowed. "As you will."

"Now, let us go upstairs," said she; he followed her. She opened a
door on the first floor, and Duroy saw a form near a window, seated
in an easy-chair, and wrapped in coverlets. He divined that it was
his friend, though he scarcely recognized him. Forestier raised his
hand slowly and with difficulty, saying:

"You are here; you have come to see me die. I am much obliged."

Duroy forced a smile. "To see you die? That would not be a very
pleasant sight, and I would not choose that occasion on which to
visit Cannes. I came here to rest."

"Sit down," said Forestier, and he bowed his head as if deep in
hopeless meditation. Seeing that he did not speak, his wife
approached the window and pointing to the horizon, said, "Look at
that? Is it not beautiful?"

In spite of himself Duroy felt the grandeur of the closing day and
exclaimed: "Yes, indeed, it is magnificent"

Forestier raised his head and said to his wife: "Give me more air."

She replied: "You must be careful; it is late, the sun is setting;
you will catch more cold and that would be a serious thing in your
condition."

He made a feeble gesture of anger with his right hand, and said: "I
tell you I am suffocating! What difference does it make if I die a
day sooner or later, since I must die?"

She opened the window wide. The air was soft and balmy. Forestier
inhaled it in feverish gasps. He grasped the arms of his chair and
said in a low voice: "Shut the window. I would rather die in a
cellar."

His wife slowly closed the window, then leaned her brow against the
pane and looked out. Duroy, ill at ease, wished to converse with the
invalid to reassure him, but he could think of no words of comfort.
He stammered: "Have you not been better since you are here?"

His friend shrugged his shoulders impatiently: "You will see very
soon." And he bowed his head again.

Duroy continued: "At home it is still wintry. It snows, hails,
rains, and is so dark that they have to light the lamps at three
o'clock in the afternoon."

Forestier asked: "Is there anything new at the office?"

"Nothing. They have taken little Lacrin of the 'Voltaire' to fill
your place, but he is incapable. It is time you came back."

The invalid muttered: "I? I will soon be writing under six feet of
sod." A long silence ensued.

Mme. Forestier did not stir; she stood with her back to the room,
her face toward the window. At length Forestier broke the silence in
a gasping voice, heartrending to listen to: "How many more sunsets
shall I see--eight--ten--fifteen--twenty--or perhaps thirty--no
more. You have more time, you two--as for me--all is at an end. And
everything will go on when I am gone as if I were here." He paused a
few moments, then continued: "Everything that I see reminds me that
I shall not see them long. It is horrible. I shall no longer see the
smallest objects--the glasses--the dishes--the beds on which we
rest--the carriages. It is fine to drive in the evening. How I loved
all that."

Again Norbert de Varenne's words occurred to Duroy. The room grew
dark. Forestier asked irritably:

"Are we to have no lamp to-night? That is what is called caring for
an invalid!"

The form outlined against the window disappeared and an electric
bell was heard to ring. A servant soon entered and placed a lamp
upon the mantel-piece. Mme. Forestier asked her husband: "Do you
wish to retire, or will you go downstairs to dinner?"

"I will go down to dinner."

The meal seemed to Duroy interminable, for there was no
conversation, only the ticking of a clock broke the silence. When
they had finished, Duroy, pleading fatigue, retired to his room and
tried in vain to invent some pretext for returning home as quickly
as possible. He consoled himself by saying: "Perhaps it will not be
for long."

The next morning Georges rose early and strolled down to the beach.
When he returned the servant said to him: "Monsieur has asked for
you two or three times. Will you go upstairs?"

He ascended the stairs. Forestier appeared to be in a chair; his
wife, reclining upon a couch, was reading. The invalid raised his
head. Duroy asked:

"Well, how are you? You look better this morning."

Forestier murmured: "Yes, I am better and stronger. Lunch as hastily
as you can with Madeleine, because we are going to take a drive."

When Mme. Forestier was alone with Duroy, she said to him: "You see,
to-day he thinks he is better! He is making plans for to-morrow. We
are now going to Gulf Juan to buy pottery for our rooms in Paris. He
is determined to go, but he cannot stand the jolting on the road."

The carriage arrived, Forestier descended the stairs, step by step,
supported by his servant. When he saw the closed landau, he wanted
it uncovered. His wife opposed him: "It is sheer madness! You will
take cold."

He persisted: "No, I am going to be better, I know it."

