Bel Ami (A Ladies' Man)
The Works of Guy de Maupassant, Vol. 6 (2024)

VOLUME VI

NATIONAL LIBRARY COMPANY
NEW YORK

Copyright, 1909, By
BIGELOW, SMITH & CO.

CONTENTS

I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII

BEL AMI

(A LADIES' MAN)

I

When the cashier had given him the change out of his five francpiece,George Duroy left the restaurant.

As he had a good carriage, both naturally and from his militarytraining, he drew himself up, twirled his moustache, and threw upon thelingering customers a rapid and sweeping glance—one of those glanceswhich take in everything within their range like a casting net.

The women looked up at him in turn—three little work-girls, amiddle-aged music mistress, disheveled, untidy, and wearing a bonnetalways dusty and a dress always awry; and two shopkeepers' wives diningwith their husbands—all regular customers at this slap-bangestablishment.

When he was on the pavement outside, he stood still for a moment, askinghimself what he should do. It was the 28th of June, and he had justthree francs forty centimes in his pocket to carry him to the end of themonth. This meant the option of two dinners without lunch or two luncheswithout dinner. He reflected that as the earlier repasts cost twentysous apiece, and the latter thirty, he would, if he were content withthe lunches, be one franc twenty centimes to the good, which wouldfurther represent two snacks of bread and sausage and two bocks of beeron the boulevards. This latter item was his greatest extravagance andhis chief pleasure of a night; and he began to descend the RueNotre-Dame de Lorette.

He walked as in the days when he had worn a hussar uniform, his chestthrown out and his legs slightly apart, as if he had just left thesaddle, pushing his way through the crowded street, and shouldering folkto avoid having to step aside. He wore his somewhat shabby hat on oneside, and brought his heels smartly down on the pavement. He seemed everready to defy somebody or something, the passers-by, the houses, thewhole city, retaining all the swagger of a dashing cavalry-man in civillife.

Although wearing a sixty-franc suit, he was not devoid of a certainsomewhat loud elegance. Tall, well-built, fair, with a curly moustachetwisted up at the ends, bright blue eyes with small pupils, andreddish-brown hair curling naturally and parted in the middle, he bore astrong resemblance to the dare-devil of popular romances.

It was one of those summer evenings on which air seems to be lacking inParis. The city, hot as an oven, seemed to swelter in the stiflingnight. The sewers breathed out their poisonous breath through theirgranite mouths, and the underground kitchens gave forth to the streetthrough their windows the stench of dishwater and stale sauces.

The doorkeepers in their shirtsleeves sat astride straw-bottomed chairswithin the carriage entrances to the houses, smoking their pipes, andthe pedestrians walked with flagging steps, head bare, and hat in hand.

When George Duroy reached the boulevards he paused again, undecided asto what he should do. He now thought of going on to the Champs Elyséesand the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne to seek a little fresh air under thetrees, but another wish also assailed him, a desire for a love affair.

What shape would it take? He did not know, but he had been awaiting itfor three months, night and day. Occasionally, thanks to his good looksand gallant bearing, he gleaned a few crumbs of love here and there, buthe was always hoping for something further and better.

With empty pockets and hot blood, he kindled at the contact of theprowlers who murmur at street corners: "Will you come home with me,dear?" but he dared not follow them, not being able to pay them, and,besides, he was awaiting something else, less venally vulgar kisses.

He liked, however, the localities in which women of the townswarm—their balls, their cafés, and their streets. He liked to rubshoulders with them, speak to them, chaff them, inhale their strongperfumes, feel himself near them. They were women at any rate, womenmade for love. He did not despise them with the innate contempt of awell-born man.

He turned towards the Madeleine, following the flux of the crowd whichflowed along overcome by the heat. The chief cafés, filled withcustomers, were overflowing on to the pavement, and displayed theirdrinking public under the dazzling glare of their lit-up facias. Infront of them, on little tables, square or round, were glasses holdingfluids of every shade, red, yellow, green, brown, and inside thedecanters glittered the large transparent cylinders of ice, serving tocool the bright, clear water. Duroy had slackened his pace, a longing todrink parched his throat.

A hot thirst, a summer evening's thirst assailed him, and he fancied thedelightful sensation of cool drinks flowing across his palate. But if heonly drank two bocks of beer in the evening, farewell to the slendersupper of the morrow, and he was only too well acquainted with the hoursof short commons at the end of the month.

He said to himself: "I must hold out till ten o'clock, and then I'llhave my bock at the American café. Confound it, how thirsty I amthough." And he scanned the men seated at the tables drinking, all thepeople who could quench their thirst as much as they pleased. He wenton, passing in front of the cafés with a sprightly swaggering air, andguessing at a glance from their dress and bearing how much money eachcustomer ought to have about him. Wrath against these men quietlysitting there rose up within him. If their pockets were rummaged, gold,silver, and coppers would be found in them. On an average each one musthave at least two louis. There were certainly a hundred to a café, ahundred times two louis is four thousand francs. He murmured "theswine," as he walked gracefully past them. If he could have had hold ofone of them at a nice dark corner he would have twisted his neck withoutscruple, as he used to do the country-folk's fowls on field-days.

And he recalled his two years in Africa and the way in which he used topillage the Arabs when stationed at little out-posts in the south. Abright and cruel smile flitted across his lips at the recollection of anescapade which had cost the lives of three men of the Ouled-Alanetribe, and had furnished him and his comrades with a score of fowls, acouple of sheep, some gold, and food for laughter for six months.

The culprits had never been found, and, what is more, they had hardlybeen looked for, the Arab being looked upon as somewhat in the light ofthe natural prey of the soldier.

In Paris it was another thing. One could not plunder prettily, sword byside and revolver in hand, far from civil authority. He felt in hisheart all the instincts of a sub-officer let loose in a conqueredcountry. He certainly regretted his two years in the desert. What a pityhe had not stopped there. But, then, he had hoped something better inreturning home. And now—ah! yes, it was very nice now, was it not?

He clicked his tongue as if to verify the parched state of his palate.

The crowd swept past him slowly, and he kept thinking. "Set of hogs—allthese idiots have money in their waistcoat pockets." He pushed againstpeople and softly whistled a lively tune. Gentlemen whom he thus elbowedturned grumbling, and women murmured: "What a brute!"

He passed the Vaudeville Theater and stopped before the American café,asking himself whether he should not take his bock, so greatly didthirst torture him. Before making up his mind, he glanced at theilluminated clock. It was a quarter past nine. He knew himself that assoon as the glassful of beer was before him he would gulp it down. Whatwould he do then up to eleven o'clock?

He passed on. "I will go as far as the Madeleine," he said, "and walkback slowly."

As he reached the corner of the Palace de l'Opera, he passed a stoutyoung fellow, whose face he vaguely recollected having seen somewhere.He began to follow him, turning over his recollections and repeating tohimself half-aloud: "Where the deuce did I know that joker?"

He searched without being able to recollect, and then all at once, by astrange phenomenon of memory, the same man appeared to him thinner,younger, and clad in a hussar uniform. He exclaimed aloud: "What,Forestier!" and stepping out he tapped the other on the shoulder. Thepromenader turned round and looked at him, and then said: "What is it,sir?"

Duroy broke into a laugh. "Don't you know me?" said he.

"No."

"George Duroy, of the 6th Hussars."

Forestier held out his hands, exclaiming: "What, old fellow! How areyou?"

"Very well, and you?"

"Oh, not very brilliant! Just fancy, I have a chest in brown paper now.I cough six months out of twelve, through a cold I caught at Bougivalthe year of my return to Paris, four years ago."

And Forestier, taking his old comrade's arm, spoke to him of hisillness, related the consultations, opinions, and advice of the doctors,and the difficulty of following this advice in his position. He was toldto spend the winter in the South, but how could he? He was married, anda journalist in a good position.

"I am political editor of the Vie Francaise. I write the proceedingsin the Senate for the Salut, and from time to time literary criticismsfor the Planète. That is so. I have made my way."

Duroy looked at him with surprise. He was greatly changed, matured. Hehad now the manner, bearing, and dress of a man in a good position andsure of himself, and the stomach of a man who dines well. Formerly hehad been thin, slight, supple, heedless, brawling, noisy, and alwaysready for a spree. In three years Paris had turned him into someonequite different, stout and serious, and with some white hairs about histemples, though he was not more than twenty-seven.

Forestier asked: "Where are you going?"

Duroy answered: "Nowhere; I am just taking a stroll before turning in."

"Well, will you come with me to the Vie Francaise, where I have someproofs to correct, and then we will take a bock together?"

"All right."

They began to walk on, arm-in-arm, with that easy familiarity existingbetween school-fellows and men in the same regiment.

"What are you doing in Paris?" asked Forestier.

Duroy shrugged his shoulders. "Simply starving. As soon as I finished myterm of service I came here—to make a fortune, or rather for the sakeof living in Paris; and for six months I have been a clerk in theoffices of the Northern Railway at fifteen hundred francs a year,nothing more."

Forestier murmured: "Hang it, that's not much!"

"I should think not. But how can I get out of it? I am alone; I don'tknow anyone; I can get no one to recommend me. It is not goodwill thatis lacking, but means."

His comrade scanned him from head to foot, like a practical manexamining a subject, and then said, in a tone of conviction: "You see,my boy, everything depends upon assurance here. A clever fellow can moreeasily become a minister than an under-secretary. One must obtrude one'sself on people; not ask things of them. But how the deuce is it that youcould not get hold of anything better than a clerk's berth on theNorthern Railway?"

Duroy replied: "I looked about everywhere, but could not find anything.But I have something in view just now; I have been offered ariding-master's place at Pellerin's. There I shall get three thousandfrancs at the lowest."

Forestier stopped short. "Don't do that; it is stupid, when you ought tobe earning ten thousand francs. You would nip your future in the bud. Inyour office, at any rate, you are hidden; no one knows you; you canemerge from it if you are strong enough to make your way. But once ariding-master, and it is all over. It is as if you were head-waiter at aplace where all Paris goes to dine. When once you have given ridinglessons to people in society or to their children, they will never beable to look upon you as an equal."

He remained silent for a few moments, evidently reflecting, and thenasked:

"Have you a bachelor's degree?"

"No; I failed to pass twice."

"That is no matter, as long as you studied for it. If anyone mentionsCicero or Tiberius, you know pretty well what they are talking about?"

"Yes; pretty well."

"Good; no one knows any more, with the exception of a score of idiotswho have taken the trouble. It is not difficult to pass for being wellinformed; the great thing is not to be caught in some blunder. You canmaneuver, avoid the difficulty, turn the obstacle, and floor others bymeans of a dictionary. Men are all as stupid as geese and ignorant asdonkeys."

He spoke like a self-possessed blade who knows what life is, and smiledas he watched the crowd go by. But all at once he began to cough, andstopped again until the fit was over, adding, in a tone ofdiscouragement: "Isn't it aggravating not to be able to get rid of thiscough? And we are in the middle of summer. Oh! this winter I shall goand get cured at Mentone. Health before everything."

They halted on the Boulevard Poissonière before a large glass door, onthe inner side of which an open newspaper was pasted. Three passers-byhad stopped and were reading it.

Above the door, stretched in large letters of flame, outlined by gasjets, the inscription La Vie Francaise. The pedestrians passing intothe light shed by these three dazzling words suddenly appeared asvisible as in broad daylight, then disappeared again into darkness.

Forestier pushed the door open, saying, "Come in." Duroy entered,ascended an ornate yet dirty staircase, visible from the street, passedthrough an ante-room where two messengers bowed to his companion, andreached a kind of waiting-room, shabby and dusty, upholstered in dirtygreen Utrecht velvet, covered with spots and stains, and worn in placesas if mice had been gnawing it.

"Sit down," said Forestier. "I will be back in five minutes."

And he disappeared through one of the three doors opening into the room.

A strange, special, indescribable odor, the odor of a newspaper office,floated in the air of the room. Duroy remained motionless, slightlyintimidated, above all surprised. From time to time folk passedhurriedly before him, coming in at one door and going out at anotherbefore he had time to look at them.

They were now young lads, with an appearance of haste, holding in theirhand a sheet of paper which fluttered from the hurry of their progress;now compositors, whose white blouses, spotted with ink, revealed a cleanshirt collar and cloth trousers like those of men of fashion, and whocarefully carried strips of printed paper, fresh proofs damp from thepress. Sometimes a gentleman entered rather too elegantly attired, hiswaist too tightly pinched by his frock-coat, his leg too well set off bythe cut of his trousers, his foot squeezed into a shoe too pointed atthe toe, some fashionable reporter bringing in the echoes of theevening.

Others, too, arrived, serious, important-looking men, wearing tall hatswith flat brims, as if this shape distinguished them from the rest ofmankind.

Forestier reappeared holding the arm of a tall, thin fellow, betweenthirty and forty years of age, in evening dress, very dark, with hismoustache ends stiffened in sharp points, and an insolent andself-satisfied bearing.

Forestier said to him: "Good night, dear master."

The other shook hands with him, saying: "Good night, my dear fellow,"and went downstairs whistling, with his cane under his arm.

Duroy asked: "Who is that?"

"Jacques Rival, you know, the celebrated descriptive writer, theduellist. He has just been correcting his proofs. Garin, Montel, and heare the three best descriptive writers, for facts and points, we have inParis. He gets thirty thousand francs a year here for two articles aweek."

As they were leaving they met a short, stout man, with long hair anduntidy appearance, who was puffing as he came up the stairs.

Forestier bowed low to him. "Norbert de Varenne," said he, "the poet;the author of 'Les Soleils Morts'; another who gets long prices. Everytale he writes for us costs three hundred francs, and the longest do notrun to two hundred lines. But let us turn into the Neapolitan café, Iam beginning to choke with thirst."

As soon as they were seated at a table in the café, Forestier calledfor two bocks, and drank off his own at a single draught, while Duroysipped his beer in slow mouthfuls, tasting it and relishing it likesomething rare and precious.

His companion was silent, and seemed to be reflecting. Suddenly heexclaimed: "Why don't you try journalism?"

The other looked at him in surprise, and then said: "But, you know, Ihave never written anything."

"Bah! everyone must begin. I could give you a job to hunt up informationfor me—to make calls and inquiries. You would have to start with twohundred and fifty francs a month and your cab hire. Shall I speak to themanager about it?"

"Certainly!"

"Very well, then, come and dine with me to-morrow. I shall only havefive or six people—the governor, Monsieur Walter and his wife, JacquesRival, and Norbert de Varenne, whom you have just seen, and a lady, afriend of my wife. Is it settled?"

Duroy hesitated, blushing and perplexed. At length he murmured: "Yousee, I have no clothes."

Forestier was astounded. "You have no dress clothes? Hang it all, theyare indispensable, though. In Paris one would be better off without abed than without a dress suit."

Then, suddenly feeling in his waistcoat pocket, he drew out some gold,took two louis, placed them in front of his old comrade, and said in acordial and familiar tone: "You will pay me back when you can. Hire orarrange to pay by installments for the clothes you want, whichever youlike, but come and dine with me to-morrow, half-past seven, numberseventeen Rue Fontaine."

Duroy, confused, picked up the money, stammering: "You are too good; Iam very much obliged to you; you may be sure I shall not forget."

The other interrupted him. "All right. Another bock, eh? Waiter, twobocks."

Then, when they had drunk them, the journalist said: "Will you strollabout a bit for an hour?"

"Certainly."

And they set out again in the direction of the Madeleine.

"What shall we, do?" said Forestier. "They say that in Paris a loungercan always find something to amuse him, but it is not true. I, when Iwant to lounge about of an evening, never know where to go. A driveround the Bois de Boulogne is only amusing with a woman, and one has notalways one to hand; the café concerts may please my chemist and hiswife, but not me. Then what is there to do? Nothing. There ought to be asummer garden like the Parc Monceau, open at night, where one would hearvery good music while sipping cool drinks under the trees. It should notbe a pleasure resort, but a lounging place, with a high price forentrance in order to attract the fine ladies. One ought to be able tostroll along well-graveled walks lit up by electric light, and to sitdown when one wished to hear the music near or at a distance. We hadabout the sort of thing formerly at Musard's, but with a smack of thelow-class dancing-room, and too much dance music, not enough space, notenough shade, not enough gloom. It would want a very fine garden and avery extensive one. It would be delightful. Where shall we go?"

Duroy, rather perplexed, did not know what to say; at length he made uphis mind. "I have never been in the Folies Bergère. I should not mindtaking a look round there," he said.

"The Folies Bergère," exclaimed his companion, "the deuce; we shallroast there as in an oven. But, very well, then, it is always funnythere."

And they turned on their heels to make their way to the Rue du FaubourgMontmartre.

The lit-up front of the establishment threw a bright light into the fourstreets which met in front of it. A string of cabs were waiting for theclose of the performance.

Forestier was walking in when Duroy checked him.

"You are passing the pay-box," said he.

"I never pay," was the reply, in a tone of importance.

When he approached the check-takers they bowed, and one of them held outhis hand. The journalist asked: "Have you a good box?"

"Certainly, Monsieur Forestier."

He took the ticket held out to him, pushed the padded door with itsleather borders, and they found themselves in the auditorium.

Tobacco smoke slightly veiled like a faint mist the stage and thefurther side of the theater. Rising incessantly in thin white spiralsfrom the cigars and pipes, this light fog ascended to the ceiling, andthere, accumulating, formed under the dome above the crowded gallery acloudy sky.

In the broad corridor leading to the circular promenade a group of womenwere awaiting new-comers in front of one of the bars, at which satenthroned three painted and faded vendors of love and liquor.

The tall mirrors behind them reflected their backs and the faces ofpassers-by.

Forestier pushed his way through the groups, advancing quickly with theair of a man entitled to consideration.

He went up to a box-keeper. "Box seventeen," said he.

"This way, sir."

And they were shut up in a little open box draped with red, and holdingfour chairs of the same color, so near to one another that one couldscarcely slip between them. The two friends sat down. To the right, asto the left, following a long curved line, the two ends of which joinedthe proscenium, a row of similar cribs held people seated in likefashion, with only their heads and chests visible.

On the stage, three young fellows in fleshings, one tall, one of middlesize, and one small, were executing feats in turn upon a trapeze.

The tall one first advanced with short, quick steps, smiling and wavinghis hand as though wafting a kiss.

The muscles of his arms and legs stood out under his tights. He expandedhis chest to take off the effect of his too prominent stomach, and hisface resembled that of a barber's block, for a careful parting dividedhis locks equally on the center of the skull. He gained the trapeze by agraceful bound, and, hanging by the hands, whirled round it like a wheelat full speed, or, with stiff arms and straightened body, held himselfout horizontally in space.

Then he jumped down, saluted the audience again with a smile amidst theapplause of the stalls, and went and leaned against the scenery, showingoff the muscles of his legs at every step.

The second, shorter and more squarely built, advanced in turn, and wentthrough the same performance, which the third also recommenced amidstmost marked expressions of approval from the public.

But Duroy scarcely noticed the performance, and, with head averted, kepthis eyes on the promenade behind him, full of men and prostitutes.

Said Forestier to him: "Look at the stalls; nothing but middle-classfolk with their wives and children, good noodlepates who come to seethe show. In the boxes, men about town, some artistes, some girls, goodsecond-raters; and behind us, the strangest mixture in Paris. Who arethese men? Watch them. There is something of everything, of everyprofession, and every caste; but blackguardism predominates. There areclerks of all kinds—bankers' clerks, government clerks, shopmen,reporters, ponces, officers in plain clothes, swells in evening dress,who have dined out, and have dropped in here on their way from the Operato the Théatre des Italiens; and then again, too, quite a crowd ofsuspicious folk who defy analysis. As to the women, only one type, thegirl who sups at the American café, the girl at one or two louis wholooks out for foreigners at five louis, and lets her regular customersknow when she is disengaged. We have known them for the last ten years;we see them every evening all the year round in the same places, exceptwhen they are making a hygienic sojourn at Saint Lazare or at Lourcine."

Duroy no longer heard him. One of these women was leaning against theirbox and looking at him. She was a stout brunette, her skin whitened withpaint, her black eyes lengthened at the corners with pencil and shadedby enormous and artificial eyebrows. Her too exuberant bosom stretchedthe dark silk of her dress almost to bursting; and her painted lips, redas a fresh wound, gave her an aspect bestial, ardent, unnatural, butwhich, nevertheless, aroused desire.

She beckoned with her head one of the friends who was passing, a blondewith red hair, and stout, like herself, and said to her, in a voice loudenough to be heard: "There is a pretty fellow; if he would like to haveme for ten louis I should not say no."

Forestier turned and tapped Duroy on the knee, with a smile. "That ismeant for you; you are a success, my dear fellow. I congratulate you."

The ex-sub-officer blushed, and mechanically fingered the two pieces ofgold in his waistcoat pocket.

The curtain had dropped, and the orchestra was now playing a waltz.

Duroy said: "Suppose we take a turn round the promenade."

"Just as you like."

They left their box, and were at once swept away by the throng ofpromenaders. Pushed, pressed, squeezed, shaken, they went on, havingbefore their eyes a crowd of hats. The girls, in pairs, passed amidstthis crowd of men, traversing it with facility, gliding between elbows,chests, and backs as if quite at home, perfectly at their ease, likefish in water, amidst this masculine flood.

Duroy, charmed, let himself be swept along, drinking in withintoxication the air vitiated by tobacco, the odor of humanity, and theperfumes of the hussies. But Forestier sweated, puffed, and coughed.

"Let us go into the garden," said he.

And turning to the left, they entered a kind of covered garden, cooledby two large and ugly fountains. Men and women were drinking at zinctables placed beneath evergreen trees growing in boxes.

"Another bock, eh?" said Forestier.

"Willingly."

They sat down and watched the passing throng.

From time to time a woman would stop and ask, with stereotyped smile:"Are you going to stand me anything?"

And as Forestier answered: "A glass of water from the fountain," shewould turn away, muttering: "Go on, you duffer."

But the stout brunette, who had been leaning, just before, against thebox occupied by the two comrades, reappeared, walking proudly arm-in-armwith the stout blonde. They were really a fine pair of women, wellmatched.

She smiled on perceiving Duroy, as though their eyes had already toldsecrets, and, taking a chair, sat down quietly in face of him, andmaking her friend sit down, too, gave the order in a clear voice:"Waiter, two grenadines!"

Forestier, rather surprised, said: "You make yourself at home."

She replied: "It is your friend that captivates me. He is really apretty fellow. I believe that I could make a fool of myself for hissake."

Duroy, intimidated, could find nothing to say. He twisted his curlymoustache, smiling in a silly fashion. The waiter brought the drinks,which the women drank off at a draught; then they rose, and thebrunette, with a friendly nod of the head, and a tap on the arm with herfan, said to Duroy: "Thanks, dear, you are not very talkative."

And they went off swaying their trains.

Forestier laughed. "I say, old fellow, you are very successful with thewomen. You must look after it. It may lead to something." He was silentfor a moment, and then continued in the dreamy tone of men who thinkaloud: "It is through them, too, that one gets on quickest."

And as Duroy still smiled without replying, he asked: "Are you going tostop any longer? I have had enough of it. I am going home."

The other murmured: "Yes, I shall stay a little longer. It is not late."

Forestier rose. "Well, good-night, then. Till to-morrow. Don't forget.Seventeen Rue Fontaine, at half-past seven."

"That is settled. Till to-morrow. Thanks."

They shook hands, and the journalist walked away.

As soon as he had disappeared Duroy felt himself free, and again hejoyfully felt the two pieces of gold in his pocket; then rising, hebegan to traverse the crowd, which he followed with his eyes.

He soon caught sight of the two women, the blonde and the brunette, whowere still making their way, with their proud bearing of beggars,through the throng of men.

He went straight up to them, and when he was quite close he no longerdared to do anything.

The brunette said: "Have you found your tongue again?"

He stammered "By Jove!" without being able to say anything else.

The three stood together, checking the movement, the current of whichswept round them.

All at once she asked: "Will you come home with me?"

And he, quivering with desire, answered roughly: "Yes, but I have only alouis in my pocket."

She smiled indifferently. "It is all the same to me,"' and took his armin token of possession.

As they went out he thought that with the other louis he could easilyhire a suit of dress clothes for the next evening.

II

"Monsieur Forestier, if you please?"

"Third floor, the door on the left," the concierge had replied, in avoice the amiable tone of which betokened a certain consideration forthe tenant, and George Duroy ascended the stairs.

He felt somewhat abashed, awkward, and ill at ease. He was wearing adress suit for the first time in his life, and was uneasy about thegeneral effect of his toilet. He felt it was altogether defective, fromhis boots, which were not of patent leather, though neat, for he wasnaturally smart about his foot-gear, to his shirt, which he had boughtthat very morning for four franc fifty centimes at the Masgasin duLouvre, and the limp front of which was already rumpled. His everydayshirts were all more or less damaged, so that he had not been able tomake use of even the least worn of them.

His trousers, rather too loose, set off his leg badly, seeming to flapabout the calf with that creased appearance which second-hand clothespresent. The coat alone did not look bad, being by chance almost aperfect fit.

He was slowly ascending the stairs with beating heart and anxious mind,tortured above all by the fear of appearing ridiculous, when suddenly hesaw in front of him a gentleman in full dress looking at him. They wereso close to one another that Duroy took a step back and then remainedstupefied; it was himself, reflected by a tall mirror on the first-floorlanding. A thrill of pleasure shot through him to find himself so muchmore presentable than he had imagined.

Only having a small shaving-glass in his room, he had not been able tosee himself all at once, and as he had only an imperfect glimpse of thevarious items of his improvised toilet, he had mentally exaggerated itsimperfections, and harped to himself on the idea of appearing grotesque.

But on suddenly coming upon his reflection in the mirror, he had noteven recognized himself; he had taken himself for someone else, for agentleman whom at the first glance he had thought very well dressed andfashionable looking. And now, looking at himself carefully, herecognized that really the general effect was satisfactory.

He studied himself as actors do when learning their parts. He smiled,held out his hand, made gestures, expressed sentiments of astonishment,pleasure, and approbation, and essayed smiles and glances, with a viewof displaying his gallantry towards the ladies, and making themunderstand that they were admired and desired.

A door opened somewhere. He was afraid of being caught, and hurriedupstairs, filled with the fear of having been seen grimacing thus by oneof his friend's guests.

On reaching the second story he noticed another mirror, and slackenedhis pace to view himself in it as he went by. His bearing seemed to himreally graceful. He walked well. And now he was filled with an unboundedconfidence in himself. Certainly he must be successful with such anappearance, his wish to succeed, his native resolution, and hisindependence of mind. He wanted to run, to jump, as he ascended the lastflight of stairs. He stopped in front of the third mirror, twirled hismoustache as he had a trick of doing, took off his hat to run hisfingers through his hair, and muttered half-aloud as he often did: "Whata capital notion." Then raising his hand to the bell handle, he rang.

The door opened almost at once, and he found himself face to face with aman-servant out of livery, serious, clean-shaven, and so perfect in hisget-up that Duroy became uneasy again without understanding the reasonof his vague emotion, due, perhaps, to an unwitting comparison of thecut of their respective garments. The man-servant, who hadpatent-leather shoes, asked, as he took the overcoat which Duroy hadcarried on his arm, to avoid exposing the stains on it: "Whom shall Iannounce?"

And he announced the name through a door with a looped-back drapingleading into a drawing-room.

But Duroy, suddenly losing his assurance, felt himself breathless andparalyzed by terror. He was about to take his first step in the world hehad looked forward to and longed for. He advanced, nevertheless. A fairyoung woman, quite alone, was standing awaiting him in a large room,well lit up and full of plants as a greenhouse.

He stopped short, quite disconcerted. Who was this lady who was smilingat him? Then he remembered that Forestier was married, and the thoughtthat this pretty and elegant blonde must be his friend's wife completedhis alarm.

He stammered: "Madame, I am—"

She held out her hand, saying: "I know, sir; Charles has told me of yourmeeting last evening, and I am very pleased that he had the idea ofasking you to dine with us to-day."

He blushed up to his ears, not knowing what to say, and felt himselfexamined from head to foot, reckoned up, and judged.

He longed to excuse himself, to invent some pretext for explaining thedeficiencies of his toilet, but he could not think of one, and did notdare touch on this difficult subject.

He sat down on an armchair she pointed out to him, and as he felt thesoft and springy velvet-covered seat yield beneath his weight, as hefelt himself, as it were, supported and clasped by the padded back andarms, it seemed to him that he was entering upon a new and enchantinglife, that he was taking possession of something delightful, that he wasbecoming somebody, that he was saved, and he looked at Madame Forestier,whose eyes had not quitted him.

She was attired in a dress of pale blue cashmere, which set off theoutline of her slender waist and full bust. Her arms and neck issuedfrom a cloud of white lace, with which the bodice and short sleeves weretrimmed, and her fair hair, dressed high, left a fringe of tiny curls atthe nape of her neck.

Duroy recovered his assurance beneath her glance, which reminded him,without his knowing why, of that of the girl met overnight at the FoliesBergére. She had gray eyes, of a bluish gray, which imparted to them astrange expression; a thin nose, full lips, a rather fleshy chin, andirregular but inviting features, full of archness and charm. It was oneof those faces, every trait of which reveals a special grace, and seemsto have its meaning—every movement to say or to hide something. After abrief silence she asked: "Have you been long in Paris?"

He replied slowly, recovering his self-possession: "A few months only,Madame. I have a berth in one of the railway companies, but Forestierholds out the hope that I may, thanks to him, enter journalism."

She smiled more plainly and kindly, and murmured, lowering her voice:"Yes, I know."

The bell had rung again. The servant announced "Madame de Marelle."

This was a little brunette, who entered briskly, and seemed to beoutlined—modeled, as it were—from head to foot in a dark dress madequite plainly. A red rose placed in her black hair caught the eye atonce, and seemed to stamp her physiognomy, accentuate her character, andstrike the sharp and lively note needed.

A little girl in short frocks followed her.

Madame Forestier darted forward, exclaiming: "Good evening, Clotilde."

"Good evening, Madeleine." They kissed one another, and then the childoffered her forehead, with the assurance of a grown-up person, saying:"Good evening, cousin."

Madame Forestier kissed her, and then introduced them, saying: "MonsieurGeorge Duroy, an old friend of Charles; Madame de Marelle, my friend,and in some degree my relation." She added: "You know we have noceremonious affectation here. You quite understand, eh?"

The young man bowed.

The door opened again, and a short, stout gentleman appeared, having onhis arm a tall, handsome woman, much younger than himself, and ofdistinguished appearance and grave bearing. They were Monsieur Walter, aJew from the South of France, deputy, financier, capitalist, and managerof the Vie Francaise, and his wife, the daughter of MonsieurBasile-Ravalau, the banker.

Then came, one immediately after the other, Jacques Rival, veryelegantly got up, and Norbert de Varenne, whose coat collar shonesomewhat from the friction of the long locks falling on his shouldersand scattering over them a few specks of white scurf. His badly-tiedcravat looked as if it had already done duty. He advanced with the airand graces of an old beau, and taking Madame Forestier's hand, printed akiss on her wrist. As he bent forward his long hair spread like waterover her bare arm.

Forestier entered in his turn, offering excuses for being late. He hadbeen detained at the office of the paper by the Morel affair. MonsieurMorel, a Radical deputy, had just addressed a question to the Ministryrespecting a vote of credit for the colonization of Algeria.

The servant announced: "Dinner is served, Madame," and they passed intothe dining-room.

Duroy found himself seated between Madame de Marelle and her daughter.He again felt ill at ease, being afraid of making some mistake in theconventional handling of forks, spoons, and glasses. There were four ofthese, one of a faint blue tint. What could be meant to be drunk out ofthat?

Nothing was said while the soup was being consumed, and then Norbert deVarenne asked: "Have you read the Gauthier case? What a funny businessit is."

After a discussion on this case of adultery, complicated withblackmailing, followed. They did not speak of it as the events recordedin newspapers are spoken of in private families, but as a disease isspoken of among doctors, or vegetables among market gardeners. They wereneither shocked nor astonished at the facts, but sought out their hiddenand secret motives with professional curiosity, and an utterindifference for the crime itself. They sought to clearly explain theorigin of certain acts, to determine all the cerebral phenomena whichhad given birth to the drama, the scientific result due to an especialcondition of mind. The women, too, were interested in thisinvestigation. And other recent events were examined, commented upon,turned so as to show every side of them, and weighed correctly, with thepractical glance, and from the especial standpoint of dealers in news,and vendors of the drama of life at so much a line, just as articlesdestined for sale are examined, turned over, and weighed by tradesmen.

Then it was a question of a duel, and Jacques Rival spoke. This was hisbusiness; no one else could handle it.

Duroy dared not put in a word. He glanced from time to time at hisneighbor, whose full bosom captivated him. A diamond, suspended by athread of gold, dangled from her ear like a drop of water that hadrolled down it. From time to time she made an observation which alwaysbrought a smile to her hearers' lips. She had a quaint, pleasant wit,that of an experienced tomboy who views things with indifference andjudges them with frivolous and benevolent skepticism.

Duroy sought in vain for some compliment to pay her, and, not findingone, occupied himself with her daughter, filling her glass, holding herplate, and helping her. The child, graver than her mother, thanked himin a serious tone and with a slight bow, saying: "You are very good,sir," and listened to her elders with an air of reflection.

The dinner was very good, and everyone was enraptured. Monsieur Walterate like an ogre, hardly spoke, and glanced obliquely under his glassesat the dishes offered to him. Norbert de Varenne kept him company, andfrom time to time let drops of gravy fall on his shirt front. Forestier,silent and serious, watched everything, exchanging glances ofintelligence with his wife, like confederates engaged together on adifficult task which is going on swimmingly.

Faces grew red, and voices rose, as from time to time the man-servantmurmured in the guests' ears: "Corton or Chateau-Laroze."

Duroy had found the Corton to his liking, and let his glass be filledevery time. A delicious liveliness stole over him, a warm cheerfulness,that mounted from the stomach to the head, flowed through his limbs andpenetrated him throughout. He felt himself wrapped in perfect comfort oflife and thought, body and soul.

A longing to speak assailed him, to bring himself into notice, to beappreciated like these men, whose slightest words were relished.

But the conversation, which had been going on unchecked, linking ideasone to another, jumping from one topic to another at a chance word, amere trifle, and skimming over a thousand matters, turned again on thegreat question put by Monsieur Morel in the Chamber respecting thecolonization of Algeria.

Monsieur Walter, between two courses, made a few jests, for his wit wasskeptical and broad. Forestier recited his next day's leader. JacquesRival insisted on a military government with land grants to all officersafter thirty years of colonial service.

"By this plan," he said, "you will create an energetic class ofcolonists, who will have already learned to love and understand thecountry, and will be acquainted with its language, and with all thosegrave local questions against which new-comers invariably run theirheads."

Norbert de Varenne interrupted him with: "Yes; they will be acquaintedwith everything except agriculture. They will speak Arabic, but theywill be ignorant how beet-root is planted out and wheat sown. They willbe good at fencing, but very shaky as regards manures. On the contrary,this new land should be thrown entirely open to everyone. Intelligentmen will achieve a position there; the others will go under. It is thesocial law."

A brief silence followed, and the listeners smiled at one another.

George Duroy opened his mouth, and said, feeling as much surprised atthe sound of his own voice as if he had never heard himself speak: "Whatis most lacking there is good land. The really fertile estates cost asmuch as in France, and are bought up as investments by rich Parisians.The real colonists, the poor fellows who leave home for lack of bread,are forced into the desert, where nothing will grow for want of water."

Everyone looked at him, and he felt himself blushing.

Monsieur Walter asked: "Do you know Algeria, sir?"

George replied: "Yes, sir; I was there nearly two years and a half, andI was quartered in all three provinces."

Suddenly unmindful of the Morel question, Norbert de Varenneinterrogated him respecting a detail of manners and customs of which hehad been informed by an officer. It was with respect to the Mzab, thatstrange little Arab republic sprung up in the midst of the Sahara, inthe driest part of that burning region.

Duroy had twice visited the Mzab, and he narrated some of the customs ofthis singular country, where drops of water are valued as gold; whereevery inhabitant is bound to discharge all public duties; and wherecommercial honesty is carried further than among civilized nations.

He spoke with a certain raciness excited by the wine and the desire toplease, and told regimental yarns, incidents of Arab life and militaryadventure. He even hit on some telling phrases to depict these bare andyellow lands, eternally laid waste by the devouring fire of the sun.

All the women had their eyes turned upon him, and Madame Walter said, inher deliberate tones: "You could make a charming series of articles outof your recollections."

Then Walter looked at the young fellow over the glasses of hisspectacles, as was his custom when he wanted to see anyone's facedistinctly. He looked at the dishes underneath them.

Forestier seized the opportunity. "My dear sir, I had already spoken toyou about Monsieur George Duroy, asking you to let me have him for myassistant in gleaning political topics. Since Marambot left us, I haveno one to send in quest of urgent and confidential information, and thepaper suffers from it."

Daddy Walter became serious, and pushed his spectacles upon hisforehead, in order to look Duroy well in the face. Then he said: "It istrue that Monsieur Duroy has evidently an original turn of thought. Ifhe will come and have a chat with us to-morrow at three o'clock, we willsettle the matter." Then, after a short silence, turning right roundtowards George, he added: "But write us a little fancy series ofarticles on Algeria at once. Relate your experiences, and mix up thecolonization question with them as you did just now. They are facts,genuine facts, and I am sure they will greatly please our readers. Butbe quick. I must have the first article to-morrow or the day after,while the subject is being discussed in the Chamber, in order to catchthe public."

Madame Walter added, with that serious grace which characterizedeverything she did, and which lent an air of favor to her words: "Andyou have a charming title, 'Recollections of a Chasseur d'Afrique.' Isit not so, Monsieur Norbert?"

The old poet, who had worn renown late in life, feared and hatednew-comers. He replied dryly: "Yes, excellent, provided that the keynotebe followed, for that is the great difficulty; the exact note, what inmusic is called the pitch."

Madame Forestier cast on Duroy a smiling and protective glance, theglance of a connoisseur, which seemed to say: "Yes, you will get on."Madame de Marelle had turned towards him several times, and the diamondin her ear quivered incessantly as though the drop of water was about tofall.

The little girl remained quiet and serious, her head bent over herplate.

But the servant passed round the table, filling the blue glasses withJohannisberg, and Forestier proposed a toast, drinking with a bow toMonsieur Walter: "Prosperity to the Vie Francaise."

Everyone bowed towards the proprietor, who smiled, and Duroy,intoxicated with success, emptied his glass at a draught. He would haveemptied a whole barrel after the same fashion; it seemed to him that hecould have eaten a bullock or strangled a lion. He felt a superhumanstrength in his limbs, unconquerable resolution and unbounded hope inhis mind. He was now at home among these people; he had just taken hisposition, won his place. His glance rested on their faces with anew-born assurance, and he ventured for the first time to address hisneighbor. "You have the prettiest earrings I have ever seen, Madame."

She turned towards him with a smile. "It was an idea of my own to havethe diamonds hung like that, just at the end of a thread. They reallylook like dew-drops, do they not?"

He murmured, ashamed of his own daring, and afraid of making a fool ofhimself:

"It is charming; but the ear, too, helps to set it off."

She thanked him with a look, one of those woman's looks that go straightto the heart. And as he turned his head he again met Madame Forestier'seye, always kindly, but now he thought sparkling with a livelier mirth,an archness, an encouragement.

All the men were now talking at once with gesticulations and raisedvoices. They were discussing the great project of the metropolitanrailway. The subject was not exhausted till dessert was finished,everyone having a deal to say about the slowness of the methods ofcommunication in Paris, the inconvenience of the tramway, the delays ofomnibus traveling, and the rudeness of cabmen.

Then they left the dining-room to take coffee. Duroy, in jest, offeredhis arm to the little girl. She gravely thanked him, and rose on tiptoein order to rest her hand on it.

On returning to the drawing-room he again experienced the sensation ofentering a greenhouse. In each of the four corners of the room tallpalms unfolded their elegantly shaped leaves, rising to the ceiling, andthere spreading fountain-wise.

On each side of the fireplace were india-rubber plants like roundcolumns, with their dark green leaves tapering one above the other; andon the piano two unknown shrubs covered with flowers, those of one allcrimson and those of the other all white, had the appearance ofartificial plants, looking too beautiful to be real.

The air was cool, and laden with a soft, vague perfume that couldscarcely be defined. The young fellow, now more himself, considered theroom more attentively. It was not large; nothing attracted attentionwith the exception of the shrubs, no bright color struck one, but onefelt at one's ease in it; one felt soothed and refreshed, and, as itwere, caressed by one's surroundings. The walls were covered with anold-fashioned stuff of faded violet, spotted with little flowers inyellow silk about the size of flies. Hangings of grayish-blue cloth,embroidered here and there with crimson poppies, draped the doorways,and the chairs of all shapes and sizes, scattered about the room,lounging chairs, easy chairs, ottomans, and stools, were upholstered inLouise Seize silk or Utrecht velvet, with a crimson pattern on acream-colored ground.

"Do you take coffee, Monsieur Duroy?" and Madame Forestier held out acup towards him with that smile which never left her lips.

"Thank you, Madame." He took the cup, and as he bent forward to take alump of sugar from the sugar-basin carried by the little girl, MadameForestier said to him in a low voice: "Pay attention to Madame Walter."

Then she drew back before he had time to answer a word.

He first drank off his coffee, which he was afraid of dropping onto thecarpet; then, his mind more at ease, he sought for some excuse toapproach the wife of his new governor, and begin a conversation. All atonce he noticed that she was holding an empty cup in her hand, and asshe was at some distance from a table, did not know where to put it. Hedarted forward with, "Allow me, Madame?"

"Thank you, sir."

He took away the cup and then returned.

"If you knew, Madame," he began, "the happy hours the Vie Francaisehelped me to pass when I was away in the desert. It is really the onlypaper that is readable out of France, for it is more literary, wittier,and less monotonous than the others. There is something of everything init."

She smiled with amiable indifference, and answered, seriously:

"Monsieur Walter has had a great deal of trouble to create a type ofnewspaper supplying the want of the day."

And they began to chat. He had an easy flow of commonplace conversation,a charm in his voice and look, and an irresistible seductiveness abouthis moustache. It curled coquettishly about his lips, reddish brown,with a paler tint about the ends. They chatted about Paris, its suburbs,the banks of the Seine, watering places, summer amusem*nts, all thecurrent topics on which one can prate to infinity without wearyingoneself.

Then as Monsieur Norbert de Varenne approached with a liqueur glass inhis hand, Duroy discreetly withdrew.

Madame de Marelle, who had been speaking with Madame Forestier, summonedhim.

"Well, sir," she said, abruptly, "so you want to try your hand atjournalism?"

He spoke vaguely of his prospects, and there recommenced with her theconversation he had just had with Madame Walter, but as he was now abetter master of his subject, he showed his superiority in it, repeatingas his own the things he had just heard. And he continually looked hiscompanion in the eyes, as though to give deep meaning to what he wassaying.

She, in her turn, related anecdotes with the easy flow of spirits of awoman who knows she is witty, and is always seeking to appear so, andbecoming familiar, she laid her hand from time to time on his arm, andlowered her voice to make trifling remarks which thus assumed acharacter of intimacy. He was inwardly excited by her contact. He wouldhave liked to have shown his devotion for her on the spot, to havedefended her, shown her what he was worth, and his delay in his repliesto her showed the preoccupation of his mind.

But suddenly, without any reason, Madame de Marelle called, "Laurine!"and the little girl came.

"Sit down here, child; you will catch cold near the window."

Duroy was seized with a wild longing to kiss the child. It was as thoughsome part of the kiss would reach the mother.

He asked in a gallant, and at the same time fatherly, tone: "Will youallow me to kiss you, Mademoiselle?"

The child looked up at him in surprise.

"Answer, my dear," said Madame de Marelle, laughingly.

"Yes, sir, this time; but it will not do always."

Duroy, sitting down, lifted Laurine onto his knees and brushed the finecurly hair above her forehead with his lips.

Her mother was surprised. "What! she has not run away; it is astounding.Usually she will only let ladies kiss her. You are irresistible,Monsieur Duroy."

He blushed without answering, and gently jogged the little girl on hisknee.

Madame Forestier drew near, and exclaimed, with astonishment: "What,Laurine tamed! What a miracle!"

Jacques Rival also came up, cigar in mouth, and Duroy rose to takeleave, afraid of spoiling, by some unlucky remark, the work done, histask of conquest begun.

He bowed, softly pressed the little outstretched hands of the women, andthen heartily shook those of the men. He noted that the hand of JacquesRival, warm and dry, answered cordially to his grip; that of Norbert deVarenne, damp and cold, slipped through his fingers; that of DaddyWalter, cold and flabby, was without expression or energy; and that ofForestier was plump and moist. His friend said to him in a low tone,"To-morrow, at three o'clock; do not forget."

"Oh! no; don't be afraid of that."

When he found himself once more on the stairs he felt a longing to rundown them, so great was his joy, and he darted forward, going down twosteps at a time, but suddenly he caught sight in a large mirror on thesecond-floor landing of a gentleman in a hurry, who was advancingbriskly to meet him, and he stopped short, ashamed, as if he had beencaught tripping. Then he looked at himself in the glass for some time,astonished at being really such a handsome fellow, smiled complacently,and taking leave of his reflection, bowed low to it as one bows to apersonage of importance.

III

When George Duroy found himself in the street he hesitated as to what heshould do. He wanted to run, to dream, to walk about thinking of thefuture as he breathed the soft night air, but the thought of the seriesof articles asked for by Daddy Walter haunted him, and he decided to gohome at once and set to work.

He walked along quickly, reached the outer boulevards, and followedtheir line as far as the Rue Boursault, where he dwelt. The house, sixstories high, was inhabited by a score of small households,trades-people or workmen, and he experienced a sickening sensation ofdisgust, a longing to leave the place and live like well-to-do people ina clean dwelling, as he ascended the stairs, lighting himself with waxmatches on his way up the dirty steps, littered with bits of paper,cigarette ends, and scraps of kitchen refuse. A stagnant stench ofcooking, cesspools and humanity, a close smell of dirt and old walls,which no rush of air could have driven out of the building, filled itfrom top to bottom.

The young fellow's room, on the fifth floor, looked into a kind ofabyss, the huge cutting of the Western Railway just above the outlet bythe tunnel of the Batignolles station. Duroy opened his window andleaned against the rusty iron cross-bar.

Below him, at the bottom of the dark hole, three motionless red lightsresembled the eyes of huge wild animals, and further on a glimpse couldbe caught of others, and others again still further. Every momentwhistles, prolonged or brief, pierced the silence of the night, somenear at hand, others scarcely discernible, coming from a distance fromthe direction of Asnières. Their modulations were akin to those of thehuman voice. One of them came nearer and nearer, with its plaintiveappeal growing louder and louder every moment, and soon a big yellowlight appeared advancing with a loud noise, and Duroy watched thestring of railway carriages swallowed up by the tunnel.

Then he said to himself: "Come, let's go to work."

He placed his light upon the table, but at the moment of commencing hefound that he had only a quire of letter paper in the place. More thepity, but he would make use of it by opening out each sheet to its fullextent. He dipped his pen in ink, and wrote at the head of the page, inhis best hand, "Recollections of a Chasseur d'Afrique."

Then he tried to frame the opening sentence. He remained with his headon his hands and his eyes fixed on the white sheet spread out beforehim. What should he say? He could no longer recall anything of what hehad been relating a little while back; not an anecdote, not a fact,nothing.

All at once the thought struck him: "I must begin with my departure."

And he wrote: "It was in 1874, about the middle of May, when France, inher exhaustion, was reposing after the catastrophe of the terribleyear."

He stopped short, not knowing how to lead up to what should follow—hisembarkation, his voyage, his first impressions.

After ten minutes' reflection, he resolved to put off the introductoryslip till to-morrow, and to set to work at once to describe Algiers.

And he traced on his paper the words: "Algiers is a white city," withoutbeing able to state anything further. He recalled in his mind the prettywhite city flowing down in a cascade of flat-roofed dwellings from thesummit of its hills to the sea, but he could no longer find a word toexpress what he had seen and felt.

After a violent effort, he added: "It is partly inhabited by Arabs."

Then he threw down his pen and rose from his chair.

On his little iron bedstead, hollowed in the center by the pressure ofhis body, he saw his everyday garments cast down there, empty, worn,limp, ugly as the clothing at the morgue. On a straw-bottomed chair histall hat, his only one, brim uppermost, seemed to be awaiting an alms.

The wall paper, gray with blue bouquets, showed as many stains asflowers, old suspicious-looking stains, the origin of which could not bedefined; crushed insects or drops of oil; finger tips smeared withpomatum or soapy water scattered while washing. It smacked of shabby,genteel poverty, the poverty of a Paris lodging-house. Anger rose withinhim at the wretchedness of his mode of living. He said to himself thathe must get out of it at once; that he must finish with this irksomeexistence the very next day.

A frantic desire of working having suddenly seized on him again, he satdown once more at the table, and began anew to seek for phrases todescribe the strange and charming physiognomy of Algiers, that ante-roomof vast and mysterious Africa; the Africa of wandering Arabs and unknowntribes of negroes; that unexplored Africa of which we are sometimesshown in public gardens the improbable-looking animals seemingly made tofigure in fairy tales; the ostriches, those exaggerated fowls; thegazelles, those divine goats; the surprising and grotesque giraffes; thegrave-looking camels, the monstrous hippopotomi, the shapelessrhinosceri, and the gorillas, those frightful-looking brothers ofmankind.

He vaguely felt ideas occurring to him; he might perhaps have utteredthem, but he could not put them into writing. And his impotenceexasperated him, he got up again, his hands damp with perspiration, andhis temples throbbing.

His eyes falling on his washing bill, brought up that evening by theconcierge, he was suddenly seized with wild despair. All his joyvanishing in a twinkling, with his confidence in himself and his faithin the future. It was all up; he could not do anything, he would neverbe anybody; he felt played out, incapable, good for nothing, damned.

And he went and leaned out of the window again, just as a train issuedfrom the tunnel with a loud and violent noise. It was going away, afaroff, across the fields and plains towards the sea. And the recollectionof his parents stirred in Duroy's breast. It would pass near them, thattrain, within a few leagues of their house. He saw it again, the littlehouse at the entrance to the village of Canteleu, on the summit of theslope overlooking Rouen and the immense valley of the Seine.

