Bel-Ami (Oxford World's Classics) Page 9

  ‘Another beer?’ asked Forestier.

  ‘Yes, I’d love one.’

  They sat down and watched the passers-by. Now and again a whore making her rounds would stop and ask with a mechanical smile: ‘Buy me a drink, Monsieur?’ And at Forestier’s reply: ‘A glass of water from the fountain,’ she would move away, muttering: ‘Rotten bastard!’

  But the fat brunette who had just been leaning on the back of their box appeared again, marching brazenly along arm in arm with the plump blonde. They certainly made a fine pair, well matched.

  She smiled on catching sight of Duroy, as if their eyes had already exchanged intimate, secret messages; and she calmly drew up a chair opposite him, made her friend sit down too, then, in a carrying voice, ordered: ‘Waiter, two grenadines!’

  Forestier, taken aback, remarked: ‘You’ve got a cheek, haven’t you!’

  She replied: ‘It’s your friend I fancy. He’s such a pretty fellow. I believe I could lose my head over him!’

  Duroy, intimidated, could think of nothing to say. He twisted his curly moustache, smiling foolishly. The waiter brought the cordials, which the women drank down in one gulp; then they stood up, and the brunette, with a friendly nod of the head and a light tap of her fan on Duroy’s arm, said to him:

  ‘Thanks, my pet. Not much of a talker, are you?’

  And off they went, swaying their backsides.

  Forestier began to laugh: ‘My goodness, old chap, you’re a real success with the ladies, aren’t you? You should cultivate that. It could take you far.’ After a moment’s silence he said, in the abstracted tone of someone thinking out loud: ‘They’re still the quickest way to the top.’

  And, as Duroy went on smiling without replying, he enquired: ‘Are you going to stay? I’m going home, I’ve had enough.’

  The other muttered: ‘Yes, I’ll stay for a bit. It isn’t late.’

  Forestier stood up: ‘Well! I’ll say goodnight then. See you tomorrow. You won’t forget, will you? 17 rue Fontaine, seven-thirty.’

  ‘Fine: see you tomorrow. Thank you.’

  They shook hands, and the journalist left. The instant Forestier disappeared, Duroy felt a sense of freedom, and again gleefully fingered the two gold coins in his pocket; then, getting up, he began to thread his way through the crowd, scanning it with his eyes.

  He soon caught sight of them both, the blonde and the brunette; they were still sweeping through the throng of men like a pair of disdainful beggars. He headed straight for them, but, on reaching them, lost his nerve.

  The brunette said to him: ‘Found your tongue again, have you?’

  He stammered: ‘Dammit, yes…’ without managing to utter another word.

  The three of them remained standing there, blocking the progress of the strollers, creating a little eddy around themselves.

  Then she asked, all of a sudden: ‘Are you coming back with me?’

  And, trembling with lust, he answered crudely: ‘Yes, but I’ve only twenty francs on me.’

  She smiled, unconcerned: ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  And she took his arm as a sign of possession.

  As they walked out, he reflected that, with the other twenty francs, he could easily find himself an evening suit to hire for the next day.

  CHAPTER 2

  ‘M. Forestier, please?’

  ‘Third floor,* on the left.’

  The concierge had replied in a pleasant tone which showed his respect for his tenant. Georges Duroy climbed up the stairs.

  He felt somewhat awkward, somewhat self-conscious and apprehensive. He was wearing evening dress for the first time in his life, and was uneasy about his whole appearance. He felt deficient in every respect–in his buttoned boots which, although not of patent leather, were nevertheless quite elegant, for he was vain about his feet; in the shirt bought at the Louvre* that very morning for four francs fifty, and whose very thin starched front was already cracking. Since his other, everyday, shirts were all more or less in a state of disrepair, he had been unable to use even the least shabby among them.

  His trousers, a trifle too wide, did not show off his leg to advantage, and seemed to sag and wrinkle round his calves with that bedraggled air that second-hand clothes acquire on limbs they were not designed to cover. Only the coat fitted quite well, being almost exactly his size.