They first drove along a shady road and then took the road by the
sea. Forestier explained the different points of interest. Finally
they arrived at a pavilion over which were these words: "Gulf Juan
Art Pottery," and the carriage drew up at the door. Forestier wanted
to buy a vase to put on his bookcase. As he could not leave the
carriage, they brought the pieces to him one by one. It took him a
long time to choose, consulting his wife and Duroy: "You know it is
for my study. From my easy-chair I can see it constantly. I prefer
the ancient form--the Greek."

At length he made his choice. "I shall return to Paris in a few
days," said he.

On their way home along the gulf a cool breeze suddenly sprang up,
and the invalid began to cough. At first it was nothing, only a
slight attack, but it grew worse and turned to a sort of hiccough--a
rattle; Forestier choked, and every time he tried to breathe he
coughed violently. Nothing quieted him. He had to be carried from
the landau to his room. The heat of the bed did not stop the attack,
which lasted until midnight. The first words the sick man uttered
were to ask for a barber, for he insisted on being shaved every
morning. He rose to be shaved, but was obliged to go to bed at once,
and began to breathe so painfully that Mme. Forestier in affright
woke Duroy and asked him to fetch the doctor. He returned almost
immediately with Dr. Gavant who prescribed for the sick man. When
the journalist asked him his opinion, he said: "It is the final
stage. He will be dead to-morrow morning. Prepare that poor, young
wife and send for a priest. I can do nothing more. However, I am
entirely at your disposal" Duroy went to Mme. Forestier. "He is
going to die. The doctor advises me to send for a priest. What will
you do?"

She hesitated a moment and then said slowly:

"I will go and tell him that the cure wishes to see him. Will you be
kind enough to procure one who will require nothing but the
confession, and who will not make much fuss?"

The young man brought with him a kind, old priest who accommodated
himself to circumstances. When he had entered the death chamber,
Mme. Forestier went out and seated herself with Duroy in an
adjoining room.

"That has upset him," said she. "When I mentioned the priest to him,
his face assumed a scared expression. He knew that the end was near.
I shall never forget his face."

At that moment they heard the priest saying to him: "Why no, you are
not so low as that. You are ill, but not in danger. The proof of
that is that I came as a friend, a neighbor." They could not hear
his reply. The priest continued: "No, I shall not administer the
sacrament. We will speak of that when you are better. If you will
only confess, I ask no more. I am a pastor; I take advantage of
every occasion to gather in my sheep."

A long silence followed. Then suddenly the priest said, in the tone
of one officiating at the altar:

"The mercy of God is infinite; repeat the 'Confiteor,' my son.
Perhaps you have forgotten it; I will help you. Repeat with me:
'Confiteor Deo omnipotenti; Beata Mariae semper virgini.'" He paused
from time to time to permit the dying man to catch up to him.

Then he said: "Now, confess." The sick man murmured something. The
priest repeated: "You have committed sins: of what kind, my son?"

The young woman rose and said simply: "Let us go into the garden. We
must not listen to his secrets."

They seated themselves upon a bench before the door, beneath a
blossoming rosebush. After several moments of silence Duroy asked:
"Will it be some time before you return to Paris?"

"No," she replied; "when all is over, I will go back."

"In about ten days?"

"Yes, at most."

He continued; "Charles has no relatives then?"

"None, save cousins. His father and mother died when he was very
young."

In the course of a few minutes, the servant came to tell them that
the priest had finished, and together they ascended the stairs.
Forestier seemed to have grown thinner since the preceding day. The
priest was holding his hand.

"Au revoir, my son. I will come again to-morrow morning"; and he
left. When he was gone, the dying man, who was panting, tried to
raise his two hands toward his wife and gasped:

"Save me--save me, my darling. I do not want to die--oh, save me--go
for the doctor. I will take anything. I do not want to die." He
wept; the tears coursed down his pallid cheeks. Then his hands
commenced to wander hither and thither continually, slowly, and
regularly, as if gathering something on the coverlet. His wife, who
was also weeping, sobbed:

"No, it is nothing. It is only an attack; you will be better to-
morrow; you tired yourself with that drive."

Forestier drew his breath quickly and so faintly that one could
scarcely hear him. He repeated:

"I do not want to die! Oh, my God--my God--what has happened to me?
I cannot see. Oh, my God!" His staring eyes saw something invisible
to the others; his hands plucked continually at the counterpane.
Suddenly he shuddered and gasped: "The cemetery--me--my God!" He did
not speak again. He lay there motionless and ghastly. The hours
dragged on; the clock of a neighboring convent chimed noon.