His father and mother kept a little inn, a place where the tradesfolk ofthe suburbs of Rouen came out to lunch on Sunday at the sign of theBelle Vue. They had wanted to make a gentleman of their son, and hadsent him to college. Having finished his studies, and been plowed forhis bachelor's degree, he had entered on his military service with theintention of becoming an officer, a colonel, a general. But, disgustedwith military life long before the completion of his five years' termof service, he had dreamed of making a fortune at Paris.

He came there at the expiration of his term of service, despite theentreaties of his father and mother, whose visions having evaporated,wanted now to have him at home with them. In his turn he hoped toachieve a future; he foresaw a triumph by means as yet vaguely definedin his mind, but which he felt sure he could scheme out and further.

He had had some successful love affairs in the regiment, some easyconquests, and even some adventures in a better class of society, havingseduced a tax collector's daughter, who wanted to leave her home for hissake, and a lawyer's wife, who had tried to drown herself in despair atbeing abandoned.

His comrades used to say of him: "He is a sharp fellow, a deep one toget out of a scrape, a chap who knows which side his bread is buttered,"and he had promised himself to act up to this character.

His conscience, Norman by birth, worn by the daily dealings of garrisonlife, rendered elastic by the examples of pillaging in Africa, illicitcommissions, shaky dodges; spurred, too, by the notions of honor currentin the army, military bravadoes, patriotic sentiments, the fine-soundingtales current among sub-officers, and the vain glory of the professionof arms, had become a kind of box of tricks in which something ofeverything was to be found.

But the wish to succeed reigned sovereign in it.

He had, without noticing it, began to dream again as he did everyevening. He pictured to himself some splendid love adventure whichshould bring about all at once the realization of his hopes. He marriedthe daughter of some banker or nobleman met with in the street, andcaptivated at the first glance.

The shrill whistle of a locomotive which, issuing from the tunnel like abig rabbit bolting out of its hole, and tearing at full speed along therails towards the machine shed where it was to take its rest, awoke himfrom his dream.

Then, repossessed by the vague and joyful hope which ever haunted hismind, he wafted a kiss into the night, a kiss of love addressed to thevision of the woman he was awaiting, a kiss of desire addressed to thefortune he coveted. Then he closed his window and began to undress,murmuring:

"I shall feel in a better mood for it to-morrow. My thoughts are notclear to-night. Perhaps, too, I have had just a little too much todrink. One can't work well under those circ*mstances."

He got into bed, blew out his light, and went off to sleep almostimmediately.

He awoke early, as one awakes on mornings of hope and trouble, andjumping out of bed, opened his window to drink a cup of fresh air, as hephrased it.

The houses of the Rue de Rome opposite, on the other side of the broadrailway cutting, glittering in the rays of the rising sun, seemed to bepainted with white light. Afar off on the right a glimpse was caught ofthe slopes of Argenteuil, the hills of Sannois, and the windmills ofOrgemont through a light bluish mist; like a floating and transparentveil cast onto the horizon.

Duroy remained for some minutes gazing at the distant country side, andhe murmured: "It would be devilish nice out there a day like this." Thenhe bethought himself that he must set to work, and that at once, andalso send his concierge's lad, at a cost of ten sous, to the office tosay that he was ill.

He sat down at his table, dipped his pen in the ink, leaned his foreheadon his hand, and sought for ideas. All in vain, nothing came.

He was not discouraged, however. He thought, "Bah! I am not accustomedto it. It is a trade to be learned like all other trades. I must havesome help the first time. I will go and find Forestier, who will give mea start for my article in ten minutes."

And he dressed himself.

When he got into the street he came to the conclusion that it was stilltoo early to present himself at the residence of his friend, who must bea late sleeper. He therefore walked slowly along beneath the trees ofthe outer boulevards. It was not yet nine o'clock when he reached theParc Monceau, fresh from its morning watering. Sitting down upon a benchhe began to dream again. A well-dressed young man was walking up anddown at a short distance, awaiting a woman, no doubt. Yes, she appeared,close veiled and quick stepping, and taking his arm, after a brief claspof the hand, they walked away together.

A riotous need of love broke out in Duroy's heart, a need of amours atonce distinguished and delicate. He rose and resumed his journey,thinking of Forestier. What luck the fellow had!

He reached the door at the moment his friend was coming out of it. "Youhere at this time of day. What do you want of me?"

Duroy, taken aback at meeting him thus, just as he was starting off,stammered: "You see, you see, I can't manage to write my article; youknow the article Monsieur Walter asked me to write on Algeria. It isnot very surprising, considering that I have never written anything.Practice is needed for that, as for everything else. I shall get used toit very quickly, I am sure, but I do not know how to set aboutbeginning. I have plenty of ideas, but I cannot manage to express them."

He stopped, hesitatingly, and Forestier smiled somewhat slyly, saying:"I know what it is."

Duroy went on: "Yes, it must happen to everyone at the beginning. Well,I came, I came to ask you for a lift. In ten minutes you can give me astart, you can show me how to shape it. It will be a good lesson instyle you will give me, and really without you I do not see how I canget on with it."

Forestier still smiled, and tapping his old comrade on the arm, said:"Go in and see my wife; she will settle your business quite as well as Icould. I have trained her for that kind of work. I, myself, have nottime this morning, or I would willingly have done it for you."

Duroy suddenly abashed, hesitated, feeling afraid.

"But I cannot call on her at this time of the day."

"Oh, yes; she is up. You will find her in my study arranging some notesfor me."

Duroy refused to go upstairs, saying: "No, I can't think of such athing."

Forestier took him by the shoulders, twisted him round on his heels, andpushing him towards the staircase, said: "Go along, you great donkey,when I tell you to. You are not going to oblige me to go up theseflights of stairs again to introduce you and explain the fix you arein."

Then Duroy made up his mind. "Thanks, then, I will go up," he said. "Ishall tell her that you forced me, positively forced me to come and seeher."

"All right. She won't scratch your eyes out. Above all, do not forgetour appointment for three o'clock."

"Oh! don't be afraid about that."

Forestier hastened off, and Duroy began to ascend the stairs slowly,step by step, thinking over what he should say, and feeling uneasy as tohis probable reception.

The man servant, wearing a blue apron, and holding a broom in his hand,opened the door to him.

"Master is not at home," he said, without waiting to be spoken to.

Duroy persisted.

"Ask Madame Forestier," said he, "whether she will receive me, and tellher that I have come from her husband, whom I met in the street."

Then he waited while the man went away, returned, and opening the dooron the right, said: "Madame will see you, sir."

She was seated in an office armchair in a small room, the walls of whichwere wholly hidden by books carefully ranged on shelves of black wood.The bindings, of various tints, red, yellow, green, violet, and blue,gave some color and liveliness to those monotonous lines of volumes.

She turned round, still smiling. She was wrapped in a white dressinggown, trimmed with lace, and as she held out her hand, displayed herbare arm in its wide sleeve.

"Already?" said she, and then added: "That is not meant for a reproach,but a simple question."

"Oh, madame, I did not want to come up, but your husband, whom I met atthe bottom of the house, obliged me to. I am so confused that I dare nottell you what brings me."

She pointed to a chair, saying: "Sit down and tell me about it."

She was twirling a goose-quill between her fingers, and in front of herwas a half-written page, interrupted by the young fellow's arrival. Sheseemed quite at home at this work table, as much at her ease as if inher drawing-room, engaged on everyday tasks. A faint perfume emanatedfrom her dressing gown, the fresh perfume of a recent toilet. Duroysought to divine, fancied he could trace, the outline of her plump,youthful figure through the soft material enveloping it.

She went on, as he did not reply: "Well, come tell me what is it."

He murmured, hesitatingly: "Well, you see—but I really dare not—I wasworking last night very late and quite early this morning on the articleupon Algeria, upon which Monsieur Walter asked me to write, and I couldnot get on with it—I tore up all my attempts. I am not accustomed tothis kind of work, and I came to ask Forestier to help me this once—"

She interrupted him, laughing heartily. "And he told you to come and seeme? That is a nice thing."

"Yes, madame. He said that you will get me out of my difficulty betterthan himself, but I did not dare, I did not wish to—you understand."

She rose, saying: "It will be delightful to work in collaboration withyou like that. I am charmed at the notion. Come, sit down in my place,for they know my hand-writing at the office. And we will knock you offan article; oh, but a good one."

He sat down, took a pen, spread a sheet of paper before him, and waited.

Madame Forestier, standing by, watched him make these preparations, thentook a cigarette from the mantel-shelf, and lit it.

"I cannot work without smoking," said she. "Come, what are you going tosay?"

He lifted his head towards her with astonishment.

"But that is just what I don't know, since it is that I came to see youabout."

She replied: "Oh, I will put it in order for you. I will make the sauce,but then I want the materials of the dish."

He remained embarrassed before her. At length he said, hesitatingly: "Ishould like to relate my journey, then, from the beginning."

Then she sat down before him on the other side of the table, and lookinghim in the eyes:

"Well, tell it me first; for myself alone, you understand, slowly andwithout forgetting anything, and I will select what is to be used ofit."

But as he did not know where to commence, she began to question him as apriest would have done in the confessional, putting precise questionswhich recalled to him forgotten details, people encountered and facesmerely caught sight of.

When she had made him speak thus for about a quarter of an hour, shesuddenly interrupted him with: "Now we will begin. In the first place,we will imagine that you are narrating your impressions to a friend,which will allow you to write a lot of tom-foolery, to make remarks ofall kinds, to be natural and funny if we can. Begin:

"'My Dear Henry,—You want to know what Algeria is like, and you shall.I will send you, having nothing else to do in a little cabin of driedmud which serves me as a habitation, a kind of journal of my life, dayby day, and hour by hour. It will be a little lively at times, more isthe pity, but you are not obliged to show it to your lady friends.'"

She paused to re-light her cigarette, which had gone out, and the faintcreaking of the quill on the paper stopped, too.

"Let us continue," said she.

"Algeria is a great French country on the frontiers of the great unknowncountries called the Desert, the Sahara, central Africa, etc., etc.

"Algiers is the door, the pretty white door of this strange continent.

"But it is first necessary to get to it, which is not a rosy job foreveryone. I am, you know, an excellent horseman, since I break in thecolonel's horses; but a man may be a very good rider and a very badsailor. That is my case.

"You remember Surgeon-Major Simbretras, whom we used to call OldIpecacuanha, and how, when we thought ourselves ripe for a twenty-fourhours' stay in the infirmary, that blessed sojourning place, we used togo up before him.

"How he used to sit in his chair, with his fat legs in his red trousers,wide apart, his hands on his knees, and his elbows stuck, rolling hisgreat eyes and gnawing his white moustache.

"You remember his favorite mode of treatment: 'This man's stomach isout of order. Give him a dose of emetic number three, according to myprescription, and then twelve hours off duty, and he will be all right.'

"It was a sovereign remedy that emetic—sovereign and irresistible. Oneswallowed it because one had to. Then when one had undergone the effectsof Old Ipecacuanha's prescription, one enjoyed twelve well-earned hours'rest.

"Well, my dear fellow, to reach Africa, it is necessary to undergo forforty hours the effects of another kind of irresistible emetic,according to the prescription of the Compagnie Transatlantique."

She rubbed her hands, delighted with the idea.

She got up and walked about, after having lit another cigarette, anddictated as she puffed out little whiffs of smoke, which, issuing atfirst through a little round hole in the midst of her compressed lips,slowly evaporated, leaving in the air faint gray lines, a kind oftransparent mist, like a spider's web. Sometimes with her open hand shewould brush these light traces aside; at others she would cut themasunder with her forefinger, and then watch with serious attention thetwo halves of the almost impenetrable vapor slowly disappear.

Duroy, with his eyes, followed all her gestures, her attitudes, themovements of her form and features—busied with this vague pastime whichdid not preoccupy her thoughts.

She now imagined the incidents of the journey, sketched travelingcompanions invented by herself, and a love affair with the wife of acaptain of infantry on her way to join her husband.

Then, sitting down again, she questioned Duroy on the topography ofAlgeria, of which she was absolutely ignorant. In ten minutes she knewas much about it as he did, and she dictated a little chapter ofpolitical and colonial geography to coach the reader up in such mattersand prepare him to understand the serious questions which were to bebrought forward in the following articles. She continued by a trip intothe provinces of Oran, a fantastic trip, in which it was, above all, aquestion of women, Moorish, Jewish, and Spanish.

"That is what interests most," she said.

She wound up by a sojourn at Saïda, at the foot of the great tablelands;and by a pretty little intrigue between the sub-officer, George Duroy,and a Spanish work-girl employed at the alfa factory at Ain el Hadjar.She described their rendezvous at night amidst the bare, stony hills,with jackals, hyenas, and Arab dogs yelling, barking and howling amongthe rocks.

And she gleefully uttered the words: "To be continued." Then rising, sheadded: "That is how one writes an article, my dear sir. Sign it, if youplease."

He hesitated.

"But sign it, I tell you."

Then he began to laugh, and wrote at the bottom of the page, "GeorgeDuroy."

She went on smoking as she walked up and down; and he still kept lookingat her, unable to find anything to say to thank her, happy to be withher, filled with gratitude, and with the sensual pleasure of thisnew-born intimacy. It seemed to him that everything surrounding him waspart of her, everything down to the walls covered with books. Thechairs, the furniture, the air in which the perfume of tobacco wasfloating, had something special, nice, sweet, and charming, whichemanated from her.

Suddenly she asked: "What do you think of my friend, Madame de Marelle?"

He was surprised, and answered: "I think—I think—her very charming."

"Is it not so?"

"Yes, certainly."

He longed to add: "But not so much as yourself," but dared not.

She resumed: "And if you only knew how funny, original, and intelligentshe is. She is a Bohemian—a true Bohemian. That is why her husbandscarcely cares for her. He only sees her defects, and does notappreciate her good qualities."

Duroy felt stupefied at learning that Madame de Marelle was married, andyet it was only natural that she should be.

He said: "Oh, she is married, then! And what is her husband?"

Madame Forestier gently shrugged her shoulders, and raised her eyebrows,with a gesture of incomprehensible meaning.

"Oh! he is an inspector on the Northern Railway. He spends eight daysout of the month in Paris. What his wife calls 'obligatory service,' or'weekly duty,' or 'holy week.' When you know her better you will see hownice and bright she is. Go and call on her one of these days."

Duroy no longer thought of leaving. It seemed to him that he was goingto stop for ever; that he was at home.

But the door opened noiselessly, and a tall gentleman entered withoutbeing announced. He stopped short on seeing a stranger. Madame Forestierseemed troubled for a moment; then she said in natural tones, though aslight rosy flush had risen to her cheeks:

"Come in, my dear sir. I must introduce one of Charles' old friends,Monsieur George Duroy, a future journalist." Then in another tone, sheadded: "Our best and most intimate friend, the Count de Vaudrec."

The two men bowed, looking each other in the eyes, and Duroy at oncetook his leave.

There was no attempt to detain him. He stammered a few thanks, graspedthe outstretched hand of Madame Forestier, bowed again to the new-comer,who preserved the cold, grave air of a man of position, and went outquite disturbed, as if he had made a fool of himself.

On finding himself once more in the street, he felt sad and uneasy,haunted by the vague idea of some hidden vexation. He walked on, askinghimself whence came this sudden melancholy. He could not tell, but thestern face of the Count de Vaudrec, already somewhat aged, with grayhair, and the calmly insolent look of a very wealthy man, constantlyrecurred to his recollection. He noted that the arrival of this unknown,breaking off a charming tête-à-tête, had produced in him that chilly,despairing sensation that a word overheard, a trifle noticed, the leastthing suffices sometimes to bring about. It seemed to him, too, thatthis man, without his being able to guess why, had been displeased atfinding him there.

He had nothing more to do till three o'clock, and it was not yet noon.He had still six francs fifty centimes in his pocket, and he went andlunched at a Bouillon Duval. Then he prowled about the boulevard, andas three o'clock struck, ascended the staircase, in itself anadvertisem*nt, of the Vie Francaise.

The messengers-in-waiting were seated with folded arms on a bench, whileat a kind of desk a doorkeeper was sorting the correspondence that hadjust arrived. The entire get-up of the place, intended to impressvisitors, was perfect. Everyone had the appearance, bearing, dignity,and smartness suitable to the ante-room of a large newspaper.

"Monsieur Walter, if you please?" inquired Duroy.

"The manager is engaged, sir," replied the doorkeeper. "Will you take aseat, sir?" and he indicated the waiting-room, already full of people.

There were men grave, important-looking, and decorated; and men withoutvisible linen, whose frock-coats, buttoned up to the chin, bore upon thebreast stains recalling the outlines of continents and seas ongeographical maps. There were three women among them. One of them waspretty, smiling, and decked out, and had the air of a gay woman; herneighbor, with a wrinkled, tragic countenance, decked out also, but inmore severe fashion, had about her something worn and artificial whichold actresses generally have; a kind of false youth, like a scent ofstale love. The third woman, in mourning, sat in a corner, with the airof a desolate widow. Duroy thought that she had come to ask for charity.

However, no one was ushered into the room beyond, and more than twentyminutes had elapsed.

Duroy was seized with an idea, and going back to the doorkeeper, said:"Monsieur Walter made an appointment for me to call on him here at threeo'clock. At all events, see whether my friend, Monsieur Forestier, ishere."

He was at once ushered along a lengthy passage, which brought him to alarge room where four gentlemen were writing at a large green-coveredtable.

Forestier standing before the fireplace was smoking a cigarette andplaying at cup and ball. He was very clever at this, and kept spikingthe huge ball of yellow boxwood on the wooden point. He was counting"Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five."

"Twenty-six," said Duroy.

His friend raised his eyes without interrupting the regular movement ofhis arm, saying: "Oh! here you are, then. Yesterday I landed the ballfifty-seven times right off. There is only Saint-Potin who can beat meat it among those here. Have you seen the governor? There is nothingfunnier than to see that old tubby Norbert playing at cup and ball. Heopens his mouth as if he was going to swallow the ball every time."

One of the others turned round towards him, saying: "I say, Forestier, Iknow of one for sale, a beauty in West Indian wood; it is said to havebelonged to the Queen of Spain. They want sixty francs for it. Notdear."

Forestier asked: "Where does it hang out?"

And as he had missed his thirty-seventh shot, he opened a cupboard inwhich Duroy saw a score of magnificent cups and balls, arranged andnumbered like a collection of art objects. Then having put back the onehe had been using in its usual place, he repeated: "Where does this gemhang out?"

The journalist replied: "At a box-office keeper's of the Vaudeville. Iwill bring it you to-morrow, if you like."

"All right. If it is really a good one I will take it; one can neverhave too many." Then turning to Duroy he added: "Come with me. I willtake you in to see the governor; otherwise you might be getting mouldyhere till seven in the evening."

They re-crossed the waiting-room, in which the same people were waitingin the same order. As soon as Forestier appeared the young woman and theold actress, rising quickly, came up to him. He took them aside oneafter the other into the bay of the window, and although they took careto talk in low tones, Duroy noticed that they were on familiar terms.

Then, having passed through two padded doors, they entered the manager'sroom. The conference which had been going on for an hour or so wasnothing more than a game at ecarté with some of the gentlemen with theflat brimmed hats whom Duroy had noticed the night before.

Monsieur Walter dealt and played with concentrated attention and craftymovements, while his adversary threw down, picked up, and handled thelight bits of colored pasteboard with the swiftness, skill, and grace ofa practiced player. Norbert de Varenne, seated in the managerialarmchair, was writing an article. Jacques Rival, stretched at fulllength on a couch, was smoking a cigar with his eyes closed.

The room smelled close, with that blended odor of leather-coveredfurniture, stale tobacco, and printing-ink peculiar to editors' roomsand familiar to all journalists. Upon the black wood table, inlaid withbrass, lay an incredible pile of papers, letters, cards, newspapers,magazines, bills, and printed matter of every description.

Forestier shook hands with the punters standing behind the card players,and without saying a word watched the progress of the game; then, assoon as Daddy Walter had won, he said: "Here is my friend, Duroy."

The manager glanced sharply at the young fellow over the glasses of hisspectacles, and said:

"Have you brought my article? It would go very well to-day with theMorel debate."

Duroy took the sheets of paper folded in four from his pocket, saying:"Here it is sir."

The manager seemed pleased, and remarked, with a smile: "Very good, verygood. You are a man of your word. You must look through this for me,Forestier."

But Forestier hastened to reply: "It is not worth while, MonsieurWalter. I did it with him to give him a lesson in the tricks of thetrade. It is very well done."

And the manager, who was gathering up the cards dealt by a tall, thingentleman, a deputy belonging to the Left Center, remarked withindifference: "All right, then."

Forestier, however, did not let him begin the new game, but stooping,murmured in his ear: "You know you promised me to take on Duroy toreplace Marambot. Shall I engage him on the same terms?"

"Yes, certainly."

Taking his friend's arm, the journalist led him away, while MonsieurWalter resumed the game.

Norbert de Varenne had not lifted his head; he did not appear to haveseen or recognized Duroy. Jacques Rival, on the contrary, had taken hishand with the marked and demonstrative energy of a comrade who may bereckoned upon in the case of any little difficulty.

They passed through the waiting-room again, and as everyone looked atthem, Forestier said to the youngest of the women, in a tone loud enoughto be heard by the rest: "The manager will see you directly. He is justnow engaged with two members of the Budget Committee."

Then he passed swiftly on, with an air of hurry and importance, asthough about to draft at once an article of the utmost weight.

As soon as they were back in the reporters' room Forestier at once tookup his cup and ball, and as he began to play with it again, said toDuroy, breaking his sentences in order to count: "You will come hereevery day at three o'clock, and I will tell you the places you are to goto, either during the day or in the evening, or the next morning—one—Iwill give you, first of all, a letter of introduction to the head of theFirst Department of the Préfecture of Police—two—who will put you incommunication with one of his clerks. You will settle with him about allthe important information—three—from the Préfecture, official andquasi-official information, you know. In all matters of detail you willapply to Saint-Potin, who is up in the work—four—You can see himby-and-by, or to-morrow. You must, above all, cultivate the knack ofdragging information out of men I send you to see—five—and to get ineverywhere, in spite of closed doors—six—You will have for this asalary of two hundred francs a month, with two sous a line for theparagraphs you glean—seven—and two sous a line for all articleswritten by you to order on different subjects—eight."

Then he gave himself up entirely to his occupation, and went on slowlycounting: "Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen." He missed thefourteenth, and swore, "Damn that thirteen, it always brings me badluck. I shall die on the thirteenth of some month, I am certain."

One of his colleagues who had finished his work also took a cup and ballfrom the cupboard. He was a little man, who looked like a boy, althoughhe was really five-and-thirty. Several other journalists having come in,went one after the other and got out the toy belonging to each of them.Soon there were six standing side by side, with their backs to the wall,swinging into the air, with even and regular motion, the balls of red,yellow, and black, according to the wood they were made of. And a matchhaving begun, the two who were still working got up to act as umpires.Forestier won by eleven points. Then the little man, with the juvenileaspect, who had lost, rang for the messenger, and gave the order, "Ninebocks." And they began to play again pending the arrival of theserefreshments.

Duroy drank a glass of beer with his new comrades, and then said to hisfriend: "What am I to do now?"

"I have nothing for you to-day. You can go if you want to."

"And our—our—article, will it go in to-night?"

"Yes, but do not bother yourself about it; I will correct the proofs.Write the continuation for to-morrow, and come here at three o'clock,the same as to-day."

Duroy having shaken hands with everyone, without even knowing theirnames, went down the magnificent staircase with a light heart and highspirits.

IV

George Duroy slept badly, so excited was he by the wish to see hisarticle in print. He was up as soon as it was daylight, and was prowlingabout the streets long before the hour at which the porters from thenewspaper offices run with their papers from kiosque to kiosque. He wenton to the Saint Lazare terminus, knowing that the Vie Francaise wouldbe delivered there before it reached his own district. As he was stilltoo early, he wandered up and down on the footpath.

He witnessed the arrival of the newspaper vendor who opened her glassshop, and then saw a man bearing on his head a pile of papers. He rushedforward. There were the Figaro, the Gil Blas, the Gaulois, theEvenement, and two or three morning journals, but the Vie Francaisewas not among them. Fear seized him. Suppose the "Recollections of aChasseur d'Afrique" had been kept over for the next day, or that bychance they had not at the last moment seemed suitable to Daddy Walter.

Turning back to the kiosque, he saw that the paper was on sale withouthis having seen it brought there. He darted forward, unfolded it, afterhaving thrown down the three sous, and ran through the headings of thearticles on the first page. Nothing. His heart began to beat, and heexperienced strong emotion on reading at the foot of a column in largeletters, "George Duroy." It was in; what happiness!

He began to walk along unconsciously, the paper in his hand and his haton one side of his head, with a longing to stop the passers-by in orderto say to them: "Buy this, buy this, there is an article by me in it."He would have liked to have bellowed with all the power of his lungs,like some vendors of papers at night on the boulevards, "Read the VieFrancaise; read George Duroy's article, 'Recollections of a Chasseurd'Afrique.'" And suddenly he felt a wish to read this article himself,read it in a public place, a café, in sight of all. He looked aboutfor some establishment already filled with customers. He had to walk insearch of one for some time. He sat down at last in front of a kind ofwine shop, where several customers were already installed, and asked fora glass of rum, as he would have asked for one of absinthe, withoutthinking of the time. Then he cried: "Waiter, bring me the VieFrancaise."

A man in a white apron stepped up, saying: "We have not got it, sir; weonly take in the Rappel, the Siecle, the Lanierne, and the PetitParisien."

"What a den!" exclaimed Duroy, in a tone of anger and disgust. "Here, goand buy it for me."

The waiter hastened to do so, and brought back the paper. Duroy began toread his article, and several times said aloud: "Very good, very wellput," to attract the attention of his neighbors, and inspire them withthe wish to know what there was in this sheet. Then, on going away, heleft it on the table. The master of the place, noticing this, called himback, saying: "Sir, sir, you are forgetting your paper."

And Duroy replied: "I will leave it to you. I have finished with it.There is a very interesting article in it this morning."

He did not indicate the article, but he noticed as he went away one ofhis neighbors take the Vie Francaise up from the table on which he hadleft it.

He thought: "What shall I do now?" And he decided to go to his office,take his month's salary, and tender his resignation. He felt a thrill ofanticipatory pleasure at the thought of the faces that would be pulledup by the chief of his room and his colleagues. The notion of thebewilderment of the chief above all charmed him.

He walked slowly, so as not to get there too early, the cashier's officenot opening before ten o'clock.

His office was a large, gloomy room, in which gas had to be kept burningalmost all day long in winter. It looked into a narrow court-yard, withother offices on the further side of it. There were eight clerks there,besides a sub-chief hidden behind a screen in one corner.

Duroy first went to get the hundred and eighteen francs twenty-fivecentimes enclosed in a yellow envelope, and placed in the drawer of theclerk entrusted with such payments, and then, with a conquering air,entered the large room in which he had already spent so many days.

As soon as he came in the sub-chief, Monsieur Potel, called out to him:"Ah! it is you, Monsieur Duroy? The chief has already asked for youseveral times. You know that he will not allow anyone to plead illnesstwo days running without a doctor's certificate."

Duroy, who was standing in the middle of the room preparing hissensational effect, replied in a loud voice:

"I don't care a damn whether he does or not."

There was a movement of stupefaction among the clerks, and MonsieurPotel's features showed affrightedly over the screen which shut him upas in a box. He barricaded himself behind it for fear of draughts, forhe was rheumatic, but had pierced a couple of holes through the paper tokeep an eye on his staff. A pin might have been heard to fall. At lengththe sub-chief said, hesitatingly: "You said?"

"I said that I don't care a damn about it. I have only called to-day totender my resignation. I am engaged on the staff of the Vie Francaiseat five hundred francs a month, and extra pay for all I write. Indeed, Imade my début this morning."

He had promised himself to spin out his enjoyment, but had not been ableto resist the temptation of letting it all out at once.

The effect, too, was overwhelming. No one stirred.

Duroy went on: "I will go and inform Monsieur Perthuis, and then comeand wish you good-bye."

And he went out in search of the chief, who exclaimed, on seeing him:"Ah, here you are. You know that I won't have—"

His late subordinate cut him short with: "It's not worth while yellinglike that."

Monsieur Perthuis, a stout man, as red as a turkey co*ck, was choked withbewilderment.

Duroy continued: "I have had enough of this crib. I made my début thismorning in journalism, where I am assured of a very good position. Ihave the honor to bid you good-day." And he went out. He was avenged.

As he promised, he went and shook hands with his old colleagues, whoscarcely dared to speak to him, for fear of compromising themselves, forthey had overheard his conversation with the chief, the door havingremained open.

He found himself in the street again, with his salary in his pocket. Hestood himself a substantial breakfast at a good but cheap restaurant hewas acquainted with, and having again purchased the Vie Francaise, andleft it on the table, went into several shops, where he bought sometrifles, solely for the sake of ordering them to be sent home, andgiving his name: "George Duroy," with the addition, "I am the editor ofthe Vie Francaise."

Then he gave the name of the street and the number, taking care to add:"Leave it with the doorkeeper."

As he had still some time to spare he went into the shop of alithographer, who executed visiting cards at a moment's notice beforethe eyes of passers-by, and had a hundred, bearing his new occupationunder his name, printed off while he waited.

Then he went to the office of the paper.

Forestier received him loftily, as one receives a subordinate. "Ah! hereyou are. Good. I have several things for you to attend to. Just wait tenminutes. I will just finish what I am about."

And he went on with a letter he was writing.

At the other end of the large table a fat, bald little man, with a verypale, puffy face, and a white and shining head, was writing, with hisnose on the paper owing to extreme shortsightedness. Forestier said tohim: "I say, Saint-Potin, when are you going to interview thosepeople?"

"At four o'clock."

"Will you take young Duroy here with you, and let him into the way ofdoing it?"

"All right."

Then turning to his friend, Forestier added: "Have you brought thecontinuation of the Algerian article? The opening this morning was verysuccessful."

Duroy, taken aback, stammered: "No. I thought I should have time thisafternoon. I had heaps of things to do. I was not able."

The other shrugged his shoulders with a dissatisfied air. "If you arenot more exact than that you will spoil your future. Daddy Walter wasreckoning on your copy. I will tell him it will be ready to-morrow. Ifyou think you are to be paid for doing nothing you are mistaken."

Then, after a short silence, he added: "One must strike the iron whileit is hot, or the deuce is in it."

Saint-Potin rose, saying: "I am ready."

Then Forestier, leaning back in his chair, assumed a serious attitude inorder to give his instructions, and turning to Duroy, said: "This iswhat it is. Within the last two days the Chinese General, Li Theng Fao,has arrived at the Hotel Continental, and the Rajah Taposahib RamaderaoPali at the Hotel Bristol. You will go and interview them." Turning toSaint-Potin, he continued: "Don't forget the main points I told you of.Ask the General and the Rajah their opinion upon the action of Englandin the East, their ideas upon her system of colonization and domination,and their hopes respecting the intervention of Europe, and especially ofFrance." He was silent for a moment, and then added in a theatricalaside: "It will be most interesting to our readers to learn at the sametime what is thought in China and India upon these matters which soforcibly occupy public attention at this moment." He continued, for thebenefit of Duroy: "Watch how Saint-Potin sets to work; he is a capitalreporter; and try to learn the trick of pumping a man in five minutes."

Then he gravely resumed his writing, with the evident intention ofdefining their relative positions, and putting his old comrade andpresent colleague in his proper place.

As soon as they had crossed the threshold Saint-Potin began to laugh,and said to Duroy: "There's a fluffer for you. He tried to fluff evenus. One would really think he took us for his readers."

They reached the boulevard, and the reporter observed: "Will you have adrink?"

"Certainly. It is awfully hot."

They turned into a café and ordered cooling drinks. Saint-Potin beganto talk. He talked about the paper and everyone connected with it withan abundance of astonishing details.

"The governor? A regular Jew? And you know, nothing can alter a Jew.What a breed!" And he instanced some astounding traits of avariciousnesspeculiar to the children of Israel, economies of ten centimes, pettybargaining, shameful reductions asked for and obtained, all the ways ofa usurer and pawnbroker.

"And yet with all this, a good fellow who believes in nothing and doeseveryone. His paper, which is Governmental, Catholic, Liberal,Republican, Orleanist, pay your money and take your choice, was onlystarted to help him in his speculations on the Bourse, and bolster uphis other schemes. At that game he is very clever, and nets millionsthrough companies without four sous of genuine capital."

He went on, addressing Duroy as "My dear fellow."

"And he says things worthy of Balzac, the old shark. Fancy, the otherday I was in his room with that old tub Norbert, and that Don QuixoteRival, when Montelin, our business manager, came in with his moroccobill-case, that bill-case that everyone in Paris knows, under his arm.Walter raised his head and asked: 'What news?' Montelin answered simply:'I have just paid the sixteen thousand francs we owed the paper maker.'The governor gave a jump, an astonishing jump. 'What do you mean?' saidhe. 'I have just paid Monsieur Privas,' replied Montelin. 'But you aremad.' 'Why?' 'Why—why—why—' he took off his spectacles and wipedthem. Then he smiled with that queer smile that flits across his fatcheeks whenever he is going to say something deep or smart, and went onin a mocking and derisive tone, 'Why? Because we could have obtained areduction of from four to five thousand francs.' Montelin replied, inastonishment: 'But, sir, all the accounts were correct, checked by meand passed by yourself.' Then the governor, quite serious again,observed: 'What a fool you are. Don't you know, Monsieur Montelin, thatone should always let one's debts mount up, in order to offer acomposition?'"

And Saint-Potin added, with a knowing shake of his head, "Eh! isn't thatworthy of Balzac?"

Duroy had not read Balzac, but he replied, "By Jove! yes."

Then the reporter spoke of Madame Walter, an old goose; of Norbert deVarenne, an old failure; of Rival, a copy of Fervacques. Next he cameto Forestier. "As to him, he has been lucky in marrying his wife, thatis all."

Duroy asked: "What is his wife, really?"

Saint-Potin rubbed his hands. "Oh! a deep one, a smart woman. She wasthe mistress of an old rake named Vaudrec, the Count de Vaudrec, whogave her a dowry and married her off."

Duroy suddenly felt a cold shiver run through him, a tingling of thenerves, a longing to smack this gabbler on the face. But he merelyinterrupted him by asking:

"And your name is Saint-Potin?"

The other replied, simply enough:

"No, my name is Thomas. It is in the office that they have nicknamed meSaint-Potin."

Duroy, as he paid for the drinks, observed: "But it seems to me thattime is getting on, and that we have two noble foreigners to call on."

Saint-Potin began to laugh. "You are still green. So you fancy I amgoing to ask the Chinese and the Hindoo what they think of England? Asif I did not know better than themselves what they ought to think inorder to please the readers of the Vie Francaise. I have alreadyinterviewed five hundred of these Chinese, Persians, Hindoos, Chilians,Japanese, and others. They all reply the same, according to me. I haveonly to take my article on the last comer and copy it word for word.What has to be changed, though, is their appearance, their name, theirtitle, their age, and their suite. Oh! on that point it does not do tomake a mistake, for I should be snapped up sharp by the Figaro or theGaulois. But on these matters the hall porters at the Hotel Bristoland the Hotel Continental will put me right in five minutes. We willsmoke a cigar as we walk there. Five francs cab hire to charge to thepaper. That is how one sets about it, my dear fellow, when one ispractically inclined."

"It must be worth something decent to be a reporter under thesecirc*mstances," said Duroy.

The journalist replied mysteriously: "Yes, but nothing pays so well asparagraphs, on account of the veiled advertisem*nts."

They had got up and were passing down the boulevards towards theMadeleine. Saint-Potin suddenly observed to his companion: "You know ifyou have anything else to do, I shall not need you in any way."

Duroy shook hands and left him. The notion of the article to be writtenthat evening worried him, and he began to think. He stored his mind withideas, reflections, opinions, and anecdotes as he walked along, and wentas far as the end of the Avenue des Champs Elysées, where only a fewstrollers were to be seen, the heat having caused Paris to be evacuated.

Having dined at a wine shop near the Arc de Triomphe, he walked slowlyhome along the outer boulevards and sat down at his table to work. Butas soon as he had the sheet of blank paper before his eyes, all thematerials that he had accumulated fled from his mind as though his brainhad evaporated. He tried to seize on fragments of his recollections andto retain them, but they escaped him as fast as he laid hold of them, orelse they rushed on him altogether pell-mell, and he did not know how toclothe and present them, nor which one to begin with.

After an hour of attempts and five sheets of paper blackened by openingphrases that had no continuation, he said to himself: "I am not yetwell enough up in the business. I must have another lesson." And all atonce the prospect of another morning's work with Madame Forestier, thehope of another long and intimate tête-à-tête so cordial and sopleasant, made him quiver with desire. He went to bed in a hurry, almostafraid now of setting to work again and succeeding all at once.

He did not get up the next day till somewhat late, putting off andtasting in advance the pleasure of this visit.

It was past ten when he rang his friend's bell.

The man-servant replied: "Master is engaged at his work."

Duroy had not thought that the husband might be at home. He insisted,however, saying: "Tell him that I have called on a matter requiringimmediate attention."

After waiting five minutes he was shown into the study in which he hadpassed such a pleasant morning. In the chair he had occupied Forestierwas now seated writing, in a dressing-gown and slippers and with alittle Scotch bonnet on his head, while his wife in the same white gownleant against the mantelpiece and dictated, cigarette in mouth.

Duroy, halting on the threshold, murmured: "I really beg your pardon; Iam afraid I am disturbing you."

His friend, turning his face towards him—an angry face, too—growled:"What is it you want now? Be quick; we are pressed for time."

The intruder, taken back, stammered: "It is nothing; I beg yourpardon."

But Forestier, growing angry, exclaimed: "Come, hang it all, don't wastetime about it; you have not forced your way in just for the sake ofwishing us good-morning, I suppose?"

Then Duroy, greatly perturbed, made up his mind. "No—you see—the factis—I can't quite manage my article—and you were—so—so kind lasttime—that I hoped—that I ventured to come—"

Forestier cut him short. "You have a pretty cheek. So you think I amgoing to do your work, and that all you have to do is to call on thecashier at the end of the month to draw your screw? No, that is toogood."

The young woman went on smoking without saying a word, smiling with avague smile, which seemed like an amiable mask, concealing the irony ofher thoughts.

Duroy, colored up, stammered: "Excuse me—I fancied—I thought—" thensuddenly, and in a clear voice, he went on: "I beg your pardon athousand times, Madame, while again thanking you most sincerely for thecharming article you produced for me yesterday." He bowed, remarked toCharles: "I shall be at the office at three," and went out.

He walked home rapidly, grumbling: "Well, I will do it all alone, andthey shall see—"

Scarcely had he got in than, excited by anger, he began to write. Hecontinued the adventure began by Madame Forestier, heaping up details ofcatch-penny romance, surprising incidents, and inflated descriptions,with the style of a schoolboy and the phraseology of the barrack-room.Within an hour he had finished an article which was a chaos of nonsense,and took it with every assurance to the Vie Francaise.

The first person he met was Saint-Potin, who, grasping his hand with theenergy of an accomplice, said: "You have read my interview with theChinese and the Hindoo? Isn't it funny? It has amused everyone. And Idid not even get a glimpse of them."

Duroy, who had not read anything, at once took up the paper and ran hiseye over a long article headed: "India and China," while the reporterpointed out the most interesting passages.

Forestier came in puffing, in a hurry, with a busy air, saying:

"Good; I want both of you."

And he mentioned a number of items of political information that wouldhave to be obtained that very afternoon.

Duroy held out his article.

"Here is the continuation about Algeria."

"Very good; hand it over; and I will give it to the governor."

That was all.

Saint-Potin led away his new colleague, and when they were in thepassage, he said to him: "Have you seen the cashier?"

"No; why?"

"Why? To draw your money. You see you should always draw a month inadvance. One never knows what may happen."

"But—I ask for nothing better."

"I will introduce you to the cashier. He will make no difficulty aboutit. They pay up well here."

Duroy went and drew his two hundred francs, with twenty-eight more forhis article of the day before, which, added to what remained of hissalary from the railway company, gave him three hundred and fortyfrancs in his pocket. He had never owned such a sum, and thought himselfpossessed of wealth for an indefinite period.

Saint-Potin then took him to have a gossip in the offices of four orfive rival papers, hoping that the news he was entrusted to obtain hadalready been gleaned by others, and that he should be able to draw itout of them—thanks to the flow and artfulness of his conversation.

When evening had come, Duroy, who had nothing more to do, thought ofgoing again to the Folies Bergères, and putting a bold face on, he wentup to the box office.

"I am George Duroy, on the staff of the Vie Francaise. I came here theother day with Monsieur Forestier, who promised me to see about my beingput on the free list; I do not know whether he has thought of it."

The list was referred to. His name was not entered.

However, the box office-keeper, a very affable man, at once said: "Pray,go in all the same, sir, and write yourself to the manager, who, I amsure, will pay attention to your letter."

He went in and almost immediately met Rachel, the woman he had gone offwith the first evening. She came up to him, saying: "Good evening,ducky. Are you quite well?"

"Very well, thanks—and you?"

"I am all right. Do you know, I have dreamed of you twice since lasttime?"

Duroy smiled, feeling flattered. "Ah! and what does that mean?"

"It means that you pleased me, you old dear, and that we will beginagain whenever you please."

"To-day, if you like."

"Yes, I am quite willing."

"Good, but—" He hesitated, a little ashamed of what he was going to do."The fact is that this time I have not a penny; I have just come fromthe club, where I have dropped everything."

She looked him full in the eyes, scenting a lie with the instinct andhabit of a girl accustomed to the tricks and bargainings of men, andremarked: "Bosh! That is not a nice sort of thing to try on me."

He smiled in an embarrassed way. "If you will take ten francs, it is allI have left."

She murmured, with the disinterestedness of a courtesan gratifying afancy: "What you please, my lady; I only want you."

And lifting her charming eyes towards the young man's moustache, shetook his arm and leant lovingly upon it.

"Let us go and have a grenadine first of all," she remarked. "And thenwe will take a stroll together. I should like to go to the opera likethis, with you, to show you off. And we will go home early, eh?"

He lay late at this girl's place. It was broad day when he left, and thenotion occurred to him to buy the Vie Francaise. He opened the paperwith feverish hand. His article was not there, and he stood on thefootpath, anxiously running his eye down the printed columns with thehope of at length finding what he was in search of. A weight suddenlyoppressed his heart, for after the fatigue of a night of love, thisvexation came upon him with the weight of a disaster.

He reached home and went to sleep in his clothes on the bed.

Entering the office some hours later, he went on to see Monsieur Walter.

"I was surprised at not seeing my second article on Algeria in the paperthis morning, sir," said he.

The manager raised his head, and replied in a dry tone: "I gave it toyour friend Forestier, and asked him to read it through. He did notthink it up to the mark; you must rewrite it."

Duroy, in a rage, went out without saying a word, and abruptly enteringhis old comrade's room, said:

"Why didn't you let my article go in this morning?"

The journalist was smoking a cigarette with his back almost on the seatof his armchair and his feet on the table, his heels soiling an articlealready commenced. He said slowly, in a bored and distant voice, asthough speaking from the depths of a hole: "The governor thought itpoor, and told me to give it back to you to do over again. There it is."And he pointed out the slips flattened out under a paperweight.

Duroy, abashed, could find nothing to say in reply, and as he wasputting his prose into his pocket, Forestier went on: "To-day you mustfirst of all go to the Préfecture." And he proceeded to give a list ofbusiness errands and items of news to be attended to.

Duroy went off without having been able to find the cutting remark hewanted to. He brought back his article the next day. It was returned tohim again. Having rewritten it a third time, and finding it stillrefused, he understood that he was trying to go ahead too fast, andthat Forestier's hand alone could help him on his way. He did nottherefore say anything more about the "Recollections of a Chasseurd'Afrique," promising himself to be supple and cunning since it wasneedful, and while awaiting something better to zealously discharge hisduties as a reporter.

He learned to know the way behind the scenes in theatrical and politicallife; the waiting-rooms of statesmen and the lobby of the Chamber ofDeputies; the important countenances of permanent secretaries, and thegrim looks of sleepy ushers. He had continual relations with ministers,doorkeepers, generals, police agents, princes, bullies, courtesans,ambassadors, bishops, panders, adventurers, men of fashion,card-sharpers, cab drivers, waiters, and many others, having become theinterested yet indifferent friend of all these; confounding themtogether in his estimation, measuring them with the same measure,judging them with the same eye, though having to see them every day atevery hour, without any transition, and to speak with them all on thesame business of his own. He compared himself to a man who had to drinkoff samples of every kind of wine one after the other, and who wouldsoon be unable to tell Château Margaux from Argenteuil.

He became in a short time a remarkable reporter, certain of hisinformation, artful, swift, subtle, a real find for the paper, as wasobserved by Daddy Walter, who knew what newspaper men were. However, ashe got only centimes a line in addition to his monthly screw of twohundred francs, and as life on the boulevards and in cafés andrestaurants is costly, he never had a halfpenny, and was disgusted withhis poverty. There is some knack to be got hold of, he thought, seeingsome of his fellows with their pockets full of money without ever beingable to understand what secret methods they could make use of to procurethis abundance. He enviously suspected unknown and suspicioustransactions, services rendered, a whole system of contraband acceptedand agreed to. But it was necessary that he should penetrate themystery, enter into the tacit partnership, make himself one with thecomrades who were sharing without him.

And he often thought of an evening, as he watched the trains go by fromhis window, of the steps he ought to take.

V

Two months had gone by, September was at hand, and the rapid fortunewhich Duroy had hoped for seemed to him slow in coming. He was, aboveall, uneasy at the mediocrity of his position, and did not see by whatpath he could scale the heights on the summit of which one findsrespect, power, and money. He felt shut up in the mediocre calling of areporter, so walled in as to be unable to get out of it. He wasappreciated, but estimated in accordance with his position. EvenForestier, to whom he rendered a thousand services, no longer invitedhim to dinner, and treated him in every way as an inferior, though stillaccosting him as a friend.

From time to time, it is true, Duroy, seizing an opportunity, got in ashort article, and having acquired through his paragraphs a mastery overhis pen, and a tact which was lacking to him when he wrote his secondarticle on Algeria, no longer ran any risk of having his descriptiveefforts refused. But from this to writing leaders according to hisfancy, or dealing with political questions with authority, there was asgreat a difference as driving in the Bois de Boulogne as a coachman, andas the owner of an equipage. That which humiliated him above everythingwas to see the door of society closed to him, to have no equal relationswith it, not to be able to penetrate into the intimacy of its women,although several well-known actresses had occasionally received him withan interested familiarity.

He knew, moreover, from experience that all the sex, ladies oractresses, felt a singular attraction towards him, an instantaneoussympathy, and he experienced the impatience of a hobbled horse at notknowing those whom his future may depend on.

He had often thought of calling on Madame Forestier, but therecollection of their last meeting checked and humiliated him; andbesides, he was awaiting an invitation to do so from her husband. Thenthe recollection of Madame de Marelle occurred to him, and recallingthat she had asked him to come and see her, he called one afternoon whenhe had nothing to do.

"I am always at home till three o'clock," she had said.

He rang at the bell of her residence, a fourth floor in the Rue deVerneuil, at half-past two.

At the sound of the bell a servant opened the door, an untidy girl, whotied her cap strings as she replied: "Yes, Madame is at home, but Idon't know whether she is up."

And she pushed open the drawing-room door, which was ajar. Duroy wentin. The room was fairly large, scantily furnished and neglected looking.The chairs, worn and old, were arranged along the walls, as placed bythe servant, for there was nothing to reveal the tasty care of the womanwho loves her home. Four indifferent pictures, representing a boat on astream, a ship at sea, a mill on a plain, and a wood-cutter in a wood,hung in the center of the four walls by cords of unequal length, and allfour on one side. It could be divined that they had been dangling thusaskew ever so long before indifferent eyes.

Duroy sat down immediately. He waited a long time. Then a door opened,and Madame de Marelle hastened in, wearing a Japanese morning gown ofrose-colored silk embroidered with yellow landscapes, blue flowers, andwhite birds.

"Fancy! I was still in bed!" she exclaimed. "How good of you to come andsee me! I had made up my mind that you had forgotten me."

She held out both her hands with a delighted air, and Duroy, whom thecommonplace appearance of the room had put at his ease, kissed one, ashe had seen Norbert de Varenne do.

She begged him to sit down, and then scanning him from head to foot,said: "How you have altered! You have improved in looks. Paris has doneyou good. Come, tell me the news."

And they began to gossip at once, as if they had been old acquaintances,feeling an instantaneous familiarity spring up between them; feeling oneof those mutual currents of confidence, intimacy, and affection, which,in five minutes, make two beings of the same breed and character goodfriends.

Suddenly, Madame de Marelle exclaimed in astonishment: "It is funny howI get on with you. It seems to me as though I had known you for tenyears. We shall become good friends, no doubt. Would you like it?"

He answered: "Certainly," with a smile which said still more.

He thought her very tempting in her soft and bright-hued gown, lessrefined and delicate than the other in her white one, but more excitingand spicy. When he was beside Madame Forestier, with her continual andgracious smile which attracted and checked at the same time; whichseemed to say: "You please me," and also "Take care," and of which thereal meaning was never clear, he felt above all the wish to lie down ather feet, or to kiss the lace bordering of her bodice, and slowly inhalethe warm and perfumed atmosphere that must issue from it. With Madame deMarelle he felt within him a more definite, a more brutal desire—adesire that made his fingers quiver in presence of the rounded outlinesof the light silk.

She went on talking, scattering in each phrase that ready wit of whichshe had acquired the habit just as a workman acquires the knack neededto accomplish a task reputed difficult, and at which other folk areastonished. He listened, thinking: "All this is worth remembering. A mancould write charming articles of Paris gossip by getting her to chatover the events of the day."

Some one tapped softly, very softly, at the door by which she hadentered, and she called out: "You can come in, pet."

Her little girl made her appearance, walked straight up to Duroy, andheld out her hand to him. The astonished mother murmured: "But this is acomplete conquest. I no longer recognize her."

The young fellow, having kissed the child, made her sit down beside him,and with a serious manner asked her pleasant questions as to what shehad been doing since they last met. She replied, in her littleflute-like voice, with her grave and grown-up air.

The clock struck three, and the journalist arose.

"Come often," said Madame de Marelle, "and we will chat as we have doneto-day; it will always give me pleasure. But how is it one no longersees you at the Forestiers?" He replied: "Oh! for no reason. I have beenvery busy. I hope to meet you there again one of these days."