  He was climbing slowly and nervously up the stairs, his heart pounding, tormented above all by the fear of seeming ridiculous, when he suddenly saw, opposite him, a gentleman in full evening dress gazing back at him. They were so close to one another that Duroy stepped backwards, then stopped, dumbfounded: it was his own reflection, in a tall, full-length mirror that made the first-floor landing look like a long gallery. He was suddenly overjoyed, he looked so much better than he could ever have believed.

  Having nothing but a little shaving mirror in his lodgings, he had been unable to see himself full-length, and as he could get only a very imperfect view of the various parts of his improvised outfit, he had exaggerated its shortcomings, and was panic-stricken at the idea of looking absurd.

  But on catching sight of himself in the mirror he had not even recognized himself; he had taken himself for someone else, for a man of the world, whom he had, at first glance, thought very personable, very stylish. And now, examining himself carefully, he realized that, in fact, his outfit was perfectly acceptable.

  Then he began to study himself like an actor learning his part. He smiled, offered himself his hand, gestured, registered various emotions: astonishment, pleasure, approval; and he tried out the different kinds of smile and meaningful looks that would convey his wish to please the ladies, and the fact that he admired and desired them. A door on the staircase opened. Afraid of being caught unawares, he began climbing very fast, alarmed that he might have been seen posturing like that by one of his friend’s dinner-guests.

  When he reached the second landing, he saw another mirror, and slowed his pace so he could watch himself walk past.

  His bearing struck him as truly elegant. He walked well.

  And he was filled with an inordinate feeling of self-confidence. Of course he would be successful, with that face of his, and that urge to get ahead, and the determination he knew he had, and his independence of spirit. He wanted to run, to leap, as he climbed the final flight of stairs. He halted in front of the third mirror, curled up his moustache in his habitual way, took off his hat to smooth his hair, and murmured softly, as he so often did: ‘Such a wonderful invention.’ Then, stretching out his hand, he rang the bell.

  The door opened almost immediately, and he found himself in the presence of a black-suited, clean-shaven, unsmiling servant whose appearance was so perfect that Duroy felt renewed apprehension without understanding the cause of his vague unease: an unconscious comparison, perhaps, of the cut of their garments. This footman, whose shoes were of patent leather, asked, as he took the overcoat Duroy carried over his arm to hide its stains:

  ‘Whom should I announce?’

  And he fired off the name round a drawn-back door curtain, into a room which Duroy now had to enter.

  But Duroy suddenly lost his nerve, and stood there paralysed with fright, breathing hard. He was about to take his first steps in the world for which he had longed, of which he had dreamed. He did go in, however. A young, fair-haired woman was standing alone waiting for him, in a large and well-lit room full of plants, like a conservatory.

  He stopped dead, utterly disconcerted. Who was this smiling woman? Then he recalled that Forestier was married; and the thought that this pretty elegant blonde must be his friend’s wife, put the finishing touch to his discomfiture.

  He stammered: ‘Madame, I am…’

  She held out her hand: ‘I know, Monsieur. Charles told me about your meeting yesterday evening, and I’m so pleased that he had the excellent idea of inviting you to dine with us tonight.’

  He blushed to the roots of his hair, not knowing what to say, and feeling he was being examined, insp
ected from top to toe, sized up, assessed.

  He wanted to apologize, to dream up something to explain the deficiencies of his appearance; but he could think of nothing, and shrank from broaching this difficult subject.

  He sat down in an armchair she indicated, and when he felt the soft, resilient velvet of the seat yield beneath him, when he found himself enveloped by, supported by, enfolded in this soothing piece of furniture whose padded back and arms held him delicately, it seemed to him that he was embarking on a new, delightful life, that he was taking possession of something delicious, that he was becoming somebody, that he had found salvation; and he gazed at Mme Forestier, whose eyes had never left him.

  She was wearing a gown of pale blue cashmere which showed off her supple figure and full breasts to advantage. The flesh of her arms and neck emerged from a froth of white lace with which the bodice and short sleeves were trimmed; and her hair, piled on the top of her head, curled a little at the nape of her neck, forming a faint cloud of blond fluff above her neck.