Duroy left the room to obtain some food. He returned an hour later;
Mme. Forestier would eat nothing. The invalid had not stirred. The
young woman was seated in an easy-chair at the foot of the bed.
Duroy likewise seated himself, and they watched in silence. A nurse,
sent by the doctor, had arrived and was dozing by the window.

Duroy himself was almost asleep when he felt a presentiment that
something was about to happen. He opened his eyes just in time to
see Forestier close his. He coughed slightly, and two streams of
blood issued from the corners of his mouth and flowed upon his night
robe; his hands ceased their perpetual motion; he had breathed his
last. His wife, perceiving it, uttered a cry and fell upon her knees
by the bedside. Georges, in surprise and affright, mechanically made
the sign of the cross.

The nurse, awakening, approached the bed and said: "It has come."
Duroy, recovering his self-possession, murmured with a sigh of
relief: "It was not as hard as I feared it would be."

That night Mme. Forestier and Duroy watched in the chamber of death.
They were alone beside him who was no more. They did not speak,
Georges's eyes seemed attracted to that emaciated face which the
flickering light made more hollow. That was his friend, Charles
Forestier, who the day before had spoken to him. For several years
he had lived, eaten, laughed, loved, and hoped as did everyone--and
now all was ended for him forever.

Life lasted a few months or years, and then fled! One was born,
grew, was happy, and died. Adieu! man or woman, you will never
return to earth! He thought of the insects which live several hours,
of the feasts which live several days, of the men who live several
years, of the worlds which last several centuries. What was the
difference between one and the other? A few more dawns, that was
all.

Duroy turned away his eyes in order not to see the corpse. Mme.
Forestier's head was bowed; her fair hair enhanced the beauty of her
sorrowful face. The young man's heart grew hopeful. Why should he
lament when he had so many years still before him? He glanced at the
handsome widow. How had she ever consented to marry that man? Then
he pondered upon all the hidden secrets of their lives. He
remembered that he had been told of a Count de Vaudrec who had
dowered and given her in marriage. What would she do now? Whom would
she marry? Had she projects, plans? He would have liked to know. Why
that anxiety as to what she would do?

Georges questioned himself, and found that it was caused by a desire
to win her for himself. Why should he not succeed? He was positive
that she liked him; she would have confidence in him, for she knew
that he was intelligent, resolute, tenacious. Had she not sent for
him? Was not that a kind of avowal? He was impatient to question
her, to find out her intentions. He would soon have to leave that
villa, for he could not remain alone with the young widow; therefore
he must find out her plans before returning to Paris, in order that
she might not yield to another's entreaties. He broke the oppressive
silence by saying:

"You must be fatigued."

"Yes, but above all I am grieved."

Their voices sounded strange in that room. They glanced
involuntarily at the corpse as if they expected to see it move.
Duroy continued:

"It is a heavy blow for you, and will make a complete change in your
life."

She sighed deeply, but did not reply. He added:

"It is very sad for a young woman like you to be left alone." He
paused; she still did not reply, and he stammered: "At any rate, you
will remember the compact between us; you can command me as you
will. I am yours."

She held out her hand to him and said mournfully and gently:
"Thanks, you are very kind. If I can do anything for you, I say too:
'Count on me.'"

He took her proffered hand, gazed at it, and was seized with an
ardent desire to kiss it. Slowly he raised it to his lips and then
relinquished it. As her delicate fingers lay upon her knee the young
widow said gravely:

"Yes, I shall be all alone, but I shall force myself to be brave."

He did not know how to tell her that he would be delighted to wed
her. Certainly it was no time to speak to her on such a subject;
however, he thought he might be able to express himself by means of
some phrase which would have a hidden meaning and would infer what
he wished to say. But that rigid corpse lay between them. The
atmosphere became oppressive, almost suffocating. Duroy asked: "Can
we not open the window a little? The air seems to be impure."

"Certainly," she replied; "I have noticed it too."

He opened the window, letting in the cool night air. He turned:
"Come and look out, it is delightful."

She glided softly to his side. He whispered: "Listen to me. Do not
be angry that I broach the subject at such a time, but the day after
to-morrow I shall leave here and when you return to Paris it might
be too late. You know that I am only a poor devil, who has his
position to make, but I have the will and some intelligence, and I
am advancing. A man who has attained his ambition knows what to
count on; a man who has his way to make does not know what may come-
-it may be better or worse. I told you one day that my most
cherished dream was to have a wife like you."