He went out, his heart full of hope, though without knowing why.

He did not speak to Forestier of this visit. But he retained therecollection of it the following days, and more than the recollection—asensation of the unreal yet persistent presence of this woman. It seemedto him that he had carried away something of her, the reflection of herform in his eyes, and the smack of her moral self in his heart. Heremained under the haunted influence of her image, as it happenssometimes when we have passed pleasant hours with some one.

He paid a second visit a few days later.

The maid ushered him into the drawing-room, and Laurine at onceappeared. She held out no longer her hand, but her forehead, and said:"Mamma has told me to request you to wait for her. She will be aquarter-of-an-hour, because she is not dressed yet. I will keep youcompany."

Duroy, who was amused by the ceremonious manners of the little girl,replied: "Certainly, Mademoiselle. I shall be delighted to pass aquarter-of-an-hour with you, but I warn you that for my part I am not atall serious, and that I play all day long, so I suggest a game attouch."

The girl was astonished; then she smiled as a woman would have done atthis idea, which shocked her a little as well as astonished her, andmurmured: "Rooms are not meant to be played in."

He said: "It is all the same to me. I play everywhere. Come, catch me."

And he began to go round the table, exciting her to pursue him, whileshe came after him, smiling with a species of polite condescension, andsometimes extending her hand to touch him, but without ever giving wayso far as to run. He stopped, stooped down, and when she drew near withher little hesitating steps, sprung up in the air like ajack-in-the-box, and then bounded with a single stride to the other endof the dining-room. She thought it funny, ended by laughing, andbecoming aroused, began to trot after him, giving little gleeful yettimid cries when she thought she had him. He shifted the chairs and usedthem as obstacles, forcing her to go round and round one of them for aminute at a time, and then leaving that one to seize upon another.Laurine ran now, giving herself wholly up to the charm of this new game,and with flushed face, rushed forward with the bound of a delightedchild at each of the flights, the tricks, the feints of her companion.Suddenly, just as she thought she had got him, he seized her in hisarms, and lifting her to the ceiling, exclaimed: "Touch."

The delighted girl wriggled her legs to escape, and laughed with all herheart.

Madame de Marelle came in at that moment, and was amazed. "What,Laurine, Laurine, playing! You are a sorcerer, sir."

He put down the little girl, kissed her mother's hand, and they sat downwith the child between them. They began to chat, but Laurine, usually sosilent, kept talking all the while, and had to be sent to her room. Sheobeyed without a word, but with tears in her eyes.

As soon as they were alone, Madame de Marelle lowered her voice. "You donot know, but I have a grand scheme, and I have thought of you. This isit. As I dine every week at the Forestiers, I return their hospitalityfrom time to time at some restaurant. I do not like to entertain companyat home, my household is not arranged for that, and besides, I do notunderstand anything about domestic affairs, anything about the kitchen,anything at all. I like to live anyhow. So I entertain them now and thenat a restaurant, but it is not very lively when there are only three,and my own acquaintances scarcely go well with them. I tell you all thisin order to explain a somewhat irregular invitation. You understand, doyou not, that I want you to make one of us on Saturday at the CaféRiche, at half-past seven. You know the place?"

He accepted with pleasure, and she went on: "There will be only us four.These little outings are very amusing to us women who are not accustomedto them."

She was wearing a dark brown dress, which showed off the lines of herwaist, her hips, her bosom, and her arm in a coquettishly provocativeway. Duroy felt confusedly astonished at the lack of harmony betweenthis carefully refined elegance and her evident carelessness as regardedher dwelling. All that clothed her body, all that closely and directlytouched her flesh was fine and delicate, but that which surrounded herdid not matter to her.

He left her, retaining, as before, the sense of her continued presencein species of hallucination of the senses. And he awaited the day of thedinner with growing impatience.

Having hired, for the second time, a dress suit—his funds not yetallowing him to buy one—he arrived first at the rendezvous, a fewminutes before the time. He was ushered up to the second story, and intoa small private dining-room hung with red and white, its single windowopening into the boulevard. A square table, laid for four, displayingits white cloth, so shining that it seemed to be varnished, and theglasses and the silver glittered brightly in the light of the twelvecandles of two tall candelabra. Without was a broad patch of lightgreen, due to the leaves of a tree lit up by the bright light from thedining-rooms.

Duroy sat down in a low armchair, upholstered in red to match thehangings on the walls. The worn springs yielding beneath him caused himto feel as though sinking into a hole. He heard throughout the hugehouse a confused murmur, the murmur of a large restaurant, made up ofthe clattering of glass and silver, the hurried steps of the waiters,deadened by the carpets in the passages, and the opening of doorsletting out the sound of voices from the numerous private rooms in whichpeople were dining. Forestier came in and shook hands with him, with acordial familiarity which he never displayed at the offices of the VieFrancaise.

"The ladies are coming together," said he; "these little dinners arevery pleasant."

Then he glanced at the table, turned a gas jet that was feebly burningcompletely off, closed one sash of the window on account of the draught,and chose a sheltered place for himself, with a remark: "I must becareful; I have been better for a month, and now I am queer again theselast few days. I must have caught cold on Tuesday, coming out of thetheater."

The door was opened, and, followed by a waiter, the two ladies appeared,veiled, muffled, reserved, with that charmingly mysterious bearing theyassume in such places, where the surroundings are suspicious.

As Duroy bowed to Madame Forestier she scolded him for not having cometo see her again; then she added with a smile, in the direction of herfriend: "I know what it is; you prefer Madame de Marelle, you can findtime to visit her."

They sat down to table, and the waiter having handed the wine card toForestier, Madame de Marelle exclaimed: "Give these gentlemen whateverthey like, but for us iced champagne, the best, sweet champagne,mind—nothing else." And the man having withdrawn, she added with anexcited laugh: "I am going to get tipsy this evening; we will have aspree—a regular spree."

Forestier, who did not seem to have heard, said: "Would you mind thewindow being closed? My chest has been rather queer the last few days."

"No, not at all."

He pushed too the sash left open, and returned to his place with areassured and tranquil countenance. His wife said nothing. Seeminglylost in thought, and with her eyes lowered towards the table, she smiledat the glasses with that vague smile which seemed always to promise andnever to grant.

The Ostend oysters were brought in, tiny and plump like little earsenclosed in shells, and melting between the tongue and the palate likesalt bon-bons. Then, after the soup, was served a trout as rose-tintedas a young girl, and the guests began to talk.

They spoke at first of a current scandal; the story of a lady ofposition, surprised by one of her husband's friends supping in a privateroom with a foreign prince. Forestier laughed a great deal at theadventure; the two ladies declared that the indiscreet gossip wasnothing less than a blackguard and a coward. Duroy was of their opinion,and loudly proclaimed that it is the duty of a man in these matters,whether he be actor, confidant, or simple spectator, to be silent as thegrave. He added: "How full life would be of pleasant things if we couldreckon upon the absolute discretion of one another. That which often,almost always, checks women is the fear of the secret being revealed.Come, is it not true?" he continued. "How many are there who would yieldto a sudden desire, the caprice of an hour, a passing fancy, did theynot fear to pay for a short-lived and fleeting pleasure by anirremediable scandal and painful tears?"

He spoke with catching conviction, as though pleading a cause, his owncause, as though he had said: "It is not with me that one would have todread such dangers. Try me and see."

They both looked at him approvingly, holding that he spoke rightly andjustly, confessing by their friendly silence that their flexiblemorality as Parisians would not have held out long before the certaintyof secrecy. And Forestier, leaning back in his place on the divan, oneleg bent under him, and his napkin thrust into his waistcoat, suddenlysaid with the satisfied laugh of a skeptic: "The deuce! yes, they wouldall go in for it if they were certain of silence. Poor husbands!"

And they began to talk of love. Without admitting it to be eternal,Duroy understood it as lasting, creating a bond, a tender friendship, aconfidence. The union of the senses was only a seal to the union ofhearts. But he was angry at the outrageous jealousies, melodramaticscenes, and unpleasantness which almost always accompany ruptures.

When he ceased speaking, Madame de Marelle replied: "Yes, it is the onlypleasant thing in life, and we often spoil it by preposterousunreasonableness."

Madame Forestier, who was toying with her knife, added: "Yes—yes—it ispleasant to be loved."

And she seemed to be carrying her dream further, to be thinking thingsthat she dared not give words to.

As the first entreé was slow in coming, they sipped from time to timea mouthful of champagne, and nibbled bits of crust. And the idea oflove, entering into them, slowly intoxicated their souls, as the brightwine, rolling drop by drop down their throats, fired their blood andperturbed their minds.

The waiter brought in some lamb cutlets, delicate and tender, upon athick bed of asparagus tips.

"Ah! this is good," exclaimed Forestier; and they ate slowly, savoringthe delicate meat and vegetables as smooth as cream.

Duroy resumed: "For my part, when I love a woman everything else in theworld disappears." He said this in a tone of conviction.

Madame Forestier murmured, with her let-me-alone air:

"There is no happiness comparable to that of the first hand-clasp, whenthe one asks, 'Do you love me?' and the other replies, 'Yes.'"

Madame de Marelle, who had just tossed a fresh glass of champagne off ata draught, said gayly, as she put down her glass: "For my part, I am notso Platonic."

And all began to smile with kindling eyes at these words.

Forestier, stretched out in his seat on the divan, opened his arms,rested them on the cushions, and said in a serious tone: "This franknessdoes you honor, and proves that you are a practical woman. But may oneask you what is the opinion of Monsieur de Marelle?"

She shrugged her shoulders slightly, with infinite and prolongeddisdain; and then in a decided tone remarked: "Monsieur de Marelle hasno opinions on this point. He only has—abstentions."

And the conversation, descending from the elevated theories, concerninglove, strayed into the flowery garden of polished blackguardism. It wasthe moment of clever double meanings; veils raised by words, aspetticoats are lifted by the wind; tricks of language; clever disguisedaudacities; sentences which reveal nude images in covered phrases; whichcause the vision of all that may not be said to flit rapidly before theeye and the mind, and allow the well-bred people the enjoyment of akind of subtle and mysterious love, a species of impure mental contact,due to the simultaneous evocation of secret, shameful, and longed-forpleasures. The roast, consisting of partridges flanked by quails, hadbeen served; then a dish of green peas, and then a terrine of foie gras,accompanied by a curly-leaved salad, filling a salad bowl as though withgreen foam. They had partaken of all these things without tasting them,without knowing, solely taken up by what they were talking of, plungedas it were in a bath of love.

The two ladies were now going it strongly in their remarks. Madame deMarelle, with a native audacity which resembled a direct provocation,and Madame Forestier with a charming reserve, a modesty in her tone,voice, smile, and bearing that underlined while seeming to soften thebold remarks falling from her lips. Forestier, leaning quite back on thecushions, laughed, drank and ate without leaving off, and sometimesthrew in a word so risque or so crude that the ladies, somewhat shockedby its appearance, and for appearance sake, put on a little air ofembarrassment that lasted two or three seconds. When he had given ventto something a little too coarse, he added: "You are going ahead nicely,my children. If you go on like that you will end by making fools ofyourselves."

Dessert came, and then coffee; and the liquors poured a yet warmer doseof commotion into the excited minds.

As she had announced on sitting down to table, Madame de Marelle wasintoxicated, and acknowledged it in the lively and graceful rabble of awoman emphasizing, in order to amuse her guests, a very realcommencement of drunkenness.

Madame Forestier was silent now, perhaps out of prudence, and Duroy,feeling himself too much excited not to be in danger of compromisinghimself, maintained a prudent reserve.

Cigarettes were lit, and all at once Forestier began to cough. It was aterrible fit, that seemed to tear his chest, and with red face andforehead damp with perspiration, he choked behind his napkin. When thefit was over he growled angrily: "These feeds are very bad for me; theyare ridiculous." All his good humor had vanished before his terror ofthe illness that haunted his thoughts. "Let us go home," said he.

Madame de Marelle rang for the waiter, and asked for the bill. It wasbrought almost immediately. She tried to read it, but the figures dancedbefore her eyes, and she passed it to Duroy, saying: "Here, pay for me;I can't see, I am too tipsy."

And at the same time she threw him her purse. The bill amounted to onehundred and thirty francs. Duroy checked it, and then handed over twonotes and received back the change, saying in a low tone: "What shall Igive the waiter?"

"What you like; I do not know."

He put five francs on the salver, and handed back the purse, saying:"Shall I see you to your door?"

"Certainly. I am incapable of finding my way home."

They shook hands with the Forestiers, and Duroy found himself alone withMadame de Marelle in a cab. He felt her close to him, so close, in thisdark box, suddenly lit up for a moment by the lamps on the sidewalk. Hefelt through his sleeve the warmth of her shoulder, and he could findnothing to say to her, absolutely nothing, his mind being paralyzed bythe imperative desire to seize her in his arms.

"If I dared to, what would she do?" he thought. The recollection of allthe things uttered during dinner emboldened him, but the fear of scandalrestrained him at the same time.

Nor did she say anything either, but remained motionless in her corner.He would have thought that she was asleep if he had not seen her eyesglitter every time that a ray of light entered the carriage.

"What was she thinking?" He felt that he must not speak, that a word, asingle word, breaking this silence would destroy his chance; yet couragefailed him, the courage needed for abrupt and brutal action. All at oncehe felt her foot move. She had made a movement, a quick, nervousmovement of impatience, perhaps of appeal. This almost imperceptiblegesture caused a thrill to run through him from head to foot, and hethrew himself upon her, seeking her mouth with his lips, her form withhis hands.

But the cab having shortly stopped before the house in which sheresided, Duroy, surprised, had no time to seek passionate phrases tothank her, and express his grateful love. However, stunned by what hadtaken place, she did not rise, she did not stir. Then he was afraid thatthe driver might suspect something, and got out first to help her toalight.

At length she got out of the cab, staggering and without saying a word.He rang the bell, and as the door opened, said, tremblingly: "When shallI see you again?"

She murmured so softly that he scarcely heard it: "Come and lunch withme to-morrow." And she disappeared in the entry, pushed to the heavydoor, which closed with a noise like that of a cannon. He gave thedriver five francs, and began to walk along with rapid and triumphantsteps, and heart overflowing with joy.

He had won at last—a married woman, a lady. How easy and unexpected ithad all been. He had fancied up till then that to assail and conquer oneof these so greatly longed-for beings, infinite pains, interminableexpectations, a skillful siege carried on by means of gallantattentions, words of love, sighs, and gifts were needed. And, lo!suddenly, at the faintest attack, the first whom he had encountered hadyielded to him so quickly that he was stupefied at it.

"She was tipsy," he thought; "to-morrow it will be another story. Shewill meet me with tears." This notion disturbed him, but he added:"Well, so much the worse. Now I have her, I mean to keep her."

He was somewhat agitated the next day as he ascended Madame de Marelle'sstaircase. How would she receive him? And suppose she would not receivehim at all? Suppose she had forbidden them to admit him? Suppose she hadsaid—but, no, she could not have said anything without letting thewhole truth be guessed. So he was master of the situation.

The little servant opened the door. She wore her usual expression. Hefelt reassured, as if he had anticipated her displaying a troubledcountenance, and asked: "Is your mistress quite well?"

She replied: "Oh! yes, sir, the same as usual," and showed him into thedrawing-room.

He went straight to the chimney-glass to ascertain the state of his hairand his toilet, and was arranging his necktie before it, when he saw init the young woman watching him as she stood at the door leading fromher room. He pretended not to have noticed her, and the pair looked atone another for a few moments in the glass, observing and watchingbefore finding themselves face to face. He turned round. She had notmoved, and seemed to be waiting. He darted forward, stammering: "Mydarling! my darling!"

She opened her arms and fell upon his breast; then having lifted herhead towards him, their lips met in a long kiss.

He thought: "It is easier than I should have imagined. It is all goingon very well."

And their lips separating, he smiled without saying a word, whilestriving to throw a world of love into his looks. She, too, smiled, withthat smile by which women show their desire, their consent, their wishto yield themselves, and murmured: "We are alone. I have sent Laurine tolunch with one of her young friends."

He sighed as he kissed her. "Thanks, I will worship you."

Then she took his arm, as if he had been her husband, to go to the sofa,on which they sat down side by side. He wanted to start a clever andattractive chat, but not being able to do so to his liking, stammered:"Then you are not too angry with me?"

She put her hand on his mouth, saying "Be quiet."

They sat in silence, looking into one another's eyes, with burningfingers interlaced.

"How I did long for you!" said he.

She repeated: "Be quiet."

They heard the servant arranging the table in the adjoiningdining-room, and he rose, saying: "I must not remain so close to you. Ishall lose my head."

The door opened, and the servant announced that lunch was ready. Duroygravely offered his arm.

They lunched face to face, looking at one another and constantlysmiling, solely taken up by themselves, and enveloped in the sweetenchantment of a growing love. They ate, without knowing what. He felt afoot, a little foot, straying under the table. He took it between hisown and kept it there, squeezing it with all his might. The servant cameand went, bringing and taking away the dishes with a careless air,without seeming to notice anything.

When they had finished they returned to the drawing-room, and resumedtheir place on the sofa, side by side. Little by little he pressed upagainst her, striving to take her in his arms. But she calmly repulsedhim, saying: "Take care; someone may come in."

He murmured: "When can I see you quite alone, to tell you how I loveyou?"

She leant over towards him and whispered: "I will come and pay you avisit one of these days."

He felt himself redden. "You know—you know—my place is very small."

She smiled: "That does not matter. It is you I shall call to see, andnot your rooms."

Then he pressed her to know when she would come. She named a day in thelatter half of the week. He begged of her to advance the date in brokensentences, playing with and squeezing her hands, with glittering eyes,and flushed face, heated and torn by desire, that imperious desire whichfollows tête-à-tête repasts. She was amazed to see him implore herwith such ardor, and yielded a day from time to time. But he keptrepeating: "To-morrow, only say to-morrow."

She consented at length. "Yes, to-morrow; at five o'clock."

He gave a long sigh of joy, and they then chatted almost quietly with anair of intimacy, as though they had known one another twenty years. Thesound of the door bell made them start, and with a bound they separatedto a distance. She murmured: "It must be Laurine."

The child made her appearance, stopped short in amazement, and then ranto Duroy, clapping her hands with pleasure at seeing him, andexclaiming: "Ah! pretty boy."

Madame de Marelle began to laugh. "What! Pretty boy! Laurine hasbaptized you. It's a nice little nickname for you, and I will call youPretty-boy, too."

He had taken the little girl on his knee, and he had to play with her atall the games he had taught her. He rose to take his leave at twentyminutes to three to go to the office of the paper, and on the staircase,through the half-closed door, he still whispered: "To-morrow, at five."

She answered "Yes," with a smile, and disappeared.

As soon as he had got through his day's work, he speculated how heshould arrange his room to receive his mistress, and hide as far aspossible the poverty of the place. He was struck by the idea of pinninga lot of Japanese trifles on the walls, and he bought for five francsquite a collection of little fans and screens, with which he hid themost obvious of the marks on the wall paper. He pasted on the windowpanes transparent pictures representing boats floating down rivers,flocks of birds flying across rosy skies, multi-colored ladies onbalconies, and processions of little black men over plains covered withsnow. His room, just big enough to sleep and sit down in, soon lookedlike the inside of a Chinese lantern. He thought the effectsatisfactory, and passed the evening in pasting on the ceiling birdsthat he had cut from the colored sheets remaining over. Then he went tobed, lulled by the whistle of the trains.

He went home early the next day, carrying a paper bag of cakes and abottle of Madeira, purchased at the grocer's. He had to go out again tobuy two plates and two glasses, and arranged this collation on hisdressing-table, the dirty wood of which was covered by a napkin, the jugand basin being hidden away beneath it.

Then he waited.

She came at about a quarter-past five; and, attracted by the brightcolors of the pictures, exclaimed: "Dear me, yours is a nice place. Butthere are a lot of people about on the staircase."

He had clasped her in his arms, and was eagerly kissing the hair betweenher forehead and her bonnet through her veil.

An hour and a half later he escorted her back to the cab-stand in theRue de Rome. When she was in the carriage he murmured: "Tuesday at thesame time?"

She replied: "Tuesday at the same time." And as it had grown dark, shedrew his head into the carriage and kissed him on the lips. Then thedriver, having whipped up his beast, she exclaimed: "Good-bye,Pretty-boy," and the old vehicle started at the weary trot of its oldwhite horse.

For three weeks Duroy received Madame de Marelle in this way every twoor three days, now in the evening and now in the morning. While he wasexpecting her one afternoon, a loud uproar on the stairs drew him to thedoor. A child was crying. A man's angry voice shouted: "What is thatlittle devil howling about now?" The yelling and exasperated voice of awoman replied: "It is that dirty hussy who comes to see thepenny-a-liner upstairs; she has upset Nicholas on the landing. As ifdabs like that, who pay no attention to children on the staircase,should be allowed here."

Duroy drew back, distracted, for he could hear the rapid rustling ofskirts and a hurried step ascending from the story just beneath him.There was soon a knock at the door, which he had reclosed. He opened it,and Madame de Marelle rushed into the room, terrified and breathless,stammering: "Did you hear?"

He pretended to know nothing. "No; what?"

"How they have insulted me."

"Who? Who?"

"The blackguards who live down below."

"But, surely not; what does it all mean, tell me?"

She began to sob, without being able to utter a word. He had to take offher bonnet, undo her dress, lay her on the bed, moisten her foreheadwith a wet towel. She was choking, and then when her emotion wassomewhat abated, all her wrathful indignation broke out. She wanted himto go down at once, to thrash them, to kill them.

He repeated: "But they are only work-people, low creatures. Justremember that it would lead to a police court, that you might berecognized, arrested, ruined. One cannot lower one's self to haveanything to do with such people."

She passed on to another idea. "What shall we do now? For my part, Icannot come here again."

He replied: "It is very simple; I will move."

She murmured: "Yes, but that will take some time." Then all at once sheframed a plan, and reassured, added softly: "No, listen, I know what todo; let me act, do not trouble yourself about anything. I will send youa telegram to-morrow morning."

She smiled now, delighted with her plan, which she would not reveal, andindulged in a thousand follies. She was very agitated, however, as shewent downstairs, leaning with all her weight on her lover's arm, herlegs trembled so beneath her. They did not meet anyone, though.

As he usually got up late, he was still in bed the next day, when, abouteleven o'clock, the telegraph messenger brought him the promisedtelegram. He opened it and read:

"Meet me at five; 127, Rue de Constantinople. Rooms hired by MadameDuroy.—Clo."

At five o'clock to the minute he entered the doorkeeper's lodge of alarge furnished house, and asked: "It is here that Madame Duroy hastaken rooms, is it not?"

"Yes, sir."

"Will you show me to them, if you please."

The man, doubtless used to delicate situations in which prudence isnecessary, looked him straight in the eyes, and then, selecting one ofthe long range of keys, said: "You are Monsieur Duroy?"

"Yes, certainly."

The man opened the door of a small suite of rooms on the ground floor infront of the lodge. The sitting-room, with a tolerably fresh wall-paperof floral design, and a carpet so thin that the boards of the floorcould be felt through it, had mahogany furniture, upholstered in greenrep with a yellow pattern. The bedroom was so small that the bedthree-parts filled it. It occupied the further end, stretching from onewall to the other—the large bed of a furnished lodging-house, shroudedin heavy blue curtains also of rep, and covered with an eider-down quiltof red silk stained with suspicious-looking spots.

Duroy, uneasy and displeased, thought: "This place will cost, Lord knowshow much. I shall have to borrow again. It is idiotic what she hasdone."

The door opened, and Clotilde came in like a whirlwind, withoutstretched arms and rustling skirts. She was delighted. "Isn't itnice, eh, isn't it nice? And on the ground floor, too; no stairs to goup. One could get in and out of the windows without the doorkeeperseeing one. How we will love one another here!"

He kissed her coldly, not daring to put the question that rose to hislips. She had placed a large parcel on the little round table in themiddle of the room. She opened it, and took out a cake of soap, a bottleof scent, a sponge, a box of hairpins, a buttonhook, and a small pair ofcurling tongs to set right her fringe, which she got out of curl everytime. And she played at moving in, seeking a place for everything, andderived great amusem*nt from it.

She kept on chattering as she opened the drawers. "I must bring a littlelinen, so as to be able to make a change if necessary. It will be veryconvenient. If I get wet, for instance, while I am out, I can run inhere to dry myself. We shall each have one key, beside the one left withthe doorkeeper in case we forget it. I have taken the place for threemonths, in your name, of course, since I could not give my own."

Then he said: "You will let me know when the rent is to be paid."

She replied, simply: "But it is paid, dear."

"Then I owe it to you."

"No, no, my dear; it does not concern you at all; this is a little fancyof my own."

He seemed annoyed: "Oh, no, indeed; I can't allow that."

She came to him in a supplicating way, and placing her hands on hisshoulders, said: "I beg of you, George; it will give me so much pleasureto feel that our little nest here is mine—all my own. You cannot beannoyed at that. How can you? I wanted to contribute that much towardsour loves. Say you agree, Georgy; say you agree."

She implored him with looks, lips, the whole of her being. He held out,refusing with an irritated air, and then he yielded, thinking that,after all, it was fair. And when she had gone, he murmured, rubbing hishands, and without seeking in the depths of his heart whence the opinioncame on that occasion: "She is very nice."

He received, a few days later, another telegram running thus: "Myhusband returns to-night, after six weeks' inspection, so we shall havea week off. What a bore, darling.—Clo."

Duroy felt astounded. He had really lost all idea of her being married.But here was a man whose face he would have liked to see just once, inorder to know him. He patiently awaited the husband's departure, but hepassed two evenings at the Folies Bergère, which wound up with Rachel.

Then one morning came a fresh telegram: "To-day at five.—Clo."

They both arrived at the meeting-place before the time. She threwherself into his arms with an outburst of passion, and kissed him allover the face, and then said: "If you like, when we have loved oneanother a great deal, you shall take me to dinner somewhere. I have keptmyself disengaged."

It was at the beginning of the month, and although his salary was longsince drawn in advance, and he lived from day to day upon money gleanedon every side, Duroy happened to be in funds, and was pleased at theopportunity of spending something upon her, so he replied: "Yes,darling, wherever you like."

They started off, therefore, at about seven, and gained the outerboulevards. She leaned closely against him, and whispered in his ear:"If you only knew how pleased I am to walk out on your arm; how I loveto feel you beside me."

He said: "Would you like to go to Père Lathuile's?"

"Oh, no, it is too swell. I should like something funny, out of the way!a restaurant that shopmen and work-girls go to. I adore dining at acountry inn. Oh! if we only had been able to go into the country."

As he knew nothing of the kind in the neighborhood, they wandered alongthe boulevard, and ended by going into a wine-shop where there was adining-room. She had seen through the window two bareheaded girlsseated at tables with two soldiers. Three cab-drivers were dining at thefurther end of the long and narrow room, and an individual impossible toclassify under any calling was smoking, stretched on a chair, with hislegs stuck out in front of him, his hands in the waist-band of histrousers, and his head thrown back over the top bar. His jacket was amuseum of stains, and in his swollen pockets could be noted the neck ofa bottle, a piece of bread, a parcel wrapped up in a newspaper, and adangling piece of string. He had thick, tangled, curly hair, gray withscurf, and his cap was on the floor under his chair.

The entrance of Clotilde created a sensation, due to the elegance of hertoilet. The couples ceased whispering together, the three cab-driversleft off arguing, and the man who was smoking, having taken his pipefrom his mouth and spat in front of him, turned his head slightly tolook.

Madame de Marelle murmured: "It is very nice; we shall be verycomfortable here. Another time I will dress like a work-girl." And shesat down, without embarrassment or disgust, before the wooden table,polished by the fat of dishes, washed by spilt liquors, and cleaned by awisp of the waiter's napkin. Duroy, somewhat ill at ease, and slightlyashamed, sought a peg to hang his tall hat on. Not finding one, he putit on a chair.

They had a ragout, a slice of melon, and a salad. Clotilde repeated: "Idelight in this. I have low tastes. I like this better than the CaféAnglais." Then she added: "If you want to give me complete enjoyment,you will take me to a dancing place. I know a very funny one close bycalled the Reine Blanche."

Duroy, surprised at this, asked: "Whoever took you there?"

He looked at her and saw her blush, somewhat disturbed, as though thissudden question had aroused within her some delicate recollections.After one of these feminine hesitations, so short that they can scarcelybe guessed, she replied: "A friend of mine," and then, after a briefsilence, added, "who is dead." And she cast down her eyes with a verynatural sadness.

Duroy, for the first time, thought of all that he did not know asregarded the past life of this woman. Certainly she already had lovers,but of what kind, in what class of society? A vague jealousy, a speciesof enmity awoke within him; an enmity against all that he did not know,all that had not belonged to him. He looked at her, irritated at themystery wrapped up within that pretty, silent head, which was thinking,perhaps, at that very moment, of the other, the others, regretfully. Howhe would have liked to have looked into her recollections—to have knownall.

She repeated: "Will you take me to the Reine Blanche? That will be aperfect treat."

He thought: "What matters the past? I am very foolish to bother aboutit," and smilingly replied: "Certainly, darling."

When they were in the street she resumed, in that low and mysterioustone in which confidences are made: "I dared not ask you this until now,but you cannot imagine how I love these escapades in places ladies donot go to. During the carnival I will dress up as a schoolboy. I makesuch a capital boy."

When they entered the ball-room she clung close to him, gazing withdelighted eyes on the girls and the bullies, and from time to time, asthough to reassure herself as regards any possible danger, saying, asshe noticed some serious and motionless municipal guard: "That is astrong-looking fellow." In a quarter of an hour she had had enough of itand he escorted her home.

Then began quite a series of excursions in all the queer places wherethe common people amuse themselves, and Duroy discovered in his mistressquite a liking for this vagabondage of students bent on a spree. Shecame to their meeting-place in a cotton frock and with a servant'scap—a theatrical servant's cap—on her head; and despite the elegantand studied simplicity of her toilet, retained her rings, her bracelets,and her diamond earrings, saying, when he begged her to remove them:"Bah! they will think they are paste."

She thought she was admirably disguised, and although she was reallyonly concealed after the fashion of an ostrich, she went into the mostill-famed drinking places. She wanted Duroy to dress himself like aworkman, but he resisted, and retained his correct attire, without evenconsenting to exchange his tall hat for one of soft felt. She wasconsoled for this obstinacy on his part by the reflection that she wouldbe taken for a chambermaid engaged in a love affair with a gentleman,and thought this delightful. In this guise they went into popularwine-shops, and sat down on rickety chairs at old wooden tables insmoke-filled rooms. A cloud of strong tobacco smoke, with which stillblended the smell of fish fried at dinner time, filled the room; men inblouses shouted at one another as they tossed off nips of spirits; andthe astonished waiter would stare at this strange couple as he placedbefore them two cherry brandies. She—trembling, fearsome, yetcharmed—began to sip the red liquid, looking round her with uneasy andkindling eye. Each cherry swallowed gave her the sensation of a sincommitted, each drop of burning liquor flowing down her throat gave herthe pleasure of a naughty and forbidden joy.

Then she would say, "Let us go," and they would leave. She would passrapidly, with bent head and the short steps of an actress leaving thestage, among the drinkers, who, with their elbows on the tables, watchedher go by with suspicious and dissatisfied glances; and when she hadcrossed the threshold would give a deep sigh, as if she had just escapedsome terrible danger.

Sometimes she asked Duroy, with a shudder: "If I were insulted in theseplaces, what would you do?"

He would answer, with a swaggering air: "Take your part, by Jove!"

And she would clasp his arm with happiness, with, perhaps, a vague wishto be insulted and defended, to see men fight on her account, even suchmen as those, with her lover.

But these excursions taking place two or three times a week began toweary Duroy, who had great difficulty, besides, for some time past, inprocuring the ten francs necessary for the cake and the drinks. He nowlived very hardly and with more difficulty than when he was a clerk inthe Northern Railway; for having spent lavishly during his first monthof journalism, in the constant hope of gaining large sums of money in aday or two, he had exhausted all his resources and all means ofprocuring money. A very simple method, that of borrowing from thecashier, was very soon exhausted; and he already owed the paper fourmonths' salary, besides six hundred francs advanced on his lineageaccount. He owed, besides, a hundred francs to Forestier, three hundredto Jacques Rival, who was free-handed with his money; and he was alsoeaten up by a number of small debts of from five francs to twenty.Saint-Potin, consulted as to the means of raising another hundredfrancs, had discovered no expedient, although a man of inventive mind,and Duroy was exasperated at this poverty, of which he was more sensiblenow than formerly, since he had more wants. A sullen rage againsteveryone smouldered within him, with an ever-increasing irritation,which manifested itself at every moment on the most futile pretexts. Hesometimes asked himself how he could have spent an average of a thousandfrancs a month, without any excess and the gratification of anyextravagant fancy, and he found that, by adding a lunch at eightfrancs to a dinner at twelve, partaken of in some large café on theboulevards, he at once came to a louis, which, added to ten francspocket-money—that pocket-money that melts away, one does not knowhow—makes a total of thirty francs. But thirty francs a day is ninehundred francs at the end of the month. And he did not reckon in thecost of clothes, boots, linen, washing, etc.

So on the 14th December he found himself without a sou in his pocket,and without a notion in his mind how to get any money. He went, as hehad often done of old, without lunch, and passed the afternoon workingat the newspaper office, angry and preoccupied. About four o'clock hereceived a telegram from his mistress, running: "Shall we dine together,and have a lark afterwards?"

He at once replied: "Cannot dine." Then he reflected that he would bevery stupid to deprive himself of the pleasant moments she might affordhim, and added: "But will wait at nine at our place." And having sentone of the messengers with this, to save the cost of a telegram, hebegan to reflect what he should do to procure himself a dinner.

At seven o'clock he had not yet hit upon anything and a terrible hungerassailed him. Then he had recourse to the stratagem of a despairing man.He let all his colleagues depart, one after the other, and when he wasalone rang sharply. Monsieur Walter's messenger, left in charge of theoffices, came in. Duroy was standing feeling in his pockets, and said inan abrupt voice: "Foucart, I have left my purse at home, and I have togo and dine at the Luxembourg. Lend me fifty sous for my cab."

The man took three francs from his waistcoat pocket and said: "Do youwant any more, sir?"

"No, no, that will be enough. Thanks."

And having seized on the coins, Duroy ran downstairs and dined at aslap-bank, to which he drifted on his days of poverty.

At nine o'clock he was awaiting his mistress, with his feet on thefender, in the little sitting-room. She came in, lively and animated,brisked up by the keen air of the street. "If you like," said she, "wewill first go for a stroll, and then come home here at eleven. Theweather is splendid for walking."

He replied, in a grumbling tone: "Why go out? We are very comfortablehere."

She said, without taking off her bonnet: "If you knew, the moonlight isbeautiful. It is splendid walking about to-night."

"Perhaps so, but I do not care for walking about!"

He had said this in an angry fashion. She was struck and hurt by it, andasked: "What is the matter with you? Why do you go on in this way? Ishould like to go for a stroll, and I don't see how that can vex you."

He got up in a rage. "It does not vex me. It is a bother, that is all."

She was one of those sort of women whom resistance irritates andimpoliteness exasperates, and she said disdainfully and with angry calm:"I am not accustomed to be spoken to like that. I will go alone, then.Good-bye."

He understood that it was serious, and darting towards her, seized herhands and kissed them, saying: "Forgive me, darling, forgive me. I amvery nervous this evening, very irritable. I have had vexations andannoyances, you know—matters of business."

She replied, somewhat softened, but not calmed down: "That does notconcern me, and I will not bear the consequences of your ill-temper."

He took her in his arms, and drew her towards the couch.

"Listen, darling, I did not want to hurt you; I was not thinking of whatI was saying."

He had forced her to sit down, and, kneeling before her, went on: "Haveyou forgiven me? Tell me you have forgiven me?"

She murmured, coldly: "Very well, but do not do so again;" and rising,she added: "Now let us go for a stroll."

He had remained at her feet, with his arms clasped about her hips, andstammered: "Stay here, I beg of you. Grant me this much. I should solike to keep you here this evening all to myself, here by the fire. Sayyes, I beg of you, say yes."

She answered plainly and firmly: "No, I want to go out, and I am notgoing to give way to your fancies."

He persisted. "I beg of you, I have a reason, a very serious reason."

She said again: "No; and if you won't go out with me, I shall go.Good-bye."

She had freed herself with a jerk, and gained the door. He ran towardsher, and clasped her in his arms, crying:

"Listen, Clo, my little Clo; listen, grant me this much."

She shook her head without replying, avoiding his kisses, and strivingto escape from his grasp and go.

He stammered: "Clo, my little Clo, I have a reason."

She stopped, and looking him full in the face, said: "You are lying.What is it?"

He blushed not knowing what to say, and she went on in an indignanttone: "You see very well that you are lying, you low brute." And with anangry gesture and tears in her eyes, she escaped him.

He again caught her by the shoulders, and, in despair, ready toacknowledge anything in order to avoid a rupture, he said, in adespairing tone: "I have not a son. That's what it all means." Shestopped short, and looking into his eyes to read the truth in them,said: "You say?"

He had flushed to the roots of his hair. "I say that I have not a sou.Do you understand? Not twenty sous, not ten, not enough to pay for aglass of cassis in the café we may go into. You force me to confess whatI am ashamed of. It was, however, impossible for me to go out with you,and when we were seated with refreshments in front of us to tell youquietly that I could not pay for them."

She was still looking him in the face. "It is true, then?"

In a moment he had turned out all his pockets, those of his trousers,coat, and waistcoat, and murmured: "There, are you satisfied now?"

Suddenly opening her arms, in an outburst of passion, she threw themaround his neck, crying: "Oh, my poor darling, my poor darling, if I hadonly known. How did it happen?"

She made him sit down, and sat down herself on his knees; then, with herarm round his neck, kissing him every moment on his moustache, hismouth, his eyes, she obliged him to tell her how this misfortune hadcome about.

He invented a touching story. He had been obliged to come to theassistance of his father, who found himself in difficulties. He had notonly handed over to him all his savings, but had even incurred heavydebts on his behalf. He added: "I shall be pinched to the last degreefor at least six months, for I have exhausted all my resources. So muchthe worse; there are crises in every life. Money, after all, is notworth troubling about."

She whispered: "I will lend you some; will you let me?"

He answered, with dignity: "You are very kind, pet; but do not think ofthat, I beg of you. You would hurt my feelings."

She was silent, and then clasping him in her arms, murmured: "You willnever know how much I love you."

It was one of their most pleasant evenings.

As she was leaving, she remarked, smilingly: "How nice it is when one isin your position to find money you had forgotten in your pocket—a cointhat had worked its way between the stuff and the lining."

He replied, in a tone of conviction: "Ah, yes, that it is."

She insisted on walking home, under the pretense that the moon wasbeautiful and went into ecstasies over it. It was a cold, still night atthe beginning of winter. Pedestrians and horses went by quickly, spurredby a sharp frost. Heels rang on the pavement. As she left him she said:"Shall we meet again the day after to-morrow?"

"Certainly."

"At the same time?"

"The same time."

"Good-bye, dearest." And they kissed lovingly.

Then he walked home swiftly, asking himself what plan he could hit onthe morrow to get out of his difficulty. But as he opened the door ofhis room, and fumbled in his waistcoat pocket for a match, he wasstupefied to find a coin under his fingers. As soon as he had a light hehastened to examine it. It was a louis. He thought he must be mad. Heturned it over and over, seeking by what miracle it could have foundits way there. It could not, however, have fallen from heaven into hispocket.

Then all at once he guessed, and an angry indignation awoke within him.His mistress had spoken of money slipping into the lining, and beingfound in times of poverty. It was she who had tendered him this alms.How shameful! He swore: "Ah! I'll talk to her the day after to-morrow.She shall have a nice time over it."

And he went to bed, his heart filled with anger and humiliation.

He woke late. He was hungry. He tried to go to sleep again, in order notto get up till two o'clock, and then said to himself: "That will notforward matters. I must end by finding some money." Then he went out,hoping that an idea might occur to him in the street. It did not; but atevery restaurant he passed a longing to eat made his mouth water. As bynoon he had failed to hit on any plan, he suddenly made up his mind: "Iwill lunch out of Clotilde's twenty francs. That won't hinder me frompaying them back to-morrow."

He, therefore, lunched for two francs fifty centimes. On reaching theoffice he also gave three francs to the messenger, saying: "Here,Foucart, here is the money you lent me last night for my cab."

He worked till seven o'clock. Then he went and dined taking anotherthree francs. The two evening bocks brought the expenditure of the dayup to nine francs thirty centimes. But as he could not re-establish acredit or create fresh resources in twenty-four hours, he borrowedanother six francs fifty centimes the next day from the twenty he wasgoing to return that very evening, so that he came to keep hisappointment with just four francs twenty centimes in his pocket.

He was in a deuce of a temper, and promised himself that he would prettysoon explain things. He would say to his mistress: "You know, I foundthe twenty francs you slipped into my pocket the other day. I cannotgive them back to you now, because my situation is unaltered, and I havenot had time to occupy myself with money matters. But I will give themto you the next time we meet."

She arrived, loving, eager, full of alarm. How would he receive her? Shekissed him persistently to avoid an explanation at the outset.

He said to himself: "It will be time enough to enter on the matterby-and-by. I will find an opportunity of doing so."

He did not find the opportunity, and said nothing, shirking before thedifficulty of opening this delicate subject. She did not speak of goingout, and was in every way charming. They separated about midnight, aftermaking an appointment for the Wednesday of the following week, forMadame de Marelle was engaged to dine out several days in succession.

The next day, as Duroy, on paying for his breakfast, felt for the fourcoins that ought to be remaining to him, he perceived that they werefive, and one of them a gold one. At the outset he thought that he hadreceived it by mistake in his change the day before, then he understoodit, and his heart throbbed with humiliation at this persistent charity.How he now regretted not having said anything! If he had spokenenergetically this would not have happened.

For four days he made efforts, as numerous as they were fruitless, toraise five louis, and spent Clotilde's second one. She managed, althoughhe had said to her savagely, "Don't play that joke of the otherevening's again, or I shall get angry," to slip another twenty francsinto his trouser pockets the first time they met. When he found them heswore bitterly, and transferred them to his waistcoat to have them underhis hand, for he had not a rap. He appeased his conscience by thisargument: "I will give it all back to her in a lump. After all, it isonly borrowed money."

At length the cashier of the paper agreed, on his desperate appeals, tolet him have five francs daily. It was just enough to live upon, but notenough to repay sixty francs with. But as Clotilde was again seized byher passion for nocturnal excursions in all the suspicious localities inParis, he ended by not being unbearably annoyed to find a yellow boy inone of his pockets, once even in his boot, and another time in hiswatch-case, after their adventurous excursions. Since she had wisheswhich he could not for the moment gratify himself, was it not naturalthat she should pay for them rather than go without them? He kept anaccount, too, of all he received in this way, in order to return it toher some day.

One evening she said to him: "Would you believe that I have never beento the Folies-Bergère? Will you take me there?"

He hesitated a moment, afraid of meeting Rachel. Then he thought: "Bah!I am not married, after all. If that girl sees me she will understandthe state of things, and will not speak to me. Besides, we will have abox."

Another reason helped his decision. He was well pleased of thisopportunity of offering Madame de Marelle a box at the theater withoutit* costing anything. It was a kind of compensation.

He left her in the cab while he got the order for the box, in order thatshe might not see it offered him, and then came to fetch her. They wentin, and were received with bows by the acting manager. An immense crowdfilled the lounge, and they had great difficulty in making their waythrough the swarm of men and women. At length they reached the box andsettled themselves in it, shut in between the motionless orchestra andthe eddy of the gallery. But Madame de Marelle rarely glanced at thestage. Wholly taken up with the women promenading behind her back, sheconstantly turned round to look at them, with a longing to touch them,to feel their bodices, their skirts, their hair, to know what thesecreatures were made of.

Suddenly she said: "There is a stout, dark girl who keeps watching usall the time. I thought just now that she was going to speak to us. Didyou notice her?"

He answered: "No, you must be mistaken." But he had already noticed herfor some time back. It was Rachel who was prowling about in theirneighborhood, with anger in her eyes and hard words upon her lips.

Duroy had brushed against her in making his way through the crowd, andshe had whispered, "Good evening," with a wink which signified, "Iunderstand." But he had not replied to this mark of attention for fearof being seen by his mistress, and he had passed on coldly, with haughtylook and disdainful lip. The woman, whom unconscious jealousy alreadyassailed, turned back, brushed against him again, and said in loudertones: "Good evening, George." He had not answered even then. Then shemade up her mind to be recognized and bowed to, and she kept continuallypassing in the rear of the box, awaiting a favorable moment.

As soon as she saw that Madame de Marelle was looking at her she touchedDuroy's shoulder, saying: "Good evening, are you quite well?"

He did not turn round, and she went on: "What, have you grown deaf sinceThursday?" He did not reply, affecting a contempt which would not allowhim to compromise himself even by a word with this slu*t.

She began to laugh an angry laugh, and said: "So you are dumb, then?Perhaps the lady has bitten your tongue off?"

He made an angry movement, and exclaimed, in an exasperated tone: "Whatdo you mean by speaking to me? Be off, or I will have you locked up."

Then, with fiery eye and swelling bosom, she screeched out: "So that'sit, is it? Ah! you lout. When a man sleeps with a woman the least he cando is to nod to her. It is no reason because you are with someone elsethat you should cut me to-day. If you had only nodded to me when Ipassed you just now, I should have left you alone. But you wanted to dothe grand. I'll pay you out! Ah, so you won't say good evening when youmeet me!"

She would have gone on for a long time, but Madame de Marelle had openedthe door of the box and fled through the crowd, blindly seeking the wayout. Duroy started off in her rear and strove to catch her up, whileRachel, seeing them flee, yelled triumphantly: "Stop her, she has stolenmy sweetheart."

People began to laugh. Two gentlemen for fun seized the fugitive by theshoulders and sought to bring her back, trying, too, to kiss her. ButDuroy, having caught her up, freed her forcibly and led her away intothe street. She jumped into an empty cab standing at the door. He jumpedin after her, and when the driver asked, "Where to, sir?" replied,"Wherever you like."

The cab slowly moved off, jolting over the paving stones. Clotilde,seized by a kind of hysterical attack, sat choking and gasping with herhands covering her face, and Duroy neither knew what to do nor what tosay. At last, as he heard her sobbing, he stammered out: "Clo, my dearlittle Clo, just listen, let me explain. It is not my fault. I used toknow that woman, some time ago, you know—"

She suddenly took her hands from her face, and overcome by the wrath ofa loving and deceitful woman, a furious wrath that enabled her torecover her speech, she pantingly jerked out, in rapid and brokensentences: "Oh!—you wretch—you wretch—what a scoundrel you are—canit be possible? How shameful—O Lord—how shameful!" Then, gettingangrier and angrier as her ideas grew clearer and arguments suggestedthemselves to her, she went on: "It was with my money you paid her,wasn't it? And I was giving him money—for that creature. Oh, thescoundrel!" She seemed for a few minutes to be seeking some strongerexpression that would not come, and then all at once she spat out, as itwere, the words: "Oh! you swine—you swine—you swine—you paid herwith my money—you swine—you swine!" She could not think of anythingelse, and kept repeating, "You swine, you swine!"

Suddenly she leant out of the window, and catching the driver by thesleeve, cried, "Stop," and opening the door, sprang out.

George wanted to follow, but she cried, "I won't have you get out," insuch loud tones that the passers-by began to gather about her, and Duroydid not move for fear of a scandal. She took her purse from her pocketand looked for some change by the light of the cab lantern, then takingtwo francs fifty centimes she put them in the driver's hand, saying, inringing tones: "There is your fare—I pay you, now take this blackguardto the Rue Boursault, Batignolles."

Mirth was aroused in the group surrounding her. A gentleman said: "Welldone, little woman," and a young rapscallion standing close to the cabthrust his head into the open door and sang out, in shrill tones,"Good-night, lovey!" Then the cab started off again, followed by a burstof laughter.

VI

George Duroy woke up chapfallen the next morning.

He dressed himself slowly, and then sat down at his window and began toreflect. He felt a kind of aching sensation all over, just as though hehad received a drubbing over night. At last the necessity of findingsome money spurred him up, and he went first to Forestier.

His friend received him in his study with his feet on the fender.

"What has brought you out so early?" said he.

"A very serious matter, a debt of honor."

"At play?"

He hesitated a moment, and then said: "At play."

"Heavy?"

"Five hundred francs."

He only owed two hundred and eighty.

Forestier, skeptical on the point, inquired: "Whom do you owe it to?"

Duroy could not answer right off. "To—to—a Monsieur de Carleville."

"Ah! and where does he live?"

"At—at—"

Forestier began to laugh. "Number ought, Nowhere Street, eh? I know thatgentleman, my dear fellow. If you want twenty francs, I have still thatmuch at your service, but no more."

Duroy took the offered louis. Then he went from door to door among thepeople he knew, and wound up by having collected at about five o'clockthe sum of eighty francs. And he still needed two hundred more; he madeup his mind, and keeping for himself what he had thus gleaned, murmured:"Bah! I am not going to put myself out for that cat. I will pay her whenI can."

For a fortnight he lived regularly, economically, and chastely, his mindfilled with energetic resolves. Then he was seized with a strong longingfor love. It seemed to him that several years had passed since he lastclasped a woman in his arms, and like the sailor who goes wild on seeingland, every passing petticoat made him quiver. So he went one eveningto the Folies Bergère in the hope of finding Rachel. He caught sight ofher indeed, directly he entered, for she scarcely went elsewhere, andwent up to her smiling with outstretched hand. But she merely looked himdown from head to foot, saying: "What do you want with me?"

He tried to laugh it off with, "Come, don't be stuck-up."

She turned on her heels, saying: "I don't associate with ponces."

She had picked out the bitterest insult. He felt the blood rush to hisface, and went home alone.

Forestier, ill, weak, always coughing, led him a hard life at the paper,and seemed to rack his brain to find him tiresome jobs. One day, even,in a moment of nervous irritation, and after a long fit of coughing, asDuroy had not brought him a piece of information he wanted, he growledout: "Confound it! you are a bigger fool than I thought."

The other almost struck him, but restrained himself, and went awaymuttering: "I'll manage to pay you out some day." An idea shot throughhis mind, and he added: "I will make a cuckold of you, old fellow!" Andhe took himself off, rubbing his hands, delighted at this project.

