Bel Ami; Or, The History of a Scoundrel: A Novel Read online

  CHAPTER II.

  MADAME FORESTIER

  "Where does M. Forestier live?"

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

  Georges ascended the staircase. He was somewhat embarrassed andill-at-ease. He had on a new suit but he was uncomfortable. He feltthat it was defective; his boots were not glossy, he had bought hisshirt that same evening at the Louvre for four francs fifty, histrousers were too wide and betrayed their cheapness in their fit, orrather, 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. Theperson resembled Duroy so close that the latter retreated, thenstopped, 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 tosee himself entirely, and had exaggerated the imperfections of histoilette. When he saw his reflection in the glass, he did not evenrecognize himself; he took himself for some one else, for aman-of-the-world, and was really satisfied with his general appearance.Smiling to himself, Duroy extended his hand and expressed hisastonishment, pleasure, and approbation. A door opened on thestaircase, He was afraid of being surprised and began to ascend morerapidly, fearing that he might have been seen posing there by some ofhis friend's invited guests.

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

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

  The lackey asked:

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

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

  "Madame, I am--"

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

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

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

  Duroy grew more at his ease under her glance, which recalled to him, heknew not why, that of the girl he had met the preceding evening at theFolies-Bergeres. Mme. Forestier had gray eyes, a small nose, full lips,and a rather heavy chin, an irregular, attractive face, full ofgentleness 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 hasencouraged 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." Shewas a dainty brunette, attired in a simple, dark robe; a red rose inher black tresses seemed to accentuate her special character, and ayoung 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 theassurance 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, myfriend, a relative in fact." She added: "Here, you know, we do notstand on ceremony."

  Duroy bowed. The door opened again and a short man entered, upon hisarm a tall, handsome woman, taller than he and much younger, withdistinguished manners and a dignified carriage. It was M. Walter,deputy, financier, a moneyed man, and a man of business, manager of "LaVie Francaise," with his wife, nee Basile Ravalade, daughter of thebanker 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'sbare 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. Duroywas placed between Mme. de Marelle and her daughter. He was againrendered uncomfortable for fear of committing some error in theconventional management of his fork, his spoon, or his glasses, ofwhich he had four. Nothing was said during the soup; then Norbert deVarenne asked a general question: "Have you read the Gauthier case? Howdroll 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; thatwas his province. Duroy did not venture a remark, but occasionallyglanced at his neighbor. A diamond upon a slight, golden threaddepended from her ear; from time to time she uttered a remark whichevoked a smile upon his lips. Duroy sought vainly for some complimentto pay her; he busied himself with her daughter, filled her glass,waited upon her, and the child, more dignified than her mother, thankedhim gravely saying, "You are very kind, Monsieur," while she listenedto the conversation with a reflective air. The dinner was excellent andeveryone was delighted with it.

  The conversation returned to the colonization of Algeria. M. Walteruttered several jocose remarks; Forestier alluded to the article he hadprepared for the morrow; Jacques Rival declared himself in favor of amilitary government with grants of land to all the officers afterthirty years of colonial service.

  "In that way," said he, "you can establish a strong colony, familiarwith and liking the country, knowing its language and able to cope withall those local yet grave questions which invariably confrontnewcomers."

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

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

  "What is needed the most down there is good soil. Really fertile landcosts 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 knowAlgeria, sir?"

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

  Mme. Walter murmured to him in her soft tones: "You could write aseries of charmi
ng articles."

  Forestier took advantage of the situation to say to M. Walter: "My dearsir, I spoke to you a short while since of M. Georges Duroy and askedyou 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 andconfidential reports, and the paper is suffering by it."

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

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

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

  Mme. Forestier cast upon Duroy a protecting and smiling glance whichseemed to say: "You shall succeed." The servant filled the glasses withwine, and Forestier proposed the toast: "To the long prosperity of 'LaVie Francaise.'" Duroy felt superhuman strength within him, infinitehope, and invincible resolution. He was at his ease now among thesepeople; his eyes rested upon their faces with renewed assurance, andfor 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 weardiamonds like this, simply on a thread."

  He murmured in reply, trembling at his audacity: "It is charming--butthe 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 ofgaiety, malice, and encouragement. All the men were talking at the sametime; their discussion was animated.

  When the party left the dining-room, Duroy offered his arm to thelittle girl. She thanked him gravely and stood upon tiptoe in order tolay her hand upon his arm. Upon entering the drawing-room, the youngman carefully surveyed it. It was not a large room; but there were nobright colors, and one felt at ease; it was restful. The walls weredraped with violet hangings covered with tiny embroidered flowers ofyellow silk. The portieres were of a grayish blue and the chairs wereof all shapes, of all sizes; scattered about the room were couches andlarge and small easy-chairs, all covered with Louis XVI. brocade, orUtrecht velvet, a cream colored ground with garnet flowers.

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

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

  First he drank his coffee, which he feared he should let fall upon thecarpet; then he sought a pretext for approaching the manager's wife andcommencing a conversation. Suddenly he perceived that she held an emptycup in her hand, and as she was not near a table, she did not knowwhere 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, whatpleasant moments 'La Vie Francaise' afforded me, when I was in thedesert! It is indeed the only paper one cares to read outside ofFrance; it contains everything."

  She smiled with amiable indifference as she replied: "M. Walter had agreat deal of trouble in producing the kind of journal which wasrequired."

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

  Duroy was seized with an eager desire to embrace the child, as if partof that embrace would revert to the mother. He asked in a gallant, yetpaternal tone: "Will you permit me to kiss you, Mademoiselle?" Thechild raised her eyes with an air of surprise. Mme. de Marelle saidwith 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 lipsand her fine wavy hair. Her mother was surprised: "Well, that isstrange! Ordinarily she only allows ladies to caress her. You areirresistible, 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 hisconquest by some awkward word. He bowed to the ladies, clasped andgently pressed their hands, and then shook hands with the men. Heobserved that Jacques Rival's was dry and warm and responded cordiallyto his pressure; Norbert de Varenne's was moist and cold and slippedthrough 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 notforget."

  "Never fear!"

  When he reached the staircase, he felt like running down, his joy wasso great; he went down two steps at a time, but suddenly on the secondfloor, in the large mirror, he saw a gentleman hurrying on, and heslackened his pace, as much ashamed as if he had been surprised in acrime.

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