"I repeat it to you to-day. Do not reply, but let me continue. This
is no proposal--the time and place would render it odious. I only
wish to tell you that by a word you can make me happy, and that you
can make of me as you will, either a friend or a husband--for my
heart and my body are yours. I do not want you to answer me now. I
do not wish to speak any more on the subject here. When we meet in
Paris, you can tell me your decision."

He uttered these words without glancing at her, and she seemed not
to have heard them, for she stood by his side motionless, staring
vaguely and fixedly at the landscape before her, bathed in
moonlight.

At length she murmured: "It is rather chilly," and turned toward the
bed. Duroy followed her. They did not speak but continued their
watch. Toward midnight Georges fell asleep. At daybreak the nurse
entered and he started up. Both he and Mme. Forestier retired to
their rooms to obtain some rest. At eleven o'clock they rose and
lunched together; while through the open window was wafted the
sweet, perfumed air of spring. After lunch, Mme. Forestier proposed
that they take a turn in the garden; as they walked slowly along,
she suddenly said, without turning her head toward him, in a low,
grave voice:

"Listen to me, my dear friend; I have already reflected upon what
you proposed to me, and I cannot allow you to depart without a word
of reply. I will, however, say neither yes nor no. We will wait, we
will see; we will become better acquainted. You must think it well
over too. Do not yield to an impulse. I mention this to you before
even poor Charles is buried, because it is necessary, after what you
have said to me, that you should know me as I am, in order not to
cherish the hope you expressed to me any longer, if you are not a

man who can understand and bear with me."

"Now listen carefully: Marriage, to me, is not a chain but an
association. I must be free, entirely unfettered, in all my actions-
-my coming and my going; I can tolerate neither control, jealousy,
nor criticism as to my conduct. I pledge my word, however, never to
compromise the name of the man I marry, nor to render him ridiculous
in the eyes of the world. But that man must promise to look upon me
as an equal, an ally, and not as an inferior, or as an obedient,
submissive wife. My ideas, I know, are not like those of other
people, but I shall never change them. Do not answer me, it would be
useless. We shall meet again and talk it all over later. Now take a
walk; I shall return to him. Good-bye until to-night."

He kissed her hand and left her without having uttered a word. That
night they met at dinner; directly after the meal they sought their
rooms, worn out with fatigue.

Charles Forestier was buried the next day in the cemetery at Cannes
without any pomp, and Georges returned to Paris by the express which
left at one-thirty. Mme. Forestier accompanied him to the station.
They walked up and down the platform awaiting the hour of departure
and conversing on indifferent subjects.

The train arrived, the journalist took his seat; a porter cried:
"Marseilles, Lyons, Paris! All aboard!" The locomotive whistled and
the train moved slowly out of the station.

The young man leaned out of the carriage, and looked at the youthful
widow standing on the platform gazing after him. Just as she was
disappearing from his sight, he threw her a kiss, which she returned
with a more discreet wave of her hand.

Chapter IX.

Marriage


Georges Duroy resumed his old habits. Installed in the cozy
apartments on Rue de Constantinople, his relations with Mme. de
Marelle became quite conjugal.

Mme. Forestier had not returned; she lingered at Cannes. He,
however, received a letter from her announcing her return about the
middle of April, but containing not a word as to their parting. He
waited. He was resolved to employ every means to marry her if she
seemed to hesitate; he had faith in his good fortune, in that power
of attraction which he felt within him--a power so irresistible that
all women yielded to it.

At length a short note admonished him that the decisive moment had
arrived.

     "I am in Paris. Come to see me."

     "Madeleine Forestier."

Nothing more. He received it at nine o'clock. At three o'clock of
the same day he called at her house. She extended both hands to him
with a sweet smile, and they gazed into each other's eyes for
several seconds, then she murmured:

"How kind of you to come!"

He replied: "I should have come, whensoever you bade me."

They sat down; she inquired about the Walters, his associates, and
the newspaper.

"I miss that very much," said she. "I had become a journalist in
spirit. I like the profession." She paused. He fancied he saw in her
smile, in her voice, in her words, a kind of invitation, and
although he had resolved not to hasten matters, he stammered:

"Well--why--why do you not resume--that profession--under--the name
of Duroy?"

She became suddenly serious, and placing her hand on his arm, she
said: "Do not let us speak of that yet."

Divining that she would accept him, he fell upon his knees, and
passionately kissed her hands, saying:

"Thank you--thank you--how I love you."

She rose, she was very pale. Duroy kissed her brow. When she had
disengaged herself from his embrace, she said gravely: "Listen, my
friend, I have not yet fully decided; but my answer may be 'yes.'
You must wait patiently, however, until I disclose the secret to
you."

