Bel-Ami (Oxford World's Classics) Page 17

She made him sit down, and sat herself on his knees, then, with her arms round his neck, kissed him repeatedly, kissing his moustache, his mouth, his eyes, as she forced him to tell her how this misfortune had come about.

  He invented a pathetic tale. He had had to come to the assistance of his father, who had found himself in difficulties. Not only had he given him all his savings, but he himself was now heavily in debt. He added: ‘It will mean starving for six months, because I’ve used up all my reserves. It’s too bad, but these things happen in life. After all, money’s not worth worrying about.’

  She whispered in his ear: ‘Would you like me to lend you some?’

  He answered with dignity: ‘You’re very sweet, my pet, but please, don’t let’s talk about this any more. You’ll offend me.’

  She was silent; then, clasping him in her arms, she whispered: ‘You’ 11 never know how much I love you.’

  That was one of their best evenings of love-making.

  When she was leaving, she said with a smile: ‘Georges! When you’re in a spot like yours, isn’t it fun to find a coin you’ve forgotten about in a pocket, something that’s slipped down into the lining!’ His reply was emphatic: ‘You’re damn right!’

  She wanted to return home on foot, claiming that the moon was superb, and she went into ecstasies gazing at it. It was a cold, calm night in early winter. Passers-by and horses moved swiftly, spurred on by the clear frosty air. The sound of heels echoed on the sidewalks.

  As they parted, she asked: ‘Would you like to meet the day after tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Same time?’

  ‘Same time.’

  ‘Goodbye, my darling.’ And they kissed, tenderly.

  Then he walked home, striding along, wondering what he would be able to think up the next day, to solve his problem. But when, on opening his door, he fumbled in his waistcoat pocket for some matches, he was dumbfounded to discover that his fingers were touching a coin. The moment he had some light, he seized the coin and examined it. It was a louis, a twenty-franc piece!

  He thought he must have gone mad. He turned it over and over, trying to work out by what miracle this coin could be in his pocket. After all, it could hardly have fallen there out of the sky. Then, suddenly, he guessed, and was filled with angry indignation. His mistress had indeed spoken of coins that slip into linings, that you come upon in moments of need. She must have been the one who had given him this handout! How mortifying!

  He swore: ‘Fine! I’ll see her, all right, day after tomorrow! She’ll have something to remember me by!’ And he went to bed, his feelings in a turmoil of fury and humiliation.

  He woke late. He felt hungry. He tried to go back to sleep so as not to get up before two o’clock; then he said to himself: ‘This isn’t going to help me, in the end I’ll still have to find some money.’ He went out, hoping that an idea would come to him in the street.

  It didn’t, but as he passed each restaurant a fierce longing for food made his mouth water. At midday, as he had not thought of anything, he suddenly made up his mind: ‘Bah! I’ll have lunch with Clotilde’s twenty francs. That won’t stop me giving them back to her tomorrow.’

  So he lunched in a brasserie, for two francs fifty. On arriving at the paper, he handed over three more francs to the doorman. ‘Here, Foucart, here’s what you lent me yesterday evening for my cab.’

  He worked until seven o’clock. Then he went out for dinner, taking another three francs out of the same money. His two evening beers brought his day’s expenses to a total of nine francs thirty centimes. But, since he could not obtain any more credit nor discover a fresh source of funds in twenty-four hours, he borrowed another six francs fifty the following day from the twenty he planned to repay that same evening, so that he arrived at the agreed rendezvous with four francs twenty in his pocket.

  He was in a foul temper, and had promised himself he would instantly make the situation very clear indeed. He would tell his mistress: ‘You know, I found the twenty francs you put in my pocket the other day. I’m not returning them to you today because my position hasn’t changed, and I haven’t had any time to devote to money matters. But I’ll repay it the next time we see each other.’

  She came in, loving, attentive, and very nervous. How would he receive her? She kissed him repeatedly so to avoid an immediate explanation. For his part, he kept telling himself: ‘It will be soon enough if I raise the matter later on. I’ll wait for the right moment.’

  He never found the right moment and said nothing, shying away from uttering the first words on this delicate subject. She never said a word about going out, and was charming in every way.