He resolved to set about it the very next day. He paid Madame Forestiera visit as a reconnaissance. He found her lying at full length on acouch, reading a book. She held out her hand without rising, merelyturning her head, and said: "Good-day, Pretty-boy!"

He felt as though he had received a blow. "Why do you call me that?" hesaid.

She replied, with a smile: "I saw Madame de Marelle the other day, andlearned how you had been baptized at her place."

He felt reassured by her amiable air. Besides, what was there for him tobe afraid of?

She resumed: "You spoil her. As to me, people come to see me when theythink of it—the thirty-second of the month, or something like it."

He sat down near her, and regarded her with a new species of curiosity,the curiosity of the amateur who is bargain-hunting. She was charming, asoft and tender blonde, made for caresses, and he thought: "She isbetter than the other, certainly." He did not doubt his success, itseemed to him that he had only to stretch out his hand and take her, asone gathers a fruit.

He said, resolutely: "I did not come to see you, because it was betterso."

She asked, without understanding: "What? Why?"

"No, not at all."

"Because I am in love with you; oh! only a little, and I do not want tobe head over ears."

She seemed neither astonished, nor shocked, nor flattered; she went onsmiling the same indifferent smile, and replied with the sametranquillity: "Oh! you can come all the same. No one is in love with melong."

He was surprised, more by the tone than by the words, and asked: "Whynot?"

"Because it is useless. I let this be understood at once. If you hadtold me of your fear before, I should have reassured you, and invitedyou, on the contrary, to come as often as possible."

He exclaimed, in a pathetic tone: "Can we command our feelings?"

She turned towards him: "My dear friend, for me a man in love is struckoff the list of the living. He becomes idiotic, and not only idiotic,but dangerous. I cease all intimate relations with people who are inlove with me, or who pretend to be so—because they bore me, in thefirst place; and, secondly, because they are as much objects ofsuspicion to me as a mad dog, which may have a fit of biting. Itherefore put them into a kind of moral quarantine until their illnessis over. Do not forget this. I know very well that in your case love isonly a species of appetite, while with me it would be, on the contrary,a kind of—of—of communion of souls, which does not enter into a man'sreligion. You understand its letter, and its spirit. But look me well inthe face." She no longer smiled. Her face was calm and cold, and shecontinued, emphatically: "I will never, never be your mistress; youunderstand. It is therefore absolutely useless, it would even behurtful, for you to persist in this desire. And now that the operationis over, will you agree to be friends—good friends—real friends, Imean, without any mental reservation."

He had understood that any attempt would be useless in face of thisirrevocable sentence. He made up his mind at once, frankly, and,delighted at being able to secure this ally in the battle of life, heldout both hands, saying: "I am yours, madame, as you will."

She read the sincerity of his intention in his voice, and gave him herhands. He kissed them both, one after the other, and then said simply,as he raised his head: "Ah, if I had found a woman like you, how gladlyI would have married her."

She was touched this time—soothed by this phrase, as women are by thecompliments which reach their hearts, and she gave him one of thoserapid and grateful looks which make us their slaves. Then, as he couldfind no change of subject to renew the conversation, she said softly,laying her finger on his arm: "And I am going to play my part of afriend at once. You are clumsy." She hesitated a moment, and then asked:"May I speak plainly?"

"Yes."

"Quite plainly?"

"Quite."

"Well, go and see Madame Walter, who greatly appreciates you, and doyour best to please her. You will find a place there for yourcompliments, although she is virtuous, you understand me, perfectlyvirtuous. Oh! there is no hope of—of poaching there, either. You mayfind something better, though, by showing yourself. I know that youstill hold an inferior position on the paper. But do not be afraid, theyreceive all their staff with the same kindness. Go there—believe me."

He said, with a smile: "Thanks, you are an angel, a guardian angel."

They spoke of one thing and another. He stayed for some time, wishing toprove that he took pleasure in being with her, and on leaving, remarked:"It is understood, then, that we are friends?"

"It is."

As he had noted the effect of the compliment he had paid her shortlybefore, he seconded it by adding: "And if ever you become a widow, Ienter the lists."

Then he hurried away, so as not to give her time to get angry.

A visit to Madame Walter was rather awkward for Duroy, for he had notbeen authorized to call, and he did not want to commit a blunder. Thegovernor displayed some good will towards him, appreciated his services,and employed him by preference on difficult jobs, so why should he notprofit by this favor to enter the house? One day, then, having risenearly, he went to the market while the morning sales were in progress,and for ten francs obtained a score of splendid pears. Having carefullypacked them in a hamper to make it appear that they had come from adistance, he left them with the doorkeeper at Madame Walter's with hiscard, on which he had written: "George Duroy begs Madame Walter toaccept a little fruit which he received this morning from Normandy."

He found the next morning, among his letters at the office, an envelopein reply, containing the card of Madame Walter, who "thanked MonsieurGeorge Duroy, and was at home every Saturday."

On the following Saturday he called. Monsieur Walter occupied, on theBoulevard Malesherbes, a double house, which belonged to him, and ofwhich a part was let off, in the economical way of practical people. Asingle doorkeeper, quartered between the two carriage entrances, openedthe door for both landlord and tenant, and imparted to each of theentrances an air of wealth by his get-up like a beadle, his big calvesin white stockings, and his coat with gilt buttons and scarlet facings.The reception-rooms were on the first floor, preceded by an ante-roomhung with tapestry, and shut in by curtains over the doorways. Twofootmen were dozing on benches. One of them took Duroy's overcoat andthe other relieved him of his cane, opened the door, advanced a fewsteps in front of the visitor, and then drawing aside, let him pass,calling out his name, into an empty room.

The young fellow, somewhat embarrassed, looked round on all sides whenhe perceived in a glass some people sitting down who seemed very faroff. He was at sea at first as to the direction in which they were, themirror having deceived his eyes. Then he passed through two emptydrawing-rooms and reached a small boudoir hung with blue silk, wherefour ladies were chatting round a table bearing cups of tea. Despite theassurance he had acquired in course of his Parisian life, and above allin his career as a reporter, which constantly brought him into contactwith important personages, Duroy felt somewhat intimidated by the get-upof the entrance and the passage through the deserted drawing-room. Hestammered: "Madame, I have ventured," as his eyes sought the mistress ofthe house.

She held out her hand, which he took with a bow, and having remarked:"You are very kind sir, to call and see me," she pointed to a chair, inseeking to sit down in which he almost fell, having thought it muchhigher.

They had become silent. One of the ladies began to talk again. It was aquestion of the frost, which was becoming sharper, though not enough,however, to check the epidemic of typhoid fever, nor to allow skating.Every one gave her opinion on this advent of frost in Paris, then theyexpressed their preference for the different seasons with all thetrivial reasons that lie about in people's minds like dust in rooms. Thefaint noise made by a door caused Duroy to turn his head, and he saw ina glass a stout lady approaching. As soon as she made her appearance inthe boudoir one of the other visitors rose, shook hands and left, andthe young fellow followed her black back glittering with jet through thedrawing-rooms with his eyes. When the agitation due to this change hadsubsided they spoke without transition of the Morocco question and thewar in the East and also of the difficulties of England in South Africa.These ladies discussed these matters from memory, as if they had beenreciting passages from a fashionable play, frequently rehearsed.

A fresh arrival took place, that of a little curly-headed blonde, whichbrought about the departure of a tall, thin lady of middle age. They nowspoke of the chance Monsieur Linet had of getting into theAcademie-Francaise. The new-comer formerly believed that he would bebeaten by Monsieur Cabanon-Lebas, the author of the fine dramaticadaption of Don Quixote in verse.

"You know it is to be played at the Odeon next winter?"

"Really, I shall certainly go and see such a very excellent literaryeffort."

Madame Walter answered gracefully with calm indifference, without everhesitating as to what she should say, her mind being always made upbeforehand. But she saw that night was coming on, and rang for thelamps, while listening to the conversation that trickled on like astream of honey, and thinking that she had forgotten to call on thestationer about the invitation cards for her next dinner. She was alittle too stout, though still beautiful, at the dangerous age when thegeneral break-up is at hand. She preserved herself by dint of care,hygienic precautions, and salves for the skin. She seemed discreet inall matters; moderate and reasonable; one of those women whose mind iscorrectly laid out like a French garden. One walks through it withsurprise, but experiencing a certain charm. She had keen, discreet, andsound sense, that stood her instead of fancy, generosity, and affection,together with a calm kindness for everybody and everything.

She noted that Duroy had not said anything, that he had not been spokento, and that he seemed slightly ill at ease; and as the ladies had notyet quitted the Academy, that favorite subject always occupying themsome time, she said: "And you who should be better informed than anyone, Monsieur Duroy, who is your favorite?"

He replied unhesitatingly: "In this matter, madame, I should neverconsider the merit, always disputable, of the candidates, but their ageand their state of health. I should not ask about their credentials, buttheir disease. I should not seek to learn whether they have made ametrical translation of Lope de Vega, but I should take care to obtaininformation as to the state of their liver, their heart, their lungs,and their spinal marrow. For me a good hypertrophy, a good aneurism, andabove all, a good beginning of locomotor ataxy, would be a hundred timesmore valuable than forty volumes of disgressions on the idea ofpatriotism as embodied in barbaric poetry."

An astonished silence followed this opinion, and Madame Walter askedwith a smile: "But why?"

He replied: "Because I never seek aught else than the pleasure that anyone can give the ladies. But, Madame, the Academy only has any realinterest for you when an Academician dies. The more of them die thehappier you must be. But in order that they may die quickly they must beelected sick and old." As they still remained somewhat surprised, hecontinued. "Besides, I am like you, and I like to read of the death ofan Academician. I at once ask myself: 'Who will replace him?' And I drawup my list. It is a game, a very pretty little game that is played inall Parisian salons at each decease of one of the Immortals, the game of'Death and the Forty Fogies.'"

The ladies, still slightly disconcerted, began however, to smile, sotrue were his remarks. He concluded, as he rose: "It is you who reallyelect them, ladies, and you only elect them to see them die. Choose themold, therefore, very old; as old as possible, and do not troubleyourselves about anything else."

He then retired very gracefully. As soon as he was gone, one of theladies said: "He is very funny, that young fellow. Who is he?"

Madame Walter replied: "One of the staff of our paper, who does not domuch yet; but I feel sure that he will get on."

Duroy strode gayly down the Boulevard Malesherbes, content with hisexit, and murmuring: "A capital start."

He made it up with Rachel that evening.

The following week two things happened to him. He was appointed chiefreporter and invited to dinner at Madame Walter's. He saw at once aconnection between these things. The Vie Francaise was beforeeverything a financial paper, the head of it being a financier, to whomthe press and the position of a deputy served as levers. Making use ofevery cordiality as a weapon, he had always worked under the smilingmask of a good fellow; but he only employed men whom he had sounded,tried, and proved; whom he knew to be crafty, bold, and supple. Duroy,appointed chief of the reporting staff, seemed to him a valuable fellow.

This duty had been filled up till then by the chief sub-editor, MonsieurBoisrenard, an old journalist, as correct, punctual, and scrupulous as aclerk. In course of thirty years he had been sub-editor of elevendifferent papers, without in any way modifying his way of thinking oracting. He passed from one office to another as one changes one'srestaurant, scarcely noticing that the cookery was not quite the same.Political and religious opinions were foreign to him. He was devoted tohis paper, whatever it might be, well up in his work, and valuable fromhis experience. He worked like a blind man who sees nothing, like a deafman who hears nothing, and like a dumb man who never speaks of anything.He had, however, a strong instinct of professional loyalty, and wouldnot stoop to aught he did not think honest and right from the specialpoint of view of his business.

Monsieur Walter, who thoroughly appreciated him, had however, oftenwished for another man to whom to entrust the "Echoes," which he held tobe the very marrow of the paper. It is through them that rumors are setafloat and the public and the funds influenced. It is necessary to knowhow to slip the all-important matter, rather hinted at than said rightout, in between the description of two fashionable entertainments,without appearing to intend it. It is necessary to imply a thing byjudicious reservations; let what is desired be guessed at; contradict insuch a fashion as to confirm, or affirm in such a way that no one shallbelieve the statement. It is necessary that in the "Echoes" everyoneshall find every day at least one line of interest, in order that everyone may read them. Every one must be thought of, all classes, allprofessions, Paris and the provinces, the army and the art world, theclergy and the university, the bar and the world of gallantry. The manwho has the conduct of them, and who commands an army of reporters, mustbe always on the alert and always on his guard; mistrustful, far-seeing,cunning, alert, and supple; armed with every kind of cunning, and giftedwith an infallible knack of spotting false news at the first glance, ofjudging which is good to announce and good to hide, of divining whatwill catch the public, and of putting it forward in such a way as todouble its effect.

Monsieur Boisrenard, who had in his favor the skill acquired by longhabit, nevertheless lacked mastery and dash; he lacked, above all, thenative cunning needed to put forth day by day the secret ideas of themanager. Duroy could do it to perfection, and was an admirable additionto the staff. The wire-pullers and real editors of the Vie Francaisewere half a dozen deputies, interested in all the speculations broughtout or backed up by the manager. They were known in the Chamber as"Walter's gang," and envied because they gained money with him andthrough him. Forestier, the political editor, was only the man of strawof these men of business, the worker-out of ideas suggested by them.They prompted his leaders, which he always wrote at home, so as to do soin quiet, he said. But in order to give the paper a literary and trulyParisian smack, the services of two celebrated writers in differentstyles had been secured—Jacques Rival, a descriptive writer, andNorbert de Varenne, a poet and story-writer. To these had been added, ata cheap rate, theatrical, musical and art critics, a law reporter, and asporting reporter, from the mercenary tribe of all-round pressmen. Twoladies, "Pink Domino" and "Lily Fingers," sent in fashion articles, anddealt with questions of dress, etiquette, and society.

Duroy was in all the joy of his appointment as chief of the "Echoes"when he received a printed card on which he read: "Monsieur and MadameWalter request the pleasure of Monsieur Geo. Duroy's company at dinner,on Thursday, January 20." This new mark of favor following on the otherfilled him with such joy that he kissed the invitation as he would havedone a love letter. Then he went in search of the cashier to deal withthe important question of money. A chief of the reporting staff on aParis paper generally has his budget out of which he pays his reportersfor the intelligence, important or trifling, brought in by them, asgardeners bring in their fruits to a dealer. Twelve hundred francs amonth were allotted at the outset to Duroy, who proposed to himself toretain a considerable share of it. The cashier, on his pressinginstances, ended by advancing him four hundred francs. He had at firstthe intention of sending Madame de Marelle the two hundred and eightyfrancs he owed her, but he almost immediately reflected that he wouldonly have a hundred and twenty left, a sum utterly insufficient to carryon his new duties in suitable fashion, and so put off this resolution toa future day.

During a couple of days he was engaged in settling down, for he hadinherited a special table and a set of pigeon holes in the large roomserving for the whole of the staff. He occupied one end of the room,while Boisrenard, whose head, black as a crow's, despite his age, wasalways bent over a sheet of paper, had the other. The long table in themiddle belonged to the staff. Generally it served them to sit on, eitherwith their legs dangling over the edges, or squatted like tailors in thecenter. Sometimes five or six would be sitting on it in that fashion,perseveringly playing cup and ball. Duroy had ended by having a tastefor this amusem*nt, and was beginning to get expert at it, under theguidance, and thanks to the advice of Saint-Potin. Forestier, grownworse, had lent him his fine cup and ball in West Indian wood, the lasthe had bought, and which he found rather too heavy for him, and Duroyswung with vigorous arm the big black ball at the end of its string,counting quickly to himself: "One—two—three—four—five—six." Ithappened precisely that for the first time he spiked the ball twentytimes running, the very day that he was to dine at Madame Walter's. "Agood day," he thought, "I am successful in everything." For skill atcup and ball really conferred a kind of superiority in the office ofthe Vie Francaise.

He left the office early to have time to dress, and was going up the Ruede Londres when he saw, trotting along in front of him, a little womanwhose figure recalled that of Madame de Marelle. He felt his cheeksflush, and his heart began to beat. He crossed the road to get a view ofher. She stopped, in order to cross over, too. He had made a mistake,and breathed again. He had often asked how he ought to behave if he mether face to face. Should he bow, or should he seem not to have seenher. "I should not see her," he thought.

It was cold; the gutters were frozen, and the pavement dry and gray inthe gas-light. When he got home he thought: "I must change my lodgings;this is no longer good enough for me." He felt nervous and lively,capable of anything; and he said aloud, as he walked from his bed to thewindow: "It is fortune at last—it is fortune! I must write to father."From time to time he wrote to his father, and the letter always broughthappiness to the little Norman inn by the roadside, at the summit of theslope overlooking Rouen and the broad valley of the Seine. From time totime, too, he received a blue envelope, addressed in a large, shakyhand, and read the same unvarying lines at the beginning of the paternalepistle. "My Dear Son: This leaves your mother and myself in goodhealth. There is not much news here. I must tell you, however," etc. Inhis heart he retained a feeling of interest for the village matters, forthe news of the neighbours, and the condition of the crops.

He repeated to himself, as he tied his white tie before his littlelooking-glass: "I must write to father to-morrow. Wouldn't the oldfellow be staggered if he could see me this evening in the house I amgoing to? By Jove! I am going to have such a dinner as he never tasted."And he suddenly saw the dark kitchen behind the empty café; the copperstewpans casting their yellow reflections on the wall; the cat on thehearth, with her nose to the fire, in sphinx-like attitude; the woodentable, greasy with time and spilt liquids, a soup tureen smoking uponit, and a lighted candle between two plates. He saw them, too—hisfather and mother, two slow-moving peasants, eating their soup. He knewthe smallest wrinkles on their old faces, the slightest movements oftheir arms and heads. He knew even what they talked about every eveningas they sat at supper. He thought, too: "I must really go and see them;"but his toilet being ended, he blew out his light and went downstairs.

As he passed along the outer boulevard girls accosted him from time totime. He replied, as he pulled away his arm: "Go to the devil!" with aviolent disdain, as though they had insulted him. What did they take himfor? Could not these hussies tell what a man was? The sensation of hisdress coat, put on in order to go to dinner with such well-known andimportant people, inspired him with the sentiment of a newimpersonality—the sense of having become another man, a man in society,genuine society.

He entered the ante-room, lit by tall bronze candelabra, withconfidence, and handed in easy fashion his cane and overcoat to twovalets who approached. All the drawing-rooms were lit up. Madame Walterreceived her guests in the second, the largest. She welcomed him with acharming smile, and he shook hands with two gentlemen who had arrivedbefore him—Monsieur Firmin and Monsieur Laroche-Mathieu, deputies, andanonymous editors of the Vie Francaise. Monsieur Laroche-Mathieu had aspecial authority at the paper, due to a great influence he enjoyed inthe Chamber. No one doubted his being a minister some day. Then came theForestiers; the wife in pink, and looking charming. Duroy was stupefiedto see her on terms of intimacy with the two deputies. She chatted inlow tones beside the fireplace, for more than five minutes, withMonsieur Laroche-Mathieu. Charles seemed worn out. He had grown muchthinner during the past month, and coughed incessantly as he repeated:"I must make up my mind to finish the winter in the south." Norbert deVarenne and Jacques Rival made their appearance together. Then a doorhaving opened at the further end of the room, Monsieur Walter came inwith two tall young girls, of from sixteen to eighteen, one ugly and theother pretty.

Duroy knew that the governor was the father of a family; but he wasstruck with astonishment. He had never thought of his daughters, save asone thinks of distant countries which one will never see. And then hehad fancied them quite young, and here they were grown-up women. Theyheld out their hands to him after being introduced, and then went andsat down at a little table, without doubt reserved to them, at whichthey began to turn over a number of reels of silk in a work-basket. Theywere still awaiting someone, and all were silent with that sense ofoppression, preceding dinners, between people who do not find themselvesin the same mental atmosphere after the different occupations of theday.

Duroy having, for want of occupation, raised his eyes towards the wall,Monsieur Walter called to him from a distance, with an evident wish toshow off his property: "Are you looking at my pictures? I will show themto you," and he took a lamp, so that the details might be distinguished.

"Here we have landscapes," said he.

In the center of the wall was a large canvas by Guillemet, a bit of theNormandy coast under a lowering sky. Below it a wood, by Harpignies, anda plain in Algeria, by Guillemet, with a camel on the horizon, a tallcamel with long legs, like some strange monument. Monsieur Walter passedon to the next wall, and announced in a grave tone, like a master of theceremonies: "High Art." There were four: "A Hospital Visit," by Gervex;"A Harvester," by Bastien-Lepage; "A Widow," by Bouguereau; and "AnExecution," by Jean Paul Laurens. The last work represented a Vendeanpriest shot against the wall of his church by a detachment of Blues. Asmile flitted across the governor's grave countenance as he indicatedthe next wall. "Here the fanciful school." First came a little canvas byJean Beraud, entitled, "Above and Below." It was a pretty Parisianmounting to the roof of a tramcar in motion. Her head appeared on alevel with the top, and the gentlemen on the seats viewed withsatisfaction the pretty face approaching them, while those standing onthe platform below considered the young woman's legs with a differentexpression of envy and desire. Monsieur Walter held the lamp at arm'slength, and repeated, with a sly laugh: "It is funny, isn't it?" Then helit up "A Rescue," by Lambert. In the middle of a table a kitten,squatted on its haunches, was watching with astonishment and perplexitya fly drowning in a glass of water. It had its paw raised ready to fishout the insect with a rapid sweep of it. But it had not quite made upits mind. It hesitated. What would it do? Then the governor showed aDetaille, "The Lesson," which represented a soldier in a barrack-roomteaching a poodle to play the drum, and said: "That is very witty."

Duroy laughed a laugh of approbation, and exclaimed: "It is charming,charm—" He stopped short on hearing behind him the voice of Madame deMarelle, who had just come in.

The governor continued to light up the pictures as he explained them. Henow showed a water-color by Maurice Leloir, "The Obstacle." It was asedan chair checked on its way, the street being blocked by a fightbetween two laborers, two fellows struggling like Hercules. From out ofthe window of the chair peered the head of a charming woman, who watchedwithout impatience, without alarm, and with a certain admiration, thecombat of these two brutes. Monsieur Walter continued: "I have others inthe adjoining rooms, but they are by less known men. I buy of the youngartists now, the very young ones, and hang their works in the moreprivate rooms until they become known." He then went on in a low tone:"Now is the time to buy! The painters are all dying of hunger! They havenot a sou, not a sou!"

But Duroy saw nothing, and heard without understanding. Madame deMarelle was there behind him. What ought he to do? If he spoke to her,might she not turn her back on him, or treat him with insolence? If hedid not approach her, what would people think? He said to himself: "Iwill gain time, at any rate." He was so moved that for a moment hethought of feigning a sudden illness, which would allow him to withdraw.The examination of the walls was over. The governor went to put down hislamp and welcome the last comer, while Duroy began to re-examine thepictures as if he could not tire of admiring them. He was quite upset.What should he do? Madame Forestier called to him: "Monsieur Duroy." Hewent to her. It was to speak to him of a friend of hers who was aboutto give a fête, and who would like to have a line to that effect in theVie Francaise. He gasped out: "Certainly, Madame, certainly."

Madame de Marelle was now quite close to him. He dared not turn round togo away. All at once he thought he was going mad; she had said aloud:"Good evening, Pretty-boy. So you no longer recognize me."

He rapidly turned on his heels. She stood before him smiling, her eyesbeaming with sprightliness and affection, and held out her hand. He tookit tremblingly, still fearing some trick, some perfidy. She added,calmly: "What has become of you? One no longer sees anything of you."

He stammered, without being able to recover his coolness: "I have agreat deal to do, Madame, a great deal to do. Monsieur Walter hasentrusted me with new duties which give me a great deal of occupation."

She replied, still looking him in the face, but without his being ableto discover anything save good will in her glance: "I know it. But thatis no reason for forgetting your friends."

They were separated by a lady who came in, with red arms and red face, astout lady in a very low dress, got up with pretentiousness, and walkingso heavily that one guessed by her motions the size and weight of herlegs. As she seemed to be treated with great attention, Duroy askedMadame Forestier: "Who is that lady?"

"The Viscomtesse de Percemur, who signs her articles 'Lily Fingers.'"

He was astounded, and seized on by an inclination to laugh.

"'Lily Fingers!' 'Lily Fingers!' and I imagined her young likeyourself. So that is 'Lily Fingers.' That is very funny, very funny."

A servant appeared in the doorway and announced dinner. The dinner wascommonplace and lively, one of those dinners at which people talk abouteverything, without saying anything. Duroy found himself between theelder daughter of the master of the house, the ugly one, MademoiselleRose and Madame de Marelle. The neighborhood of the latter made him feelvery ill at ease, although she seemed very much at her ease, and chattedwith her usual vivacity. He was troubled at first, constrained,hesitating, like a musician who has lost the keynote. By degrees,however, he recovered his assurance, and their eyes continually meetingquestioned one another, exchanging looks in an intimate, almost sensual,fashion as of old. All at once he thought he felt something brushagainst his foot under the table. He softly pushed forward his leg andencountered that of his neighbor, which did not shrink from the contact.They did not speak, each being at that moment turned towards theirneighbor. Duroy, his heart beating, pushed a little harder with hisknee. A slight pressure replied to him. Then he understood that theirloves were beginning anew. What did they say then? Not much, but theirlips quivered every time that they looked at one another.

The young fellow, however, wishing to do the amiable to his employer'sdaughter, spoke to her from time to time. She replied as the motherwould have done, never hesitating as to what she should say. On theright of Monsieur Walter the Viscomtesse de Percemur gave herself theairs of a princess, and Duroy, amused at watching her, said in a lowvoice to Madame de Marelle. "Do you know the other, the one who signsherself 'Pink Domino'?"

"Yes, very well, the Baroness de Livar."

"Is she of the same breed?"

"No, but quite as funny. A tall, dried-up woman of sixty, false curls,projecting teeth, ideas dating from the Restoration, and toilets of thesame epoch."

"Where did they unearth these literary phenomena?"

"The scattered waifs of the nobility are always sheltered by enrichedcits."

"No other reason?"

"None."

Then a political discussion began between the master of the house, thetwo deputies, Norbert de Varenne, and Jacques Rival, and lasted tilldessert.

When they returned to the drawing-room, Duroy again approached Madame deMarelle, and looking her in the eyes, said: "Shall I see you hometo-night?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because Monsieur Laroche Mathieu, who is my neighbor, drops me at mydoor every time I dine here."

"When shall I see you?"

"Come and lunch with me to-morrow."

And they separated without saying anything more.

Duroy did not remain late, finding the evening dull. As he wentdownstairs he overtook Norbert de Varenne, who was also leaving. The oldpoet took him by the arm. No longer having to fear any rivalry asregards the paper, their work being essentially different, he nowmanifested a fatherly kindness towards the young fellow.

"Well, will you walk home a bit of my way with me?" said he.

"With pleasure, my dear master," replied Duroy.

And they went out, walking slowly along the Boulevard Malesherbes. Pariswas almost deserted that night—a cold night—one of those nights thatseem vaster, as it were, than others, when the stars seem higher above,and the air seems to bear on its icy breath something coming fromfurther than even the stars. The two men did not speak at first. ThenDuroy, in order to say something, remarked: "Monsieur Laroche Mathieuseems very intelligent and well informed."

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

The young fellow, surprised at this remark, hesitated in replying: "Yes;besides, he passes for one of the most capable men in the Chamber."

"It is possible. In the kingdom of the blind the one-eyed man is king.All these people are commonplace because their mind is shut in betweentwo walls, money and politics. They are dullards, my dear fellow, withwhom it is impossible to talk about anything we care for. Their mindsare at the bottom mud, or rather sewage; like the Seine Asnières. Ah!how difficult it is to find a man with breadth of thought, one whocauses you the same sensation as the breeze from across the broad oceanone breathes on the seashore. I have known some such; they are dead."

Norbert de Varenne spoke with a clear but restrained voice, which wouldhave rung out in the silence of the night had he given it rein. Heseemed excited and sad, and went on: "What matter, besides, a littlemore or less talent, since all must come to an end."

He was silent, and Duroy, who felt light hearted that evening, said witha smile: "You are gloomy to-day, dear master."

The poet replied: "I am always so, my lad, so will you be in a fewyears. Life is a hill. As long as one is climbing up one looks towardsthe summit and is happy, but when one reaches the top one suddenlyperceives the descent before one, and its bottom, which is death. Oneclimbs up slowly, but one goes down quickly. At your age a man is happy.He hopes for many things, which, by the way, never come to pass. Atmine, one no longer expects anything—but death."

Duroy began to laugh: "You make me shudder all over."

Norbert de Varenne went on: "No, you do not understand me now, but lateron you will remember what I am saying to you at this moment. A daycomes, and it comes early for many, when there is an end to mirth, forbehind everything one looks at one sees death. You do not evenunderstand the word. At your age it means nothing; at mine it isterrible. Yes, one understands it all at once, one does not know how orwhy, and then everything in life changes its aspect. For fifteen years Ihave felt death assail me as if I bore within me some gnawing beast. Ihave felt myself decaying little by little, month by month, hour byhour, like a house crumbling to ruin. Death has disfigured me socompletely that I do not recognize myself. I have no longer anythingabout me of myself—of the fresh, strong man I was at thirty. I haveseen death whiten my black hairs, and with what skillful and spitefulslowness. Death has taken my firm skin, my muscles, my teeth, my wholebody of old, only leaving me a despairing soul, soon to be taken too.Every step brings me nearer to death, every moment, every breath hastenshis odious work. To breathe, sleep, drink, eat, work, dream, everythingwe do is to die. To live, in short, is to die. I now see death so nearthat I often want to stretch my arms to push it back. I see iteverywhere. The insects crushed on the path, the falling leaves, thewhite hair in a friend's head, rend my heart and cry to me, "Behold it!"It spoils for me all I do, all I see, all that I eat and drink, all thatI love; the bright moonlight, the sunrise, the broad ocean, the noblerivers, and the soft summer evening air so sweet to breathe."

He walked on slowly, dreaming aloud, almost forgetting that he had alistener: "And no one ever returns—never. The model of a statue may bepreserved, but my body, my face, my thoughts, my desires will neverreappear again. And yet millions of beings will be born with a nose,eyes, forehead, cheeks, and mouth like me, and also a soul like me,without my ever returning, without even anything recognizable of meappearing in these countless different beings. What can we cling to?What can we believe in? All religions are stupid, with their puerilemorality and their egoistical promises, monstrously absurd. Death aloneis certain."

He stopped, reflected for a few moments, and then, with a look ofresignation, said: "I am a lost creature. I have neither father normother, nor sister nor brother; no wife, no children, no God."

He added, after a pause: "I have only verse."

They reached the Pont de la Concorde, crossed it in silence, and walkedpast the Palais Bourbon. Norbert de Varenne began to speak again,saying: "Marry, my friend; you do not know what it is to live alone atmy age. Solitude now fills me with horrible agony—solitude at home bythe fireside of a night. It is so profound, so sad; the silence of theroom in which one dwells alone. It is not alone silence about the body,but silence about the soul; and when the furniture creaks I shudder tothe heart, for no sound but is unexpected in my gloomy dwelling." He wassilent again for a moment, and then added: "When one is old it is well,all the same, to have children."

They had got half way down the Rue de Bourgoyne. The poet halted infront of a tall house, rang the bell, shook Duroy by the hand, and said:"Forget all this old man's doddering, youngster, and live as befits yourage. Good-night."

And he disappeared in the dark passage.

Duroy resumed his route with a pain at his heart. It seemed to him asthough he had been shown a hole filled with bones, an unavoidable gulfinto which all must fall one day. He muttered: "By Jove, it can't bevery lively in his place. I should not care for a front seat to see theprocession of his thoughts go by. The deuce, no."

But having paused to allow a perfumed lady, alighting from her carriageand entering her house, to pass before him, he drew in with eager breaththe scent of vervain and orris root floating in the air. His lungs andheart throbbed suddenly with hope and joy, and the recollection ofMadame de Marelle, whom he was to see the next day, assailed him fromhead to foot. All smiled on him, life welcomed him with kindness. Howsweet was the realization of hopes!

He fell asleep, intoxicated with this idea, and rose early to take astroll down the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne before keeping hisappointment. The wind having changed, the weather had grown milderduring the night, and it was as warm and as sunny as in April. All thefrequenters of the Bois had sallied out that morning, yielding to thesummons of a bright, clear day. Duroy walked along slowly. He passed theArc de Triomphe, and went along the main avenue. He watched the peopleon horseback, ladies and gentlemen, trotting and galloping, the richfolk of the world, and scarcely envied them now. He knew them almost allby name—knew the amount of their fortune, and the secret history oftheir life, his duties having made him a kind of directory of thecelebrities and the scandals of Paris.

Ladies rode past, slender, and sharply outlined in the dark cloth oftheir habits, with that proud and unassailable air many women have onhorseback, and Duroy amused himself by murmuring the names, titles, andqualities of the lovers whom they had had, or who were attributed tothem. Sometimes, instead of saying "Baron de Tanquelot," "Prince de laTour-Enguerrand," he murmured "Lesbian fashion, Louise Michot of theVaudeville, Rose Marquetin of the Opera."

The game greatly amused him, as if he had verified, beneath graveoutward appearances, the deep, eternal infamy of mankind, and as if thishad excited, rejoiced, and consoled him. Then he said aloud: "Set ofhypocrites!" and sought out with his eye the horsem*n concerning whomthe worst tales were current. He saw many, suspected of cheating atplay, for whom their clubs were, at all events, their chief, their solesource of livelihood, a suspicious one, at any rate. Others, verycelebrated, lived only, it was well known, on the income of their wives;others, again, it was affirmed, on that of their mistresses. Many hadpaid their debts, an honorable action, without it ever being guessedwhence the money had come—a very equivocal mystery. He saw financierswhose immense fortune had had its origin in a theft, and who werereceived everywhere, even in the most noble houses; then men sorespected that the lower middle-class took off their hats on theirpassage, but whose shameless speculations in connection with greatnational enterprises were a mystery for none of those really acquaintedwith the inner side of things. All had a haughty look, a proud lip, aninsolent eye. Duroy still laughed, repeating: "A fine lot; a lot ofblackguards, of sharpers."

But a pretty little open carriage passed, drawn by two white ponies withflowing manes and tails, and driven by a pretty fair girl, a well-knowncourtesan, who had two grooms seated behind her. Duroy halted with adesire to applaud this mushroom of love, who displayed so boldly at thisplace and time set apart for aristocratic hypocrites the dashing luxuryearned between her sheets. He felt, perhaps vaguely, that there wassomething in common between them—a tie of nature, that they were of thesame race, the same spirit, and that his success would be achieved bydaring steps of the same kind. He walked back more slowly, his heartaglow with satisfaction, and arrived a little in advance of the time atthe door of his former mistress.

She received him with proffered lips, as though no rupture had takenplace, and she even forgot for a few moments the prudence that made heropposed to all caresses at her home. Then she said, as she kissed theends of his moustache: "You don't know what a vexation has happened tome, darling? I was hoping for a nice honeymoon, and here is my husbandhome for six weeks. He has obtained leave. But I won't remain six weekswithout seeing you, especially after our little tiff, and this is how Ihave arranged matters. You are to come and dine with us on Monday. Ihave already spoken to him about you, and I will introduce you."

Duroy hesitated, somewhat perplexed, never yet having found himself faceto face with a man whose wife he had enjoyed. He was afraid lestsomething might betray him—a slight embarrassment, a look, no matterwhat. He stammered out: "No, I would rather not make your husband'sacquaintance."

She insisted, very much astonished, standing before him with wide open,wondering eyes. "But why? What a funny thing. It happens every day. Ishould not have thought you such a goose."

He was hurt, and said: "Very well, I will come to dinner on Monday."

She went on: "In order that it may seem more natural I will ask theForestiers, though I really do not like entertaining people at home."

Until Monday Duroy scarcely thought any more about the interview, but onmounting the stairs at Madame de Marelle's he felt strangely uneasy, notthat it was so repugnant to him to take her husband's hand, to drink hiswine, and eat his bread, but because he felt afraid of something withoutknowing what. He was shown into the drawing-room and waited as usual.Soon the door of the inner room opened, and he saw a tall, white-beardedman, wearing the ribbon of the Legion of Honor, grave and correct, whoadvanced towards him with punctilious politeness, saying: "My wife hasoften spoken to me of you, sir, and I am delighted to make youracquaintance."

Duroy stepped forward, seeking to impart to his face a look ofexpressive cordiality, and grasped his host's hand with exaggeratedenergy. Then, having sat down, he could find nothing to say.

Monsieur de Marelle placed a log upon the fire, and inquired: "Have youbeen long engaged in journalism?"

"Only a few months."

"Ah! you have got on quickly?"

"Yes, fairly so," and he began to chat at random, without thinking verymuch about what he was saying, talking of all the trifles customaryamong men who do not know one another. He was growing seasoned now, andthought the situation a very amusing one. He looked at Monsieur deMarelle's serious and respectable face, with a temptation to laugh, ashe thought: "I have cuckolded you, old fellow, I have cuckolded you." Avicious, inward satisfaction stole over him—the satisfaction of a thiefwho has been successful, and is not even suspected—a delicious, roguishjoy. He suddenly longed to be the friend of this man, to win hisconfidence, to get him to relate the secrets of his life.

Madame de Marelle came in suddenly, and having taken them in with asmiling and impenetrable glance, went toward Duroy, who dared not, inthe presence of her husband, kiss her hand as he always did. She wascalm, and light-hearted as a person accustomed to everything, findingthis meeting simple and natural in her frank and native trickery.Laurine appeared, and went and held up her forehead to George morequietly than usual, her father's presence intimidating her. Her mothersaid to her: "Well, you don't call him Pretty-boy to-day." And the childblushed as if a serious indiscretion had been committed, a thing thatought not to have been mentioned, revealed, an intimate and, so to say,guilty secret of her heart laid bare.

When the Forestiers arrived, all were alarmed at the condition ofCharles. He had grown frightfully thin and pale within a week, andcoughed incessantly. He stated, besides, that he was leaving for Canneson the following Thursday, by the doctor's imperative orders. They leftearly, and Duroy said, shaking his head: "I think he is very bad. Hewill never make old bones."

Madame de Marelle said, calmly: "Oh! he is done for. There is a man whowas lucky in finding the wife he did."

Duroy asked: "Does she help him much?"

"She does everything. She is acquainted with everything that is goingon; she knows everyone without seeming to go and see anybody; sheobtains what she wants as she likes. Oh! she is keen, clever, andintriguing as no one else is. She is a treasure for anyone wanting toget on."

George said: "She will marry again very quickly, no doubt?"

Madame de Marelle replied: "Yes. I should not be surprised if she hadsome one already in her eye—a deputy, unless, indeed, heobjects—for—for—there may be serious—moral—obstacles. But then—Idon't really know."

Monsieur de Marelle grumbled with slow impatience: "You are alwayssuspecting a number of things that I do not like. Do not let us meddlewith the affairs of others. Our conscience is enough to guide us. Thatshould be a rule with everyone."

Duroy withdrew, uneasy at heart, and with his mind full of vague plans.The next day he paid a visit to the Forestiers, and found them finishingtheir packing up. Charles, stretched on a sofa, exaggerated hisdifficulty of breathing, and repeated: "I ought to have been off a monthago."

Then he gave George a series of recommendations concerning the paper,although everything had been agreed upon and settled with MonsieurWalter. As George left, he energetically squeezed his old comrade'shand, saying: "Well, old fellow, we shall have you back soon." But asMadame Forestier was showing him out, he said to her, quickly: "You havenot forgotten our agreement? We are friends and allies, are we not? Soif you have need of me, for no matter what, do not hesitate. Send aletter or a telegram, and I will obey."

She murmured: "Thanks, I will not forget." And her eye, too, said"Thanks," in a deeper and tenderer fashion.

As Duroy went downstairs, he met slowly coming up Monsieur de Vaudrec,whom he had met there once before. The Count appeared sad, at thisdeparture, perhaps. Wishing to show his good breeding, the journalisteagerly bowed. The other returned the salutation courteously, but in asomewhat dignified manner.

The Forestiers left on Thursday evening.

VII

Charles's absence gave Duroy increased importance in the editorialdepartment of the Vie Francaise. He signed several leaders besides his"Echoes," for the governor insisted on everyone assuming theresponsibility of his "copy." He became engaged in several newspapercontroversies, in which he acquitted himself creditably, and hisconstant relations with different statesmen were gradually preparing himto become in his turn a clever and perspicuous political editor. Therewas only one cloud on his horizon. It came from a little free-lancenewspaper, which continually assailed him, or rather in him assailed thechief writer of "Echoes" in the Vie Francaise, the chief of "MonsieurWalter's startlers," as it was put by the anonymous writer of thePlume. Day by day cutting paragraphs, insinuations of every kind,appeared in it.

One day Jacques Rival said to Duroy: "You are very patient."

Duroy replied: "What can I do, there is no direct attack?"

But one afternoon, as he entered the editor's room, Boisrenard held outthe current number of the Plume, saying: "Here's another spiteful digat you."

"Ah! what about?"

"Oh! a mere nothing—the arrest of a Madame Aubert by the police."

George took the paper, and read, under the heading, "Duroy's Latest":

"The illustrious reporter of the Vie Francaise to-day informs us thatMadame Aubert, whose arrest by a police agent belonging to the odiousbrigade des mœurs we announced, exists only in our imagination. Nowthe person in question lives at 18 Rue de l'Ecureuil, Montmartre. Weunderstand only too well, however, the interest the agents of Walter'sbank have in supporting those of the Prefect of Police, who toleratestheir commerce. As to the reporter of whom it is a question, he would dobetter to give us one of those good sensational bits of news of which hehas the secret—news of deaths contradicted the following day, news ofbattles which have never taken place, announcements of importantutterances by sovereigns who have not said anything—all the news, inshort, which constitutes Walter's profits, or even one of those littleindiscretions concerning entertainments given by would-be fashionableladies, or the excellence of certain articles of consumption which areof such resource to some of our compeers."

The young fellow was more astonished than annoyed, only understandingthat there was something very disagreeable for him in all this.

Boisrenard went on: "Who gave you this 'Echo'?"

Duroy thought for a moment, having forgotten. Then all at once therecollection occurred to him, "Saint-Potin." He re-read the paragraph inthe Plume and reddened, roused by the accusation of venality. Heexclaimed: "What! do they mean to assert that I am paid—"

Boisrenard interrupted him: "They do, though. It is very annoying foryou. The governor is very strict about that sort of thing. It mighthappen so often in the 'Echoes.'"

Saint-Potin came in at that moment. Duroy hastened to him. "Have youseen the paragraph in the Plume?"

"Yes, and I have just come from Madame Aubert. She does exist, but shewas not arrested. That much of the report has no foundation."

Duroy hastened to the room of the governor, whom he found somewhat cool,and with a look of suspicion in his eye. After having listened to thestatement of the case, Monsieur Walter said: "Go and see the womanyourself, and contradict the paragraph in such terms as will put a stopto such things being written about you any more. I mean the latter partof the paragraph. It is very annoying for the paper, for yourself, andfor me. A journalist should no more be suspected than Cæsar's wife."

Duroy got into a cab, with Saint-Potin as his guide, and called out tothe driver: "Number 18 Rue de l'Ecureuil, Montmartre."

It was a huge house, in which they had to go up six flights of stairs.An old woman in a woolen jacket opened the door to them. "What is it youwant with me now?" said she, on catching sight of Saint-Potin.

He replied: "I have brought this gentleman, who is an inspector ofpolice, and who would like to hear your story."

Then she let him in, saying: "Two more have been here since you, forsome paper or other, I don't know which," and turning towards Duroy,added: "So this gentleman wants to know about it?"

"Yes. Were you arrested by an agent des mœurs?"

She lifted her arms into the air. "Never in my life, sir, never in mylife. This is what it is all about. I have a butcher who sells goodmeat, but who gives bad weight. I have often noticed it without sayinganything; but the other day, when I asked him for two pounds of chops,as I had my daughter and my son-in-law to dinner, I caught him weighingin bits of trimmings—trimmings of chops, it is true, but not of mine. Icould have made a stew of them, it is true, as well, but when I ask forchops it is not to get other people's trimmings. I refused to take them,and he calls me an old shark. I called him an old rogue, and from onething to another we picked up such a row that there were over a hundredpeople round the shop, some of them laughing fit to split. So that atlast a police agent came up and asked us to settle it before thecommissary. We went, and he dismissed the case. Since then I get my meatelsewhere, and don't even pass his door, in order to avoid hisslanders."

She ceased talking, and Duroy asked: "Is that all?"

"It is the whole truth, sir," and having offered him a glass of cordial,which he declined, the old woman insisted on the short weight of thebutcher being spoken of in the report.

On his return to the office, Duroy wrote his reply:

"An anonymous scribbler in the Plume seeks to pick a quarrelwith me on the subject of an old woman whom he states wasarrested by an agent des mœurs, which fact I deny. I havemyself seen Madame Aubert—who is at least sixty years ofa*ge—and she told me in detail her quarrel with the butcherover the weighing of some chops, which led to an explanationbefore the commissary of police. This is the whole truth. As tothe other insinuations of the writer in the Plume, I despisethem. Besides, a man does not reply to such things when theyare written under a mask.

"George Duroy."

Monsieur Walter and Jacques Rival, who had come in, thought this notesatisfactory, and it was settled that it should go in at once.

Duroy went home early, somewhat agitated and slightly uneasy. What replywould the other man make? Who was he? Why this brutal attack? With thebrusque manners of journalists this affair might go very far. He sleptbadly. When he read his reply in the paper next morning, it seemed tohim more aggressive in print than in manuscript. He might, it seemed tohim, have softened certain phrases. He felt feverish all day, and sleptbadly again at night. He rose at dawn to get the number of the Plumethat must contain a reply to him.

The weather had turned cold again, it was freezing hard. The gutters,frozen while still flowing, showed like two ribbons of ice alongside thepavement. The morning papers had not yet come in, and Duroy recalled theday of his first article, "The Recollections of a Chasseur d'Afrique."His hands and feet getting numbed, grew painful, especially the tips ofhis fingers, and he began to trot round the glazed kiosque in which thenewspaper seller, squatting over her foot warmer, only showed throughthe little window a red nose and a pair of cheeks to match in a woolenhood. At length the newspaper porter passed the expected parcel throughthe opening, and the woman held out to Duroy an unfolded copy of thePlume.

He glanced through it in search of his name, and at first saw nothing.He was breathing again, when he saw between two dashes:

"Monsieur Duroy, of the Vie Francaise, contradicts us, and incontradicting us, lies. He admits, however, that there is aMadame Aubert, and that an agent took her before the commissaryof police. It only remains, therefore, to add two words, 'desmœurs,' after the word 'agent,' and he is right. But theconscience of certain journalists is on a level with theirtalent. And I sign,

"Louis Langremont."

George's heart began to beat violently, and he went home to dresswithout being too well aware of what he was doing. So he had beeninsulted, and in such a way that no hesitation was possible. And why?For nothing at all. On account of an old woman who had quarreled withher butcher.

He dressed quickly and went to see Monsieur Walter, although it wasbarely eight o'clock. Monsieur Walter, already up, was reading thePlume. "Well," said he, with a grave face, on seeing Duroy, "youcannot draw back now." The young fellow did not answer, and the otherwent on: "Go at once and see Rival, who will act for you."

Duroy stammered a few vague words, and went out in quest of thedescriptive writer, who was still asleep. He jumped out of bed, and,having read the paragraph, said: "By Jove, you must go out. Whom do youthink of for the other second?"

"I really don't know."

"Boisrenard? What do you think?"

"Yes. Boisrenard."

"Are you a good swordsman?"

"Not at all."

"The devil! And with the pistol?"

"I can shoot a little."

"Good. You shall practice while I look after everything else. Wait forme a moment."

He went into his dressing-room, and soon reappeared washed, shaved,correct-looking.

"Come with me," said he.

He lived on the ground floor of a small house, and he led Duroy to thecellar, an enormous cellar, converted into a fencing-room and shootinggallery, all the openings on the street being closed. After having lit arow of gas jets running the whole length of a second cellar, at theend of which was an iron man painted red and blue; he placed on atable two pairs of breech-loading pistols, and began to give the wordof command in a sharp tone, as though on the ground: "Ready?Fire—one—two—three."

Duroy, dumbfounded, obeyed, raising his arm, aiming and firing, and ashe often hit the mark fair on the body, having frequently made use of anold horse pistol of his father's when a boy, against the birds, JacquesRival, well satisfied, exclaimed: "Good—very good—very good—you willdo—you will do."

Then he left George, saying: "Go on shooting till noon; here is plentyof ammunition, don't be afraid to use it. I will come back to take youto lunch and tell you how things are going."

Left to himself, Duroy fired a few more shots, and then sat down andbegan to reflect. How absurd these things were, all the same! What did aduel prove? Was a rascal less of a rascal after going out? What did anhonest man, who had been insulted, gain by risking his life against ascoundrel? And his mind, gloomily inclined, recalled the words ofNorbert de Varenne.

Then he felt thirsty, and having heard the sound of water droppingbehind him, found that there was a hydrant serving as a douche bath, anddrank from the nozzle of the hose. Then he began to think again. It wasgloomy in this cellar, as gloomy as a tomb. The dull and distant rollingof vehicles sounded like the rumblings of a far-off storm. What o'clockcould it be? The hours passed by there as they must pass in prisons,without anything to indicate or mark them save the visits of the warder.He waited a long time. Then all at once he heard footsteps and voices,and Jacques Rival reappeared, accompanied by Boisrenard. He called outas soon as he saw Duroy: "It's all settled."

The latter thought the matter terminated by a letter of apology, hisheart beat, and he stammered: "Ah! thanks."

The descriptive writer continued: "That fellow Langremont is verysquare; he accepted all our conditions. Twenty-five paces, one shot, atthe word of command raising the pistol. The hand is much steadier thatway than bringing it down. See here, Boisrenard, what I told you."

And taking a pistol he began to fire, pointed out how much better onekept the line by raising the arm. Then he said: "Now let's go and lunch;it is past twelve o'clock."

They went to a neighboring restaurant. Duroy scarcely spoke. He ate inorder not to appear afraid, and then, in course of the afternoon,accompanied Boisrenard to the office, where he got through his work inan abstracted and mechanical fashion. They thought him plucky. JacquesRival dropped in in the course of the afternoon, and it was settled thathis seconds should call for him in a landau at seven o'clock the nextmorning, and drive to the Bois de Vesinet, where the meeting was to takeplace. All this had been done so unexpectedly, without his taking partin it, without his saying a word, without his giving his opinion,without accepting or refusing, and with such rapidity, too, that he wasbewildered, scared, and scarcely able to understand what was going on.