He promised and left her, his heart overflowing with joy. He worked
steadily, spent little, tried to save some money that he might not
be without a sou at the time of his marriage, and became as miserly
as he had once been prodigal. Summer glided by; then autumn, and no
one suspected the tie existing between Duroy and Mme. Forestier, for
they seldom met in public.

One evening Madeleine said to him: "You have not yet told Mme. de
Marelle our plans?"

"No, my dear; as you wished them kept secret, I have not mentioned
them to a soul."

"Very well; there is plenty of time. I will tell the Walters."

She turned away her head and continued: "If you wish, we can be
married the beginning of May."

"I obey you in all things joyfully."

"The tenth of May, which falls on Saturday, would please me, for it
is my birthday."

"Very well, the tenth of May."

"Your parents live near Rouen, do they not?"

"Yes, near Rouen, at Canteleu."

"I am very anxious to see them!"

He hesitated, perplexed: "But--they are--" Then he added more
firmly: "My dear, they are plain, country people, innkeepers, who
strained every nerve to give me an education. I am not ashamed of
them, but their--simplicity--their rusticity might annoy you."

She smiled sweetly. "No, I will love them very much. We will visit
them; I wish to. I, too, am the child of humble parents--but I lost
mine--I have no one in the world"--she held out her hand to him--
"but you."

He was affected, conquered as he had never been by any woman.

"I have been thinking of something," said she, "but it is difficult
to explain."

He asked: "What is it?"

"It is this: I am like all women. I have my--my weaknesses. I should
like to bear a noble name. Can you not on the occasion of our
marriage change your name somewhat?" She blushed as if she had
proposed something indelicate.

He replied simply: "I have often thought of it, but it does not seem
easy to me."

"Why not?"

He laughed. "Because I am afraid I should be ridiculed."

She shrugged her shoulders. "Not at all--not at all. Everyone does
it, and no one laughs. Separate your name in this way: Du Roy. It
sounds very well."

He replied: "No, that will not do; it is too common a proceeding. I
have thought of assuming the name of my native place, first as a
literary pseudonym and then as my surname in conjunction with Duroy,
which might later on, as you proposed, be separated."

She asked: "Is your native place Canteleu?"

"Yes."

"I do not like the termination. Could we not modify it?"

She took a pen and wrote down the names in order to study them.
Suddenly she cried: "Now I have it," and held toward him a sheet of
paper on which was written: "Mme. Duroy de Cantel."

Gravely he replied: "Yes, it is very nice."

She was delighted, and repeated: "Duroy de Cantel. Mme. Duroy de
Cantel. It is excellent, excellent!"

Then she added with an air of conviction: "You will see how easily
it will be accepted by everyone! After to-morrow, sign your articles
'D. de Cantel,' and your 'Echoes' simply 'Duroy.' That is done on
the press every day and no one will be surprised to see you take a
nom de plume. What is your father's name?"

"Alexandre."

She murmured "Alexandre!" two or three times in succession; then she
wrote upon a blank sheet:

"M. and Mme. Alexandre du Roy de Cantel announce the marriage of
their son, M. Georges du Roy de Cantel with Mme. Forestier."

She examined her writing, and, charmed with the effect, exclaimed:
"With a little method one can succeed in anything."

When Georges reached the street resolved to call himself,
henceforth, "Du Roy," or even "Du Roy de Cantel," it seemed to him
that he was of more importance. He swaggered more boldly, held his
head more erect and walked as he thought gentlemen should. He felt a
desire to inform the passers-by, "My name is Du Roy de Cantel."

Scarcely had he entered his apartments when the thought of Mme. de
Marelle rendered him uneasy, and he wrote to her immediately,
appointing a meeting for the following day.

"It will be hard," thought he. "There will be a quarrel surely."

The next morning he received a telegram from Madame, informing him
that she would be with him at one o'clock. He awaited her
impatiently, determined to confess at once and afterward to argue
with her, to tell her that he could not remain a bachelor
indefinitely, and that, as M. de Marelle persisted in living, he had
been compelled to choose some one else as a legal companion. When
the bell rang, his heart gave a bound.

Mme. de Marelle entered and cast herself into his arms, saying:
"Good afternoon, Bel-Ami." Perceiving that his embrace was colder
than usual, she glanced up at him and asked: "What ails you?"

"Take a seat," said he. "We must talk seriously."

She seated herself without removing her hat, and waited. He cast
down his eyes; he was preparing to commence.