  They separated towards midnight, arranging their next meeting only for the Wednesday of the following week, because Mme de Marelle had dinner engagements on several consecutive evenings.

  Duroy, as he was paying for his lunch the next day and feeling for the four coins he should have left, discovered that they were five; one of them was gold. At first he supposed that he had accidentally been given a twenty-franc piece in change, the previous evening; but then he understood, and felt his heart pound at the humiliation of this persistent charity.

  How sorry he was that he had said nothing! If he had spoken forcefully, this would not have happened.

  For four days he attempted to raise five louis, trying various means and embarking on endeavours as numerous as they were futile, and so he ran through Clotilde’s second louis.

  On their next meeting, she found a way—despite his saying, in furious tones: ‘Don’t try that trick again that you played those other evenings, because I’ll get angry’—to slip another twenty francs into his trouser pocket. When he discovered the money, he swore—‘for Christ’s sake!’—and put the coin in his waistcoat so that it would be ready to hand; he was absolutely broke. He appeased his conscience by reasoning that: ‘I’ll repay it all at once. After all, it’s really only a loan.’

  Eventually, the cashier at the newspaper, in response to his desperate pleas, agreed to let him have five francs a day. It was just enough for his meals, but not enough to repay the sixty francs.

  So, as Clotilde was again seized by her wild urge to spend evenings going round all the unsavoury night-spots of Paris, in the end he did not become too irritated when, after these expeditions, he would find a coin in one of his pockets, even, on one occasion, in his boot, or, another time, inside his watch-case.

  Since she had fancies that he could not, at present, satisfy, wasn’t it only natural that she should pay for them, rather than go without? Besides, he kept count of everything that he received in this way, so that one day he could repay it.

  She said to him one evening: ‘Would you believe that I’ve never been to the Folies-Bergère? Will you take me there?’ He hesitated, afraid that he might meet Rachel. Then he thought: ‘Bah! After all, I’m not married. If she sees me, she’ll understand the situation and won’t speak to me. Besides, we’ll take a box.’

  Something else decided the matter. He was very pleased to have this opportunity to treat Mme de Marelle to a box at the theatre without parting with any money. It was a kind of repayment.

  He left Clotilde in the cab at first while he collected the tickets, so that she would not see that they were complimentary; then he fetched her. They were greeted by the doormen as they walked in. An enormous crowd filled the lobby, and they made their way with difficulty through the throng of men and prostitutes. Eventually they reached their box and settled down in it, sandwiched between the staid orchestra stalls and the bustling gallery.

  But Mme de Marelle scarcely looked at the stage, for she was utterly engrossed by the prostitutes parading round behind her back; and she turned to watch them, wanting to touch them, to feel their breasts, their cheeks, their hair, to discover what those creatures were made of.

  Suddenly she said: ‘There’s a great big brunette who’s watching us all the time. I thought she was going to speak to us just now. Did you se
e her?’

  ‘No, you must be mistaken,’ he replied. But he had already caught sight of her. It was Rachel, with rage in her eyes and angry words on her lips, loitering about close by. Duroy had brushed past her in the crowd, just a few minutes earlier, and she had said ‘Hallo’ very softly, giving him a wink that meant ‘I understand.’ But, afraid of being seen by his mistress, he had not acknowledged this thoughtfulness, and had passed by in icy silence, his head held high and his expression disdainful. Rachel, goaded now by unconscious jealousy, came back, brushed against him again, and said in a louder voice: ‘Hallo, Georges.’

  He had still made no reply. At that she grew stubbornly determined to be recognized and greeted, and she returned constantly to the back of the box, waiting for an opportunity.

  As soon as she noticed Mme de Marelle looking at her, she prodded Duroy in the shoulder with her finger: ‘Hallo. How are you?’

  But he did not turn round.

  She went on: ‘Well? Have you gone deaf since last Thursday?’

  He made no reply, affecting a contemptuous air that prevented his lowering himself by saying one single word to this slut. She gave a laugh—a furious laugh—and asked: ‘Lost your tongue, have you? Perhaps Madame bit it off for you?’