  Duroy grew more relaxed beneath her gaze, which reminded him, for some unknown reason, of the prostitute he had met the night before at the Folies-Bergère. She had grey eyes, of a bluish grey which gave them a strange expression, a thin nose, full lips, a rather plump chin; her irregular, captivating countenance was full of sweetness and mischief. It was one of those feminine faces whose every line has its own particular charm, and seems to possess a meaning, whose every movement seems to reveal or to conceal something.

  After a short silence, she asked: ‘Have you been in Paris long?’

  Gradually regaining his self-control, he replied: ‘For only a few months, Madame. I’m working for the railway, but Forestier led me to hope that I may, through his good offices, be able to get into journalism.’

  She smiled in a more open, more kindly manner, and murmured, lowering her voice: ‘I know.’

  The bell had rung again. The footman announced: ‘Mme de Marelle.’

  She was small and dark-haired, what people call a brunette.

  As she walked rapidly in, he saw that she was wearing an extremely simple dark dress that fitted her like a skin from head to foot. A single red rose, tucked into her black hair, drew the eye irresistibly to her face, calling attention to its particular quality, adding the vivid, startling touch needed to set it off.

  She was followed by a little girl in short skirts. Mme Forestier hurried forward:

  ‘How are you, Clotilde.’

  ‘Hallo, Madeleine.’

  They kissed. Then, with the composure of an adult, the child proffered her forehead, saying:

  ‘Good evening, cousin Madeleine.’

  Mme Forestier kissed her, then made the introductions:

  ‘M. Georges Duroy, a good friend of Charles’s. My friend Mme de Marelle. We’re distantly related.’

  She added: ‘You know, we don’t stand on ceremony here, we’re quite informal. I do hope that’s understood!

  The young man bowed.

  But the door opened once more, admitting a fat little man, short and round, escorting on his arm a statuesque, beautiful woman, taller and much younger than himself, with patrician manners and a grave demeanour. It was M. Walter, member of the Chamber of Deputies, financier, money and business mogul, a Jew from the Midi,* Director of La Vie française, with his wife, née Basile-Ravalau, daughter of the banker of that name.

  Then, right behind them, came Jacques Rival, looking very elegant, and Norbert de Varenne, the latter’s coat collar shiny from contact with his long hair which brushed his shoulders, where it deposited a sprinkling of little white specks. His tie, badly knotted, looked well past its first youth. He advanced with the air of an ageing Don Juan, took Mme Forestier’s hand, and planted a kiss on her wrist. As he bowed his head, his long hair spread like a sheet of water over the young woman’s bare arm.

  Finally Forestier himself arrived, apologizing for being late. He had been held up at the newspaper by the Morel affair. M. Morel, a radical deputy, had just asked the Minister a question about a request for funds relating to the colonization of Algeria.*

  The servant announced: ‘Dinner is served!’ They went in to the dining-room.

  Duroy found himself seated between Mme de Marelle and her daughter. Once again he was feeling awkward, terrified of using the wrong fork, spoon, or glass. He had four, one with a bluish tinge to it. What could that be for?

  Nothing was said during the soup, then Norbert de Varenne enquired: ‘Have you been reading about the Gauthier case? What an extraordinary business!’

  And they discussed this case of adultery complicated by blackmail. They did not talk about it the way you might comment, around a family dinner-table, on events reported in the press, but rather the way doctors talk about diseases, or greengrocers about vegetables. They showed neither indignation nor astonishment over the facts; they searched for their deep-seated, hidden causes, with a professional curiosity and a complete lack of interest in the crime itself. They tried to find clear explanations in terms of underlying motive, trying to identify all the mental phenomena behind the tragedy, seeing it as the scientific consequence of a particular state of mind. The women, too, found this investigation, this task, deeply engrossing. And other recent events were analysed, commented upon, explored from every point of view, weighed up precisely, with that practised eye and that specialized approach of the dealer in news, the vendor of the human comedy by the line, just as a tradesman examines, scrutinizes, and weighs up the products he is going to sell to the public.