He found himself at home at nine o'clock, after having dined withBoisrenard, who, out of self-devotion, had not left him all day. As soonas he was alone he strode quickly up and down his room for severalminutes. He was too uneasy to think about anything. One solitary ideafilled his mind, that of a duel on the morrow, without this ideaawakening in him anything else save a powerful emotion. He had been asoldier, he had been engaged with the Arabs, without much danger tohimself though, any more than when one hunts a wild boar.

To reckon things up, he had done his duty. He had shown himself what heshould be. He would be talked of, approved of, and congratulated. Thenhe said aloud, as one does under powerful impressions: "What a brute ofa fellow."

He sat down and began to reflect. He had thrown upon his little tableone of his adversary's cards, given him by Rival in order to retain hisaddress. He read, as he had already done a score of times during theday: "Louis Langremont, 176 Rue Montmartre." Nothing more. He examinedthese assembled letters, which seemed to him mysterious and full of somedisturbing import. Louis Langremont. Who was this man? What was his age,his height, his appearance? Was it not disgusting that a stranger, anunknown, should thus come and suddenly disturb one's existence withoutcause and from sheer caprice, on account of an old woman who had had aquarrel with her butcher. He again repeated aloud: "What a brute."

And he stood lost in thought, his eyes fixed on the card. Anger wasaroused in him against this bit of paper, an anger with which wasblended a strange sense of uneasiness. What a stupid business it was. Hetook a pair of nail scissors which were lying about, and stuck theirpoints into the printed name, as though he was stabbing someone. So hewas to fight, and with pistols. Why had he not chosen swords? He wouldhave got off with a prick in the hand or arm, while with the pistols onenever knew the possible result. He said: "Come, I must keep my pluckup."

The sound of his own voice made him shudder, and he glanced about him.He began to feel very nervous. He drank a glass of water and went tobed.

As soon as he was in bed he blew out his candle and closed his eyes. Hewas warm between the sheets, though it was very cold in his room, buthe could not manage to doze off. He turned over and over, remained fiveminutes on his back, then lay on his left side, then rolled on theright. He was still thirsty, and got up to drink. Then a sense ofuneasiness assailed him. Was he going to be afraid? Why did his heartbeat wildly at each well-known sound in the room? When his clock wasgoing to strike, the faint squeak of the lever made him jump, and he hadto open his mouth for some moments in order to breathe, so oppressed didhe feel. He began to reason philosophically on the possibility of hisbeing afraid.

No, certainly he would not be afraid, now he had made up his mind to gothrough with it to the end, since he was firmly decided to fight and notto tremble. But he felt so deeply moved that he asked himself: "Can onebe afraid in spite of one's self?" This doubt assailed him. If somepower stronger than his will overcame it, what would happen? Yes, whatwould happen? Certainly he would go on the ground, since he meant to.But suppose he shook? suppose he fainted? And he thought of hisposition, his reputation, his future.

A strange need of getting up to look at himself in the glass suddenlyseized him. He relit the candle. When he saw his face so reflected, hescarcely recognized himself, and it seemed to him that he had never seenhimself before. His eyes appeared enormous, and he was pale; yes, he wascertainly pale, very pale. Suddenly the thought shot through his mind:"By this time to-morrow I may be dead." And his heart began to beatagain furiously. He turned towards his bed, and distinctly saw himselfstretched on his back between the same sheets as he had just left. Hehad the hollow cheeks of the dead, and the whiteness of those hands thatno longer move. Then he grew afraid of his bed, and in order to see itno longer he opened the window to look out. An icy coldness assailed himfrom head to foot, and he drew back breathless.

The thought occurred to him to make a fire. He built it up slowly,without looking around. His hands shook slightly with a kind of nervoustremor when he touched anything. His head wandered, his disjointed,drifting thoughts became fleeting and painful, an intoxication invadedhis mind as though he had been drinking. And he kept asking himself:"What shall I do? What will become of me?"

He began to walk up and down, repeating mechanically: "I must pullmyself together. I must pull myself together." Then he added: "I willwrite to my parents, in case of accident." He sat down again, took somenotepaper, and wrote: "Dear papa, dear mamma." Then, thinking thesewords rather too familiar under such tragic circ*mstances, he tore upthe first sheet, and began anew, "My dear father, my dear mother, I amto fight a duel at daybreak, and as it might happen that—" He did notdare write the rest, and sprang up with a jump. He was now crushed byone besetting idea. He was going to fight a duel. He could no longeravoid it. What was the matter with him, then? He meant to fight, hismind was firmly made up to do so, and yet it seemed to him that, despiteevery effort of will, he could not retain strength enough to go to theplace appointed for the meeting. From time to time his teeth absolutelychattered, and he asked himself: "Has my adversary been out before? Ishe a frequenter of the shooting galleries? Is he known and classed as ashot?" He had never heard his name mentioned. And yet, if this man wasnot a remarkably good pistol shot, he would scarcely have accepted thatdangerous weapon without discussion or hesitation.

Then Duroy pictured to himself their meeting, his own attitude, and thebearing of his opponent. He wearied himself in imagining the slightestdetails of the duel, and all at once saw in front of him the littleround black hole in the barrel from which the ball was about to issue.He was suddenly seized with a fit of terrible despair. His whole bodyquivered, shaken by short, sharp shudderings. He clenched his teeth toavoid crying out, and was assailed by a wild desire to roll on theground, to tear something to pieces, to bite. But he caught sight of aglass on the mantelpiece, and remembered that there was in the cupboarda bottle of brandy almost full, for he had kept up a military habit of amorning dram. He seized the bottle and greedily drank from its mouth inlong gulps. He only put it down when his breath failed him. It was athird empty. A warmth like that of flame soon kindled within his body,and spreading through his limbs, buoyed up his mind by deadening histhoughts. He said to himself: "I have hit upon the right plan." And ashis skin now seemed burning he reopened the window.

Day was breaking, calm and icy cold. On high the stars seemed dying awayin the brightening sky, and in the deep cutting of the railway, the red,green, and white signal lamps were paling. The first locomotives wereleaving the engine shed, and went off whistling, to be coupled to thefirst trains. Others, in the distance, gave vent to shrill and repeatedscreeches, their awakening cries, like co*cks of the country. Duroythought: "Perhaps I shall never see all this again." But as he felt thathe was going again to be moved by the prospect of his own fate, hefought against it strongly, saying: "Come, I must not think of anythingtill the moment of the meeting; it is the only way to keep up my pluck."

And he set about his toilet. He had another moment of weakness whileshaving, in thinking that it was perhaps the last time he should see hisface. But he swallowed another mouthful of brandy, and finisheddressing. The hour which followed was difficult to get through. Hewalked up and down, trying to keep from thinking. When he heard a knockat the door he almost dropped, so violent was the shock to him. It washis seconds. Already!

They were wrapped up in furs, and Rival, after shaking his principal'shand, said: "It is as cold as Siberia." Then he added: "Well, how goesit?"

"Very well."

"You are quite steady?"

"Quite."

"That's it; we shall get on all right. Have you had something to eat anddrink?"

"Yes; I don't need anything."

Boisrenard, in honor of the occasion, sported a foreign order, yellowand green, that Duroy had never seen him display before.

They went downstairs. A gentleman was awaiting them in the carriage.Rival introduced him as "Doctor Le Brument." Duroy shook hands, saying,"I am very much obliged to you," and sought to take his place on thefront seat. He sat down on something hard that made him spring up again,as though impelled by a spring. It was the pistol case.

Rival observed: "No, the back seat for the doctor and the principal, theback seat."

Duroy ended by understanding him, and sank down beside the doctor. Thetwo seconds got in in their turn, and the driver started. He knew whereto go. But the pistol case was in the way of everyone, above all ofDuroy, who would have preferred it out of sight. They tried to put it atthe back of the seat and it hurt their own; they stuck it uprightbetween Rival and Boisrenard, and it kept falling all the time. Theyfinished by stowing it away under their feet. Conversation languished,although the doctor related some anecdotes. Rival alone replied to him.Duroy would have liked to have given a proof of presence of mind, but hewas afraid of losing the thread of his ideas, of showing the troubledstate of his mind, and was haunted, too, by the disturbing fear ofbeginning to tremble.

The carriage was soon right out in the country. It was about nineo'clock. It was one of those sharp winter mornings when everything is asbright and brittle as glass. The trees, coated with hoar frost, seemedto have been sweating ice; the earth rang under a footstep, the dry aircarried the slightest sound to a distance, the blue sky seemed to shinelike a mirror, and the sun, dazzling and cold itself, shed upon thefrozen universe rays which did not warm anything.

Rival observed to Duroy: "I got the pistols at Gastine Renette's. Heloaded them himself. The box is sealed. We shall toss up, besides,whether we use them or those of our adversary."

Duroy mechanically replied: "I am very much obliged to you."

Then Rival gave him a series of circ*mstantial recommendations, for hewas anxious that his principal should not make any mistake. Heemphasized each point several times, saying: "When they say, 'Are youready, gentlemen?' you must answer 'Yes' in a loud tone. When they givethe word 'Fire!' you must raise your arm quickly, and you must firebefore they have finished counting 'One, two, three.'"

And Duroy kept on repeating to himself: "When they give the word tofire, I must raise my arm. When they give the word to fire, I must raisemy arm." He learnt it as children learn their lessons, by murmuring themto satiety in order to fix them on their minds. "When they give the wordto fire, I must raise my arm."

The carriage entered a wood, turned down an avenue on the right, andthen to the right again. Rival suddenly opened the door to cry to thedriver: "That way, down the narrow road." The carriage turned into arutty road between two copses, in which dead leaves fringed with icewere quivering. Duroy was still murmuring: "When they give the word tofire, I must raise my arm." And he thought how a carriage accident wouldsettle the whole affair. "Oh! if they could only upset, what luck; if hecould only break a leg."

But he caught sight, at the further side of a clearing, of anothercarriage drawn up, and four gentlemen stamping to keep their feet warm,and he was obliged to open his mouth, so difficult did his breathingbecome.

The seconds got out first, and then the doctor and the principal. Rivalhad taken the pistol-case and walked away with Boisrenard to meet two ofthe strangers who came towards them. Duroy watched them salute oneanother ceremoniously, and then walk up and down the clearing, lookingnow on the ground and now at the trees, as though they were looking forsomething that had fallen down or might fly away. Then they measured offa certain number of paces, and with great difficulty stuck two walkingsticks into the frozen ground. They then reassembled in a group and wentthrough the action of tossing, like children playing heads or tails.

Doctor Le Brument said to Duroy: "Do you feel all right? Do you wantanything?"

"No, nothing, thanks."

It seemed to him that he was mad, that he was asleep, that he wasdreaming, that supernatural influences enveloped him. Was he afraid?Perhaps. But he did not know. Everything about him had altered.

Jacques Rival returned, and announced in low tones of satisfaction: "Itis all ready. Luck has favored us as regards the pistols."

That, so far as Duroy was concerned, was a matter of profoundindifference.

They took off his overcoat, which he let them do mechanically. They feltthe breast-pocket of his frock-coat to make certain that he had nopocketbook or papers likely to deaden a ball. He kept repeating tohimself like a prayer: "When the word is given to fire, I must raise myarm."

They led him up to one of the sticks stuck in the ground and handed himhis pistol. Then he saw a man standing just in front of him—a short,stout, bald-headed man, wearing spectacles. It was his adversary. He sawhim very plainly, but he could only think: "When the word to fire isgiven, I must raise my arm and fire at once."

A voice rang out in the deep silence, a voice that seemed to come from agreat distance, saying: "Are you ready, gentlemen?"

George exclaimed "Yes."

The same voice gave the word "Fire!"

He heard nothing more, he saw nothing more, he took note of nothingmore, he only knew that he raised his arm, pressing strongly on thetrigger. And he heard nothing. But he saw all at once a little smoke atthe end of his pistol barrel, and as the man in front of him still stoodin the same position, he perceived, too, a little cloud of smokedrifting off over his head.

They had both fired. It was over.

His seconds and the doctor touched him, felt him and unbuttoned hisclothes, asking, anxiously: "Are you hit?"

He replied at haphazard: "No, I do not think so."

Langremont, too, was as unhurt as his enemy, and Jacques Rival murmuredin a discontented tone: "It is always so with those damned pistols; youeither miss or kill. What a filthy weapon."

Duroy did not move, paralyzed by surprise and joy. It was over. They hadto take away his weapon, which he still had clenched in his hand. Itseemed to him now that he could have done battle with the whole world.It was over. What happiness! He felt suddenly brave enough to defy nomatter whom.

The whole of the seconds conversed together for a few moments, making anappointment to draw up their report of the proceedings in the course ofthe day. Then they got into the carriage again, and the driver, who waslaughing on the box, started off, cracking his whip. They breakfastedtogether on the boulevards, and in chatting over the event, Duroynarrated his impressions. "I felt quite unconcerned, quite. You must,besides, have seen it yourself."

Rival replied: "Yes, you bore yourself very well."

When the report was drawn up it was handed to Duroy, who was to insertit in the paper. He was astonished to read that he had exchanged acouple of shots with Monsieur Louis Langremont, and rather uneasilyinterrogated Rival, saying: "But we only fired once."

The other smiled. "Yes, one shot apiece, that makes a couple of shots."

Duroy, deeming the explanation satisfactory, did not persist. DaddyWalter embraced him, saying: "Bravo, bravo, you have defended the colorsof Vie Francaise; bravo!"

George showed himself in the course of the evening at the principalnewspaper offices, and at the chief cafés on the boulevards. He twiceencountered his adversary, who was also showing himself. They did notbow to one another. If one of them had been wounded they would haveshaken hands. Each of them, moreover, swore with conviction that he hadheard the whistling of the other's bullet.

The next day, at about eleven, Duroy received a telegram. "Awfullyalarmed. Come at once. Rue de Constantinople.—Clo."

He hastened to their meeting-place, and she threw herself into his arms,smothering him with kisses.

"Oh, my darling! if you only knew what I felt when I saw the papers thismorning. Oh, tell me all about it! I want to know everything."

He had to give minute details. She said: "What a dreadful night you musthave passed before the duel."

"No, I slept very well."

"I should not have closed an eye. And on the ground—tell me all thathappened."

He gave a dramatic account. "When we were face to face with one anotherat twenty paces, only four times the length of this room, Jacques, afterasking if we were ready, gave the word 'Fire.' I raised my arm at once,keeping a good line, but I made the mistake of trying to aim at thehead. I had a pistol with an unusually stiff pull, and I am accustomedto very easy ones, so that the resistance of the trigger caused me tofire too high. No matter, it could not have gone very far off him. Heshoots well, too, the rascal. His bullet skimmed by my temple. I feltthe wind of it."

She was sitting on his knees, and holding him in her arms as though toshare his dangers. She murmured: "Oh, my poor darling! my poor darling!"

When he had finished his narration, she said: "Do you know, I cannotlive without you. I must see you, and with my husband in Paris it is noteasy. Often I could find an hour in the morning before you were up torun in and kiss you, but I won't enter that awful house of yours. Whatis to be done?"

He suddenly had an inspiration, and asked: "What is the rent here?"

"A hundred francs a month."

"Well, I will take the rooms over on my own account, and live herealtogether. Mine are no longer good enough for my new position."

She reflected a few moments, and then said: "No, I won't have that."

He was astonished, and asked: "Why not?"

"Because I won't."

"That is not a reason. These rooms suit me very well. I am here, andshall remain here. Besides," he added, with a laugh, "they are taken inmy name."

But she kept on refusing, "No, no, I won't have it."

"Why not, then?"

Then she whispered tenderly: "Because you would bring women here, and Iwon't have it."

He grew indignant. "Never. I can promise you that."

"No, you will bring them all the same."

"I swear I won't."

"Truly?"

"Truly, on my word of honor. This is our place, our very own."

She clasped him to her in an outburst of love, exclaiming: "Very well,then, darling. But you know if you once deceive me, only once, it willbe all over between us, all over for ever."

He swore again with many protestations, and it was agreed that he shouldinstall himself there that very day, so that she could look in on him asshe passed the door. Then she said: "In any case, come and dine with uson Sunday. My husband thinks you are charming."

He was flattered "Really!"

"Yes, you have captivated him. And then, listen, you have told me thatyou were brought up in a country-house."

"Yes; why?"

"Then you must know something about agriculture?"

"Yes."

"Well, talk to him about gardening and the crops. He is very fond ofthat sort of thing."

"Good; I will not forget."

She left him, after kissing him to an indefinite extent, the duel havingstimulated her affection.

Duroy thought, as he made his way to the office, "What a strange being.What a feather brain. Can one tell what she wants and what she caresfor? And what a strange household. What fanciful being arranged theunion of that old man and this madcap? What made the inspector marrythis giddy girl? A mystery. Who knows? Love, perhaps." And he concluded:"After all, she is a very nice little mistress, and I should be a verybig fool to let her slip away from me."

VIII

His duel had given Duroy a position among the leader-writers of the VieFrancaise, but as he had great difficulty in finding ideas, he made aspecialty of declamatory articles on the decadence of morality, thelowering of the standard of character, the weakening of the patrioticfiber and the anemia of French honor. He had discovered the word anemia,and was very proud of it. And when Madame de Marelle, filled with thatskeptical, mocking, and incredulous spirit characteristic of theParisian, laughed at his tirades, which she demolished with an epigram,he replied with a smile: "Bah! this sort of thing will give me a goodreputation later on."

He now resided in the Rue de Constantinople, whither he had shifted hisportmanteau, his hair-brush, his razor, and his soap, which was what hismoving amounted to. Twice or thrice a week she would call before he wasup, undress in a twinkling, and slip into bed, shivering from the coldprevailing out of doors. As a set off, Duroy dined every Thursday at herresidence, and paid court to her husband by talking agriculture withhim. As he was himself fond of everything relating to the cultivation ofthe soil, they sometimes both grew so interested in the subject of theirconversation that they quite forgot the wife dozing on the sofa. Laurinewould also go to sleep, now on the knee of her father and now on that ofPretty-boy. And when the journalist had left, Monsieur de Marelle neverfailed to assert, in that doctrinal tone in which he said the leastthing: "That young fellow is really very pleasant company, he has awell-informed mind."

February was drawing to a close. One began to smell the violets in thestreet, as one passed the barrows of the flower-sellers of a morning.Duroy was living beneath a sky without a cloud.

One night, on returning home, he found a letter that had been slippedunder his door. He glanced at the post-mark, and read "Cannes." Havingopened it, he read:

"Villa Jolie, Cannes.

"Dear Sir and Friend,—You told me, did you not, that I couldreckon upon you for anything? Well, I have a very painfulservice to ask of you; it is to come and help me, so that I maynot be left alone during the last moments of Charles, who isdying. He may not last out the week, as the doctor hasforewarned me, although he has not yet taken to his bed. I haveno longer strength nor courage to witness this hourly death,and I think with terror of those last moments which are drawingnear. I can only ask such a service of you, as my husband hasno relatives. You were his comrade; he opened the door of thepaper to you. Come, I beg of you; I have no one else to ask.

"Believe me, your very sincere friend,

"Madeleine Forestier."

A strange feeling filled George's heart, a sense of freedom and of aspace opening before him, and he murmured: "To be sure, I'll go. PoorCharles! What are we, after all?"

The governor, to whom he read the letter, grumblingly grantedpermission, repeating: "But be back soon, you are indispensable to us."

George left for Cannes next day by the seven o'clock express, afterletting the Marelles know of his departure by a telegram. He arrived thefollowing evening about four o'clock. A commissionaire guided him to theVilla Jolie, built half-way up the slope of the pine forest clothedwith white houses, which extends from Cannes to the Golfe Juan. Thehouse—small, low, and in the Italian style—was built beside the roadwhich winds zig-zag fashion up through the trees, revealing a successionof charming views at every turning it makes.

The man servant opened the door, and exclaimed: "Oh! Sir, madame isexpecting you most impatiently."

"How is your master?" inquired Duroy.

"Not at all well, sir. He cannot last much longer."

The drawing-room, into which George was shown, was hung with pink andblue chintz. The tall and wide windows overlooked the town and the sea.Duroy muttered: "By Jove, this is nice and swell for a country house.Where the deuce do they get the money from?"

The rustle of a dress made him turn round. Madame Forestier held outboth hands to him. "How good of you to come, how good of you to come,"said she.

And suddenly she kissed him on the cheek. Then they looked atone another. She was somewhat paler and thinner, but stillfresh-complexioned, and perhaps still prettier for her additionaldelicacy. She murmured: "He is dreadful, do you know; he knows that heis doomed, and he leads me a fearful life. But where is yourportmanteau?"

"I have left it at the station, not knowing what hotel you would like meto stop at in order to be near you."

She hesitated a moment, and then said: "You must stay here. Besides,your room is all ready. He might die at any moment, and if it were tohappen during the night I should be alone. I will send for yourluggage."

He bowed, saying: "As you please."

"Now let us go upstairs," she said.

He followed her. She opened a door on the first floor, and Duroy saw,wrapped in rugs and seated in an armchair near the window, a kind ofliving corpse, livid even under the red light of the setting sun, andlooking towards him. He scarcely recognized, but rather guessed, that itwas his friend. The room reeked of fever, medicated drinks, ether, tar,the nameless and oppressive odor of a consumptive's sick room. Forestierheld out his hand slowly and with difficulty. "So here you are; you havecome to see me die, then! Thanks."

Duroy affected to laugh. "To see you die? That would not be a veryamusing sight, and I should not select such an occasion to visit Cannes.I came to give you a look in, and to rest myself a bit."

Forestier murmured, "Sit down," and then bent his head, as though lostin painful thoughts. He breathed hurriedly and pantingly, and from timeto time gave a kind of groan, as if he wanted to remind the others howill he was.

Seeing that he would not speak, his wife came and leaned against thewindow-sill, and indicating the view with a motion of her head, said,"Look! Is not that beautiful?"

Before them the hillside, dotted with villas, sloped downwards towardsthe town, which stretched in a half-circle along the shore with its headto the right in the direction of the pier, overlooked by the old citysurmounted by its belfry, and its feet to the left towards the point ofLa Croisette, facing the Isles of Lerins. These two islands appearedlike two green spots amidst the blue water. They seemed to be floatingon it like two huge green leaves, so low and flat did they appear fromthis height. Afar off, bounding the view on the other side of the bay,beyond the pier and the belfry, a long succession of blue hills showedup against a dazzling sky, their strange and picturesque line of summitsnow rounded, now forked, now pointed, ending with a huge pyramidalmountain, its foot in the sea itself.

Madame Forestier pointed it out, saying: "This is L'Estherel."

The void beyond the dark hill tops was red, a glowing red that the eyewould not fear, and Duroy, despite himself, felt the majesty of theclose of the day. He murmured, finding no other term strong enough toexpress his admiration, "It is stunning."

Forestier raised his head, and turning to his wife, said: "Let me havesome fresh air."

"Pray, be careful," was her reply. "It is late, and the sun is setting;you will catch a fresh cold, and you know how bad that is for you."

He made a feverish and feeble movement with his right hand that wasalmost meant for a blow, and murmured with a look of anger, the grin ofa dying man that showed all the thinness of his lips, the hollowness ofthe cheeks, and the prominence of all the bones of the face: "I tell youI am stifling. What does it matter to you whether I die a day sooner ora day later, since I am done for?"

She opened the window quite wide. The air that entered surprised allthree like a caress. It was a soft, warm breeze, a breeze of spring,already laden with the scents of the odoriferous shrubs and flowerswhich sprang up along this shore. A powerful scent of turpentine andthe harsh savor of the eucalyptus could be distinguished.

Forestier drank it in with short and fevered gasps. He clutched the armof his chair with his nails, and said in low, hissing, and savage tones:"Shut the window. It hurts me; I would rather die in a cellar."

His wife slowly closed the window, and then looked out in space, herforehead against the pane. Duroy, feeling very ill at ease, would haveliked to have chatted with the invalid and reassured him. But he couldthink of nothing to comfort him. At length he said: "Then you have notgot any better since you have been here?"

Forestier shrugged his shoulders with low-spirited impatience. "You seevery well I have not," he replied, and again lowered his head.

Duroy went on: "Hang it all, it is ever so much nicer here than inParis. We are still in the middle of winter there. It snows, it freezes,it rains, and it is dark enough for the lamps to be lit at three in theafternoon."

"Anything new at the paper?" asked Forestier.

"Nothing. They have taken on young Lacrin, who has left the Voltaire,to do your work, but he is not up to it. It is time that you came back."

The invalid muttered: "I—I shall do all my work six feet under the sodnow."

This fixed idea recurred like a knell apropos of everything,continually cropping up in every idea, every sentence. There was a longsilence, a deep and painful silence. The glow of the sunset was slowlyfading, and the mountains were growing black against the red sky, whichwas getting duller. A colored shadow, a commencement of night, which yetretained the glow of an expiring furnace, stole into the room and seemedto tinge the furniture, the walls, the hangings, with mingled tints ofsable and crimson. The chimney-glass, reflecting the horizon, seemedlike a patch of blood. Madame Forestier did not stir, but remainedstanding with her back to the room, her face to the window pane.

Forestier began to speak in a broken, breathless voice, heartrending tolisten to. "How many more sunsets shall I see? Eight, ten, fifteen, ortwenty, perhaps thirty—no more. You have time before you; for me it isall over. And it will go on all the same, after I am gone, as if I wasstill here." He was silent for a few moments, and then continued: "Allthat I see reminds me that in a few days I shall see it no more. It ishorrible. I shall see nothing—nothing of all that exists; not thesmallest things one makes use of—the plates, the glasses, the beds inwhich one rests so comfortably, the carriages. How nice it is to driveout of an evening! How fond I was of all those things!"

He nervously moved the fingers of both hands, as though playing thepiano on the arms of his chair. Each of his silences was more painfulthan his words, so evident was it that his thoughts must be fearful.Duroy suddenly recalled what Norbert de Varenne had said to him someweeks before, "I now see death so near that I often want to stretch outmy arms to put it back. I see it everywhere. The insects crushed on thepath, the falling leaves, the white hair in a friend's beard, rend myheart and cry to me, 'Behold!'"

He had not understood all this on that occasion; now, seeing Forestier,he did. An unknown pain assailed him, as if he himself was sensible ofthe presence of death, hideous death, hard by, within reach of his hand,on the chair in which his friend lay gasping. He longed to get up, to goaway, to fly, to return to Paris at once. Oh! if he had known he wouldnot have come.

Darkness had now spread over the room, like premature mourning for thedying man. The window alone remained still visible, showing, within thelighter square formed by it, the motionless outline of the young wife.

Forestier remarked, with irritation, "Well, are they going to bring inthe lamp to-night? This is what they call looking after an invalid."

The shadow outlined against the window panes disappeared, and the soundof an electric bell rang through the house. A servant shortly enteredand placed a lamp on the mantelpiece. Madame Forestier said to herhusband, "Will you go to bed, or would you rather come down to dinner?"

He murmured: "I will come down."

Waiting for this meal kept them all three sitting still for nearly anhour, only uttering from time to time some needless commonplace remark,as if there had been some danger, some mysterious danger in lettingsilence endure too long, in letting the air congeal in this room wheredeath was prowling.

At length dinner was announced. The meal seemed interminable to Duroy.They did not speak, but ate noiselessly, and then crumbled their breadwith their fingers. The man servant who waited upon them went to and frowithout the sound of his footsteps being heard, for as the creak of aboot-sole irritated Charles, he wore list slippers. The harsh tick of awooden clock alone disturbed the calm with its mechanical and regularsound.

As soon as dinner was over Duroy, on the plea of fatigue, retired to hisroom, and leaning on the window-sill watched the full moon, in the midstof the sky like an immense lamp, casting its cold gleam upon the whitewalls of the villas, and scattering over the sea a soft and movingdappled light. He strove to find some reason to justify a swiftdeparture, inventing plans, telegrams he was to receive, a recall fromMonsieur Walter.

But his resolves to fly appeared more difficult to realize on awakeningthe next morning. Madame Forestier would not be taken in by his devices,and he would lose by his cowardice all the benefit of his self-devotion.He said to himself: "Bah! it is awkward; well so much the worse, theremust be unpleasant situations in life, and, besides, it will perhaps besoon over."

It was a bright day, one of those bright Southern days that make theheart feel light, and Duroy walked down to the sea, thinking that itwould be soon enough to see Forestier some time in course of theafternoon. When he returned to lunch, the servant remarked, "Master hasalready asked for you two or three times, sir. Will you please step upto his room, sir?"

He went upstairs. Forestier appeared to be dozing in his armchair. Hiswife was reading, stretched out on the sofa.

The invalid raised his head, and Duroy said, "Well, how do you feel? Youseem quite fresh this morning."

"Yes, I am better, I have recovered some of my strength. Get throughyour lunch with Madeleine as soon as you can, for we are going out fora drive."

As soon as she was alone with Duroy, the young wife said to him, "There,to-day he thinks he is all right again. He has been making plans all themorning. We are going to the Golfe Juan now to buy some pottery for ourrooms in Paris. He is determined to go out, but I am horribly afraid ofsome mishap. He cannot bear the shaking of the drive."

When the landau arrived, Forestier came down stairs a step at a time,supported by his servant. But as soon as he caught sight of thecarriage, he ordered the hood to be taken off. His wife opposed this,saying, "You will catch cold. It is madness."

He persisted, repeating, "Oh, I am much better. I feel it."

They passed at first along some of those shady roads, bordered bygardens, which cause Cannes to resemble a kind of English Park, and thenreached the highway to Antibes, running along the seashore. Forestieracted as guide. He had already pointed out the villa of the Court deParis, and now indicated others. He was lively, with the forced andfeeble gayety of a doomed man. He lifted his finger, no longer havingstrength to stretch out his arm, and said, "There is the Ile SainteMarguerite, and the chateau from which Bazaine escaped. How they didhumbug us over that matter!"

Then regimental recollections recurred to him, and he mentioned variousofficers whose names recalled incidents to them. But all at once, theroad making a turn, they caught sight of the whole of the Golfe Juan,with the white village in the curve of the bay, and the point of Antibesat the further side of it. Forestier, suddenly seized upon by childishglee, exclaimed, "Ah! the squadron, you will see the squadron."

Indeed they could perceive, in the middle of the broad bay, half-a-dozenlarge ships resembling rocks covered with leafless trees. They werehuge, strange, mis-shapen, with excrescences, turrets, rams, buryingthemselves in the water as though to take root beneath the waves. Onecould scarcely imagine how they could stir or move about, they seemed soheavy and so firmly fixed to the bottom. A floating battery, circularand high out of water, resembling the light-houses that are built onshoals. A tall three-master passed near them, with all its white sailsset. It looked graceful and pretty beside these iron war monsterssquatted on the water. Forestier tried to make them out. He pointed outthe Colbert, the Suffren, the Admiral Duperre, the Redoubtable, theDevastation, and then checking himself, added, "No I made a mistake;that one is the Devastation."

They arrived opposite a species of large pavilion, on the front of whichwas the inscription, "Art Pottery of the Golfe Juan," and the carriage,driving up the sweep, stopped before the door. Forestier wanted to buy acouple of vases for his study. As he felt unequal to getting out of thecarriage, specimens were brought out to him one after the other. He wasa long time in making a choice, and consulted his wife and Duroy.

"You know," he said, "it is for the cabinet at the end of the study.Sitting in my chair, I have it before my eyes all the time. I want anantique form, a Greek outline." He examined the specimens, had othersbrought, and then turned again to the first ones. At length he made uphis mind, and having paid, insisted upon the articles being sent on atonce. "I shall be going back to Paris in a few days," he said.

They drove home, but as they skirted the bay a rush of cold air from oneof the valleys suddenly met them, and the invalid began to cough. It wasnothing at first, but it augmented and became an unbroken fit ofcoughing, and then a kind of gasping hiccough.

Forestier was choking, and every time he tried to draw breath the coughseemed to rend his chest. Nothing would soothe or check it. He had to beborne from the carriage to his room, and Duroy, who supported his legs,felt the jerking of his feet at each convulsion of his lungs. The warmthof the bed did not check the attack, which lasted till midnight, when,at length, narcotics lulled its deadly spasm. The sick man remained tillmorning sitting up in his bed, with his eyes open.

The first words he uttered were to ask for the barber, for he insistedon being shaved every morning. He got up for this operation, but had tobe helped back into bed at once, and his breathing grew so short, sohard, and so difficult, that Madame Forestier, in alarm, had Duroy, whohad just turned in, roused up again in order to beg him to go for thedoctor.

He came back almost immediately with Dr. Gavaut, who prescribed asoothing drink and gave some advice; but when the journalist saw him tothe door, in order to ask his real opinion, he said, "It is the end. Hewill be dead to-morrow morning. Break it to his poor wife, and send fora priest. I, for my part, can do nothing more. I am, however, entirelyat your service."

Duroy sent for Madame Forestier. "He is dying," said he. "The doctoradvises a priest being sent for. What would you like done?"

She hesitated for some time, and then, in slow tones, as though she hadcalculated everything, replied, "Yes, that will be best—in manyrespects. I will break it to him—tell him the vicar wants to see him,or something or other; I really don't know what. You would be very kindif you would go and find a priest for me and pick one out. Choose onewho won't raise too many difficulties over the business. One who will besatisfied with confession, and will let us off with the rest of it all."

The young fellow returned with a complaisant old ecclesiastic, whoaccommodated himself to the state of affairs. As soon as he had goneinto the dying man's room, Madame Forestier came out of it, and sat downwith Duroy in the one adjoining.

"It has quite upset him," said she. "When I spoke to him about a priesthis face assumed a frightful expression as if he had felt thebreath—the breath of—you know. He understood that it was all over atlast, and that his hours were numbered." She was very pale as shecontinued, "I shall never forget the expression of his face. Hecertainly saw death face to face at that moment. He saw him."

They could hear the priest, who spoke in somewhat loud tones, beingslightly deaf, and who was saying, "No, no; you are not so bad as allthat. You are ill, but in no danger. And the proof is that I have calledin as a friend as a neighbor."

They could not make out Forestier's reply, but the old man went on, "No,I will not ask you to communicate. We will talk of that when you arebetter. If you wish to profit by my visit—to confess, for instance—Iask nothing better. I am a shepherd, you know, and seize on everyoccasion to bring a lamb back to the fold."

A long silence followed. Forestier must have been speaking in a faintvoice. Then all at once the priest uttered in a different tone, the toneof one officiating at the altar. "The mercy of God is infinite. Repeatthe Comfiteor, my son. You have perhaps forgotten it; I will help you.Repeat after me: 'Comfiteor Deo omnipotenti—Beata Maria sempervirgini.'"

He paused from time to time to allow the dying man to catch him up. Thenhe said, "And now confess."

The young wife and Duroy sat still seized on by a strange uneasiness,stirred by anxious expectation. The invalid had murmured something. Thepriest repeated, "You have given way to guilty pleasures—of what kind,my son?"

Madeleine rose and said, "Let us go down into the garden for a shorttime. We must not listen to his secrets."

And they went and sat down on a bench before the door beneath a rosetree in bloom, and beside a bed of pinks, which shed their soft andpowerful perfume abroad in the pure air. Duroy, after a few moments'silence, inquired, "Shall you be long before you return to Paris?"

"Oh, no," she replied. "As soon as it is all over I shall go backthere."

"Within ten days?"

"Yes, at the most."

"He has no relations, then?"

"None except cousins. His father and mother died when he was quiteyoung."

They both watched a butterfly sipping existence from the pinks, passingfrom one to another with a soft flutter of his wings, which continued toflap slowly when he alighted on a flower. They remained silent for aconsiderable time.

The servant came to inform them that "the priest had finished," and theywent upstairs together.

Forestier seemed to have grown still thinner since the day before. Thepriest held out his hand to him, saying, "Good-day, my son, I shall callin again to-morrow morning," and took his departure.

As soon as he had left the room the dying man, who was panting forbreath, strove to hold out his two hands to his wife, and gasped, "Saveme—save me, darling, I don't want to die—I don't want to die. Oh! saveme—tell me what I had better do; send for the doctor. I will takewhatever you like. I won't die—I won't die."

He wept. Big tears streamed from his eyes down his fleshless cheeks, andthe corners of his mouth contracted like those of a vexed child. Thenhis hands, falling back on the bed clothes, began a slow, regular, andcontinuous movement, as though trying to pick something off the sheet.

His wife, who began to cry too, said: "No, no, it is nothing. It is onlya passing attack, you will be better to-morrow, you tired yourself toomuch going out yesterday."

Forestier's breathing was shorter than that of a dog who has beenrunning, so quick that it could not be counted, so faint that it couldscarcely be heard.

He kept repeating: "I don't want to die. Oh! God—God—God; what is tobecome of me? I shall no longer see anything—anything any more. Oh!God."

He saw before him some hideous thing invisible to the others, and hisstaring eyes reflected the terror it inspired. His two hands continuedtheir horrible and wearisome action. All at once he started with a sharpshudder that could be seen to thrill the whole of his body, and jerkedout the words, "The graveyard—I—Oh! God."

He said no more, but lay motionless, haggard and panting.

Time sped on, noon struck by the clock of a neighboring convent. Duroyleft the room to eat a mouthful or two. He came back an hour later.Madame Forestier refused to take anything. The invalid had not stirred.He still continued to draw his thin fingers along the sheet as though topull it up over his face.

His wife was seated in an armchair at the foot of the bed. Duroy tookanother beside her, and they waited in silence. A nurse had come, sentin by the doctor, and was dozing near the window.

Duroy himself was beginning to doze off when he felt that something washappening. He opened his eyes just in time to see Forestier close his,like two lights dying out. A faint rattle stirred in the throat of thedying man, and two streaks of blood appeared at the corners of hismouth, and then flowed down into his shirt. His hands ceased theirhideous motion. He had ceased to breathe.

His wife understood this, and uttering a kind of shriek, she fell on herknees sobbing, with her face buried in the bed-clothes. George,surprised and scared, mechanically made the sign of the cross. The nurseawakened, drew near the bed. "It is all over," said she.

Duroy, who was recovering his self-possession, murmured, with a sigh ofrelief: "It was sooner over than I thought for."

When the first shock was over and the first tears shed, they had to busythemselves with all the cares and all the necessary steps a dead manexacts. Duroy was running about till nightfall. He was very hungry whenhe got back. Madame Forestier ate a little, and then they both installedthemselves in the chamber of death to watch the body. Two candles burnedon the night-table beside a plate filled with holy water, in which lay asprig of mimosa, for they had not been able to get the necessary twig ofconsecrated box.

They were alone, the young man and the young wife, beside him who was nomore. They sat without speaking, thinking and watching.

George, whom the darkness rendered uneasy in presence of the corpse,kept his eyes on this persistently. His eye and his mind were bothattracted and fascinated by this fleshless visage, which the vacillatinglight caused to appear yet more hollow. That was his friend CharlesForestier, who was chatting with him only the day before! What a strangeand fearful thing was this end of a human being! Oh! how he recalled thewords of Norbert de Varenne haunted by the fear of death: "No one evercomes back." Millions on millions would be born almost identical, witheyes, a nose, a mouth, a skull and a mind within it, without he who laythere on the bed ever reappearing again.

For some years he had lived, eaten, laughed, loved, hoped like all theworld. And it was all over for him all over for ever. Life; a few days,and then nothing. One is born, one grows up, one is happy, one waits,and then one dies. Farewell, man or woman, you will not return again toearth. Plants, beast, men, stars, worlds, all spring to life, and thendie to be transformed anew. But never one of them comes back—insect,man, nor planet.

A huge, confused, and crushing sense of terror weighed down the soul ofDuroy, the terror of that boundless and inevitable annihilationdestroying all existence. He already bowed his head before its menace.He thought of the flies who live a few hours, the beasts who live a fewdays, the men who live a few years, the worlds which live a fewcenturies. What was the difference between one and the other? A few moredays' dawn that was all.

He turned away his eyes in order no longer to have the corpse beforethem. Madame Forestier, with bent head, seemed also absorbed in painfulthoughts. Her fair hair showed so prettily with her pale face, that afeeling, sweet as the touch of hope flitted through the young fellow'sbreast. Why grieve when he had still so many years before him? And hebegan to observe her. Lost in thought she did not notice him. He said tohimself, "That, though, is the only good thing in life, to love, to holdthe woman one loves in one's arms. That is the limit of humanhappiness."

What luck the dead man had had to meet such an intelligent and charmingcompanion! How had they become acquainted? How ever had she agreed onher part to marry that poor and commonplace young fellow? How had shesucceeded in making someone of him? Then he thought of all the hiddenmysteries of people's lives. He remembered what had been whispered aboutthe Count de Vaudrec, who had dowered and married her off it was said.

What would she do now? Whom would she marry? A deputy, as Madame deMarelle fancied, or some young fellow with a future before him, a higherclass Forestier? Had she any projects, any plans, any settled ideas? Howhe would have liked to know that. But why this anxiety as to what shewould do? He asked himself this, and perceived that his uneasiness wasdue to one of those half-formed and secret ideas which one hides fromeven one's self, and only discovers when fathoming one's self to thevery bottom.

Yes, why should he not attempt this conquest himself? How strong andredoubtable he would be with her beside him!

How quick, and far, and surely he would fly! And why should he notsucceed too? He felt that he pleased her, that she had for him more thanmere sympathy; in fact, one of those affections which spring up betweentwo kindred spirits and which partake as much of silent seduction as ofa species of mute complicity. She knew him to be intelligent, resolute,and tenacious, she would have confidence in him.

Had she not sent for him under the present grave circ*mstances? And whyhad she summoned him? Ought he not to see in this a kind of choice, aspecies of confession. If she had thought of him just at the moment shewas about to become a widow, it was perhaps that she had thought of onewho was again to become her companion and ally? An impatient desire toknow this, to question her, to learn her intentions, assailed him. Hewould have to leave on the next day but one, as he could not remainalone with her in the house. So it was necessary to be quick, it wasnecessary before returning to Paris to become acquainted, cleverly anddelicately, with her projects, and not to allow her to go back on them,to yield perhaps to the solicitations of another, and pledge herselfirrevocably.

The silence in the room was intense, nothing was audible save theregular and metallic tick of the pendulum of the clock on themantelpiece.

He murmured: "You must be very tired?"

She replied: "Yes; but I am, above all, overwhelmed."

The sound of their own voices startled them, ringing strangely in thisgloomy room, and they suddenly glanced at the dead man's face as thoughthey expected to see it move on hearing them, as it had done some hoursbefore.

Duroy resumed: "Oh! it is a heavy blow for you, and such a completechange in your existence, a shock to your heart and your whole life."

She gave a long sigh, without replying, and he continued, "It is sopainful for a young woman to find herself alone as you will be."

He paused, but she said nothing, and he again went on, "At all events,you know the compact entered into between us. You can make what use ofme you will. I belong to you."

She held out her hand, giving him at the same time one of those sweet,sad looks which stir us to the very marrow.

"Thank you, you are very kind," she said. "If I dared, and if I could doanything for you, I, too, should say, 'You may count upon me.'"

He had taken the proffered hand and kept it clasped in his, with aburning desire to kiss it. He made up his mind to this at last, andslowly raising it to his mouth, held the delicate skin, warm, slightlyfeverish and perfumed, to his lips for some time. Then, when he feltthat his friendly caress was on the point of becoming too prolonged, helet fall the little hand. It sank back gently onto the knee of itsmistress, who said, gravely: "Yes, I shall be very lonely, but I shallstrive to be brave."

He did not know how to give her to understand that he would be happy,very happy, to have her for his wife in his turn. Certainly he could nottell her so at that hour, in that place, before that corpse; yet hemight, it seemed to him, hit upon one of those ambiguous, decorous, andcomplicated phrases which have a hidden meaning under their words, andwhich express all one wants to by their studied reticence. But thecorpse incommoded him, the stiffened corpse stretched out before them,and which he felt between them. For some time past, too, he fancied hedetected in the close atmosphere of the room a suspicious odor, afœtid breath exhaling from the decomposing chest, the first whiff ofcarrion which the dead lying on their bed throw out to the relativeswatching them, and with which they soon fill the hollow of theircoffin.

"Cannot we open the window a little?" said Duroy. "It seems to me thatthe air is tainted."

"Yes," she replied, "I have just noticed it, too."

He went to the window and opened it. All the perfumed freshness of nightflowed in, agitating the flame of the two lighted candles beside thebed. The moon was shedding, as on the former evening, her full mellowlight upon the white walls of the villas and the broad glitteringexpanse of the sea. Duroy, drawing in the air to the full depth of hislungs, felt himself suddenly seized with hope, and, as it were buoyed upby the approach of happiness. He turned round, saying: "Come and get alittle fresh air. It is delightful."

She came quietly, and leant on the window-sill beside him. Then hemurmured in a low tone: "Listen to me, and try to understand what I wantto tell you. Above all, do not be indignant at my speaking to you ofsuch a matter at such a moment, for I shall leave you the day afterto-morrow, and when you return to Paris it may be too late. I am only apoor devil without fortune, and with a position yet to make, as youknow. But I have a firm will, some brains I believe, and I am well onthe right track. With a man who has made his position, one knows whatone gets; with one who is starting, one never knows where he may finish.So much the worse, or so much the better. In short, I told you one dayat your house that my brightest dream would have been to have married awoman like you. I repeat this wish to you now. Do not answer, let mecontinue. It is not a proposal I am making to you. The time and placewould render that odious. I wish only not to leave you ignorant that youcan make me happy with a word; that you can make me either a friend andbrother, or a husband, at your will; that my heart and myself are yours.I do not want you to answer me now. I do not want us to speak any moreabout the matter here. When we meet again in Paris you will let me knowwhat you have resolved upon. Until then, not a word. Is it not so?" Hehad uttered all this without looking at her, as though scattering hiswords abroad in the night before him. She seemed not to have heard them,so motionless had she remained, looking also straight before her with afixed and vague stare at the vast landscape lit up by the moon. Theyremained for some time side by side, elbow touching elbow, silent andreflecting. Then she murmured: "It is rather cold," and turning round,returned towards the bed.

He followed her. When he drew near he recognized that Forestier's bodywas really beginning to smell, and drew his chair to a distance, for hecould not have stood this odor of putrefaction long. He said: "He mustbe put in a coffin the first thing in the morning."

"Yes, yes, it is arranged," she replied. "The undertaker will be here ateight o'clock."

Duroy having sighed out the words, "Poor fellow," she, too, gave a longsigh of heartrending resignation.

They did not look at the body so often now, already accustomed to theidea of it, and beginning to mentally consent to the decease which but ashort time back had shocked and angered them—them who were mortals,too. They no longer spoke, continuing to keep watch in befitting fashionwithout going to sleep. But towards midnight Duroy dozed off the first.When he woke up he saw that Madame Forestier was also slumbering, andhaving shifted to a more comfortable position, he reclosed his eyes,growling: "Confound it all, it is more comfortable between the sheetsall the same."

A sudden noise made him start up. The nurse was entering the room. Itwas broad daylight. The young wife in the armchair in front of himseemed as surprised as himself. She was somewhat pale, but still pretty,fresh-looking, and nice, in spite of this night passed in a chair.

Then, having glanced at the corpse, Duroy started and exclaimed: "Oh,his beard!" The beard had grown in a few hours on this decomposing fleshas much as it would have in several days on a living face. And theystood scared by this life continuing in death, as though in presence ofsome fearful prodigy, some supernatural threat of resurrection, one ofthese startling and abnormal events which upset and confound the mind.

They both went and lay down until eleven o'clock. Then they placedCharles in his coffin, and at once felt relieved and soothed. They hadsat down face to face at lunch with an aroused desire to speak of thelivelier and more consolatory matters, to return to the things of lifeagain, since they had done with the dead. Through the wide-open windowthe soft warmth of spring flowed in, bearing the perfumed breath of thebed of pinks in bloom before the door.

Madame Forestier suggested a stroll in the garden to Duroy, and theybegan to walk slowly round the little lawn, inhaling with pleasure thebalmy air, laden with the scent of pine and eucalyptus. Suddenly shebegan to speak, without turning her head towards him, as he had doneduring the night upstairs. She uttered her words slowly, in a low andserious voice.

"Look here, my dear friend, I have deeply reflected already on what youproposed to me, and I do not want you to go away without an answer.Besides, I am neither going to say yes nor no. We will wait, we willsee, we will know one another better. Reflect, too, on your side. Do notgive way to impulse. But if I speak to you of this before even poorCharles is lowered into the tomb, it is because it is necessary, afterwhat you have said to me, that you should thoroughly understand whatsort of woman I am, in order that you may no longer cherish the wish youexpressed to me, in case you are not of a—of a—disposition tocomprehend and bear with me. Understand me well. Marriage for me is nota charm, but a partnership. I mean to be free, perfectly free as to myways, my acts, my going and coming. I could neither toleratesupervision, nor jealousy, nor arguments as to my behavior. I shouldundertake, be it understood, never to compromise the name of the man whotakes me as his wife, never to render him hateful and ridiculous. Butthis man must also undertake to see in me an equal, an ally, and not aninferior or an obedient and submissive wife. My notions, I know, are notthose of every one, but I shall not change them. There you are. I willalso add, do not answer me; it would be useless and unsuitable. We shallsee one another again, and shall perhaps speak of all this again lateron. Now, go for a stroll. I shall return to watch beside him. Till thisevening."

He printed a long kiss on her hand, and went away without uttering aword. That evening they only saw one another at dinnertime. Then theyretired to their rooms, both exhausted with fatigue.

Charles Forestier was buried the next day, without any funeral display,in the cemetery at Cannes. George Duroy wished to take the Parisexpress, which passed through the town at half-past one.

Madame Forestier drove with him to the station. They walked quietly upand down the platform pending the time for his departure, speaking oftrivial matters.

The train rolled into the station. The journalist took his seat, andthen got out again to have a few more moments' conversation with her,suddenly seized as he was with sadness and a strong regret at leavingher, as though he were about to lose her for ever.

A porter shouted, "Take your seats for Marseilles, Lyons, and Paris."Duroy got in and leant out of the window to say a few more words. Theengine whistled, and the train began to move slowly on.

The young fellow, leaning out of the carriage, watched the womanstanding still on the platform and following him with her eyes.Suddenly, as he was about to lose sight of her, he put his hand to hismouth and threw a kiss towards her. She returned it with a discreet andhesitating gesture.