  With an angry gesture he said in an exasperated voice: ‘Who gave you permission to speak to me? Be off, or I’ll have you arrested.’

  Then, her eyes blazing and her breasts heaving, she bellowed: ‘Ah! So that’s how it is! You rotten bastard! When you go to bed with a woman, at least you say ‘hallo’ to her. Just because you’re with someone else is no reason to cut me dead. If you’d simply nodded to me just now, when I passed right by you, I’d have left you in peace. But you wanted to play the high and mighty, well you just wait! I’m gonna show you what’s what! So, you won’t even say “hallo” when we meet…’

  She would have gone on and on screaming, but Mme de Marelle had opened the door of the box, and was disappearing through the crowd, desperately seeking the exit. Duroy rushed after her, trying to catch her up.

  Then Rachel, seeing them take flight, yelled triumphantly: ‘Stop her! Stop her! She’s pinched my lover.’

  The crowd began to laugh. Two men, as a joke, seized the fugitive by the shoulders, trying to kiss her and take her off with them. But Duroy, catching up with her, freed her violently and pulled her into the street. She threw herself into an empty cab that was waiting in front of the building. He jumped in after her, and when the coachman enquired: ‘Where to, mister?’ he answered: ‘Wherever you like.’

  Slowly the cab began to move, jolting over the cobblestones. Clotilde, in a state bordering on hysteria, sat gasping and choking with sobs, her hands over her face; Duroy did not know what to do, or what to say.

  Finally, as he could hear her crying, he faltered: ‘Listen, Clo, my little Clo, let me explain! It’s not my fault… I knew that woman before… in the early days…’

  She suddenly took her hands away from her face and, filled with the rage of a betrayed lover, a passionate rage which restored her voice to her, she stammered out some rapid, staccato, breathless phrases: ‘Ah! you wretch… you wretch… How vile you are… Is this possible?… How shameful! Oh, God! How shameful!’

  Then, growing angrier and angrier as her ideas became clearer and arguments occurred to her: ‘It was my money you paid her with, wasn’t it? I was giving him money for that prostitute… Oh, the wretch!’

  For a few seconds she seemed to be searching for a stronger word that would not come to her, then, suddenly, she spat out—going through the motions of actually spitting: ‘Oh… you pig… pig… pig. You were paying her with my money… you pig… you pig!’ She could think of no other word and went on repeating: ‘You pig… you pig…’

  All of a sudden, leaning out, she grabbed the driver by the sleeve: ‘Stop!’ Then, opening the door, she jumped into the street. Georges tried to follow, but she cried: ‘I forbid you to get out,’ in such a loud voice that passers-by gathered round her; and Duroy, afraid of a public scene, did not move.

  Then she took her purse from her pocket and looked for some coins by the light of the street-lamp; having found two francs fifty she put them into the driver’s hand, telling him in carrying tones: ‘Here… this is for your time… I’m the one that pays… and drive this skunk back to the Rue Boursault, in the Batignolles.’*

  A ripple of laughter ran through the group that surrounded her. A man said: ‘Bravo, my love!’ and a young lout standing between the cab wheels stuck his head through the open door and shouted in a high, shrill voice: ‘Goodnight, my little pet!’

  The cab set off again, pursued by roars of laughter.

  CHAPTER 6

  Duroy woke up the next morning feeling miserable. He dressed slowly, then sat down by his window and began to think. His whole body ached, as if he had been beaten up the night before.

  Eventually, the necessity of finding some money spurred him into action, and he went first to visit Forestier.

  His friend received him in his study, where he was sitting in front of the fire.

  ‘What’s got you up so early?’

  ‘Something very serious, I’ve a debt of honour.’

  ‘A gambling debt?’

  He hesitated, then confessed: ‘Yes, a gambling debt.’

  ‘A lot?’

  ‘Five hundred francs.’

  He owed only two hundred and eighty.

  Forestier asked distrustfully: ‘Whom do you owe it to?’

  Duroy could not give an immediate answer: ‘Well… um… to a M. de Carleville.’

  ‘Oh yes. And where does he live?’