Finally he said slowly: "My dear friend, you see that I am very much
perplexed, very sad, and very much embarrassed by what I have to
confess to you. I love you; I love you with all my heart, and the
fear of giving you pain grieves me more than what I have to tell
you."

She turned pale, trembled, and asked: "What is it? Tell me quickly."

He said sadly but resolutely: "I am going to be married."

She sighed like one about to lose consciousness; then she gasped,
but did not speak.

He continued: "You cannot imagine how much I suffered before taking
that resolution. But I have neither position nor money. I am alone
in Paris, I must have near me some one who can counsel, comfort, and
support me. What I need is an associate, an ally, and I have found
one!" He paused, hoping that she would reply, expecting an outburst
of furious rage, reproaches, and insults. She pressed her hand to
her heart and breathed with difficulty. He took the hand resting on
the arm of the chair, but she drew it away and murmured as if
stupefied: "Oh, my God!"

He fell upon his knees before her, without, however, venturing to
touch her, more moved by her silence than he would have been by her
anger.

"Clo, my little Clo, you understand my position. Oh, if I could have
married you, what happiness it would have afforded me! But you were
married! What could I do? Just think of it! I must make my way in
the world and I can never do so as long as I have no domestic ties.
If you knew. There are days when I should like to kill your
husband." He spoke in a low, seductive voice. He saw two tears
gather in Mme. de Marelle's eyes and trickle slowly down her cheeks.
He whispered: "Do not weep, Clo, do not weep, I beseech you. You
break my heart."

She made an effort to appear dignified and haughty, and asked,
though somewhat unsteadily: "Who is it?"

For a moment he hesitated before he replied: "Madeleine Forestier!"

Mme. de Marelle started; her tears continued to flow. She rose.
Duroy saw that she was going to leave him without a word of reproach
or pardon, and he felt humbled, humiliated. He seized her gown and
implored:

"Do not leave me thus."

She looked at him with that despairing, tearful glance so charming
and so touching, which expresses all the misery pent-up in a woman's
heart, and stammered: "I have nothing--to say; I can do nothing.
You--you are right; you have made a good choice."

And disengaging herself she left the room.

With a sigh of relief at escaping so easily, he repaired to Mme.
Forestier's, who asked him: "Have you told Mme. de Marelle?"

He replied calmly: "Yes."

"Did it affect her?"

"Not at all. On the contrary, she thought it an excellent plan."

The news was soon noised abroad. Some were surprised, others
pretended to have foreseen it, and others again smiled, inferring
that they were not at all astonished. The young man, who signed his
articles, "D. de Cantel," his "Echoes," "Duroy," and his political
sketches, "Du Roy," spent the best part of his time with his
betrothed, who had decided that the date fixed for the wedding
should be kept secret, that the ceremony should be celebrated in the
presence of witnesses only, that they should leave the same evening
for Rouen, and that the day following they should visit the
journalist's aged parents and spend several days with them. Duroy
had tried to persuade Madeleine to abandon that project, but not
succeeding in his efforts he was finally compelled to submit.

The tenth of May arrived. Thinking a religious ceremony unnecessary,
as they had issued no invitations, the couple were married at a
magistrate's and took the six o'clock train for Normandy.

As the train glided along, Duroy seated in front of his wife, took
her hand, kissed it, and said: "When we return we will dine at
Chatou sometimes."

She murmured: "We shall have a great many things to do!" in a tone
which seemed to say: "We must sacrifice pleasure to duty."

He retained her hand wondering anxiously how he could manage to
caress her. He pressed her hand slightly, but she did not respond to
the pressure.

He said: "It seems strange that you should be my wife."

She appeared surprised: "Why?"

"I do not know. It seems droll. I want to embrace you and I am
surprised that I have the right."

She calmly offered him her cheek which he kissed as he would have
kissed his sister's. He continued:

"The first time I saw you (you remember, at that dinner to which I
was invited at Forestier's), I thought: 'Sacristi, if I could only
find a wife like that!' And now I have one."

She glanced at him with smiling eyes.

He said to himself: "I am too cold. I am stupid. I should make more
advances." And he asked: "How did you make Forestier's
acquaintance?"

She replied with provoking archness: "Are we going to Rouen to talk
of him?"

He colored. "I am a fool. You intimidate me."

She was delighted. "I? Impossible."