IX

George Duroy had returned to all his old habits.

Installed at present in the little ground-floor suite of rooms in theRue de Constantinople, he lived soberly, like a man preparing a newexistence for himself.

Madame Forestier had not yet returned. She was lingering at Cannes. Hereceived a letter from her merely announcing her return about the middleof April, without a word of allusion to their farewell. He was waiting,his mind was thoroughly made up now to employ every means in order tomarry her, if she seemed to hesitate. But he had faith in his luck,confidence in that power of seduction which he felt within him, a vagueand irresistible power which all women felt the influence of.

A short note informed him that the decisive hour was about to strike: "Iam in Paris. Come and see me.—Madeleine Forestier."

Nothing more. He received it by the nine o'clock post. He arrived at herresidence at three on the same day. She held out both hands to himsmiling with her pleasant smile, and they looked into one another's eyesfor a few seconds. Then she said: "How good you were to come to me thereunder those terrible circ*mstances."

"I should have done anything you told me to," he replied.

And they sat down. She asked the news, inquired about the Walters, aboutall the staff, about the paper. She had often thought about the paper.

"I miss that a great deal," she said, "really a very great deal. I hadbecome at heart a journalist. What would you, I love the profession?"

Then she paused. He thought he understood, he thought he divined in hersmile, in the tone of her voice, in her words themselves a kind ofinvitation, and although he had promised to himself not to precipitatematters, he stammered out: "Well, then—why—why should you notresume—this occupation—under—under the name of Duroy?"

She suddenly became serious again, and placing her hand on his arm,murmured: "Do not let us speak of that yet a while."

But he divined that she accepted, and falling at her knees began topassionately kiss her hands, repeating: "Thanks, thanks; oh, how I loveyou!"

She rose. He did so, too, and noted that she was very pale. Then heunderstood that he had pleased her, for a long time past, perhaps, andas they found themselves face to face, he clasped her to him and printeda long, tender, and decorous kiss on her forehead. When she had freedherself, slipping through his arms, she said in a serious tone: "Listen,I have not yet made up my mind to anything. However, it may be—yes. Butyou must promise me the most absolute secrecy till I give you leave tospeak."

He swore this, and left, his heart overflowing with joy.

He was from that time forward very discreet as regards the visits hepaid her, and did not ask for any more definite consent on her part, forshe had a way of speaking of the future, of saying "by-and-by," and ofshaping plans in which these two lives were blended, which answered himbetter and more delicately than a formal acceptation.

Duroy worked hard and spent little, trying to save money so as not to bewithout a penny at the date fixed for his marriage, and becoming asclose as he had been prodigal. The summer went by, and then the autumn,without anyone suspecting anything, for they met very little, and onlyin the most natural way in the world.

One evening, Madeleine, looking him straight in the eyes said: "You havenot yet announced our intentions to Madame de Marelle?"

"No, dear, having promised you to be secret, I have not opened my mouthto a living soul."

"Well, it is about time to tell her. I will undertake to inform theWalters. You will do so this week, will you not?"

He blushed as he said: "Yes, to-morrow."

She had turned away her eyes in order not to notice his confusion, andsaid: "If you like we will be married in the beginning of May. That willbe a very good time."

"I obey you in all things with joy."

"The tenth of May, which is a Saturday, will suit me very nicely, for itis my birthday."

"Very well, the tenth of May."

"Your parents live near Rouen, do they not? You have told me so, atleast."

"Yes, near Rouen, at Canteleu."

"What are they?"

"They are—they are small annuitants."

"Ah! I should very much like to know them."

He hesitated, greatly perplexed, and said: "But, you see, they are—"Then making up his mind, like a really clever man, he went on: "My dear,they are mere country folk, innkeepers, who have pinched themselves tothe utmost to enable me to pursue my studies. For my part, I am notashamed of them, but their—simplicity—their rustic manners—might,perhaps, render you uncomfortable."

She smiled, delightfully, her face lit up with gentle kindness as shereplied: "No. I shall be very fond of them. We will go and see them. Iwant to. I will speak of this to you again. I, too, am a daughter ofpoor people, but I have lost my parents. I have no longer anyone in theworld." She held out her hand to him as she added: "But you."

He felt softened, moved, overcome, as he had been by no other woman.

"I had thought about one matter," she continued, "but it is ratherdifficult to explain."

"What is it?" he asked.

"Well, it is this, my dear boy, I am like all women, I have myweaknesses, my pettinesses. I love all that glitters, that catches theear. I should have so delighted to have borne a noble name. Could younot, on the occasion of your marriage, ennoble yourself a little?"

She had blushed in her turn, as if she had proposed somethingindelicate.

He replied simply enough: "I have often thought about it, but it did notseem to me so easy."

"Why so?"

He began to laugh, saying: "Because I was afraid of making myself lookridiculous."

She shrugged her shoulders. "Not at all, not at all Every one does it,and nobody laughs. Separate your name in two—Du Roy. That looks verywell."

He replied at once like a man who understands the matter in question:"No, that will not do at all. It is too simple, too common, toowell-known. I had thought of taking the name of my native place, as aliterary pseudonym at first, then of adding it to my own by degrees, andthen, later on, of even cutting my name in two, as you suggest."

"Your native place is Canteleu?" she queried.

"Yes."

She hesitated, saying: "No, I do not like the termination. Come, cannotwe modify this word Canteleu a little?"

She had taken up a pen from the table, and was scribbling names andstudying their physiognomy. All at once she exclaimed: "There, there itis!" and held out to him a paper, on which read—"Madame Duroy deCantel."

He reflected a few moments, and then said gravely: "Yes, that does verywell."

She was delighted, and kept repeating "Duroy de Cantel, Duroy de Cantel,Madame Duroy de Cantel. It is capital, capital." She went on with an airof conviction: "And you will see how easy it is to get everyone toaccept it. But one must know how to seize the opportunity, for it willbe too late afterwards. You must from to-morrow sign your descriptivearticles D. de Cantel, and your 'Echoes' simply Duroy. It is done everyday in the press, and no one will be astonished to see you take apseudonym. At the moment of our marriage we can modify it yet a littlemore, and tell our friends that you had given up the 'Du' out of modestyon account of your position, or even say nothing about it. What is yourfather's Christian name?"

"Alexander."

She murmured: "Alexander, Alexander," two or three times, listening tothe sonorous roll of the syllables, and then wrote on a blank sheet ofpaper:

"Monsieur and Madame Alexander Du Roy de Cantel have the honor to informyou of the marriage of Monsieur George Du Roy de Cantel, their son, toMadame Madeleine Forestier." She looked at her writing, holding it at adistance, charmed by the effect, and said: "With a little method we canmanage whatever we wish."

When he found himself once more in the street, firmly resolved to callhimself in future Du Roy, and even Du Roy de Cantel, it seemed to himthat he had acquired fresh importance. He walked with more swagger, hishead higher, his moustache fiercer, as a gentleman should walk. He feltin himself a species of joyous desire to say to the passers-by: "My nameis Du Roy de Cantel."

But scarcely had he got home than the thought of Madame de Marelle madehim feel uneasy, and he wrote to her at once to ask her to make anappointment for the next day.

"It will be a tough job," he thought. "I must look out for squalls."

Then he made up his mind for it, with the native carelessness whichcaused him to slur over the disagreeable side of life, and began towrite a fancy article on the fresh taxes needed in order to make theBudget balance. He set down in this the nobiliary "De" at a hundredfrancs a year, and titles, from baron to prince, at from five hundred tofive thousand francs. And he signed it "D. de Cantel."

He received a telegram from his mistress next morning saying that shewould call at one o'clock. He waited for her somewhat feverishly, hismind made up to bring things to a point at once, to say everything rightout, and then, when the first emotion had subsided, to argue cleverly inorder to prove to her that he could not remain a bachelor for ever, andthat as Monsieur de Marelle insisted on living, he had been obliged tothink of another than herself as his legitimate companion. He feltmoved, though, and when he heard her ring his heart began to beat.

She threw herself into his arms, exclaiming: "Good morning, Pretty-boy."Then, finding his embrace cold, looked at him, and said: "What is thematter with you?"

"Sit down," he said, "we have to talk seriously."

She sat down without taking her bonnet off, only turning back her veil,and waited.

He had lowered his eyes, and was preparing the beginning of his speech.He commenced in a low tone of voice: "My dear one, you see me veryuneasy, very sad, and very much embarrassed at what I have to admit toyou. I love you dearly. I really love you from the bottom of my heart,so that the fear of causing you pain afflicts me more than even the newsI am going to tell you."

She grew pale, felt herself tremble, and stammered out: "What is thematter? Tell me at once."

He said in sad but resolute tones, with that feigned dejection which wemake use of to announce fortunate misfortunes: "I am going to bemarried."

She gave the sigh of a woman who is about to faint, a painful sigh fromthe very depths of her bosom, and then began to choke and gasp withoutbeing able to speak.

Seeing that she did not say anything, he continued: "You cannot imaginehow much I suffered before coming to this resolution. But I have neitherposition nor money. I am alone, lost in Paris. I needed beside mesomeone who above all would be an adviser, a consoler, and a stay. It isa partner, an ally, that I have sought, and that I have found."

He was silent, hoping that she would reply, expecting furious rage,violence, and insults. She had placed one hand on her heart as though torestrain its throbbings, and continued to draw her breath by painfulefforts, which made her bosom heave spasmodically and her head nod toand fro. He took her other hand, which was resting on the arm of thechair, but she snatched it away abruptly. Then she murmured, as thoughin a state of stupefaction: "Oh, my God!"

He knelt down before her, without daring to touch her, however, and moredeeply moved by this silence than he would have been by a fit of anger,stammered out: "Clo! my darling Clo! just consider my situation,consider what I am. Oh! if I had been able to marry you, what happinessit would have been. But you are married. What could I do? Come, think ofit, now. I must take a place in society, and I cannot do it so long as Ihave not a home. If you only knew. There are days when I have felt alonging to kill your husband."

He spoke in his soft, subdued, seductive voice, a voice which enteredthe ear like music. He saw two tears slowly gather in the fixed andstaring eyes of his mistress and then roll down her cheeks, while twomore were already formed on the eyelids.

He murmured: "Do not cry, Clo; do not cry, I beg of you. You rend myvery heart."

Then she made an effort, a strong effort, to be proud and dignified, andasked, in the quivering tone of a woman about to burst into sobs: "Whois it?"

He hesitated a moment, and then understanding that he must, said:

"Madeleine Forestier."

Madame de Marelle shuddered all over, and remained silent, so deep inthought that she seemed to have forgotten that he was at her feet. Andtwo transparent drops kept continually forming in her eyes, falling andforming again.

She rose. Duroy guessed that she was going away without saying a word,without reproach or forgiveness, and he felt hurt and humiliated to thebottom of his soul. Wishing to stay her, he threw his arms about theskirt of her dress, clasping through the stuff her rounded legs, whichhe felt stiffen in resistance. He implored her, saying: "I beg of you,do not go away like that."

Then she looked down on him from above with that moistened anddespairing eye, at once so charming and so sad, which shows all thegrief of a woman's heart, and gasped out: "I—I have nothing to say. Ihave nothing to do with it. You—you are right. You—you have chosenwell."

And, freeing herself by a backward movement, she left the room withouthis trying to detain her further.

Left to himself, he rose as bewildered as if he had received a blow onthe head. Then, making up his mind, he muttered: "Well, so much theworse or the better. It is over, and without a scene; I prefer that,"and relieved from an immense weight, suddenly feeling himself free,delivered, at ease as to his future life, he began to spar at the wall,hitting out with his fists in a kind of intoxication of strength andtriumph, as if he had been fighting Fate.

When Madame Forestier asked: "Have you told Madame de Marelle?" hequietly answered, "Yes."

She scanned him closely with her bright eyes, saying: "And did it notcause her any emotion?"

"No, not at all. She thought it, on the contrary, a very good idea."

The news was soon known. Some were astonished, others asserted that theyhad foreseen it; others, again, smiled, and let it be understood thatthey were not surprised.

The young man who now signed his descriptive articles D. de Cantel, his"Echoes" Duroy, and the political articles which he was beginning towrite from time to time Du Roy, passed half his time with his betrothed,who treated him with a fraternal familiarity into which, however,entered a real but hidden love, a species of desire concealed as aweakness. She had decided that the marriage should be quite private,only the witnesses being present, and that they should leave the sameevening for Rouen. They would go the next day to see the journalist'sparents, and remain with them some days. Duroy had striven to get her torenounce this project, but not having been able to do so, had ended bygiving in to it.

So the tenth of May having come, the newly-married couple, havingconsidered the religious ceremony useless since they had not invitedanyone, returned to finish packing their boxes after a brief visit tothe Town Hall. They took, at the Saint Lazare terminus, the six o'clocktrain, which bore them away towards Normandy. They had scarcelyexchanged twenty words up to the time that they found themselves alonein the railway carriage. As soon as they felt themselves under way, theylooked at one another and began to laugh, to hide a certain feeling ofawkwardness which they did not want to manifest.

The train slowly passed through the long station of Batignolles, andthen crossed the mangy-looking plain extending from the fortificationsto the Seine. Duroy and his wife from time to time made a few idleremarks, and then turned again towards the windows. When they crossedthe bridge of Asniéres, a feeling of greater liveliness was aroused inthem at the sight of the river covered with boats, fishermen, andoarsmen. The sun, a bright May sun, shed its slanting rays upon thecraft and upon the smooth stream, which seemed motionless, withoutcurrent or eddy, checked, as it were, beneath the heat and brightness ofthe declining day. A sailing boat in the middle of the river havingspread two large triangular sails of snowy canvas, wing and wing, tocatch the faintest puffs of wind, looked like an immense bird preparingto take flight.

Duroy murmured: "I adore the neighborhood of Paris. I have memories ofdinners which I reckon among the pleasantest in my life."

"And the boats," she replied. "How nice it is to glide along at sunset."

Then they became silent, as though afraid to continue their outpouringsas to their past life, and remained so, already enjoying, perhaps, thepoesy of regret.

Duroy, seated face to face with his wife, took her hand and slowlykissed it. "When we get back again," said he, "we will go and dinesometimes at Chatou."

She murmured: "We shall have so many things to do," in a tone of voicethat seemed to imply, "The agreeable must be sacrificed to the useful."

He still held her hand, asking himself with some uneasiness by whattransition he should reach the caressing stage. He would not have feltuneasy in the same way in presence of the ignorance of a young girl, butthe lively and artful intelligence he felt existed in Madeleine,rendered his attitude an embarrassed one. He was afraid of appearingstupid to her, too timid or too brutal, too slow or too prompt. He keptpressing her hand gently, without her making any response to thisappeal. At length he said: "It seems to me very funny for you to be mywife."

She seemed surprised as she said: "Why so?"

"I do not know. It seems strange to me. I want to kiss you, and I feelastonished at having the right to do so."

She calmly held out her cheek to him, which he kissed as he would havekissed that of a sister.

He continued: "The first time I saw you—you remember the dinnerForestier invited me to—I thought, 'Hang it all, if I could only find awife like that.' Well, it's done. I have one."

She said, in a low tone: "That is very nice," and looked him straight inthe face, shrewdly, and with smiling eyes.

He reflected, "I am too cold. I am stupid. I ought to get along quickerthan this," and asked: "How did you make Forestier's acquaintance?"

She replied, with provoking archness: "Are we going to Rouen to talkabout him?"

He reddened, saying: "I am a fool. But you frighten me a great deal."

She was delighted, saying: "I—impossible! How is it?"

He had seated himself close beside her. She suddenly exclaimed: "Oh! astag."

The train was passing through the forest of Saint Germaine, and she hadseen a frightened deer clear one of the paths at a bound. Duroy, leaningforward as she looked out of the open window, printed a long kiss, alover's kiss, among the hair on her neck. She remained still for a fewseconds, and then, raising her head, said: "You are tickling me. Leaveoff."

But he would not go away, but kept on pressing his curly moustacheagainst her white skin in a long and thrilling caress.

She shook herself, saying: "Do leave off."

He had taken her head in his right hand, passed around her, and turnedit towards him. Then he darted on her mouth like a hawk on its prey. Shestruggled, repulsed him, tried to free herself. She succeeded at last,and repeated: "Do leave off."

He remained seated, very red and chilled by this sensible remark; then,having recovered more self-possession, he said, with some liveliness:"Very well, I will wait, but I shan't be able to say a dozen words tillwe get to Rouen. And remember that we are only passing through Poissy."

"I will do the talking then," she said, and sat down quietly beside him.

She spoke with precision of what they would do on their return. Theymust keep on the suite of apartments that she had resided in with herfirst husband, and Duroy would also inherit the duties and salary ofForestier at the Vie Francaise. Before their union, besides, she hadplanned out, with the certainty of a man of business, all the financialdetails of their household. They had married under a settlementpreserving to each of them their respective estates, and every incidentthat might arise—death, divorce, the birth of one or more children—wasduly provided for. The young fellow contributed a capital of fourthousand francs, he said, but of that sum he had borrowed fifteenhundred. The rest was due to savings effected during the year in view ofthe event. Her contribution was forty thousand francs, which she saidhad been left her by Forestier.

She returned to him as a subject of conversation. "He was a very steady,economical, hard-working fellow. He would have made a fortune in a veryshort time."

Duroy no longer listened, wholly absorbed by other thoughts. She stoppedfrom time to time to follow out some inward train of ideas, and thenwent on: "In three or four years you can be easily earning thirty toforty thousand francs a year. That is what Charles would have had if hehad lived."

George, who began to find the lecture rather a long one, replied: "Ithought we were not going to Rouen to talk about him."

She gave him a slight tap on the cheek, saying, with a laugh: "That isso. I am in the wrong."

He made a show of sitting with his hands on his knees like a very goodboy.

"You look very like a simpleton like that," said she.

He replied: "That is my part, of which, by the way, you reminded me justnow, and I shall continue to play it."

"Why?" she asked.

"Because it is you who take management of the household, and even of me.That, indeed, concerns you, as being a widow."

She was amazed, saying: "What do you really mean?"

"That you have an experience that should enlighten my ignorance, andmatrimonial practice that should polish up my bachelor innocence, that'sall."

"That is too much," she exclaimed.

He replied: "That is so. I don't know anything about ladies; no, and youknow all about gentlemen, for you are a widow. You must undertake myeducation—this evening—and you can begin at once if you like."

She exclaimed, very much amused: "Oh, indeed, if you reckon on me forthat!"

He repeated, in the tone of a school boy stumbling through his lesson:"Yes, I do. I reckon that you will give me solid information—in twentylessons. Ten for the elements, reading and grammar; ten for finishingaccomplishments. I don't know anything myself."

She exclaimed, highly amused: "You goose."

He replied: "If that is the familiar tone you take, I will follow yourexample, and tell you, darling, that I adore you more and more everymoment, and that I find Rouen a very long way off."

He spoke now with a theatrical intonation and with a series of changesof facial expression, which amused his companion, accustomed to the waysof literary Bohemia. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye,finding him really charming, and experiencing the longing we have topluck a fruit from the tree at once, and the check of reason whichadvises us to wait till dinner to eat it at the proper time. Then sheobserved, blushing somewhat at the thoughts which assailed her: "My dearlittle pupil, trust my experience, my great experience. Kisses in arailway train are not worth anything. They only upset one." Then sheblushed still more as she murmured: "One should never eat one's corn inthe ear."

He chuckled, kindling at the double meanings from her pretty mouth, andmade the sign of the cross, with a movement of the lips, as thoughmurmuring a prayer, adding aloud: "I have placed myself under theprotection of St. Anthony, patron-saint of temptations. Now I amadamant."

Night was stealing gently on, wrapping in its transparent shadow, like afine gauze, the broad landscape stretching away to the right. The trainwas running along the Seine, and the young couple began to watch thecrimson reflections on the surface of the river, winding like a broadstrip of polished metal alongside the line, patches fallen from the sky,which the departing sun had kindled into flame. These reflections slowlydied out, grew deeper, faded sadly. The landscape became dark with thatsinister thrill, that deathlike quiver, which each twilight causes topass over the earth. This evening gloom, entering the open window,penetrated the two souls, but lately so lively, of the now silent pair.

They had drawn more closely together to watch the dying day. At Nantesthe railway people had lit the little oil lamp, which shed its yellow,trembling light upon the drab cloth of the cushions. Duroy passed hisarms round the waist of his wife, and clasped her to him. His recentkeen desire had become a softened one, a longing for consoling littlecaresses, such as we lull children with.

He murmured softly: "I shall love you very dearly, my little Made."

The softness of his voice stirred the young wife, and caused a rapidthrill to run through her. She offered her mouth, bending towards him,for he was resting his cheek upon the warm pillow of her bosom, untilthe whistle of the train announced that they were nearing a station. Sheremarked, flattening the ruffled locks about her forehead with the tipsof her fingers: "It was very silly. We are quite childish."

But he was kissing her hands in turn with feverish rapidity, andreplied: "I adore you, my little Made."

Until they reached Rouen they remained almost motionless, cheek againstcheek, their eyes turned to the window, through which, from time totime, the lights of houses could be seen in the darkness, satisfied withfeeling themselves so close to one another, and with the growinganticipation of a freer and more intimate embrace.

They put up at a hotel overlooking the quay, and went to bed after avery hurried supper.

The chambermaid aroused them next morning as it was striking eight. Whenthey had drank the cup of tea she had placed on the night-table, Duroylooked at his wife, then suddenly, with the joyful impulse of thefortunate man who has just found a treasure, he clasped her in his arms,exclaiming: "My little Made, I am sure that I love you ever so much,ever so much, ever so much."

She smiled with her confident and satisfied smile, and murmured, as shereturned his kisses: "And I too—perhaps."

But he still felt uneasy about the visit of his parents. He had alreadyforewarned his wife, had prepared and lectured her, but he thought fitto do so again.

"You know," he said, "they are only rustics—country rustics, nottheatrical ones."

She laughed.

"But I know that: you have told me so often enough. Come, get up and letme get up."

He jumped out of bed, and said, as he drew on his socks:

"We shall be very uncomfortable there, very uncomfortable. There is onlyan old straw palliasse in my room. Spring mattresses are unknown atCanteleu."

She seemed delighted.

"So much the better. It will be delightful to sleepbadly—beside—beside you, and to be woke up by the crowing of theco*cks."

She had put on her dressing-gown—a white flannel dressing-gown—whichDuroy at once recognized. The sight of it was unpleasant to him. Why?His wife had, he was aware, a round dozen of these morning garments. Shecould not destroy her trousseau in order to buy a new one. No matter, hewould have preferred that her bed-linen, her night-linen, herunder-clothing were not the same she had made use of with the other. Itseemed to him that the soft, warm stuff must have retained somethingfrom its contact with Forestier.

He walked to the window, lighting a cigarette. The sight of the port,the broad stream covered with vessels with tapering spars, the steamersnoisily unloading alongside the quay, stirred him, although he had beenacquainted with it all for a long time past, and he exclaimed: "By Jove!it is a fine sight."

Madeleine approached, and placing both hands on one of her husband'sshoulders, leaned against him with careless grace, charmed anddelighted. She kept repeating: "Oh! how pretty, how pretty. I did notknow that there were so many ships as that."

They started an hour later, for they were to lunch with the old people,who had been forewarned some days beforehand. A rusty open carriage borethem along with a noise of jolting ironmongery. They followed a long andrather ugly boulevard, passed between some fields through which flowed astream, and began to ascend the slope. Madeleine, somewhat fatigued, haddozed off beneath the penetrating caress of the sun, which warmed herdelightfully as she lay stretched back in the old carriage as though ina bath of light and country air.

Her husband awoke her, saying: "Look!"

They had halted two-thirds of the way up the slope, at a spot famous forthe view, and to which all tourists drive. They overlooked the long andbroad valley through which the bright river flowed in sweeping curves.It could be caught sight of in the distance, dotted with numerousislands, and describing a wide sweep before flowing through Rouen. Thenthe town appeared on the right bank, slightly veiled in the morningmist, but with rays of sunlight falling on its roofs; its thousand squator pointed spires, light, fragile-looking, wrought like gigantic jewels;its round or square towers topped with heraldic crowns; its belfries;the numerous Gothic summits of its churches, overtopped by the sharpspire of the cathedral, that surprising spike of bronze—strange, ugly,and out of all proportion, the tallest in the world. Facing it, on theother side of the river, rose the factory chimneys of the suburb ofSaint Serves—tall, round, and broadening at their summit. More numerousthan their sister spires, they reared even in the distant country, theirtall brick columns, and vomited into the blue sky their black and coalybreath. Highest of all, as high as the second of the summits reared byhuman labor, the pyramid of Cheops, almost level with its proudcompanion the cathedral spire, the great steam-pump of La Foudre seemedthe queen of the busy, smoking factories, as the other was the queen ofthe sacred edifices. Further on, beyond the workmen's town, stretched aforest of pines, and the Seine, having passed between the two divisionsof the city, continued its way, skirting a tall rolling slope, wooded atthe summit, and showing here and there its bare bone of white stone.Then the river disappeared on the horizon, after again describing a longsweeping curve. Ships could be seen ascending and descending the stream,towed by tugs as big as flies and belching forth thick smoke. Islandswere stretched along the water in a line, one close to the other, orwith wide intervals between them, like the unequal beads of a verdantrosary.

The driver waited until the travelers' ecstasies were over. He knew fromexperience the duration of the admiration of all the breed of tourists.But when he started again Duroy suddenly caught sight of two old peopleadvancing towards them some hundreds of yards further on, and jumpedout, exclaiming: "There they are. I recognize them."

There were two country-folk, a man and a woman, walking with irregularsteps, rolling in their gait, and sometimes knocking their shoulderstogether. The man was short and strongly built, high colored andinclined to stoutness, but powerful, despite his years. The woman wastall, spare, bent, careworn, the real hard-working country-woman who hastoiled afield from childhood, and has never had time to amuse herself,while her husband has been joking and drinking with the customers.Madeleine had also alighted from the carriage, and she watched these twopoor creatures coming towards them with a pain at her heart, a sadnessshe had not anticipated. They had not recognized their son in this finegentleman and would never have guessed this handsome lady in the lightdress to be their daughter-in-law. They were walking on quickly and insilence to meet their long-looked-for boy, without noticing these cityfolk followed by their carriage.

They passed by when George, who was laughing, cried out: "Good-day,Daddy Duroy!"

They both stopped short, amazed at first, then stupefied with surprise.The old woman recovered herself first, and stammered, without advancinga step: "Is't thou, boy?"

The young fellow answered: "Yes, it is I, mother," and stepping up toher, kissed her on both cheeks with a son's hearty smack. Then he rubbednoses with his father, who had taken off his cap, a very tall, blacksilk cap, made Rouen fashion, like those worn by cattle dealers.

Then George said: "This is my wife," and the two country people lookedat Madeleine. They looked at her as one looks at a phenomenon, with anuneasy fear, united in the father with a species of approvingsatisfaction, in the mother with a kind of jealous enmity.

The man, who was of a joyous nature and inspired by a loveliness born ofsweet cider and alcohol, grew bolder, and asked, with a twinkle in thecorner of his eyes: "I may kiss her all the same?"

"Certainly," replied his son, and Madeleine, ill at ease, held out bothcheeks to the sounding smacks of the rustic, who then wiped his lipswith the back of his hand. The old woman, in her turn, kissed herdaughter-in-law with a hostile reserve. No, this was not thedaughter-in-law of her dreams; the plump, fresh housewife, rosy-cheekedas an apple, and round as a brood mare. She looked like a hussy, thefine lady with her furbelows and her musk. For the old girl all perfumeswere musk.

They set out again, walking behind the carriage which bore the trunk ofthe newly-wedded pair. The old fellow took his son by the arm, andkeeping him a little in the rear of the others, asked with interest:"Well, how goes business, lad?"

"Pretty fair."

"So much the better. Has thy wife any money?"

"Forty thousand francs," answered George.

His father gave vent to an admiring whistle, and could only murmur,"Dang it!" so overcome was he by the mention of the sum. Then he added,in a tone of serious conviction: "Dang it all, she's a fine woman!" Forhe found her to his taste, and he had passed for a good judge in hisday.

Madeleine and her mother-in-law were walking side by side withoutexchanging a word. The two men rejoined them. They reached the village,a little roadside village formed of half-a-score houses on each side ofthe highway, cottages and farm buildings, the former of brick and thelatter of clay, these covered with thatch and those with slates. FatherDuroy's tavern, "The Bellevue," a bit of a house consisting of a groundfloor and a garret, stood at the beginning of the village to the left. Apine branch above the door indicated, in ancient fashion, that thirstyfolk could enter.

The things were laid for lunch, in the common room of the tavern, on twotables placed together and covered with two napkins. A neighbor, come into help to serve the lunch, bowed low on seeing such a fine lady appear;and then, recognizing George, exclaimed: "Good Lord! is that theyoungster?"

He replied gayly: "Yes, it is I, Mother Brulin," and kissed her as hehad kissed his father and mother. Then turning to his wife, he said:"Come into our room and take your hat off."

He ushered her through a door to the right into a cold-looking room withtiled floor, white-washed walls, and a bed with white cotton curtains. Acrucifix above a holy-water stoup, and two colored pictures, onerepresenting Paul and Virginia under a blue palm tree, and the otherNapoleon the First on a yellow horse, were the only ornaments of thisclean and dispiriting apartment.

As soon as they were alone he kissed Madeleine, saying: "Thanks, Made. Iam glad to see the old folks again. When one is in Paris one does notthink about it; but when one meets again, it gives one pleasure all thesame."

But his father, thumbing the partition with his fist, cried out: "Comealong, come along, the soup is ready," and they had to sit down totable.

It was a long, countrified repast, with a succession of ill-assorteddishes, a sausage after a leg of mutton, and an omelette after asausage. Father Duroy, excited by cider and some glasses of wine, turnedon the tap of his choicest jokes—those he reserved for great occasionsof festivity, smutty adventures that had happened, as he maintained, tofriends of his. George, who knew all these stories, laughed,nevertheless, intoxicated by his native air, seized on by the innatelove of one's birthplace and of spots familiar from childhood, by allthe sensations and recollections once more renewed, by all the objectsof yore seen again once more; by trifles, such as the mark of a knife ona door, a broken chair recalling some pretty event, the smell of thesoil, the breath of the neighboring forest, the odors of the dwelling,the gutter, the dunghill.

Mother Duroy did not speak, but remained sad and grim, watching herdaughter-in-law out of the corner of her eye, with hatred awakened inher heart—the hatred of an old toiler, an old rustic with fingers wornand limbs bent by hard work—for the city madame, who inspired her withthe repulsion of an accursed creature, an impure being, created foridleness and sin. She kept getting up every moment to fetch the dishesor fill the glasses with cider, sharp and yellow from the decanter, orsweet, red, and frothing from the bottles, the corks of which poppedlike those of ginger beer.

Madeleine scarcely ate or spoke. She wore her wonted smile upon herlips, but it was a sad and resigned one. She was downcast. Why? She hadwanted to come. She had not been unaware that she was going amongcountry folk—poor country folk. What had she fancied them to be—she,who did not usually dream? Did she know herself? Do not women alwayshope for something that is not? Had she fancied them more poetical? No;but perhaps better informed, more noble, more affectionate, moreornamental. Yet she did not want them high-bred, like those in novels.Whence came it, then, that they shocked her by a thousand trifling,imperceptible details, by a thousand indefinable coarsenesses, by theirvery nature as rustics, by their words, their gestures, and their mirth?She recalled her own mother, of whom she never spoke to anyone—agoverness, brought up at Saint Denis—seduced, and died from poverty andgrief when she, Madeleine, was twelve years old. An unknown hand had hadher brought up. Her father, no doubt. Who was he? She did not exactlyknow, although she had vague suspicions.

The lunch still dragged on. Customers were now coming in and shakinghands with the father, uttering exclamations of wonderment on seeing hisson, and slyly winking as they scanned the young wife out of the cornerof their eye, which was as much as to say: "Hang it all, she's not aduffer, George Duroy's wife." Others, less intimate, sat down at thewooden tables, calling for "A pot," "A jugful," "Two brandies," "Araspail," and began to play at dominoes, noisily rattling the littlebits of black and white bone. Mother Duroy kept passing to and fro,serving the customers, with her melancholy air, taking money, and wipingthe tables with the corner of her blue apron.

The smoke of clay pipes and sou cigars filled the room. Madeleine beganto cough, and said: "Suppose we go out; I cannot stand it."

They had not quite finished, and old Duroy was annoyed at this. Then shegot up and went and sat on a chair outside the door, while herfather-in-law and her husband were finishing their coffee and their nipof brandy.

George soon rejoined her. "Shall we stroll down as far as the Seine?"said he.

She consented with pleasure, saying: "Oh, yes; let us go."

They descended the slope, hired a boat at Croisset, and passed the restof the afternoon drowsily moored under the willows alongside an island,soothed to slumber by the soft spring weather, and rocked by thewavelets of the river. Then they went back at nightfall.

The evening's repast, eaten by the light of a tallow candle, was stillmore painful for Madeleine than that of the morning. Father Duroy, whowas half drunk, no longer spoke. The mother maintained her doggedmanner. The wretched light cast upon the gray walls the shadows of headswith enormous noses and exaggerated movements. A great hand was seen toraise a pitchfork to a mouth opening like a dragon's maw whenever anyone of them, turning a little, presented a profile to the yellow,flickering flame.

As soon as dinner was over, Madeleine drew her husband out of the house,in order not to stay in this gloomy room, always reeking with an acridsmell of old pipes and spilt liquor. As soon as they were outside, hesaid: "You are tired of it already."

She began to protest, but he stopped her, saying: "No, I saw it veryplainly. If you like, we will leave to-morrow."

"Very well," she murmured.

They strolled gently onward. It was a mild night, the deep,all-embracing shadow of which seemed filled with faint murmurings,rustlings, and breathings. They had entered a narrow path, overshadowedby tall trees, and running between two belts of underwood ofimpenetrable blackness.

"Where are we?" asked she.

"In the forest," he replied.

"Is it a large one?"

"Very large; one of the largest in France."

An odor of earth, trees, and moss—that fresh yet old scent of thewoods, made up of the sap of bursting buds and the dead and molderingfoliage of the thickets, seemed to linger in the path. Raising her head,Madeleine could see the stars through the tree-tops; and although nobreeze stirred the boughs, she could yet feel around her the vaguequivering of this ocean of leaves. A strange thrill shot through hersoul and fleeted across her skin—a strange pain gripped her at theheart. Why, she did not understand. But it seemed to her that she waslost, engulfed, surrounded by perils, abandoned by everyone; alone,alone in the world beneath this living vault quivering there above her.

She murmured: "I am rather frightened. I should like to go back."

"Well, let us do so."

"And—we will leave for Paris to-morrow?"

"Yes, to-morrow."

"To-morrow morning?"

"To-morrow morning, if you like."

They returned home. The old folks had gone to bed. She slept badly,continually aroused by all the country sounds so new to her—the cry ofthe screech owl, the grunting of a pig in a sty adjoining the house, andthe noise of a co*ck who kept on crowing from midnight. She was up andready to start at daybreak.

When George announced to his parents that he was going back they wereboth astonished; then they understood the origin of his wish.

The father merely said: "Shall I see you again soon?"

"Yes, in the course of the summer."

"So much the better."

The old woman growled: "I hope you won't regret what you have done."

He left them two hundred francs as a present to assuage theirdiscontent, and the carriage, which a boy had been sent in quest of,having made its appearance at about ten o'clock, the newly-marriedcouple embraced the old country folk and started off once more.

As they were descending the hill Duroy began to laugh.

"There," he said, "I had warned you. I ought not to have introduced youto Monsieur and Madame du Roy de Cantel, Senior."

She began to laugh, too, and replied: "I am delighted now. They are goodfolk, whom I am beginning to like very well. I will send them somepresents from Paris." Then she murmured: "Du Roy de Cantel, you willsee that no one will be astonished at the terms of the notification ofour marriage. We will say that we have been staying for a week with yourparents on their estate." And bending towards him she kissed the tip ofhis moustache, saying: "Good morning, George."

He replied: "Good morning, Made," as he passed an arm around her waist.

In the valley below they could see the broad river like a ribbon ofsilver unrolled beneath the morning sun, the factory chimneys belchingforth their clouds of smoke into the sky, and the pointed spires risingabove the old town.

X

The Du Roys had been back in Paris a couple of days, and the journalisthad taken up his old work pending the moment when he should definitelyassume Forestier's duties, and give himself wholly up to politics. Hewas going home that evening to his predecessor's abode to dinner, with alight heart and a keen desire to embrace his wife, whose physicalattractions and imperceptible domination exercised a powerful impulseover him. Passing by a florist's at the bottom of the Rue Notre Dame deLorette, he was struck by the notion of buying a bouquet for Madeleine,and chose a large bunch of half-open roses, a very bundle of perfumedbuds.

At each story of his new staircase he eyed himself complacently in themirrors, the sight of which continually recalled to him his first visitto the house. He rang the bell, having forgotten his key, and the sameman-servant, whom he had also kept on by his wife's advice, opened thedoor.

"Has your mistress come home?" asked George.

"Yes, sir."

But on passing through the dining-room he was greatly surprised to findthe table laid for three, and the hangings of the drawing-room doorbeing looped up, saw Madeleine arranging in a vase on the mantelpiece abunch of roses exactly similar to his own. He was vexed and displeased;it was as though he had been robbed of his idea, his mark of attention,and all the pleasure he anticipated from it.

"You have invited some one to dinner, then?" he inquired, as he enteredthe room.

She answered without turning round, and while continuing to arrange theflowers: "Yes, and no. It is my old friend, the Count de Vaudrec, whohas been accustomed to dine here every Monday, and who has come asusual."

George murmured: "Ah! very good."

He remained standing behind her, bouquet in hand, with a longing to hideit or throw it away. He said, however: "I have brought you some roses."

She turned round suddenly, smiling, and exclaimed: "Ah! how nice of youto have thought of that."

And she held out her arms and lips to him with an outburst of joy soreal that he felt consoled. She took the flowers, smelt them, and withthe liveliness of a delighted child, placed them in the vase thatremained empty opposite the other. Then she murmured, as she viewed theresult: "How glad I am. My mantelpiece is furnished now." She addedalmost immediately, in a tone of conviction: "You know Vaudrec isawfully nice; you will be friends with him at once."

A ring announced the Count. He entered quietly, and quite at his ease,as though at home. After having gallantly kissed the young wife'sfingers, he turned to the husband and cordially held out his hand,saying: "How goes it, my dear Du Roy?"

It was no longer his former stiff and starched bearing, but an affableone, showing that the situation was no longer the same. The journalist,surprised, strove to make himself agreeable in response to theseadvances. It might have been believed within five minutes that they hadknown and loved one another for ten years past.

Then Madeleine, whose face was radiant, said: "I will leave youtogether, I must give a look to my dinner." And she went out, followedby a glance from both men. When she returned she found them talkingtheatricals apropos of a new piece, and so thoroughly of the sameopinion that a species of rapid friendship awoke in their eyes at thediscovery of this absolute identity of ideas.

The dinner was delightful, so intimate and cordial, and the Count stayedon quite late, so comfortable did he feel in this nice little newhousehold.

As soon as he had left Madeleine said to her husband: "Is he notperfect? He gains in every way by being known. He is a truefriend—safe, devoted, faithful. Ah, without him—"

She did not finish the sentence, and George replied: "Yes, I find himvery agreeable. I think that we shall get on very well together."

She resumed: "You do not know, but we have some work to do togetherbefore going to bed. I had not time to speak to you about it beforedinner, because Vaudrec came in at once. I have had some important news,news from Morocco. It was Laroche-Mathieu, the deputy, the futureminister, who brought it to me. We must work up an important article, asensational one. I have the facts and figures. We will set to work atonce. Bring the lamp."

He took it, and they passed into the study. The same books were rangedin the bookcase, which now bore on its summit the three vases bought atthe Golfe Juan by Forestier on the eve of his death. Under the table thedead man's mat awaited the feet of Du Roy, who, on sitting down, took upan ivory penholder slightly gnawed at the end by the other's teeth.Madeleine leant against the mantelpiece, and having lit a cigaretterelated her news, and then explained her notions and the plan of thearticle she meditated. He listened attentively, scribbling notes as hedid so, and when she had finished, raised objections, took up thequestion again, enlarged its bearing, and sketched in turn, not the planof an article, but of a campaign against the existing Ministry. Thisattack would be its commencement. His wife had left off smoking, sostrongly was her interest aroused, so vast was the vision that openedbefore her as she followed out George's train of thought.

She murmured, from time to time: "Yes, yes; that is very good. That iscapital. That is very clever."

And when he had finished speaking in turn, she said: "Now let us write."

But he always found it hard to make a start, and with difficulty soughthis expressions. Then she came gently, and, leaning over his shoulder,began to whisper sentences in his ear. From time to time she wouldhesitate, and ask: "Is that what you want to say?"

He answered: "Yes, exactly."

She had piercing shafts, the poisoned shafts of a woman, to wound thehead of the Cabinet, and she blended jests about his face with othersrespecting his policy in a curious fashion, that made one laugh, and, atthe same time, impressed one by their truth of observation.

Du Roy from time to time added a few lines which widened andstrengthened the range of attack. He understood, too, the art ofperfidious insinuation, which he had learned in sharpening up his"Echoes"; and when a fact put forward as certain by Madeleine appeareddoubtful or compromising, he excelled in allowing it to be divined andin impressing it upon the mind more strongly than if he had affirmed it.When their article was finished, George read it aloud. They both thoughtit excellent, and smiled, delighted and surprised, as if they had justmutually revealed themselves to one another. They gazed into the depthsof one another's eyes with yearnings of love and admiration, and theyembraced one another with an ardor communicated from their minds totheir bodies.

Du Roy took up the lamp again. "And now to bye-bye," said he, with akindling glance.

She replied: "Go first, sir, since you light the way."

He went first, and she followed him into their bedroom, tickling hisneck to make him go quicker, for he could not stand that.

The article appeared with the signature of George Duroy de Cantel, andcaused a great sensation. There was an excitement about it in theChamber. Daddy Walter congratulated the author, and entrusted him withthe political editorship of the Vie Francaise. The "Echoes" fell againto Boisrenard.

Then there began in the paper a violent and cleverly conducted campaignagainst the Ministry. The attack, now ironical, now serious, nowjesting, and now virulent, but always skillful and based on facts, wasdelivered with a certitude and continuity which astonished everyone.Other papers continually cited the Vie Francaise, taking wholepassages from it, and those in office asked themselves whether theycould not gag this unknown and inveterate foe with the gift of aprefecture.

Du Roy became a political celebrity. He felt his influence increasing bythe pressure of hands and the lifting of hats. His wife, too, filled himwith stupefaction and admiration by the ingenuity of her mind, the valueof her information, and the number of her acquaintances. Continually hewould find in his drawing-room, on returning home, a senator, a deputy,a magistrate, a general, who treated Madeleine as an old friend, withserious familiarity. Where had she met all these people? In society, soshe said. But how had she been able to gain their confidence and theiraffection? He could not understand it.

"She would make a terrible diplomatist," he thought.

She often came in late at meal times, out of breath, flushed, quivering,and before even taking off her veil would say: "I have something goodto-day. Fancy, the Minister of Justice has just appointed twomagistrates who formed a part of the mixed commission. We will give hima dose he will not forget in a hurry."

And they would give the minister a dose, and another the next day, anda third the day after. The deputy, Laroche-Mathieu, who dined at the RueFontaine every Tuesday, after the Count de Vaudrec, who began the week,would shake the hands of husband and wife with demonstrations of extremejoy. He never ceased repeating: "By Jove, what a campaign! If we don'tsucceed after all?"

He hoped, indeed, to succeed in getting hold of the portfolio of foreignaffairs, which he had had in view for a long time.

He was one of those many-faced politicians, without strong convictions,without great abilities, without boldness, and without any depth ofknowledge, a provincial barrister, a local dandy, preserving a cunningbalance between all parties, a species of Republican Jesuit and Liberalmushroom of uncertain character, such as spring up by hundreds on thepopular dunghill of universal suffrage. His village machiavelism causedhim to be reckoned able among his colleagues, among all the adventurersand abortions who are made deputies. He was sufficiently well-dressed,correct, familiar, and amiable to succeed. He had his successes insociety, in the mixed, perturbed, and somewhat rough society of the highfunctionaries of the day. It was said everywhere of him: "Laroche willbe a minister," and he believed more firmly than anyone else that hewould be. He was one of the chief shareholders in Daddy Walter's paper,and his colleague and partner in many financial schemes.

Du Roy backed him up with confidence and with vague hopes as to thefuture. He was, besides, only continuing the work begun by Forestier, towhom Laroche-Mathieu had promised the Cross of the Legion of Honor whenthe day of triumph should come. The decoration would adorn the breast ofMadeleine's second husband, that was all. Nothing was changed in themain.

It was seen so well that nothing was changed that Du Roy's comradesorganized a joke against him, at which he was beginning to grow angry.They no longer called him anything but Forestier. As soon as he enteredthe office some one would call out: "I say, Forestier."

He would pretend not to hear, and would look for the letters in hispigeon-holes. The voice would resume in louder tones, "Hi! Forestier."Some stifled laughs would be heard, and as Du Roy was entering themanager's room, the comrade who had called out would stop him, saying:"Oh, I beg your pardon, it is you I want to speak to. It is stupid, butI am always mixing you up with poor Charles. It is because your articlesare so infernally like his. Everyone is taken in by them."

Du Roy would not answer, but he was inwardly furious, and a sullen wrathsprang up in him against the dead man. Daddy Walter himself haddeclared, when astonishment was expressed at the flagrant similarity instyle and inspiration between the leaders of the new political editorand his predecessor: "Yes, it is Forestier, but a fuller, stronger, moremanly Forestier."

Another time Du Roy, opening by chance the cupboard in which the cup andballs were kept, had found all those of his predecessor with crape roundthe handles, and his own, the one he had made use of when he practicedunder the direction of Saint-Potin, ornamented with a pink ribbon. Allhad been arranged on the same shelf according to size, and a card likethose in museums bore the inscription: "The Forestier-Du Roy (lateForestier and Co.) Collection." He quietly closed the cupboard, saying,in tones loud enough to be heard: "There are fools and envious peopleeverywhere."

But he was wounded in his pride, wounded in his vanity, that touchypride and vanity of the writer, which produce the nervous susceptibilityever on the alert, equally in the reporter and the genial poet. The word"Forestier" made his ears tingle. He dreaded to hear it, and felthimself redden when he did so. This name was to him a biting jest, morethan a jest, almost an insult. It said to him: "It is your wife who doesyour work, as she did that of the other. You would be nothing withouther."

He admitted that Forestier would have been no one without Madeleine; butas to himself, come now!

Then, at home, the haunting impression continued. It was the whole placenow that recalled the dead man to him, the whole of the furniture, thewhole of the knicknacks, everything he laid hands on. He had scarcelythought of this at the outset, but the joke devised by his comrades hadcaused a kind of mental wound, which a number of trifles, unnoticed upto the present, now served to envenom. He could not take up anythingwithout at once fancying he saw the hand of Charles upon it. He onlylooked at it and made use of things the latter had made use of formerly;things that he had purchased, liked, and enjoyed. And George began evento grow irritated at the thought of the bygone relations between hisfriend and his wife. He was sometimes astonished at this revolt of hisheart, which he did not understand, and said to himself, "How the deuceis it? I am not jealous of Madeleine's friends. I am never uneasy aboutwhat she is up to. She goes in and out as she chooses, and yet therecollection of that brute of a Charles puts me in a rage." He added,"At the bottom, he was only an idiot, and it is that, no doubt, thatwounds me. I am vexed that Madeleine could have married such a fool."And he kept continually repeating, "How is it that she could havestomached such a donkey for a single moment?"

His rancor was daily increased by a thousand insignificant details,which stung him like pin pricks, by the incessant reminders of the otherarising out of a word from Madeleine, from the man-servant, from thewaiting-maid.

One evening Du Roy, who liked sweet dishes, said, "How is it we neverhave sweets at dinner?"

His wife replied, cheerfully, "That is quite true. I never think aboutthem. It is all through Charles, who hated—"

He cut her short in a fit of impatience he was unable to control,exclaiming, "Hang it all! I am sick of Charles. It is always Charleshere and Charles there, Charles liked this and Charles liked that. SinceCharles is dead, for goodness sake leave him in peace."

Madeleine looked at her husband in amazement, without being able tounderstand his sudden anger. Then, as she was sharp, she guessed whatwas going on within him; this slow working of posthumous jealousy,swollen every moment by all that recalled the other. She thought itpuerile, may be, but was flattered by it, and did not reply.

He was vexed with himself at this irritation, which he had not beenable to conceal. As they were writing after dinner an article for thenext day, his feet got entangled in the foot mat. He kicked it aside,and said with a laugh:

"Charles was always chilly about the feet, I suppose?"

She replied, also laughing: "Oh! he lived in mortal fear of catchingcold; his chest was very weak."

Du Roy replied grimly: "He has given us a proof of that." Then kissinghis wife's hand, he added gallantly: "Luckily for me."

But on going to bed, still haunted by the same idea, he asked: "DidCharles wear nightcaps for fear of the draughts?"

She entered into the joke, and replied: "No; only a silk handkerchieftied round his head."

George shrugged his shoulders, and observed, with contempt, "What ababy."

From that time forward Charles became for him an object of continualconversation. He dragged him in on all possible occasions, speaking ofhim as "Poor Charles," with an air of infinite pity. When he returnedhome from the office, where he had been accosted twice or thrice asForestier, he avenged himself by bitter railleries against the dead manin his tomb. He recalled his defects, his absurdities, his littleness,enumerating them with enjoyment, developing and augmenting them asthough he had wished to combat the influence of a dreaded rival over theheart of his wife. He would say, "I say, Made, do you remember the daywhen that duffer Forestier tried to prove to us that stout men werestronger than spare ones?"

Then he sought to learn a number of private and secret detailsrespecting the departed, which his wife, ill at ease, refused to tellhim. But he obstinately persisted, saying, "Come, now, tell me all aboutit. He must have been very comical at such a time?"

She murmured, "Oh! do leave him alone."

But he went on, "No, but tell me now, he must have been a duffer tosleep with?" And he always wound up with, "What a donkey he was."

One evening, towards the end of June, as he was smoking a cigarette atthe window, the fineness of the evening inspired him with a wish for adrive, and he said, "Made, shall we go as far as the Bois de Boulogne?"