  Then the conversation turned to duelling, and Jacques Rival took the floor. This subject was his: no one else was qualified to talk about it.

  Duroy did not dare put in a word. He would glance occasionally at his neighbour, whose rounded breasts he found alluring. A diamond hung down below her ear on a golden wire, like a drop of water sliding over her skin. From time to time she would pass a remark that would make everyone smile. She had a funny, pleasing, unexpected turn of mind, the mind of a worldly-wise young creature who takes things as they come and views them with a light-hearted, easy-going scepticism.

  Duroy searched in vain for some compliment to pay her and, unable to find one, devoted himself to her daughter, pouring out her drinks, holding the dishes for her and serving her. The child, more serious than her mother, kept thanking him in a solemn voice, giving little appreciative nods: ‘You’re most kind, Monsieur,’ as she listened to the grown-ups with a thoughtful air.

  Everyone praised the dinner, which was extremely good. M. Walter wolfed down his food, hardly saying a thing, and squinting under his glasses as he examined the dishes he was offered. Norbert de Varenne kept pace with him, occasionally letting drops of sauce fall on to his shirt front.

  Forestier, smiling, serious and watchful, kept exchanging complicitous glances with his wife, like partners who together are carrying out a tricky task which is going perfectly.

  Faces became flushed, voices were rising. From time to time the servant would whisper in the ear of each guest: ‘Corton or Château Laroze?’*

  Duroy had found the Corton to his taste, and allowed his glass to be refilled every time. He was beginning to experience a delicious sensation of happiness, a warm glow which, spreading from his stomach to his head and limbs, permeated his entire body. He felt himself possessed by a sense of total well-being, a well-being both physical and mental, of body and of mind.

  And he was feeling, now, an urge to talk, to draw attention to himself, to be listened to and appreciated like those others whose slightest remarks were savoured to the full.

  But the conversation flowed on without interruption, linking one idea with another, leaping from one subject to another at the prompting of a word or a trifling remark, until it had reviewed all the events of the day, and touching on countless topics, before returning at last to M. Morel’s important parliamentary question on the colonization of Algeria.

  M. Walter cracked a joke or two between courses; his mind had a
coarse, sceptical bent. Forestier described his article which was to appear the next day, and Jacques Rival made the case for a military government, with grants of land for every officer with more than thirty years’ service in the colonies.

  ‘In that way,’ he said, ‘you’d build a dynamic community which had long since come to understand and love the country, would know its language and be familiar with all the serious local problems that newcomers inevitably run into.’

  Norbert de Varenne interrupted him:

  ‘Yes… they’ll know about everything, except farming. They’ll speak Arabic, but won’t know how to thin out beetroot or how to sow wheat. They’ll even be good at fencing, but very poor when it comes to fertilizers. On the contrary, this new country should be made freely available to everyone. Men with brains will find their feet, the others’ll go under. That’s the way the world works.’

  A brief silence ensued. People were smiling.

  Georges Duroy opened his mouth and spoke, surprised by the sound of his voice, as if he had never before heard himself talk: ‘The main shortage over there is good land. Really fertile land is as expensive as it is in France, and it’s bought up by very wealthy Parisians as an investment. The real settlers, the poor ones, who emigrate there because they can’t make a living here, are forced into the desert, where nothing can grow, for lack of water.’

  They were all looking at him. He felt himself blush. M. Walter enquired:

  ‘Are you familiar with Algeria, Monsieur?’

  He replied: ‘Yes, Monsieur, I spent twenty-eight months there, and I’ve lived in all three provinces.’*

  And suddenly, abandoning the Morel business, Norbert de Varenne asked him about a particular feature of Algerian life which he had heard about from an officer. It concerned the Mzab,* that strange little Arab republic which had sprung up in the heart of the Sahara, in the driest part of that scorchingly hot region.

  Duroy had twice visited the Mzab, and he spoke about the customs of that extraordinary country, where every drop of water is worth its weight in gold, where every inhabitant is expected to help maintain the public services, where commercial honesty is more highly developed than in civilized societies.