  ‘Rue… Rue…’

  Forestier began to laugh. ‘Come on, I’ve heard that one before. I know that man, my dear fellow. If you’d like twenty francs, I’m still prepared to lend you that, but not more.’ Duroy accepted the gold coin.

  Then he went from door to door, calling on all his acquaintances, and finally, by five o’clock, had gathered together eighty francs. As he still needed to lay his hands on two hundred francs, he decided to hold on to what he had collected, muttering: ‘Hell, I’m not going to get all upset over that bitch. I’ll pay her when I can.’

  For two weeks he lived a frugal, regular, chaste life, full of energetic determination. Then he was seized by a fierce wave of desire. He felt as if several years had elapsed since he had held a woman in his arms, and, like the sailor who goes beserk on sighting land again, he trembled at every skirt he passed.

  So one evening he returned to the Folies-Bergère, hoping to find Rachel there. He did indeed see her as soon as he went in, for she rarely left the place. He went up to her with a smile, holding out his hand. But, looking him up and down, she asked:

  ‘What do you want with me?’

  He tried to laugh it off: ‘Come on, don’t give yourself airs.’

  She turned her back on him, announcing: ‘I don’t go with pimps.’

  She had deliberately come up with the worst possible insult. He felt his face go scarlet, and returned home alone.

  Forestier, weak and ill and constantly coughing, made his life a burden at the paper, apparently racking his brains to find him irksome assignments. One day, in a moment of nervous exasperation following a long spasm of coughing, as Duroy had not brought him some information he had requested, he even snarled: ‘Damn it all, you’re stupider than I’d have thought possible.’

  Duroy almost hit him, but, controlling himself, moved away, muttering: ‘You wait, I’ll get you.’ A sudden thought flashed across his mind and mentally he added: ‘I’m going to have your wife, old man.’ And he walked off rubbing his hands, delighted with this plan.

  The very next day, intending to start carrying it out, he paid Mme Forestier an exploratory visit.

  He found her lying full length on her sofa, reading a book. She offered him her hand without moving, simply turning her head, and said: ‘Hallo, Bel-Ami!’

  He felt as if he had been slapped: ‘Why
did you call me that?’

  She replied with a smile: ‘I saw Mme de Marelle the other week, and heard how they’d christened you, over at her place.’

  The young woman’s friendly manner reassured him. Besides, what had he to fear? She went on: ‘You spoil her! As for me, people come and see me when they think of it, once in a blue moon, just about!’

  He had sat down beside her and was looking at her with a new kind of curiosity, the curiosity of a collector of pretty objects. She was charming, warmly and delicately fair, made to be caressed; and he thought: ‘She’s certainly better than the other one.’ He never doubted he would succeed, it seemed to him that he had only to stretch out his hand and pluck her like a ripe fruit. He said resolutely: ‘I didn’t come to see you because it was better not to.’

  She asked, not understanding: ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Why? Can’t you guess?’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘Because I’m in love with you… Oh, a bit, only a bit… And I don’t want to fall really in love with you…’

  She seemed neither surprised, nor shocked, nor flattered; she went on smiling the same dispassionate smile, as she calmly replied: ‘Oh, you can come just the same. No one’s ever in love with me for long.’

  Surprised by the tone even more than by the words, he asked: ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s pointless, and I make that clear straight away. If you had told me earlier about your fear, I would have reassured you, and on the contrary pressed you to come as often as possible.’

  He exclaimed, in a pathetic tone: ‘As if one’s feelings could be controlled at will!’

  She turned towards him: ‘My dear friend, for me, a man who’s in love is erased from the roll of the living. He becomes a half-wit, and not just a half-wit, but a dangerous one. With men who are really in love with me, or who claim they are, I break off any close relationship, first because they bore me, but also because I don’t trust them, just as I don’t trust a rabid dog who might go on the rampage. So I put them into moral quarantine until their sickness is over. Don’t ever forget this. I know perfectly well that for you love is simply a kind of appetite, whereas for me it would be, on the contrary, a kind of… of spiritual communion that has no place in the religion of men! For you it’s the letter that counts, but for us it’s the spirit. But… look at me please…’