"Certainly."

They took an open carriage and drove up the Champs Elysées, and thenalong the main avenue of the Bois de Boulogne. It was a breezelessnight, one of those stifling nights when the overheated air of Parisfills the chest like the breath of a furnace. A host of carriages borealong beneath the trees a whole population of lovers. They came onebehind the other in an unbroken line. George and Madeleine amusedthemselves with watching all these couples, the woman in summer toiletand the man darkly outlined beside her. It was a huge flood of loverstowards the Bois, beneath the starry and heated sky. No sound was heardsave the dull rumble of wheels. They kept passing by, two by two in eachvehicle, leaning back on the seat, silent, clasped one against theother, lost in dreams of desire, quivering with the anticipation ofcoming caresses. The warm shadow seemed full of kisses. A sense ofspreading lust rendered the air heavier and more suffocating. All thecouples, intoxicated with the same idea, the same ardor, shed a feverabout them.

George and Madeleine felt the contagion. They clasped hands without aword, oppressed by the heaviness of the atmosphere and the emotion thatassailed them. As they reached the turning which follows the line of thefortification, they kissed one another, and she stammered somewhatconfusedly, "We are as great babies as on the way to Rouen."

The great flood of vehicles divided at the entrance of the wood. On theroad to the lake, which the young couple were following, they were nowthinner, but the dark shadow of the trees, the air freshened by theleaves and by the dampness arising from the streamlets that could beheard flowing beneath them, and the coolness of the vast nocturnal vaultbedecked with stars, gave to the kisses of the perambulating pairs amore penetrating charm.

George murmured, "Dear little Made," as he pressed her to him.

"Do you remember the forest close to your home, how gloomy it was?" saidshe. "It seemed to me that it was full of horrible creatures, and thatthere was no end to it, while here it is delightful. One feels caressesin the breeze, and I know that Sevres lies on the other side of thewood."

He replied, "Oh! in the forest at home there was nothing but deer,foxes, and wild boars, and here and there the hut of a forester."

This word, akin to the dead man's name, issuing from his mouth,surprised him just as if some one had shouted it out to him from thedepths of a thicket, and he became suddenly silent, assailed anew bythe strange and persistent uneasiness, and gnawing, invincible, jealousirritation that had been spoiling his existence for some time past.After a minute or so, he asked: "Did you ever come here like this of anevening with Charles?"

"Yes, often," she answered.

And all of a sudden he was seized with a wish to return home, a nervousdesire that gripped him at the heart. But the image of Forestier hadreturned to his mind and possessed and laid hold of him. He could nolonger speak or think of anything else and said in a spiteful tone, "Isay, Made?"

"Yes, dear."

"Did you ever cuckold poor Charles?"

She murmured disdainfully, "How stupid you are with your stock joke."

But he would not abandon the idea.

"Come, Made, dear, be frank and acknowledge it. You cuckolded him, eh?Come, admit that you cuckolded him?"

She was silent, shocked as all women are by this expression.

He went on obstinately, "Hang it all, if ever anyone had the head for acuckold it was he. Oh! yes. It would please me to know that he was one.What a fine head for horns." He felt that she was smiling at somerecollection, perhaps, and persisted, saying, "Come out with it. Whatdoes it matter? It would be very comical to admit that you had deceivedhim, to me."

He was indeed quivering with hope and desire that Charles, the hatefulCharles, the detested dead, had borne this shameful ridicule. Andyet—yet—another emotion, less definite. "My dear little Made, tell me,I beg of you. He deserved it. You would have been wrong not to havegiven him a pair of horns. Come, Made, confess."

She now, no doubt, found this persistence amusing, for she was laughinga series of short, jerky laughs.

He had put his lips close to his wife's ear and whispered: "Come, come,confess."

She jerked herself away, and said, abruptly: "You are crazy. As if oneanswered such questions."

She said this in so singular a tone that a cold shiver ran through herhusband's veins, and he remained dumbfounded, scared, almost breathless,as though from some mental shock.

The carriage was now passing along the lake, on which the sky seemed tohave scattered its stars. Two swans, vaguely outlined, were swimmingslowly, scarcely visible in the shadow. George called out to the driver:"Turn back!" and the carriage returned, meeting the others going at awalk, with their lanterns gleaming like eyes in the night.

What a strange manner in which she had said it. Was it a confession? DuRoy kept asking himself. And the almost certainty that she had deceivedher first husband now drove him wild with rage. He longed to beat her,to strangle her, to tear her hair out. Oh, if she had only replied: "Butdarling, if I had deceived him, it would have been with yourself," howhe would have kissed, clasped, worshiped her.

He sat still, his arms crossed, his eyes turned skyward, his mind tooagitated to think as yet. He only felt within him the rancor fermentingand the anger swelling which lurk at the heart of all mankind inpresence of the caprices of feminine desire. He felt for the first timethat vague anguish of the husband who suspects. He was jealous at last,jealous on behalf of the dead, jealous on Forestier's account, jealousin a strange and poignant fashion, into which there suddenly entered ahatred of Madeleine. Since she had deceived the other, how could he haveconfidence in her himself? Then by degrees his mind became calmer, andbearing up against his pain, he thought: "All women are prostitutes. Wemust make use of them, and not give them anything of ourselves." Thebitterness in his heart rose to his lips in words of contempt anddisgust. He repeated to himself: "The victory in this world is to thestrong. One must be strong. One must be above all prejudices."

The carriage was going faster. It repassed the fortifications. Du Roysaw before him a reddish light in the sky like the glow of an immenseforge, and heard a vast, confused, continuous rumor, made up ofcountless different sounds, the breath of Paris panting this summernight like an exhausted giant.

George reflected: "I should be very stupid to fret about it. Everyonefor himself. Fortune favors the bold. Egotism is everything. Egotism asregards ambition and fortune is better than egotism as regards woman andlove."

The Arc de Triomphe appeared at the entrance to the city on its two tallsupports like a species of shapeless giant ready to start off and marchdown the broad avenue open before him. George and Madeleine foundthemselves once more in the stream of carriages bearing homeward andbedwards the same silent and interlaced couples. It seemed that thewhole of humanity was passing by intoxicated with joy, pleasure, andhappiness. The young wife, who had divined something of what was passingthrough her husband's mind, said, in her soft voice: "What are youthinking of, dear? You have not said a word for the last half hour."

He answered, sneeringly: "I was thinking of all these fools cuddling oneanother, and saying to myself that there is something else to do inlife."

She murmured: "Yes, but it is nice sometimes."

"It is nice—when one has nothing better to do."

George's thoughts were still hard at it, stripping life of its poesy ina kind of spiteful anger. "I should be very foolish to trouble myself,to deprive myself of anything whatever, to worry as I have done for sometime past." Forestier's image crossed his mind without causing anyirritation. It seemed to him that they had just been reconciled, thatthey had become friends again. He wanted to cry out: "Good evening, oldfellow."

Madeleine, to whom this silence was irksome, said: "Suppose we have anice at Tortoni's before we go in."

He glanced at her sideways. Her fine profile was lit up by the brightlight from the row of gas jets of a café. He thought, "She is pretty.Well, so much the better. Jack is as good as his master, my dear. But ifever they catch me worrying again about you, it will be hot at the NorthPole." Then he replied aloud: "Certainly, my dear," and in order thatshe should not guess anything, he kissed her.

It seemed to the young wife that her husband's lips were frozen. Hesmiled, however, with his wonted smile, as he gave her his hand toalight in front of the café.

XI

On reaching the office next day, Du Roy sought out Boisrenard.

"My dear fellow," said he, "I have a service to ask of you. It has beenthought funny for some time past to call me Forestier. I begin to findit very stupid. Will you have the kindness to quietly let our friendsknow that I will smack the face of the first that starts the joke again?It will be for them to reflect whether it is worth risking a swordthrust for. I address myself to you because you are a calm-mindedfellow, who can hinder matters from coming to painful extremities, andalso because you were my second."

Boisrenard undertook the commission. Du Roy went out on business, andreturned an hour later. No one called him Forestier.

When he reached home he heard ladies' voices in the drawing-room, andasked, "Who is there?"

"Madame Walter and Madame de Marelle," replied the servant.

His heart beat fast for a moment, and then he said to himself, "Well,let's see," and opened the door.

Clotilde was beside the fireplace, full in a ray of light from thewindow. It seemed to George that she grew slightly paler on perceivinghim. Having first bowed to Madame Walter and her two daughters, seatedlike two sentinels on each side of their mother, he turned towards hislate mistress. She held out her hand, and he took it and pressed itmeaningly, as though to say, "I still love you." She responded to thispressure.

He inquired: "How have you been during the century that has elapsedsince our last meeting?"

She replied with perfect ease: "Quite well; and you, Pretty-boy?" andturning to Madeleine, added: "You will allow me to call him Pretty-boystill?"

"Certainly, dear; I will allow whatever you please."

A shade of irony seemed hidden in these words.

Madame Walter spoke of an entertainment that was going to be given byJacques Rival at his residence, a grand assault-at-arms, at which ladiesof fashion were to be present, saying: "It will be very interesting. ButI am so vexed we have no one to take us there, my husband being obligedto be away at that time."

Du Roy at once offered his services. She accepted, saying: "My daughtersand I will be very much obliged to you."

He looked at the younger daughter, and thought: "She is not at all badlooking, this little Susan; not at all." She resembled a fair, fragiledoll, too short but slender, with a small waist and fairly developedhips and bust, a face like a miniature, grayish-blue, enamel-like eyes,which seemed shaded by a careful yet fanciful painter, a polished,colorless skin, too white and too smooth, and fluffy, curly hair, in acharming aureola, like, indeed the hair of the pretty and expensivedolls we see in the arms of children much smaller than their plaything.

The elder sister, Rose, was ugly, dull-looking, and insignificant; oneof those girls whom you do not notice, do not speak to, and do not talkabout.

The mother rose, and, turning to George, said:

"Then I may reckon upon you for next Thursday, two o'clock?"

"You may reckon upon me, madame," he replied.

As soon as she had taken her departure, Madame de Marelle rose in turn,saying: "Good afternoon, Pretty-boy."

It was she who then clasped his hand firmly and for some time, and hefelt moved by this silent avowal, struck again with a sudden caprice forthis good-natured little, respectable Bohemian of a woman, who reallyloved him, perhaps.

As soon as he was alone with his wife, Madeleine broke out into a laugh,a frank, gay laugh, and, looking him fair in the face, said, "You knowthat Madame Walter is smitten with you."

"Nonsense," he answered, incredulously.

"It is so, I tell you; she spoke to me about you with wild enthusiasm.It is strange on her part. She would like to find two husbands such asyou for her daughters. Fortunately, as regards her such things are of nomoment."

He did not understand what she meant, and inquired, "How of no moment?"

She replied with the conviction of a woman certain of the soundness ofher judgment, "Oh! Madame Walter is one of those who have never even hada whisper about them, never, you know, never. She is unassailable inevery respect. Her husband you know as well as I do. But with her it isquite another thing. She has suffered enough through marrying a Jew, butshe has remained faithful to him. She is an honest woman."

Du Roy was surprised. "I thought her a Jewess, too," said he.

"She, not at all. She is a lady patroness of all the good works of theChurch of Madeleine. Her marriage, even, was celebrated religiously. Ido not know whether there was a dummy baptism as regards the governor,or whether the Church winked at it."

George murmured: "Ah! so she fancied me."

"Positively and thoroughly. If you were not bespoken, I should adviseyou to ask for the hand of—Susan, eh? rather than that of Rose."

He replied, twisting his moustache: "Hum; their mother is not yet out ofdate."

Madeleine, somewhat out of patience, answered:

"Their mother! I wish you may get her, dear. But I am not alarmed onthat score. It is not at her age that a woman is guilty of a firstfault. One must set about it earlier."

George was reflecting: "If it were true, though, that I could havemarried Susan." Then he shrugged his shoulders. "Bah! it is absurd. Asif her father would have ever have accepted me as a suitor."

He promised himself, though, to keep a more careful watch in the futureover Madame Walter's bearing towards him, without asking whether hemight ever derive any advantage from this. All the evening he washaunted by the recollection of his love passages with Clotilde,recollections at once tender and sensual. He recalled her drolleries,her pretty ways, and their adventures together. He repeated to himself,"She is really very charming. Yes, I will go and see her to-morrow."

As soon as he had lunched the next morning he indeed set out for theRue de Verneuil. The same servant opened the door, and with thefamiliarity of servants of the middle-class, asked: "Are you quite well,sir?"

"Yes, thanks, my girl," he replied, and entered the drawing-room, inwhich an unskilled hand could be heard practicing scales on the piano.It was Laurine. He thought that she would throw her arms round his neck.But she rose gravely, bowed ceremoniously like a grown-up person, andwithdrew with dignity. She had so much the bearing of an insulted womanthat he remained in surprise. Her mother came in, and he took and kissedher hands.

"How I have thought of you," said he.

"And I," she replied.

They sat down and smiled at one another, looking into each other's eyeswith a longing to kiss.

"My dear little Clo, I do love you."

"I love you, too."

"Then—then—you have not been so very angry with me?"

"Yes, and no. It hurt me a great deal, but I understood your reasons,and said to myself, 'He will come back to me some fine day or other.'"

"I dared not come back. I asked myself how I should be received. I didnot dare, but I dearly wanted to. By the way, tell me what is the matterwith Laurine. She scarcely said good-morning to me, and went out lookingfurious."

"I do not know. But we cannot speak of you to her since your marriage. Ireally believe she is jealous."

"Nonsense."

"It is so, dear. She no longer calls you Pretty-boy, but MonsieurForestier."

Du Roy reddened, and then drawing close to her said:

"Kiss me."

She did so.

"Where can we meet again?" said he.

"Rue de Constantinople."

"Ah! the rooms are not let, then?"

"No, I kept them on."

"You kept them on?"

"Yes, I thought you would come back again."

A gush of joyful pride swelled his bosom. She loved him then, thiswoman, with a real, deep, constant love.

He murmured, "I love you," and then inquired, "Is your husband quitewell?"

"Yes, very well. He has been spending a month at home, and was off againthe day before yesterday."

Du Roy could not help laughing. "How lucky," said he.

She replied simply: "Yes, it is very lucky. But, all the same, he is nottroublesome when he is here. You know that."

"That is true. Besides, he is a very nice fellow."

"And you," she asked, "how do you like your new life?"

"Not much one way or the other. My wife is a companion, a partner."

"Nothing more?"

"Nothing more. As to the heart—"

"I understand. She is pretty, though."

"Yes, but I do not put myself out about her."

He drew closer to Clotilde, and whispered. "When shall we see oneanother again?"

"To-morrow, if you like."

"Yes, to-morrow at two o'clock."

"Two o'clock."

He rose to take leave, and then stammered, with some embarrassment: "Youknow I shall take on the rooms in the Rue de Constantinople myself. Imean it. A nice thing for the rent to be paid by you."

It was she who kissed his hands adoringly, murmuring: "Do as you like.It is enough for me to have kept them for us to meet again there."

Du Roy went away, his soul filled with satisfaction. As he passed by aphotographer's, the portrait of a tall woman with large eyes remindedhim of Madame Walter. "All the same," he said to himself, "she must bestill worth looking at. How is it that I never noticed it? I want to seehow she will receive me on Thursday?"

He rubbed his hands as he walked along with secret pleasure, thepleasure of success in every shape, the egotistical joy of the cleverman who is successful, the subtle pleasure made up of flattered vanityand satisfied sensuality conferred by woman's affection.

On the Thursday he said to Madeleine: "Are you not coming to theassault-at-arms at Rival's?"

"No. It would not interest me. I shall go to the Chamber of Deputies."

He went to call for Madame Walter in an open landau, for the weather wasdelightful. He experienced a surprise on seeing her, so handsome andyoung-looking did he find her. She wore a light-colored dress, thesomewhat open bodice of which allowed the fullness of her bosom to bedivined beneath the blonde lace. She had never seemed to him sowell-looking. He thought her really desirable. She wore her calm andladylike manner, a certain matronly bearing that caused her to passalmost unnoticed before the eyes of gallants. She scarcely spokebesides, save on well-known, suitable, and respectable topics, her ideasbeing proper, methodical, well ordered, and void of all extravagance.

Her daughter, Susan, in pink, looked like a newly-varnished Watteau,while her elder sister seemed the governess entrusted with the care ofthis pretty doll of a girl.

Before Rival's door a line of carriages were drawn up. Du Roy offeredMadame Walter his arm, and they went in.

The assault-at-arms was given under the patronage of the wives of allthe senators and deputies connected with the Vie Francaise, for thebenefit of the orphans of the Sixth Arrondissem*nt of Paris. MadameWalter had promised to come with her daughters, while refusing theposition of lady patroness, for she only aided with her name worksundertaken by the clergy. Not that she was very devout, but her marriagewith a Jew obliged her, in her own opinion, to observe a certainreligious attitude, and the gathering organized by the journalist had aspecies of Republican import that might be construed as anti-clerical.

In papers of every shade of opinion, during the past three weeks,paragraphs had appeared such as: "Our eminent colleague, Jacques Rival,has conceived the idea, as ingenious as it is generous, of organizingfor the benefit of the orphans of the Sixth Arrondissem*nt of Paris agrand assault-at-arms in the pretty fencing-room attached to hisapartments. The invitations will be sent out by Mesdames Laloigue,Remontel, and Rissolin, wives of the senators bearing these names, andby Mesdames Laroche-Mathieu, Percerol, and Firmin, wives of thewell-known deputies. A collection will take place during the interval,and the amount will at once be placed in the hands of the mayor of theSixth Arrondissem*nt, or of his representative."

It was a gigantic advertisem*nt that the clever journalist had devisedto his own advantage.

Jacques Rival received all-comers in the hall of his dwelling, where arefreshment buffet had been fitted up, the cost of which was to bededucted from the receipts. He indicated with an amiable gesture thelittle staircase leading to the cellar, saying: "Downstairs, ladies,downstairs; the assault will take place in the basem*nt."

He darted forward to meet the wife of the manager, and then shaking DuRoy by the hand, said: "How are you, Pretty-boy?"

His friend was surprised, and exclaimed: "Who told you that—"

Rival interrupted him with: "Madame Walter, here, who thinks thenickname a very nice one."

Madame Walter blushed, saying: "Yes, I will admit that, if I knew youbetter, I would do like little Laurine and call you Pretty-boy, too. Thename suits you very well."

Du Roy laughed, as he replied: "But I beg of you, madame, to do so."

She had lowered her eyes, and remarked: "No. We are not sufficientlyintimate."

He murmured: "Will you allow me the hope that we shall be more so?"

"Well, we will see then," said she.

He drew on one side to let her precede him at the beginning of thenarrow stairs lit by a gas jet. The abrupt transition from daylight tothis yellow gleam had something depressing about it. A cellar-like odorrose up this winding staircase, a smell of damp heat and of moldy wallswiped down for the occasion, and also whiffs of incense recalling sacredoffices and feminine emanations of vervain, orris root, and violets. Aloud murmur of voices and the quivering thrill of an agitated crowdcould also be heard down this hole.

The entire cellar was lit up by wreaths of gas jets and Chinese lanternshidden in the foliage, masking the walls of stone. Nothing could be seenbut green boughs. The ceiling was ornamented with ferns, the groundhidden by flowers and leaves. This was thought charming, and adelightful triumph of imagination. In the small cellar, at the end, wasa platform for the fencers, between two rows of chairs for the judges.In the remaining space the front seats, ranged by tens to the right andto the left, would accommodate about two hundred people. Four hundredhad been invited.

In front of the platform young fellows in fencing costume, with longlimbs, erect figures, and moustaches curled up at the ends, were alreadyshowing themselves off to the spectators. People were pointing them outas notabilities of the art, professionals, and amateurs. Around themwere chatting old and young gentlemen in frock coats, who bore a familyresemblance to the fencers in fighting array. They were also seeking tobe seen, recognized, and spoken of, being masters of the sword out ofuniform, experts on foil play. Almost all the seats were occupied byladies, who kept up a loud rustling of garments and a continuous murmurof voices. They were fanning themselves as though at a theater, for itwas already as hot as an oven in this leafy grotto. A joker kept cryingfrom time to time: "Orgeat, lemonade, beer."

Madame Walter and her daughters reached the seats reserved for them inthe front row. Du Roy, having installed them there, was about to quitthem, saying: "I am obliged to leave you; we men must not collar theseats."

But Madame Walter remarked, in a hesitating tone: "I should very muchlike to have you with us all the same. You can tell me the names of thefencers. Come, if you stand close to the end of the seat you will not bein anyone's way." She looked at him with her large mild eyes, andpersisted, saying: "Come, stay with us, Monsieur—Pretty-boy. We haveneed of you."

He replied: "I will obey with pleasure, madame."

On all sides could be heard the remark: "It is very funny, this cellar;very pretty, too."

George knew it well, this vault. He recalled the morning he had passedthere on the eve of his duel, alone in front of the little white cartontarget that had glared at him from the depths of the inner cellar like ahuge and terrible eye.

The voice of Jacques Rival sounded from the staircase: "Just about tobegin, ladies." And six gentlemen, in very tight-fitting clothes, to setoff their chests, mounted the platform, and took their seats on thechairs reserved for the judges. Their names flew about. General deReynaldi, the president, a short man, with heavy moustaches; thepainter, Joséphin Roudet, a tall, ball-headed man, with a long beard;Matthéo de Ujar, Simon Ramoncel, Pierre de Carvin, threefashionable-looking young fellows; and Gaspard Merleron, a master. Twoplacards were hung up on the two sides of the vault. That on the rightwas inscribed "M. Crévecœur," and that on the left "M. Plumeau."

They were two professors, two good second-class masters. They made theirappearance, both sparely built, with military air and somewhat stiffmovements. Having gone through the salute with automatic action, theybegan to attack one another, resembling in their white costumes ofleather and duck, two soldier pierrots fighting for fun. From time totime the word "Touched" was heard, and the six judges nodded with theair of connoisseurs. The public saw nothing but two living marionettesmoving about and extending their arms; they understood nothing, but theywere satisfied. These two men seemed to them, however, not overgraceful, and vaguely ridiculous. They reminded them of the woodenwrestlers sold on the boulevards at the New Year's Fair.

The first couple of fencers were succeeded by Monsieur Planton andMonsieur Carapin, a civilian master and a military one. Monsieur Plantonwas very little, and Monsieur Carapin immensely stout. One would havethought that the first thrust would have reduced his volume like that ofa balloon. People laughed. Monsieur Planton skipped about like a monkey:Monsieur Carapin, only moved his arm, the rest of his frame beingparalyzed by fat. He lunged every five minutes with such heaviness andsuch effort that it seemed to need the most energetic resolution on hispart to accomplish it, and then had great difficulty in recoveringhimself. The connoisseurs pronounced his play very steady and close, andthe confiding public appreciated it as such.

Then came Monsieur Porion and Monsieur Lapalme, a master and an amateur,who gave way to exaggerated gymnastics; charging furiously at oneanother, obliging the judges to scuttle off with their chairs, crossingand re-crossing from one end of the platform to the other, one advancingand the other retreating, with vigorous and comic leaps and bounds. Theyindulged in little jumps backwards that made the ladies laugh, and longsprings forward that caused them some emotion. This galloping assaultwas aptly criticized by some young rascal, who sang out: "Don't burstyourselves over it; it is a time job!" The spectators, shocked at thiswant of taste, cried "Ssh!" The judgment of the experts was passedaround. The fencers had shown much vigor, and played somewhat loosely.

The first half of the entertainment was concluded by a very fine boutbetween Jacques Rival and the celebrated Belgian professor, Lebegue.Rival greatly pleased the ladies. He was really a handsome fellow, wellmade, supple, agile, and more graceful than any of those who hadpreceded him. He brought, even into his way of standing on guard andlunging, a certain fashionable elegance which pleased people, andcontrasted with the energetic, but more commonplace style of hisadversary. "One can perceive the well-bred man at once," was the remark.He scored the last hit, and was applauded.

But for some minutes past a singular noise on the floor above haddisturbed the spectators. It was a loud trampling, accompanied by noisylaughter. The two hundred guests who had not been able to get down intothe cellar were no doubt amusing themselves in their own way. On thenarrow, winding staircase fifty men were packed. The heat down below wasgetting terrible. Cries of "More air," "Something to drink," were heard.The same joker kept on yelping in a shrill tone that rose above themurmur of conversation, "Orgeat, lemonade, beer." Rival made hisappearance, very flushed, and still in his fencing costume. "I will havesome refreshments brought," said he, and made his way to the staircase.But all communication with the ground floor was cut off. It would havebeen as easy to have pierced the ceiling as to have traversed the humanwall piled up on the stairs.

Rival called out: "Send down some ices for the ladies." Fifty voicescalled out: "Some ices!" A tray at length made its appearance. But itonly bore empty glasses, the refreshments having been snatched on theway.

A loud voice shouted: "We are suffocating down here. Get it over and letus be off." Another cried out: "The collection." And the whole of thepublic, gasping, but good-humored all the same, repeated: "Thecollection, the collection."

Six ladies began to pass along between the seats, and the sound of moneyfalling into the collecting-bags could be heard.

Du Roy pointed out the celebrities to Madame Walter. There were men offashion and journalists, those attached to the great newspapers, theold-established newspapers, which looked down upon the Vie Francaisewith a certain reserve, the fruit of their experience. They hadwitnessed the death of so many of these politico-financial sheets,offspring of a suspicious partnership, and crushed by the fall of aministry. There were also painters and sculptors, who are generally menwith a taste for sport; a poet who was also a member of the Academy, andwho was pointed out generally, and a number of distinguished foreigners.

Someone called out: "Good-day, my dear fellow." It was the Count deVaudrec. Making his excuses to the ladies, Du Roy hastened to shakehands with him. On returning, he remarked: "What a charming fellowVaudrec is! How thoroughly blood tells in him."

Madame Walter did not reply. She was somewhat fatigued, and her bosomrose with an effort every time she drew breath, which caught the eye ofDu Roy. From time to time he caught her glance, a troubled, hesitatingglance, which lighted upon him, and was at once averted, and he said tohimself: "Eh! what! Have I caught her, too?"

The ladies who had been collecting passed to their seats, their bagsfull of gold and silver, and a fresh placard was hung in front of theplatform, announcing a "surprising novelty." The judges resumed theirseats, and the public waited expectantly.

Two women appeared, foil in hand and in fencing costume; dark tights, avery short petticoat half-way to the knee, and a plastron so paddedabove the bosom that it obliged them to keep their heads well up. Theywere both young and pretty. They smiled as they saluted the spectators,and were loudly applauded. They fell on guard, amidst murmuredgallantries and whispered jokes. An amiable smile graced the lips of thejudges, who approved the hits with a low "bravo." The public warmlyappreciated this bout, and testified this much to the two combatants,who kindled desire among the men and awakened among the women the nativetaste of the Parisian for graceful indecency, naughty elegance, musichall singers, and couplets from operettas. Every time that one of thefencers lunged a thrill of pleasure ran through the public. The one whoturned her back to the seats, a plump back, caused eyes and mouths toopen, and it was not the play of her wrist that was most closelyscanned. They were frantically applauded.

A bout with swords followed, but no one looked at it, for the attentionof all was occupied by what was going on overhead. For some minutes theyhad heard the noise of furniture being dragged across the floor, asthough moving was in progress. Then all at once the notes of a pianowere heard, and the rhythmic beat of feet moving in cadence wasdistinctly audible. The people above had treated themselves to a danceto make up for not being able to see anything. A loud laugh broke out atfirst among the public in the fencing saloon, and then a wish for adance being aroused among the ladies, they ceased to pay attention towhat was taking place on the platform, and began to chatter out loud.This notion of a ball got up by the late-comers struck them as comical.They must be amusing themselves nicely, and it must be much better upthere.

But two new combatants had saluted each other and fell on guard in suchmasterly style that all eyes followed their movements. They lunged andrecovered themselves with such easy grace, such measured strength, suchcertainty, such sobriety in action, such correctness in attitude, suchmeasure in their play, that even the ignorant were surprised andcharmed. Their calm promptness, their skilled suppleness, their rapidmotions, so nicely timed that they appeared slow, attracted andcaptivated the eye by their power of perfection. The public felt thatthey were looking at something good and rare; that two great artists intheir own profession were showing them their best, all of skill,cunning, thought-out science and physical ability that it was possiblefor two masters to put forth. No one spoke now, so closely were theywatched. Then, when they shook hands after the last hit, shouts ofbravoes broke out. People stamped and yelled. Everyone knew theirnames—they were Sergent and Ravignac.

The excitable grew quarrelsome. Men looked at their neighbors withlongings for a row. They would have challenged one another on account ofa smile. Those who had never held a foil in their hand sketched attacksand parries with their canes.

But by degrees the crowd worked up the little staircase. At last theywould be able to get something to drink. There was an outburst ofindignation when they found that those who had got up the ball hadstripped the refreshment buffet, and had then gone away declaring thatit was very impolite to bring together two hundred people and not showthem anything. There was not a cake, not a drop of champagne, syrup, orbeer left; not a sweetmeat, not a fruit—nothing. They had sacked,pillaged, swept away everything. These details were related by theservants, who pulled long faces to hide their impulse to laugh rightout. "The ladies were worse than the gentlemen," they asserted, "andate and drank enough to make themselves ill." It was like the story ofthe survivors after the sack of a captured town.

There was nothing left but to depart. Gentlemen openly regretted thetwenty francs given at the collection; they were indignant that thoseupstairs should have feasted without paying anything. The ladypatronesses had collected upwards of three thousand francs. All expensespaid, there remained two hundred and twenty for the orphans of the SixthArrondissem*nt.

Du Roy, escorting the Walter family, waited for his landau. As he droveback with them, seated in face of Madame Walter, he again caught hercaressing and fugitive glance, which seemed uneasy. He thought: "Hang itall! I fancy she is nibbling," and smiled to recognize that he wasreally very lucky as regarded women, for Madame de Marelle, since therecommencement of their amour, seemed frantically in love with him.

He returned home joyously. Madeleine was waiting for him in thedrawing-room.

"I have some news," said she. "The Morocco business is getting into acomplication. France may very likely send out an expeditionary forcewithin a few months. At all events, the opportunity will be taken of itto upset the Ministry, and Laroche-Mathieu will profit by this to gethold of the portfolio of foreign affairs."

Du Roy, to tease his wife, pretended not to believe anything of thekind. They would never be mad enough to recommence the Tunisian bungleover again. But she shrugged her shoulders impatiently, saying: "But Itell you yes, I tell you yes. You don't understand that it is a matterof money. Now-a-days, in political complications we must not ask: 'Whois the woman?' but 'What is the business?'"

He murmured "Bah!" in a contemptuous tone, in order to excite her, andshe, growing irritated, exclaimed: "You are just as stupid asForestier."

She wished to wound him, and expected an outburst of anger. But hesmiled, and replied: "As that cuckold of a Forestier?"

She was shocked, and murmured: "Oh, George!"

He wore an insolent and chaffing air as he said: "Well, what? Did younot admit to me the other evening that Forestier was a cuckold?" And headded: "Poor devil!" in a tone of pity.

Madeleine turned her back on him, disdaining to answer; and then, aftera moment's silence, resumed: "We shall have visitors on Tuesday. MadameLaroche-Mathieu is coming to dinner with the Viscountess de Percemur.Will you invite Rival and Norbert de Varenne? I will call to-morrow andask Madame Walter and Madame de Marelle. Perhaps we shall have MadameRissolin, too."

For some time past she had been strengthening her connections, makinguse of her husband's political influence to attract to her house,willy-nilly, the wives of the senators and deputies who had need of thesupport of the Vie Francaise.

George replied: "Very well. I will see about Rival and Norbert."

He was satisfied, and rubbed his hands, for he had found a good trick toannoy his wife and gratify the obscure rancor, the undefined and gnawingjealousy born in him since their drive in the Bois. He would neverspeak of Forestier again without calling him cuckold. He felt very wellthat this would end by enraging Madeleine. And half a score of times, inthe course of the evening, he found means to mention with ironical goodhumor the name of "that cuckold of a Forestier." He was no longer angrywith the dead! he was avenging him.

His wife pretended not to notice it, and remained smilingly indifferent.

The next day, as she was to go and invite Madame Walter, he resolved toforestall her, in order to catch the latter alone, and see if she reallycared for him. It amused and flattered him. And then—why not—if itwere possible?

He arrived at the Boulevard Malesherbes about two, and was shown intothe drawing-room, where he waited till Madame Walter made herappearance, her hand outstretched with pleased eagerness, saying: "Whatgood wind brings you hither?"

"No good wind, but the wish to see you. Some power has brought me here,I do not know why, for I have nothing to say to you. I came, here I am;will you forgive me this early visit and the frankness of thisexplanation?"

He uttered this in a gallant and jesting tone, with a smile on his lips.She was astonished, and colored somewhat, stammering: "But really—I donot understand—you surprise me."

He observed: "It is a declaration made to a lively tune, in order not toalarm you."

They had sat down in front of one another. She took the matterpleasantly, saying: "A serious declaration?"

"Yes. For a long time I have been wanting to utter it—for a very longtime. But I dared not. They say you are so strict, so rigid."

She had recovered her assurance, and observed: "Why to-day, then?"

"I do not know." Then lowering his voice he added: "Or rather, because Ihave been thinking of nothing but you since yesterday."

She stammered, growing suddenly pale: "Come, enough of nonsense; let usspeak of something else."

But he had fallen at her feet so suddenly that she was frightened. Shetried to rise, but he kept her seated by the strength of his arms passedround her waist, and repeated in a voice of passion: "Yes, it is truethat I have loved you madly for a long time past. Do not answer me. Whatwould you have? I am mad. I love you. Oh! if you knew how I love you!"

She was suffocating, gasping, and strove to speak, without being able toutter a word. She pushed him away with her two hands, having seized himby the hair to hinder the approach of the mouth that she felt comingtowards her own. She kept turning her head from right to left and fromleft to right with a rapid motion, closing her eyes, in order no longerto see him. He touched her through her dress, handled her, pressed her,and she almost fainted under his strong and rude caress. He rosesuddenly and sought to clasp her to him, but, free for a moment, she hadmanaged to escape by throwing herself back, and she now fled from behindone chair to another. He felt that pursuit was ridiculous, and he fellinto a chair, his face hidden by his hands, feigning convulsive sobs.Then he got up, exclaimed "Farewell, farewell," and rushed away.

He quietly took his stick in the hall and gained the street, saying tohimself: "By Jove, I believe it is all right there." And he went into atelegraph office to send a wire to Clotilde, making an appointment forthe next day.

On returning home at his usual time, he said to his wife: "Well, haveyou secured all the people for your dinner?"

She answered: "Yes, there is only Madame Walter, who is not quite surewhether she will be free to come. She hesitated and talked about I don'tknow what—an engagement, her conscience. In short, she seemed verystrange. No matter, I hope she will come all the same."

He shrugged his shoulders, saying: "Oh, yes, she'll come."

He was not certain, however, and remained anxious until the day of thedinner. That very morning Madeleine received a note from her: "I havemanaged to get free from my engagements with great difficulty, and shallbe with you this evening. But my husband cannot accompany me."

Du Roy thought: "I did very well indeed not to go back. She has calmeddown. Attention."

He, however, awaited her appearance with some slight uneasiness. Shecame, very calm, rather cool, and slightly haughty. He became humble,discreet, and submissive. Madame Laroche-Mathieu and Madame Rissolinaccompanied their husbands. The Viscountess de Percemur talked society.Madame de Marelle looked charming in a strangely fanciful toilet, aspecies of Spanish costume in black and yellow, which set off her neatfigure, her bosom, her rounded arms, and her bird-like head.

Du Roy had Madame Walter on his right hand, and during dinner only spoketo her on serious topics, and with an exaggerated respect. From time totime he glanced at Clotilde. "She is really prettier and fresher lookingthan ever," he thought. Then his eyes returned to his wife, whom hefound not bad-looking either, although he retained towards her a hidden,tenacious, and evil anger.

But Madame Walter excited him by the difficulty of victory and by thatnovelty always desired by man. She wanted to return home early. "I willescort you," said he.

She refused, but he persisted, saying: "Why will not you permit me? Youwill wound me keenly. Do not let me think that you have not forgiven me.You see how quiet I am."

She answered: "But you cannot abandon your guests like that."

He smiled. "But I shall only be away twenty minutes. They will not evennotice it. If you refuse you will cut me to the heart."

She murmured: "Well, then I agree."

But as soon as they were in the carriage he seized her hand, and,kissing it passionately, exclaimed: "I love you, I love you. Let me tellyou that much. I will not touch you. I only want to repeat to you that Ilove you."

She stammered: "Oh! after what you promised me! This is wrong, verywrong."

He appeared to make a great effort, and then resumed in a restrainedtone: "There, you see how I master myself. And yet—But let me only tellyou that I love you, and repeat it to you every day; yes, let me come toyour house and kneel down for five minutes at your feet to utter thosethree words while gazing on your beloved face."

She had yielded her hand to him, and replied pantingly: "No, I cannot, Iwill not. Think of what would be said, of the servants, of my daughters.No, no, it is impossible."

He went on: "I can no longer live without seeing you. Whether at yourhouse or elsewhere, I must see you, if only for a moment, every day, totouch your hand, to breathe the air stirred by your dress, to gaze onthe outline of your form, and on your great calm eyes that madden me."

She listened, quivering, to this commonplace love-song, and stammered:"No, it is out of the question."

He whispered in her ear, understanding that he must capture her bydegrees, this simple woman, that he must get her to make appointmentswith him, where she would at first, where he wished afterwards. "Listen,I must see you; I shall wait for you at your door like a beggar; but Iwill see you, I will see you to-morrow."

She repeated: "No, do not come. I shall not receive you. Think of mydaughters."

"Then tell me where I shall meet you—in the street, no matter where, atwhatever hour you like, provided I see you. I will bow to you; I willsay 'I love you,' and I will go away."

She hesitated, bewildered. And as the brougham entered the gateway ofher residence she murmured hurriedly: "Well, then, I shall be at theChurch of the Trinity to-morrow at half-past three." Then, havingalighted, she said to her coachman: "Drive Monsieur Du Roy back to hishouse."

As he re-entered his home, his wife said: "Where did you get to?"

He replied, in a low tone: "I went to the telegraph office to send off amessage."

Madame de Marelle approached them. "You will see me home, Pretty-boy?"said she. "You know I only came such a distance to dinner on thatcondition." And turning to Madeleine, she added: "You are not jealous?"

Madame Du Roy answered slowly: "Not over much."

The guests were taking their leave. Madame Laroche-Mathieu looked like ahousemaid from the country. She was the daughter of a notary, and hadbeen married to the deputy when he was only a barrister of smallstanding. Madame Rissolin, old and stuck-up, gave one the idea of amidwife whose fashionable education had been acquired through acirculating library. The Viscountess de Percemur looked down upon them.Her "Lily Fingers" touched these vulgar hands with repugnance.

Clotilde, wrapped in lace, said to Madeleine as she went out: "Yourdinner was perfection. In a little while you will have the leadingpolitical drawing-room in Paris."

As soon as she was alone with George she clasped him in her arms,exclaiming: "Oh, my darling Pretty-boy, I love you more and more everyday!"

XII

The Place de la Trinité lay, almost deserted, under a dazzling July sun.An oppressive heat was crushing Paris. It was as though the upper air,scorched and deadened, had fallen upon the city—a thick, burning airthat pained the chests inhaling it. The fountains in front of the churchfell lazily. They seemed weary of flowing, tired out, limp, too; and thewater of the basins, in which leaves and bits of paper were floating,looked greenish, thick and glaucous. A dog having jumped over the stonerim, was bathing in the dubious fluid. A few people, seated on thebenches of the little circular garden skirting the front of the church,watched the animal curiously.

Du Roy pulled out his watch. It was only three o'clock. He was half anhour too soon. He laughed as he thought of this appointment. "Churchesserve for anything as far as she is concerned," said he to himself."They console her for having married a Jew, enable her to assume anattitude of protestation in the world of politics and a respectable onein that of fashion, and serve as a shelter to her gallant rendezvous. Somuch for the habit of making use of religion as an umbrella. If it isfine it is a walking stick; if sunshiny, a parasol; if it rains, ashelter; and if one does not go out, why, one leaves it in the hall. Andthere are hundreds like that who care for God about as much as a cherrystone, but who will not hear him spoken against. If it were suggested tothem to go to a hotel, they would think it infamous, but it seems tothem quite simple to make love at the foot of the altar."

He walked slowly along the edge of the fountain, and then again lookedat the church clock, which was two minutes faster than his watch. It wasfive minutes past three. He thought that he would be more comfortableinside, and entered the church. The coolness of a cellar assailed him,he breathed it with pleasure, and then took a turn round the nave toreconnoiter the place. Other regular footsteps, sometimes halting andthen beginning anew, replied from the further end of the vast pile tothe sound of his own, which rang sonorously beneath the vaulted roof. Acuriosity to know who this other promenader was seized him. It was astout, bald-headed gentleman who was strolling about with his nose inthe air, and his hat behind his back. Here and there an old woman waspraying, her face hidden in her hands. A sensation of solitude and reststole over the mind. The light, softened by the stained-glass windows,was refreshing to the eyes. Du Roy thought that it was "deucedlycomfortable" inside there.

He returned towards the door and again looked at his watch. It was stillonly a quarter-past three. He sat down at the entrance to the mainaisle, regretting that one could not smoke a cigarette. The slowfootsteps of the stout gentleman could still be heard at the further endof the church, near the choir.

Someone came in, and George turned sharply round. It was a poor woman ina woolen skirt, who fell on her knees close to the first chair, andremained motionless, with clasped hands, her eyes turned to heaven, hersoul absorbed in prayer. Du Roy watched her with interest, askinghimself what grief, what pain, what despair could have crushed herheart. She was worn out by poverty, it was plain. She had, perhaps, too,a husband who was beating her to death, or a dying child. He murmuredmentally: "Poor creatures. How some of them do suffer." Anger rose up inhim against pitiless Nature. Then he reflected that these poor wretchesbelieved, at any rate, that they were taken into consideration up above,and that they were duly entered in the registers of heaven with a debtorand creditor balance. Up above! And Du Roy, whom the silence of thechurch inclined to sweeping reflections, judging creation at a bound,muttered contemptuously: "What bosh all that sort of thing is!"

The rustle of a dress made him start. It was she.

He rose, and advanced quickly. She did not hold out her hand, butmurmured in a low voice: "I have only a few moments. I must get backhome. Kneel down near me, so that we may not be noticed." And sheadvanced up the aisle, seeking a safe and suitable spot, like a womanwell acquainted with the place. Her face was hidden by a thick veil, andshe walked with careful footsteps that could scarcely be heard.

When she reached the choir she turned, and muttered, in that mysterioustone of voice we always assume in church: "The side aisles will bebetter. We are too much in view here."

She bowed low to the high altar, turned to the right, and returned alittle way towards the entrance; then, making up her mind, she took achair and knelt down. George took possession of the next one to her, andas soon as they were in an attitude of prayer, began: "Thanks; oh,thanks; I adore you! I should like to be always telling you so, to tellyou how I began to love you, how I was captivated the first time I sawyou. Will you allow me some day to open my heart to tell you all this?"

She listened to him in an attitude of deep meditation, as if she heardnothing. She replied between her fingers: "I am mad to allow you tospeak to me like this, mad to have come here, mad to do what I am doing,mad to let you believe that—that—this adventure can have any issue.Forget all this; you must, and never speak to me again of it."

She paused. He strove to find an answer, decisive and passionate words,but not being able to join action to words, was partially paralyzed. Hereplied: "I expect nothing, I hope for nothing. I love you. Whatever youmay do, I will repeat it to you so often, with such power and ardor,that you will end by understanding it. I want to make my love penetrateyou, to pour it into your soul, word by word, hour by hour, day by day,so that at length it impregnates you like a liquid, falling drop bydrop; softens you, mollifies you, and obliges you later on to reply tome: 'I love you, too.'"

He felt her shoulder trembling against him and her bosom throbbing, andshe stammered, abruptly: "I love you, too!"

He started as though he had received a blow, and sighed: "Good God."

She replied, in panting tones: "Ought I to have told you that? I feel Iam guilty and contemptible. I, who have two daughters, but I cannot helpit, I cannot help it. I could not have believed, I should never havethought—but it is stronger than I. Listen, listen: I have never lovedanyone but you; I swear it. And I have loved you for a year past insecret, in my secret heart. Oh! I have suffered and struggled till I cando so no more. I love you."

She was weeping, with her hands crossed in front of her face, and herwhole frame was quivering, shaken by the violence of her emotion.

George murmured: "Give me your hand, that I may touch it, that I maypress it."

She slowly withdrew her hand from her face. He saw her cheek quite wetand a tear ready to fall on her lashes. He had taken her hand and waspressing it, saying: "Oh, how I should like to drink your tears!"

She said, in a low and broken voice, which resembled a moan: "Do nottake advantage of me; I am lost."

He felt an impulse to smile. How could he take advantage of her in thatplace? He placed the hand he held upon his heart, saying: "Do you feelit beat?" For he had come to the end of his passionate phrases.

For some moments past the regular footsteps of the promenader had beencoming nearer. He had gone the round of the altars, and was now, for thesecond time at least, coming down the little aisle on the right. WhenMadame Walter heard him close to the pillar which hid her, she snatchedher fingers from George's grasp, and again hid her face. And bothremained motionless, kneeling as though they had been addressing ferventsupplications to heaven together. The stout gentleman passed close tothem, cast an indifferent look upon them, and walked away to the lowerend of the church, still holding his hat behind his back.

Du Roy, who was thinking of obtaining an appointment elsewhere than atthe Church of the Trinity, murmured: "Where shall I see you to-morrow?"

She did not answer. She seemed lifeless—turned into a statue of prayer.He went on: "To-morrow, will you let me meet you in the Parc Monseau?"

She turned towards him her again uncovered face, a livid face,contracted by fearful suffering, and in a jerky voice ejacul*ted: "Leaveme, leave me now; go away, go away, only for five minutes! I suffer toomuch beside you. I want to pray, and I cannot. Go away, let me prayalone for five minutes. I cannot. Let me implore God to pardon me—tosave me. Leave me for five minutes."

Her face was so upset, so full of pain, that he rose without saying aword, and then, after a little hesitation, asked: "Shall I come backpresently?"

She gave a nod, which meant, "Yes, presently," and he walked awaytowards the choir. Then she strove to pray. She made a superhuman effortto invoke the Deity, and with quivering frame and bewildering soulappealed for mercy to heaven. She closed her eyes with rage, in order nolonger to see him who just left her. She sought to drive him from hermind, she struggled against him, but instead of the celestial apparitionawaited in the distress of her heart, she still perceived the youngfellow's curly moustache. For a year past she had been struggling thusevery day, every night, against the growing possession, against thisimage which haunted her dreams, haunted her flesh, and disturbed hernights. She felt caught like a beast in a net, bound, thrown into thearms of this man, who had vanquished, conquered her, simply by the hairon his lip and the color of his eyes. And now in this church, close toGod, she felt still weaker, more abandoned, and more lost than at home.She could no longer pray, she could only think of him. She sufferedalready that he had quitted her. She struggled, however, despairingly,resisted, implored help with all the strength of her soul. She wouldliked to have died rather than fall thus, she who had never faltered inher duty. She murmured wild words of supplication, but she was listeningto George's footsteps dying away in the distance.

She understood that it was all over, that the struggle was a uselessone. She would not yield, however; and she was seized by one of thosenervous crises that hurl women quivering, yelling, and writhing on theground. She trembled in every limb, feeling that she was going to falland roll among the chairs, uttering shrill cries. Someone approachedwith rapid steps. It was a priest. She rose and rushed towards him,holding out her clasped hands, and stammering: "Oh! save me, save me!"

He halted in surprise, saying: "What is it you wish, madame?"

"I want you to save me. Have pity on me. If you do not come to myassistance, I am lost."

He looked at her, asking himself whether she was not mad, and then said:"What can I do for you?"

He was a tall, and somewhat stout young man, with full, pendulouscheeks, dark, with a carefully shaven face, a good-looking city curatebelonging to a wealthy district, and accustomed to rich penitents.

"Hear my confession, and advise me, sustain me, tell me what I am todo."

He replied: "I hear confessions every Saturday, from three to sixo'clock."

Having seized his arm, she gripped it tightly as she repeated: "No, no,no; at once, at once! You must. He is here, in the church. He is waitingfor me."

"Who is waiting for you?" asked the priest.

"A man who will ruin me, who will carry me off, if you do not save me.I cannot flee from him. I am too weak—too weak! Oh, so weak, so weak!"She fell at his feet sobbing: "Oh, have pity on me, father! Save me, inGod's name, save me!"

She held him by his black gown lest he should escape, and he withuneasiness glanced around, lest some malevolent or devout eye should seethis woman fallen at his feet. Understanding at length that he could notescape, he said: "Get up; I have the key of the confessional with me."

And fumbling in his pocket he drew out a ring full of keys, selectedone, and walked rapidly towards the little wooden cabin, dust holes ofthe soul into which believers cast their sins. He entered the centerdoor, which he closed behind him, and Madame Walter, throwing herselfinto the narrow recess at the side, stammered fervently, with apassionate burst of hope: "Bless me father, for I have sinned."

Du Roy, having taken a turn round the choir, was passing down the leftaisle. He had got half-way when he met the stout, bald gentleman stillwalking quietly along, and said to himself: "What the deuce is thatcustomer doing here?"

The promenader had also slackened his pace, and was looking at Georgewith an evident wish to speak to him. When he came quite close he bowed,and said in a polite fashion: "I beg your pardon, sir, for troublingyou, but can you tell me when this church was built?"

Du Roy replied: "Really, I am not quite certain. I think within the lasttwenty or five-and-twenty years. It is, besides, the first time I everwas inside it."

"It is the same with me. I have never seen it."

The journalist, whose interest was awakened, remarked: "It seems to methat you are going over it very carefully. You are studying it indetail."

The other replied, with resignation: "I am not examining it; I amwaiting for my wife, who made an appointment with me here, and who isvery much behind time." Then, after a few moments' silence, he added:"It is fearfully hot outside."

Du Roy looked at him, and all at once fancied that he resembledForestier.

"You are from the country?" said he, inquiringly.

"Yes, from Rennes. And you, sir, is it out of curiosity that you enteredthis church?"

"No, I am expecting a lady," and bowing, the journalist walked away,with a smile on his lips.