He seated himself beside her. She exclaimed: "Ah! a stag!" The train
was passing through the forest of Saint-Germain and she had seen a
frightened deer clear an alley at a bound. As she gazed out of the
open window, Duroy bending over her, pressed a kiss upon her neck.
For several moments she remained motionless, then raising her head,
she said: "You tickle me, stop!"

But he did not obey her.

She repeated: "Stop, I say!"

He seized her head with his right hand, turned it toward him and
pressed his lips to hers. She struggled, pushed him away and
repeated: "Stop!"

He did not heed her. With an effort, she freed herself and rising,
said: "Georges, have done. We are not children, we shall soon reach
Rouen."

"Very well," said he, gaily, "I will wait."

Reseating herself near him she talked of what they would do on their
return; they would keep the apartments in which she had lived with
her first husband, and Duroy would receive Forestier's position on
"La Vie Francaise." In the meantime, forgetting her injunctions and
his promise, he slipped his arm around her waist, pressed her to him
and murmured: "I love you dearly, my little Made."

The gentleness of his tone moved the young woman, and leaning toward
him she offered him her lips; as she did so, a whistle announced the
proximity of the station. Pushing back some stray locks upon her
temples, she exclaimed:

"We are foolish."

He kissed her hands feverishly and replied:

"I adore you, my little Made."

On reaching Rouen they repaired to a hotel where they spent the
night. The following morning, when they had drunk the tea placed
upon the table in their room, Duroy clasped his wife in his arms and
said: "My little Made, I feel that I love you very, very much."

She smiled trustfully and murmured as she returned his kisses: "I
love you too--a little."

The visit to his parents worried Georges, although he had prepared
his wife. He began again: "You know they are peasants, real, not
sham, comic-opera peasants."

She smiled. "I know it, you have told me often enough."

"We shall be very uncomfortable. There is only a straw bed in my
room; they do not know what hair mattresses are at Canteleu."

She seemed delighted. "So much the better. It would be charming to
sleep badly--when--near you--and to be awakened by the crowing of
the cocks."

He walked toward the window and lighted a cigarette. The sight of
the harbor, of the river filled with ships moved him and he
exclaimed: "Egad, but that is fine!"

Madeleine joined him and placing both of her hands on her husband's
shoulder, cried: "Oh, how beautiful! I did not know that there were
so many ships!"

An hour later they departed in order to breakfast with the old
couple, who had been informed several days before of their intended
arrival. Both Duroy and his wife were charmed with the beauties of
the landscape presented to their view, and the cabman halted in
order to allow them to get a better idea of the panorama before
them. As he whipped up his horse, Duroy saw an old couple not a
hundred meters off, approaching, and he leaped from the carriage
crying: "Here they are, I know them."

The man was short, corpulent, florid, and vigorous, notwithstanding
his age; the woman was tall, thin, and melancholy, with stooping
shoulders--a woman who had worked from childhood, who had never
laughed nor jested.

Madeleine, too, alighted and watched the couple advance, with a
contraction of her heart she had not anticipated. They did not
recognize their son in that fine gentleman, and they would never
have taken that handsome lady for their daughter-in-law. They walked
along, passed the child they were expecting, without glancing at the
"city folks."

Georges cried with a laugh: "Good day, Father Duroy."

Both the old man and his wife were struck dumb with astonishment;
the latter recovered her self-possession first and asked: "Is it
you, son?"

The young man replied: "Yes, it is I, Mother Duroy," and approaching
her, he kissed her upon both cheeks and said: "This is my wife."

The two rustics stared at Madeleine as if she were a curiosity, with
anxious fear, combined with a sort of satisfied approbation on the
part of the father and of jealous enmity on that of the mother.

M. Duroy, senior, who was naturally jocose, made so bold as to ask
with a twinkle in his eye: "May I kiss you too?" His son uttered an
exclamation and Madeleine offered her cheek to the old peasant; who
afterward wiped his lips with the back of his hand. The old woman,
in her turn, kissed her daughter-in-law with hostile reserve. Her
ideal was a stout, rosy, country lass, as red as an apple and as
round.

The carriage preceded them with the luggage. The old man took his
son's arm and asked him: "How are you getting on?"

"Very well."

"That is right. Tell me, has your wife any means?"

Georges replied: "Forty thousand francs."

His father whistled softly and muttered: "Whew!" Then he added: "She
is a handsome woman." He admired his son's wife, and in his day had
considered himself a connoisseur.

Madeleine and the mother walked side by side in silence; the two men
joined them. They soon reached the village, at the entrance to which
stood M. Duroy's tavern. A pine board fastened over the door
indicated that thirsty people might enter. The table was laid. A
neighbor, who had come to assist, made a low courtesy on seeing so
beautiful a lady appear; then recognizing Georges, she cried: "Oh
Lord, is it you?"

He replied merrily: "Yes, it is I, Mother Brulin," and he kissed her
as he had kissed his father and mother. Then he turned to his wife:

"Come into our room," said he, "you can lay aside your hat."

They passed through a door to the right and entered a room paved
with brick, with whitewashed walls and a bed with cotton hangings.

A crucifix above a holy-water basin and two colored prints,
representing Paul and Virginia beneath a blue palm-tree, and
Napoleon I. on a yellow horse, were the only ornaments in that neat,
but bare room.

When they were alone, Georges embraced Madeleine.

"Good morning, Made! I am glad to see the old people once more. When
one is in Paris one does not think of this place, but when one
returns, one enjoys it just the same."

At that moment his father cried, knocking on the partition with his
fist: "Come, the soup is ready."

They re-entered the large public-room and took their seats at the
table. The meal was a long one, served in a truly rustic fashion.
Father Duroy, enlivened by the cider and several glasses of wine,
related many anecdotes, while Georges, to whom they were all
familiar, laughed at them.

Mother Duroy did not speak, but sat at the board, grim and austere,
glancing at her daughter-in-law with hatred in her heart.

Madeleine did not speak nor did she eat; she was depressed.
Wherefore? She had wished to come; she knew that she was coming to a
simple home; she had formed no poetical ideas of those peasants, but
she had perhaps expected to find them somewhat more polished,
refined. She recalled her own mother, of whom she never spoke to
anyone--a governess who had been betrayed and who had died of grief
and shame when Madeleine was twelve years old. A stranger had had
the little girl educated. Her father without doubt. Who was he? She
did not know positively, but she had vague suspicions.

The meal was not yet over when customers entered, shook hands with
M. Duroy, exclaimed on seeing his son, and seating themselves at the
wooden tables began to drink, smoke, and play dominoes. The smoke
from the clay pipes and penny cigars filled the room.

Madeleine choked and asked: "Can we go out? I cannot remain here any
longer,"

Old Duroy grumbled at being disturbed. Madeleine rose and placed her
chair at the door in order to wait until her father-in-law and his
wife had finished their coffee and wine.

Georges soon joined her.

"Would you like to stroll down to the Seine?"

Joyfully she cried: "Yes."

They descended the hillside, hired a boat at Croisset, and spent the
remainder of the afternoon beneath the willows in the soft, warm,
spring air, and rocked gently by the rippling waves of the river.
They returned at nightfall. The evening repast by candle-light was
more painful to Madeleine than that of the morning. Neither Father
Duroy nor his wife spoke. When the meal was over, Madeleine drew her
husband outside in order not to have to remain in that room, the
atmosphere of which was heavy with smoke and the fumes of liquor.

When they were alone, he said: "You are already weary."

She attempted to protest; he interrupted her:

"I have seen it. If you wish we will leave tomorrow."

She whispered: "I should like to go."

They walked along and entered a narrow path among high trees, hedged
in on either side by impenetrable brushwood.

She asked: "Where are we?"

He replied: "In the forest--one of the largest in France."

Madeleine, on raising her head, could see the stars between the
branches and hear the rustling of the leaves. She felt strangely
nervous. Why, she could not tell. She seemed to be lost, surrounded
by perils, abandoned, alone, beneath that vast vaulted sky.

She murmured: "I am afraid; I should like to return."

"Very well, we will."

On their return they found the old people in bed. The next morning
Madeleine rose early and was ready to leave at daybreak. When
Georges told his parents that they were going to return home, they
guessed whose wish it was.

His father asked simply: "Shall I see you soon again?"

"Yes--in the summer-time."

"Very well."

His mother grumbled: "I hope you will not regret what you have
done."

Georges gave them two hundred francs to appease them, and the cab
arriving at ten o'clock, the couple kissed the old peasants and set
out.

As they were descending the side of the hill, Duroy laughed. "You
see," said he, "I warned you. I should, however, not have presented
you to M. and Mme. du Roy de Cantel, senior."

She laughed too and replied: "I am charmed now! They are nice people
whom I am beginning to like very much. I shall send them confections
from Paris." Then she murmured: "Du Roy de Cantel. We will say that
we spent a week at your parents' estate," and drawing near him, she
kissed him saying:

"Good morning, Georges."

He replied: "Good morning, Madeleine," as he slipped his arm around
her waist.