Approaching the main entrance, he saw the poor woman still on her knees,and still praying. He thought: "By Jove! she keeps hard at it." He wasno longer moved, and no longer pitied her.

He passed on, and began quietly to walk up the right-hand aisle to findMadame Walter again. He marked the place where he had left her from adistance, astonished at not seeing her. He thought he had made a mistakein the pillar; went on as far as the end one, and then returned. She hadgone, then. He was surprised and enraged. Then he thought she might belooking for him, and made the circuit of the church again. Not findingher, he returned, and sat down on the chair she had occupied, hoping shewould rejoin him there, and waited. Soon a low murmur of voices arousedhis attention. He had not seen anyone in that part of the church. Whencecame this whispering? He rose to see, and perceived in the adjacentchapel the doors of the confessional. The skirt of a dress issuing fromone of these trailed on the pavement. He approached to examine thewoman. He recognized her. She was confessing.

He felt a violent inclination to take her by the shoulders and to pullher out of the box. Then he thought: "Bah! it is the priest's turn now;it will be mine to-morrow." And he sat down quietly in front of theconfessional, biding his time, and chuckling now over the adventure. Hewaited a long time. At length Madame Walter rose, turned round, saw him,and came up to him. Her expression was cold and severe, "Sir," said she,"I beg of you not to accompany me, not to follow me, and not to come tomy house alone. You will not be received. Farewell."

And she walked away with a dignified bearing. He let her depart, for oneof his principles was never to force matters. Then, as the priest,somewhat upset, issued in turn from his box, he walked up to him, and,looking him straight in the eyes, growled to his face: "If you did notwear a petticoat, what a smack you would get across your ugly chops."After which he turned on his heels and went out of the church, whistlingbetween his teeth. Standing under the porch, the stout gentleman, withthe hat on his head and his hands behind his back, tired of waiting, wasscanning the broad squares and all the streets opening onto it. As DuRoy passed him they bowed to one another.

The journalist, finding himself at liberty, went to the office of theVie Francaise. As soon as he entered he saw by the busy air of themessengers that something out of the common was happening, and at oncewent into the manager's room. Daddy Walter, in a state of nervousexcitement, was standing up dictating an article in broken sentences;issuing orders to the reporters, who surrounded him, between twoparagraphs; giving instructions to Boisrenard; and opening letters.

As Du Roy came in, the governor uttered a cry of joy: "Ah! how lucky;here is Pretty-boy!" He stopped short, somewhat confused, and excusedhimself: "I beg your pardon for speaking like that, but I am very muchdisturbed by certain events. And then I hear my wife and daughterspeaking of you as Pretty-boy from morning till night, and have ended byfalling into the habit myself. You are not offended?"

"Not at all!" said George, laughingly; "there is nothing in thatnickname to displease me."

Daddy Walter went on: "Very well, then, I christen you Pretty-boy, likeeveryone else. Well, the fact is, great things are taking place. TheMinistry has been overthrown by a vote of three hundred and ten to ahundred and two. Our prorogation is again postponed—postponed to theGreek calends, and here we are at the twenty-eighth of July. Spain isangry about the Morocco business, and it is that which has overthrownDurand de l'Aine and his following. We are right in the swim. Marrot isentrusted with the formation of a new Cabinet. He takes General Boutind'Acre as minister of war, and our friend Laroche-Mathieu for foreignaffairs. We are going to become an official organ. I am writing aleader, a simple declaration of our principles, pointing out the line tobe followed by the Ministry." The old boy smiled, and continued: "Theline they intend following, be it understood. But I want somethinginteresting about Morocco; an actuality; a sensational article;something or other. Find one for me."

Du Roy reflected for a moment, and then replied: "I have the very thingfor you. I will give you a study of the political situation of the wholeof our African colony, with Tunis on the left, Algeria in the middle,and Morocco on the right; the history of the races inhabiting this vastextent of territory; and the narrative of an excursion on the frontierof Morocco to the great oasis of Figuig, where no European haspenetrated, and which is the cause of the present conflict. Will thatsuit you?"

"Admirably!" exclaimed Daddy Walter. "And the title?"

"From Tunis to Tangiers."

"Splendid!"

Du Roy went off to search the files of the Vie Francaise for his firstarticle, "The Recollections of a Chasseur d'Afrique," which, rebaptized,touched up, and modified, would do admirably, since it dealt withcolonial policy, the Algerian population, and an excursion in theprovince of Oran. In three-quarters of an hour it was rewritten, touchedup, and brought to date, with a flavor of realism, and praises of thenew Cabinet. The manager, having read the article, said: "It is capital,capital, capital! You are an invaluable fellow. I congratulate you."

And Du Roy went home to dinner delighted with his day's work, despitethe check at the Church of the Trinity, for he felt the battle won. Hiswife was anxiously waiting for him. She exclaimed, as soon as she sawhim: "Do you know that Laroche-Mathieu is Minister for Foreign Affairs?"

"Yes; I have just written an article on Algeria, in connection withit."

"What?"

"You know, the first we wrote together, 'The Recollections of a Chasseurd'Afrique,' revised and corrected for the occasion."

She smiled, saying: "Ah, that is very good!" Then, after a few moments'reflection, she continued: "I was thinking—that continuation you wereto have written then, and that you—put off. We might set to work on itnow. It would make a nice series, and very appropriate to thesituation."

He replied, sitting down to table: "Exactly, and there is nothing in theway of it now that cuckold of a Forestier is dead."

She said quietly, in a dry and hurt tone: "That joke is more than out ofplace, and I beg of you to put an end to it. It has lasted too longalready."

He was about to make an ironical answer, when a telegram was broughthim, containing these words: "I had lost my senses. Forgive me, and comeat four o'clock to-morrow to the Parc Monceau."

He understood, and with heart suddenly filled with joy, he said to hiswife, as he slipped the message into his pocket: "I will not do so anymore, darling; it was stupid, I admit."

And he began his dinner. While eating he kept repeating to himself thewords: "I had lost my senses. Forgive me, and come at four o'clockto-morrow to the Parc Monceau." So she was yielding. That meant: "Isurrender, I am yours when you like and where you like." He began tolaugh, and Madeleine asked: "What is it?"

"Nothing," he answered; "I was thinking of a priest I met just now, andwho had a very comical mug."

Du Roy arrived to the time at the appointed place next day. On thebenches of the park were seated citizens overcome by heat, and carelessnurses, who seemed to be dreaming while their children were rolling onthe gravel of the paths. He found Madame Walter in the little antiqueruins from which a spring flows. She was walking round the little circleof columns with an uneasy and unhappy air. As soon as he had greetedher, she exclaimed: "What a number of people there are in the garden."

He seized the opportunity: "It is true; will you come somewhere else?"

"But where?"

"No matter where; in a cab, for instance. You can draw down the blind onyour side, and you will be quite invisible."

"Yes, I prefer that; here I am dying with fear."

"Well, come and meet me in five minutes at the gate opening onto theouter boulevard. I will have a cab."

And he darted off.

As soon as she had rejoined him, and had carefully drawn down the blindon her side, she asked: "Where have you told the driver to take us?"

George replied: "Do not trouble yourself, he knows what to do."

He had given the man his address in the Rue de Constantinople.

She resumed: "You cannot imagine what I suffer on account of you, how Iam tortured and tormented. Yesterday, in the church, I was cruel, but Iwanted to flee from you at any cost. I was so afraid to find myselfalone with you. Have you forgiven me?"

He squeezed her hands: "Yes, yes, what would I not forgive you, lovingyou as I do?"

She looked at him with a supplicating air: "Listen, you must promise torespect me—not to—not to—otherwise I cannot see you again."

He did not reply at once; he wore under his moustache that keen smilethat disturbed women. He ended by murmuring: "I am your slave."

Then she began to tell him how she had perceived that she was in lovewith him on learning that he was going to marry Madeleine Forestier. Shegave details, little details of dates and the like. Suddenly she paused.The cab had stopped. Du Roy opened the door.

"Where are we?" she asked.

"Get out and come into this house," he replied. "We shall be more atease there."

"But where are we?"

"At my rooms," and here we will leave them to their tête-à-tête.

XIII

Autumn had come. The Du Roys had passed the whole of the summer inParis, carrying on a vigorous campaign in the Vie Francaise during theshort vacation of the deputies.

Although it was only the beginning of October, the Chambers were aboutto resume their sittings, for matters as regarded Morocco were becomingthreatening. No one at the bottom believed in an expedition againstTangiers, although on the day of the prorogation of the Chamber, adeputy of the Right, Count de Lambert-Serrazin, in a witty speech,applauded even by the Center had offered to stake his moustache, afterthe example of a celebrated Viceroy of the Indies, against the whiskersof the President of the Council, that the new Cabinet could not helpimitating the old one, and sending an army to Tangiers, as a pendant tothat of Tunis, out of love of symmetry, as one puts two vases on afireplace.

He had added: "Africa is indeed, a fireplace for France, gentleman—afireplace which consumes our best wood; a fireplace with a strongdraught, which is lit with bank notes. You have had the artistic fancyof ornamenting the left-hand corner with a Tunisian knick-knack whichhad cost you dear. You will see that Monsieur Marrot will want toimitate his predecessor, and ornament the right-hand corner with onefrom Morocco."

This speech, which became famous, served as a peg for Du Roy for a halfa score of articles upon the Algerian colony—indeed, for the entireseries broken short off after his début on the paper. He hadenergetically supported the notion of a military expedition, althoughconvinced that it would not take place. He had struck the chord ofpatriotism, and bombarded Spain with the entire arsenal of contemptuousarguments which we make use of against nations whose interests arecontrary to our own. The Vie Francaise had gained considerableimportance through its own connection with the party in office. Itpublished political intelligence in advance of the most importantpapers, and hinted discreetly the intentions of its friends theMinistry, so that all the papers of Paris and the provinces took theirnews from it. It was quoted and feared, and people began to respect it.It was no longer the suspicious organ of a knot of political jugglers,but the acknowledged one of the Cabinet. Laroche-Mathieu was the soul ofthe paper, and Du Roy his mouthpiece. Daddy Walter, a silent member anda crafty manager, knowing when to keep in the background, was busyinghimself on the quiet, it is said, with an extensive transaction withsome copper mines in Morocco.

Madeleine's drawing-room had been an influential center, in whichseveral members of the Cabinet met every week. The President of theCouncil had even dined twice at her house, and the wives of thestatesmen who had formerly hesitated to cross her threshold now boastedof being her friends, and paid her more visits than were returned byher. The Minister for Foreign Affairs reigned almost as a master in thehousehold. He called at all hours, bringing dispatches, news, items ofinformation, which he dictated either to the husband or the wife, as ifthey had been his secretaries.

When Du Roy, after the minister's departure, found himself alone withMadeleine, he would break out in a menacing tone with bitterinsinuations against the goings-on of this commonplace parvenu.

But she would shrug her shoulders contemptuously, repeating: "Do as muchas he has done yourself. Become a minister, and you can have your ownway. Till then, hold your tongue."

He twirled his moustache, looking at her askance: "People do not know ofwhat I am capable," he said, "They will learn it, perhaps, some day."

She replied, philosophically: "Who lives long enough will see it."

The morning on which the Chambers reassembled the young wife, still inbed, was giving a thousand recommendations to her husband, who wasdressing himself in order to lunch with M. Laroche-Mathieu, and receivehis instructions prior to the sitting for the next day's politicalleader in the Vie Francaise, this leader being meant to be a kind ofsemi-official declaration of the real objects of the Cabinet.

Madeleine was saying: "Above all, do not forget to ask him whetherGeneral Belloncle is to be sent to Oran, as has been reported. Thatwould mean a great deal."

George replied irritably: "But I know just as well as you what I have todo. Spare me your preaching."

She answered quietly: "My dear, you always forget half the commissions Ientrust you with for the minister."

He growled: "He worries me to death, that minister of yours. He is anincompoop."

She remarked quietly: "He is no more my minister than he is yours. He ismore useful to you than to me."

He turned half round towards her, saying, sneeringly: "I beg yourpardon, but he does not pay court to me."

She observed slowly: "Nor to me either; but he is making our fortune."

He was silent for a few moments, and then resumed: "If I had to make achoice among your admirers, I should still prefer that old fossil DeVaudrec. What has become of him, I have not seen him for a week?"

"He is unwell," replied she, unmoved. "He wrote to me that he was evenobliged to keep his bed from an attack of gout. You ought to call andask how he is. You know he likes you very well, and it would pleasehim."

George said: "Yes, certainly; I will go some time to-day."

He had finished his toilet, and, hat on head, glanced at himself in theglass to see if he had neglected anything. Finding nothing, he came upto the bed and kissed his wife on the forehead, saying: "Good-bye, dear,I shall not be in before seven o'clock at the earliest."

And he went out. Monsieur Laroche-Mathieu was awaiting him, for he waslunching at ten o'clock that morning, the Council having to meet atnoon, before the opening of Parliament. As soon as they were seated attable alone with the minister's private secretary, for MadameLaroche-Mathieu had been unwilling to change her own meal times, Du Royspoke of his article, sketched out the line he proposed to take,consulting notes scribbled on visiting cards, and when he had finished,said: "Is there anything you think should be modified, my dearminister?"

"Very little, my dear fellow. You are perhaps a trifle too stronglyaffirmative as regards the Morocco business. Speak of the expedition asif it were going to take place; but, at the same time, letting it beunderstood that it will not take place, and that you do not believe init in the least in the world. Write in such a way that the public caneasily read between the lines that we are not going to poke our nosesinto that adventure."

"Quite so. I understand, and I will make myself thoroughly understood.My wife commissioned me to ask you, on this point, whether GeneralBelloncle will be sent to Oran. After what you have said, I conclude hewill not."

The statesman answered, "No."

Then they spoke of the coming session. Laroche-Mathieu began to spout,rehearsing the phrases that he was about to pour forth on his colleaguesa few hours later. He waved his right hand, raising now his knife, nowhis fork, now a bit of bread, and without looking at anyone, addressinghimself to the invisible assembly, he poured out his dulcet eloquence,the eloquence of a good-looking, dandified fellow. A tiny, twistedmoustache curled up at its two ends above his lip like scorpion's tails,and his hair, anointed with brilliantine and parted in the middle, waspuffed out like his temples, after the fashion of a provinciallady-killer. He was a little too stout, puffy, though still young, andhis stomach stretched his waistcoat.

The private secretary ate and drank quietly, no doubt accustomed tothese floods of loquacity; but Du Roy, whom jealousy of achieved successcut to the quick, thought: "Go on you proser. What idiots thesepolitical jokers are." And comparing his own worth to the frothyimportance of the minister, he said to himself, "By Jove! if I had onlya clear hundred thousand francs to offer myself as a candidate at home,near Rouen, and dish my sunning dullards of Normandy folk in their ownsauce, what a statesman I should make beside these short-sightedrascals!"

Monsieur Laroche-Mathieu went on spouting until coffee was served; then,seeing that he was behind hand, he rang for his brougham, and holdingout his hand to the journalist, said: "You quite understand, my dearfellow?"

"Perfectly, my dear minister; you may rely upon me."

And Du Roy strolled leisurely to the office to begin his article, for hehad nothing to do till four o'clock. At four o'clock he was to meet, atthe Rue de Constantinople, Madame de Marelle, whom he met thereregularly twice a week—on Mondays and Fridays. But on reaching theoffice a telegram was handed to him. It was from Madame Walter, and ranas follows: "I must see you to-day. Most important. Expect me at twoo'clock, Rue de Constantinople. Can render you a great service. Tilldeath.—Virginie."

He began to swear: "Hang it all, what an infernal bore!" And seized witha fit of ill-temper, he went out again at once too irritated to work.

For six weeks he had been trying to break off with her, without beingable to wear out her eager attachment. She had had, after her fall, afrightful fit of remorse, and in three successive rendezvous hadoverwhelmed her lover with reproaches and maledictions. Bored by thesescenes and already tired of this mature and melodramatic conquest, hehad simply kept away, hoping to put an end to the adventure in that way.But then she had distractedly clutched on to him, throwing herself intothis amour as a man throws himself into a river with a stone about hisneck. He had allowed himself to be recaptured out of weakness andconsideration for her, and she had enwrapt him in an unbridled andfatiguing passion, persecuting him with her affection. She insisted onseeing him every day, summoning him at all hours to a hasty meeting at astreet corner, at a shop, or in a public garden. She would then repeatto him in a few words, always the same, that she worshiped and idolizedhim, and leave him, vowing that she felt so happy to have seen him. Sheshowed herself quite another creature than he had fancied her, strivingto charm him with puerile glances, a childishness in love affairsridiculous at her age. Having remained up till then strictly honest,virgin in heart, inaccessible to all sentiment, ignorant of sensuality,a strange outburst of youthful tenderness, of ardent, naive and tardylove, made up of unlooked-for outbursts, exclamations of a girl ofsixteen, graces grown old without ever having been young, had takenplace in this staid woman. She wrote him ten letters a day, maddeninglyfoolish letters, couched in a style at once poetic and ridiculous, fullof the pet names of birds and beasts.

As soon as they found themselves alone together she would kiss him withthe awkward prettiness of a great tomboy, pouting of the lips that weregrotesque, and bounds that made her too full bosom shake beneath herbodice. He was above all, sickened with hearing her say, "My pet," "Mydoggie," "My jewel," "My birdie," "My treasure," "My own," "Myprecious," and to see her offer herself to him every time with a littlecomedy of infantile modesty, little movements of alarm that she thoughtpretty, and the tricks of a depraved schoolgirl. She would ask, "Whosemouth is this?" and when he did not reply "Mine," would persist till shemade him grow pale with nervous irritability. She ought to have felt, itseemed to him, that in love extreme tact, skill, prudence, and exactnessare requisite; that having given herself to him, she, a woman of matureyears, the mother of a family, and holding a position in society, shouldyield herself gravely, with a kind of restrained eagerness, with tears,perhaps, but with those of Dido, not of Juliet.

She kept incessantly repeating to him, "How I love you, my little pet.Do you love me as well, baby?"

He could no longer bear to be called "my little pet," or "baby," withoutan inclination to call her "old girl."

She would say to him, "What madness of me to yield to you. But I do notregret it. It is so sweet to love."

All this seemed to George irritating from her mouth. She murmured, "Itis so sweet to love," like the village maiden at a theater.

Then she exasperated him by the clumsiness of her caresses. Havingbecome all at once sensual beneath the kisses of this young fellow whohad so warmed her blood, she showed an unskilled ardor and a seriousapplication that made Du Roy laugh and think of old men trying to learnto read. When she would have gripped him in her embrace, ardently gazingat him with the deep and terrible glance of certain aging women,splendid in their last loves, when she should have bitten him withsilent and quivering mouth, crushing him beneath her warmth and weight,she would wriggle about like a girl, and lisp with the idea of beingpleasant: "Me love 'ou so, ducky, me love 'ou so. Have nice lovey-loveywith 'ittle wifey."

He then would be seized with a wild desire to take his hat and rush out,slamming the door behind him.

They had frequently met at the outset at the Rue de Constantinople; butDu Roy, who dreaded a meeting there with Madame de Marelle, now found athousand pretexts for refusing such appointments. He had then to call onher almost every day at her home, now to lunch, now to dinner. Shesqueezed his hand under the table, held out her mouth to him behind thedoors. But he, for his part, took pleasure above all in playing withSusan, who amused him with her whimsicalities. In her doll-like framewas lodged an active, arch, sly, and startling wit, always ready to showitself off. She joked at everything and everybody with biting readiness.George stimulated her imagination, excited it to irony and theyunderstood one another marvelously. She kept appealing to him everymoment, "I say, Pretty-boy. Come here, Pretty-boy."

He would at once leave the mother and go to the daughter, who wouldwhisper some bit of spitefulness, at which they would laugh heartily.

However, disgusted with the mother's love, he began to feel aninsurmountable repugnance for her; he could no longer see, hear, orthink of her without anger. He ceased, therefore, to visit her, toanswer her letters, or to yield to her appeals. She understood at lengththat he no longer loved her, and suffered terribly. But she grewinsatiable, kept watch on him, followed him, waited for him in a cabwith the blinds drawn down, at the door of the office, at the door ofhis dwelling, in the streets through which she hoped he might pass. Helonged to ill-treat her, swear at her, strike her, say to her plainly,"I have had enough of it, you worry my life out." But he observed somecirc*mspection on account of the Vie Francaise, and strove by dint ofcoolness, harshness, tempered by attention, and even rude words attimes, to make her understand that there must be an end to it. Shestrove, above all, to devise schemes to allure him to a meeting in theRue de Constantinople, and he was in a perpetual state of alarm lest thetwo women should find themselves some day face to face at the door.

His affection for Madame de Marelle had, on the contrary, augmentedduring the summer. He called her his "young rascal," and she certainlycharmed him. Their two natures had kindred links; they were both membersof the adventurous race of vagabonds, those vagabonds in society who sostrongly resemble, without being aware of it, the vagabonds of thehighways. They had had a summer of delightful love-making, a summer ofstudents on the spree, bolting off to lunch or dine at Argenteuil,Bougival, Maisons, or Poissy, and passing hours in a boat gatheringflowers from the bank. She adored the fried fish served on the banks ofthe Seine, the stewed rabbits, the arbors in the tavern gardens, and theshouts of the boating men. He liked to start off with her on a brightday on a suburban line, and traverse the ugly environs of Paris,sprouting with tradesmen's hideous boxes, talking lively nonsense. Andwhen he had to return to dine at Madame Walter's he hated the eager oldmistress from the mere recollection of the young one whom he had left,and who had ravished his desires and harvested his ardor among the grassby the water side.

He had fancied himself at length pretty well rid of Madame Walter, towhom he had expressed, in a plain and almost brutal fashion, hisintentions of breaking off with her, when he received at the office ofthe paper the telegram summoning him to meet her at two o'clock at theRue de Constantinople. He re-read it as he walked along, "Must see youto-day. Most important. Expect me two o'clock, Rue de Constantinople.Can render you a great service. Till death.—Virginie."

He thought, "What does this old screech-owl want with me now? I wagershe has nothing to tell me. She will only repeat that she adores me. YetI must see what it means. She speaks of an important affair and a greatservice; perhaps it is so. And Clotilde, who is coming at four o'clock!I must get the first of the pair off by three at the latest. By Jove,provided they don't run up against one another! What bothers women are."

And he reflected that, after all, his own wife was the only one whonever bothered him at all. She lived in her own way, and seemed to bevery fond of him during the hours destined to love, for she would notadmit that the unchangeable order of the ordinary occupations of lifeshould be interfered with.

He walked slowly towards the rendezvous, mentally working himself upagainst Madame Walter. "Ah! I will just receive her nicely if she hasnothing to tell me. Cambronne's language will be academical compared tomine. I will tell her that I will never set foot in her house again, tobegin with."

He went in to wait for Madame Walter. She arrived almost immediately,and as soon as she caught sight of him, she exclaimed, "Ah, you have hadmy telegram! How fortunate."

He put on a grumpy expression, saying: "By Jove, yes; I found it at theoffice just as I was going to start off to the Chamber. What is it youwant now?"

She had raised her veil to kiss him, and drew nearer with the timid andsubmissive air of an oft-beaten dog.

"How cruel you are towards me! How harshly you speak to me! What have Idone to you? You cannot imagine how I suffer through you."

He growled: "Don't go on again in that style."

She was standing close to him, only waiting for a smile, a gesture, tothrow herself into his arms, and murmured: "You should not have taken meto treat me thus, you should have left me sober-minded and happy as Iwas. Do you remember what you said to me in the church, and how youforced me into this house? And now, how do you speak to me? how do youreceive me? Oh, God! oh, God! what pain you give me!"

He stamped his foot, and exclaimed, violently: "Ah, bosh! That's enoughof it! I can't see you a moment without hearing all that foolery. Onewould really think that I had carried you off at twelve years of age,and that you were as ignorant as an angel. No, my dear, let us putthings in their proper light; there was no seduction of a young girl inthe business. You gave yourself to me at full years of discretion. Ithank you. I am infinitely grateful to you, but I am not bound to betied till death to your petticoat strings. You have a husband and I awife. We are neither of us free. We indulged in a mutual caprice, and itis over."

"Oh, you are brutal, coarse, shameless," she said; "I was indeed nolonger a young girl, but I had never loved, never faltered."

He cut her short with: "I know it. You have told me so twenty times. Butyou had had two children."

She drew back, exclaiming: "Oh, George, that is unworthy of you," andpressing her two hands to her heart, began to choke and sob.

When he saw the tears come he took his hat from the corner of themantelpiece, saying: "Oh, you are going to cry, are you? Good-bye, then.So it was to show off in this way that you came here, eh?"

She had taken a step forward in order to bar the way, and quicklypulling out a handkerchief from her pocket, wiped her eyes with anabrupt movement. Her voice grew firmer by the effort of her will, as shesaid, in tones tremulous with pain, "No—I came to—to tell you somenews—political news—to put you in the way of gaining fifty thousandfrancs—or even more—if you like."

He inquired, suddenly softening, "How so? What do you mean?"

"I caught, by chance, yesterday evening, some words between my husbandand Laroche-Mathieu. They do not, besides, trouble themselves to hidemuch from me. But Walter recommended the Minister not to let you intothe secret, as you would reveal everything."

Du Roy had put his hat down on a chair, and was waiting veryattentively.

"What is up, then?" said he.

"They are going to take possession of Morocco."

"Nonsense! I lunched with Laroche-Mathieu, who almost dictated to me theintention of the Cabinet."

"No, darling, they are humbugging you, because they were afraid lesttheir plan should be known."

"Sit down," said George, and sat down himself in an armchair. Then shedrew towards him a low stool, and sitting down on it between his knees,went on in a coaxing tone, "As I am always thinking about you, I payattention now to everything that is whispered around me."

And she began quietly to explain to him how she had guessed for sometime past that something was being hatched unknown to him; that theywere making use of him, while dreading his co-operation. She said, "Youknow, when one is in love, one grows cunning."

At length, the day before, she had understood it all. It was a businesstransaction, a thumping affair, worked out on the quiet. She smiled now,happy in her dexterity, and grew excited, speaking like a financier'swife accustomed to see the market rigged, used to rises and falls thatruin, in two hours of speculation, thousands of little folk who haveplaced their savings in undertakings guaranteed by the names of menhonored and respected in the world of politics of finance.

She repeated, "Oh, it is very smart what they have been up to! Verysmart. It was Walter who did it all, though, and he knows all about suchthings. Really, it is a first-class job."

He grew impatient at these preliminaries, and exclaimed, "Come, tell mewhat it is at once."

"Well, then, this is what it is. The Tangiers expedition was decidedupon between them on the day that Laroche-Mathieu took the ministry offoreign affairs, and little by little they have bought up the whole ofthe Morocco loan, which had fallen to sixty-four or sixty-five francs.They have bought it up very cleverly by means of shady brokers, who didnot awaken any mistrust. They have even sold the Rothschilds, who grewastonished to find Morocco stock always asked for, and who wereastonished by having agents pointed out to them—all lame ducks. Thatquieted the big financiers. And now the expedition is to take place, andas soon as we are there the French Government will guarantee the debt.Our friends will gain fifty or sixty millions. You understand thematter? You understand, too, how afraid they have been of everyone, ofthe slightest indiscretion?"

She had leaned her head against the young fellow's waistcoat, and withher arms resting on his legs, pressed up against him, feeling that shewas interesting him now, and ready to do anything for a caress, for asmile.

"You are quite certain?" he asked.

"I should think so," she replied, with confidence.

"It is very smart indeed. As to that swine of a Laroche-Mathieu, justsee if I don't pay him out one of these days. Oh, the scoundrel, justlet him look out for himself! He shall go through my hands." Then hebegan to reflect, and went on, "We ought, though, to profit by allthis."

"You can still buy some of the loan," said she; "it is only atseventy-two francs."

He said, "Yes, but I have no money under my hand."

She raised her eyes towards him, eyes full of entreaty, saying, "I havethought of that, darling, and if you were very nice, very nice, if youloved me a little, you would let me lend you some."

He answered, abruptly and almost harshly, "As to that, no, indeed."

She murmured, in an imploring voice: "Listen, there is something thatyou can do without borrowing money. I wanted to buy ten thousand francs'worth of the loan to make a little nest-egg. Well, I will take twentythousand, and you shall stand in for half. You understand that I am notgoing to hand the money over to Walter. So there is nothing to pay forthe present. If it all succeeds, you gain seventy thousand francs. Ifnot, you will owe me ten thousand, which you can pay when you please."

He remarked, "No, I do not like such pains."

Then she argued, in order to get him to make up his mind. She proved tohim that he was really pledging his word for ten thousand francs, thathe was running risks, and that she was not advancing him anything, sincethe actual outlay was made by Walter's bank. She pointed out to him,besides, that it was he who had carried on in the Vie Francaise thewhole of the political campaign that had rendered the scheme possible.He would be very foolish not to profit by it. He still hesitated, andshe added, "But just reflect that in reality it is Walter who isadvancing you these ten thousand Francs, and that you have rendered himservices worth a great deal more than that."

"Very well, then," said he, "I will go halves with you. If we lose, Iwill repay you the ten thousand francs."

She was so pleased that she rose, took his head in both her hands, andbegan to kiss him eagerly. He did not resist at first, but as she grewbolder, clasping him to her and devouring him with caresses, hereflected that the other would be there shortly, and that if he yieldedhe would lose time and exhaust in the arms of the old woman an ardorthat he had better reserve for the young one. So he repulsed her gently,saying, "Come, be good now."

She looked at him disconsolately, saying, "Oh, George, can't I even kissyou?"

He replied, "No, not to-day. I have a headache, and it upsets me."

She sat down again docilely between his knees, and asked, "Will you comeand dine with us to-morrow? You would give me much pleasure."

He hesitated, but dared not refuse, so said, "Certainly."

"Thanks, darling."

She rubbed her cheek slowly against his breast with a regular andcoaxing movement, and one of her long black hairs caught in hiswaistcoat. She noticed it, and a wild idea crossed her mind, one ofthose superstitious notions which are often the whole of a woman'sreason. She began to twist this hair gently round a button. Then shefastened another hair to the next button, and a third to the next. Oneto every button. He would tear them out of her head presently when herose, and hurt her. What happiness! And he would carry away something ofher without knowing it; he would carry away a tiny lock of her hairwhich he had never yet asked for. It was a tie by which she attached himto her, a secret, invisible bond, a talisman she left with him. Withoutwilling it he would think of her, dream of her, and perhaps love her alittle more the next day.

He said, all at once, "I must leave you, because I am expected at theChamber at the close of the sitting. I cannot miss attending to-day."

She sighed, "Already!" and then added, resignedly, "Go, dear, but youwill come to dinner to-morrow."

And suddenly she drew aside. There was a short and sharp pain in herhead, as though needles had been stuck into the skin. Her heartthrobbed; she was pleased to have suffered a little by him. "Good-bye,"said she.

He took her in his arms with a compassionate smile, and coldly kissedher eyes. But she, maddened by this contact, again murmured, "Already!"while her suppliant glance indicated the bedroom, the door of which wasopen.

He stepped away from her, and said in a hurried tone, "I must be off; Ishall be late."

Then she held out her lips, which he barely brushed with his, and havinghanded her her parasol, which she was forgetting, he continued, "Come,come, we must be quick, it is past three o'clock."

She went out before him, saying, "To-morrow, at seven," and he repeated,"To-morrow, at seven."

They separated, she turning to the right and he to the left. Du Roywalked as far as the outer boulevard. Then he slowly strolled back alongthe Boulevard Malesherbes. Passing a pastry cook's, he noticed somemarrons glaces in a glass jar, and thought, "I will take in a poundfor Clotilde."

He bought a bag of these sweetmeats, which she was passionately fond of,and at four o'clock returned to wait for his young mistress. She was alittle late, because her husband had come home for a week, and said,"Can you come and dine with us to-morrow? He will be so pleased to seeyou."

"No, I dine with the governor. We have a heap of political and financialmatters to talk over."

She had taken off her bonnet, and was now laying aside her bodice, whichwas too tight for her. He pointed out the bag on the mantel-shelf,saying, "I have bought you some marrons glaces."

She clapped her hands, exclaiming: "How nice; what a dear you are."

She took one, tasted them, and said: "They are delicious. I feel sure Ishall not leave one of them." Then she added, looking at George withsensual merriment: "You flatter all my vices, then."

She slowly ate the sweetmeats, looking continually into the bag to seeif there were any left. "There, sit down in the armchair," said she,"and I will squat down between your knees and nibble my bon-bons. Ishall be very comfortable."

He smiled, sat down, and took her between his knees, as he had hadMadame Walter shortly before. She raised her head in order to speak tohim, and said, with her mouth full: "Do you know, darling, I dreamt ofyou? I dreamt that we were both taking a long journey together on acamel. He had two humps, and we were each sitting astride on a hump,crossing the desert. We had taken some sandwiches in a piece of paperand some wine in a bottle, and were dining on our humps. But it annoyedme because we could not do anything else; we were too far off from oneanother, and I wanted to get down."

He answered: "I want to get down, too."

He laughed, amused at the story, and encouraged her to talk nonsense, tochatter, to indulge in all the child's play of conversation which loversutter. The nonsense which he thought delightful in the mouth of Madamede Marelle would have exasperated him in that of Madame Walter.Clotilde, too, called him "My darling," "My pet," "My own." These wordsseemed sweet and caressing. Said by the other woman shortly before, theyhad irritated and sickened him. For words of love, which are always thesame, take the flavor of the lips they come from.

But he was thinking, even while amusing himself with this nonsense, ofthe seventy thousand francs he was going to gain, and suddenly checkedthe gabble of his companion by two little taps with his finger on herhead. "Listen, pet," said he.

"I am going to entrust you with a commission for your husband. Tell himfrom me to buy to-morrow ten thousand francs' worth of the Morocco loan,which is quoted at seventy-two, and I promise him that he will gain fromsixty to eighty thousand francs before three months are over. Recommendthe most positive silence to him. Tell him from me that the expeditionto Tangiers is decided on, and that the French government will guaranteethe debt of Morocco. But do not let anything out about it. It is a Statesecret that I am entrusting to you."

She listened to him seriously, and murmured: "Thank you, I will tell myhusband this evening. You can reckon on him; he will not talk. He is avery safe man, and there is no danger."

But she had eaten all the sweetmeats. She crushed up the bag between herhands and flung it into the fireplace. Then she said, "Let us go tobed," and without getting up, began to unbutton George's waistcoat. Allat once she stopped, and pulling out between two fingers a long hair,caught in a buttonhole, began to laugh. "There, you have brought awayone of Madeleine's hairs. There is a faithful husband for you."

Then, becoming once more serious, she carefully examined on her head thealmost imperceptible thread she had found, and murmured: "It is notMadeleine's, it is too dark."

He smiled, saying: "It is very likely one of the maid's."

But she was inspecting the waistcoat with the attention of a detective,and collected a second hair rolled round a button; then she perceived athird, and pale and somewhat trembling, exclaimed: "Oh, you have beensleeping with a woman who has wrapped her hair round all your buttons."

He was astonished, and gasped out: "No, you are mad."

All at once he remembered, understood it all, was uneasy at first, andthen denied the charge with a chuckle, not vexed at the bottom that sheshould suspect him of other loves. She kept on searching, and stillfound hairs, which she rapidly untwisted and threw on the carpet. Shehad guessed matters with her artful woman's instinct, and stammered out,vexed, angry, and ready to cry: "She loves you, she does—and she wantedyou to take away something belonging to her. Oh, what a traitor youare!" But all at once she gave a cry, a shrill cry of nervous joy. "Oh!oh! it is an old woman—here is a white hair. Ah, you go in for oldwomen now! Do they pay you, eh—do they pay you? Ah, so you have come toold women, have you? Then you have no longer any need of me. Keep theother one."

She rose, ran to her bodice thrown onto a chair, and began hurriedly toput it on again. He sought to retain her, stammering confusedly: "But,no, Clo, you are silly. I do not know anything about it. Listennow—stay here. Come, now—stay here."

She repeated: "Keep your old woman—keep her. Have a ring made out ofher hair—out of her white hair. You have enough of it for that."

With abrupt and swift movements she had dressed herself and put on herbonnet and veil, and when he sought to take hold of her, gave him asmack with all her strength. While he remained bewildered, she openedthe door and fled.

As soon as he was alone he was seized with furious anger against thatold hag of a Mother Walter. Ah, he would send her about her business,and pretty roughly, too! He bathed his reddened cheek and then went out,in turn meditating vengeance. This time he would not forgive her. Ah,no! He walked down as far as the boulevard, and sauntering along stoppedin front of a jeweler's shop to look at a chronometer he had fancied fora long time back, and which was ticketed eighteen hundred francs. Hethought all at once, with a thrill of joy at his heart, "If I gain myseventy thousand francs I can afford it."

And he began to think of all the things he would do with these seventythousand francs. In the first place, he would get elected deputy. Thenhe would buy his chronometer, and would speculate on the Bourse, andwould—

He did not want to go to the office, preferring to consult Madeleinebefore seeing Walter and writing his article, and started for home. Hehad reached the Rue Druot, when he stopped short. He had forgotten toask after the Count de Vaudrec, who lived in the Chaussee d'Antin. Hetherefore turned back, still sauntering, thinking of a thousand things,mainly pleasant, of his coming fortune, and also of that scoundrel of aLaroche-Mathieu, and that old stickfast of a Madame Walter. He was notuneasy about the wrath of Clotilde, knowing very well that she forgavequickly.

He asked the doorkeeper of the house in which the Count de Vaudrecresided: "How is Monsieur de Vaudrec? I hear that he has been unwellthese last few days."

The man replied: "The Count is very bad indeed, sir. They are afraid hewill not live through the night; the gout has mounted to his heart."

Du Roy was so startled that he no longer knew what he ought to do.Vaudrec dying! Confused and disquieting ideas shot through his mind thathe dared not even admit to himself. He stammered: "Thank you; I willcall again," without knowing what he was saying.

Then he jumped into a cab and was driven home. His wife had come in. Hewent into her room breathless, and said at once: "Have you heard?Vaudrec is dying."

She was sitting down reading a letter. She raised her eyes, andrepeating thrice: "Oh! what do you say, what do you say, what do yousay?"

"I say that Vaudrec is dying from a fit of gout that has flown to theheart." Then he added: "What do you think of doing?"

She had risen livid, and with her cheeks shaken by a nervous quivering,then she began to cry terribly, hiding her face in her hands. She stoodshaken by sobs and torn by grief. But suddenly she mastered her sorrow,and wiping her eyes, said: "I—I am going there—don't bother aboutme—I don't know when I shall be back—don't wait for me."

He replied: "Very well, dear." They shook hands, and she went off sohurriedly that she forgot her gloves.

George, having dined alone, began to write his article. He did soexactly in accordance with the minister's instructions, giving hisreaders to understand that the expedition to Morocco would not takeplace. Then he took it to the office, chatted for a few minutes with thegovernor, and went out smoking, light-hearted, though he knew not why.His wife had not come home, and he went to bed and fell asleep.

Madeleine came in towards midnight. George, suddenly roused, sat up inbed. "Well?" he asked.

He had never seen her so pale and so deeply moved. She murmured: "He isdead."

"Ah!—and he did not say anything?"

"Nothing. He had lost consciousness when I arrived."

George was thinking. Questions rose to his lips that he did not dare toput. "Come to bed," said he.

She undressed rapidly, and slipped into bed beside him, when he resumed:"Were there any relations present at his death-bed?"

"Only a nephew."

"Ah! Did he see this nephew often?"

"Never. They had not met for ten years."

"Had he any other relatives?"

"No, I do not think so."

"Then it is his nephew who will inherit?"

"I do not know."

"He was very well off, Vaudrec?"

"Yes, very well off."

"Do you know what his fortune was?"

"No, not exactly. One or two millions, perhaps."

He said no more. She blew out the light, and they remained stretchedout, side by side, in the darkness—silent, wakeful, and reflecting. Heno longer felt inclined for sleep. He now thought the seventy thousandfrancs promised by Madame Walter insignificant. Suddenly he fancied thatMadeleine was crying. He inquired, in order to make certain: "Are youasleep?"

"No."

Her voice was tearful and quavering, and he said: "I forgot to tell youwhen I came in that your minister has let us in nicely."

"How so?"

He told her at length, with all details, the plan hatched betweenLaroche-Mathieu and Walter. When he had finished, she asked: "How do youknow this?"

He replied: "You will excuse me not telling you. You have your means ofinformation, which I do not seek to penetrate. I have mine, which I wishto keep to myself. I can, in any case, answer for the correctness of myinformation."

Then she murmured: "Yes, it is quite possible. I fancied they were up tosomething without us."

But George, who no longer felt sleepy, had drawn closer to his wife, andgently kissed her ear. She repulsed him sharply. "I beg of you to leaveme alone. I am not in a mood to romp." He turned resignedly towards thewall, and having closed his eyes, ended by falling asleep.

XIV

The church was draped with black, and over the main entrance a hugescutcheon, surmounted by a coronet, announced to the passers-by that agentleman was being buried. The ceremony was just over, and thosepresent at it were slowly dispersing, defiling past the coffin and thenephew of the Count de Vaudrec, who was shaking extended hands andreturning bows. When George Du Roy and his wife came out of the churchthey began to walk homeward side by side, silent and preoccupied. Atlength George said, as though speaking to himself: "Really, it is verystrange."

"What, dear?" asked Madeleine.

"That Vaudrec should not have left us anything."

She blushed suddenly, as though a rosy veil had been cast over her whiteskin, and said: "Why should he have left us anything? There was noreason for it." Then, after a few moments' silence, she went on: "Thereis perhaps a will in the hands of some notary. We know nothing as yet."

He reflected for a short time, and then murmured: "Yes, it is probable,for, after all, he was the most intimate friend of us both. He dinedwith us twice a week, called at all hours, and was at home at our place,quite at home in every respect. He loved you like a father, and had nochildren, no brothers and sisters, nothing but a nephew, and a nephew henever used to see. Yes, there must be a will. I do not care for much,only a remembrance to show that he thought of us, that he loved us, thathe recognized the affection we felt for him. He certainly owed us somesuch mark of friendship."

She said in a pensive and indifferent manner: "It is possible, indeed,that there may be a will."

As they entered their rooms, the man-servant handed a letter toMadeleine. She opened it, and then held it out to her husband. It ran asfollows:

"Office of Maitre Lamaneur, Notary,
"17 Rue des Vosges.

"Madame: I have the honor to beg you to favor me with a callhere on Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday between the hours oftwo and four, on business concerning you.—I am,etc.—Lamaneur."

George had reddened in turn. "That is what it must be," said he. "It isstrange, though, that it is you who are summoned, and not myself, who amlegally the head of the family."

She did not answer at once, but after a brief period of reflection,said: "Shall we go round there by and by?"

"Yes, certainly."

They set out as soon as they had lunched. When they entered MaitreLamaneur's office, the head clerk rose with marked attention and usheredthem in to his master. The notary was a round, little man, round allover. His head looked like a ball nailed onto another ball, which hadlegs so short that they almost resembled balls too. He bowed, pointed totwo chairs, and turning towards Madeleine, said: "Madame, I have sentfor you in order to acquaint you with the will of the Count de Vaudrec,in which you are interested."

George could not help muttering: "I thought so."

The notary went on: "I will read to you the document, which is verybrief."

He took a paper from a box in front of him, and read as follows:

"I, the undersigned, Paul Emile Cyprien Gontran, Count de Vaudrec, beingsound in body and mind, hereby express my last wishes. As death mayovertake us at any moment, I wish, in provision of his attacks, to takethe precaution of making my will, which will be placed in the hands ofMaitre Lamaneur. Having no direct heirs, I leave the whole of myfortune, consisting of stock to the amount of six hundred thousandfrancs, and landed property worth about five hundred thousand francs, toMadame Claire Madeleine Du Roy without any charge or condition. I begher to accept this gift of a departed friend as a proof of a deep,devoted, and respectful affection."

The notary added: "That is all. This document is dated last August, andreplaces one of the same nature, written two years back, with the nameof Madame Claire Madeleine Forestier. I have this first will, too, whichwould prove, in the case of opposition on the part of the family, thatthe wishes of Count de Vaudrec did not vary."

Madeleine, very pale, looked at her feet. George nervously twisted theend of his moustache between his fingers. The notary continued after amoment of silence: "It is, of course, understood, sir, that your wifecannot accept the legacy without your consent."

Du Roy rose and said, dryly: "I must ask time to reflect."

The notary, who was smiling, bowed, and said in an amiable tone: "Iunderstand the scruples that cause you to hesitate, sir. I should saythat the nephew of Monsieur de Vaudrec, who became acquainted this verymorning with his uncle's last wishes, stated that he was prepared torespect them, provided the sum of a hundred thousand francs was allowedhim. In my opinion the will is unattackable, but a law-suit would causea stir, which it may perhaps suit you to avoid. The world often judgesthings ill-naturedly. In any case, can you give me your answer on allthese points before Saturday?"

George bowed, saying: "Yes, sir."

Then he bowed again ceremoniously, ushered out his wife, who hadremained silent, and went out himself with so stiff an air that thenotary no longer smiled.

As soon as they got home, Du Roy abruptly closed the door, and throwinghis hat onto the bed, said: "You were Vaudrec's mistress."

Madeleine, who was taking off her veil, turned round with a start,exclaiming: "I? Oh!"

"Yes, you. A man does not leave the whole of his fortune to a woman,unless—"

She was trembling, and was unable to remove the pins fastening thetransparent tissue. After a moment's reflection she stammered, in anagitated tone: "Come, come—you are mad—you are—you are. Did not you,yourself, just now have hopes that he would leave us something?"

George remained standing beside her, following all her emotions like amagistrate seeking to note the least faltering on the part of anaccused. He said, laying stress on every word: "Yes, he might have leftsomething to me, your husband—to me, his friend—you understand, butnot to you—my wife. The distinction is capital, essential from thepoint of propriety and of public opinion."

Madeleine in turn looked at him fixedly in the eyes, in profound andsingular fashion, as though seeking to read something there, as thoughtrying to discover that unknown part of a human being which we neverfathom, and of which we can scarcely even catch rapid glimpses in thosemoments of carelessness or inattention, which are like doors left open,giving onto the mysterious depths of the mind. She said slowly: "Itseems to me, however, that a legacy of this importance would have beenlooked on as at least equally strange left to you."

He asked abruptly: "Why so?"

She said: "Because—" hesitated, and then continued: "Because you are myhusband, and have only known him for a short time, after all—because Ihave been his friend for a very long while—and because his first will,made during Forestier's lifetime, was already in my favor."

George began to stride up and down. He said: "You cannot accept."

She replied in a tone of indifference: "Precisely so; then it is notworth while waiting till Saturday, we can let Maitre Lamaneur know atonce."

He stopped short in front of her, and they again stood for some momentswith their eyes riveted on one another, striving to fathom theimpenetrable secret of their hearts, to cut down to the quick of theirthoughts. They tried to see one another's conscience unveiled in anardent and mute interrogation; the struggle of two beings who, livingside by side, were always ignorant of one another, suspecting, sniffinground, watching, but never understanding one another to the muddydepths of their souls. And suddenly he murmured to her face, in a lowvoice: "Come, admit that you were De Vaudrec's mistress."

She shrugged her shoulders, saying: "You are ridiculous. Vaudrec wasvery fond of me, very—but there was nothing more—never."

He stamped his foot. "You lie. It is not possible."

She replied, quietly: "It is so, though."

He began to walk up and down again, and then, halting once more, said:"Explain, then, how he came to leave the whole of his fortune to you."

She did so in a careless and disinterested tone, saying: "It is quitesimple. As you said just now, he had only ourselves for friends, orrather myself, for he has known me from a child. My mother was acompanion at the house of some relatives of his. He was always cominghere, and as he had no natural heirs he thought of me. That there was alittle love for me in the matter is possible. But where is the woman whohas not been loved thus? Why should not such secret, hidden affectionhave placed my name at the tip of his pen when he thought of expressinghis last wishes? He brought me flowers every Monday. You were not at allastonished at that, and yet he did not bring you any, did he? Now he hasgiven me his fortune for the same reason, and because he had no one tooffer it to. It would have been, on the contrary, very surprising forhim to have left it to you. Why should he have done so? What were you tohim?"

She spoke so naturally and quietly that George hesitated. He said,however: "All the same, we cannot accept this inheritance under suchconditions. The effect would be deplorable. All the world would believeit; all the world would gossip about it, and laugh at me. My fellowjournalists are already only too disposed to feel jealous of me and toattack me. I should have, before anyone, a care for my honor and myreputation. It is impossible for me to allow my wife to accept a legacyof this kind from a man whom public report has already assigned to heras a lover. Forestier might perhaps have tolerated it, but not me."

She murmured, mildly: "Well, dear, do not let us accept it. It will be amillion the less in our pockets, that is all."

He was still walking up and down, and began to think aloud, speaking forhis wife's benefit without addressing himself directly to her: "Yes, amillion, so much the worse. He did not understand, in making his will,what a fault in tact, what a breach of propriety he was committing. Hedid not see in what a false, a ridiculous position he would place me.Everything is a matter of detail in this life. He should have left mehalf; that would have settled everything."

He sat down, crossed his legs, and began to twist the end of hismoustache, as he did in moments of boredom, uneasiness, and difficultreflection. Madeleine took up some embroidery at which she worked fromtime to time, and said, while selecting her wools: "I have only to holdmy tongue. It is for you to reflect."

He was a long time without replying, and then said, hesitatingly: "Theworld will never understand that Vaudrec made you his sole heiress, andthat I allowed it. To receive his fortune in that way would be anacknowledgment on your part of a guilty connection, and on mine of ashameful complaisance. Do you understand now how our acceptance of itwould be interpreted? It would be necessary to find a side issue, someclever way of palliating matters. To let it go abroad, for instance,that he had divided the money between us, leaving half to the husbandand half to the wife."

She observed: "I do not see how that can be done, since the will isplain."

"Oh, it is very simple. You could leave me half the inheritance by adeed of gift. We have no children, so it is feasible. In that way themouth of public malevolence would be closed."

She replied, somewhat impatiently: "I do not see any the more how themouth of public malevolence is to be closed, since the will is there,signed by Vaudrec?"

He said, angrily: "Have we any need to show it and to paste it up on allthe walls? You are really stupid. We will say that the Count de Vaudrecleft his fortune between us. That is all. But you cannot accept thislegacy without my authorization. I will only give it on condition of adivision, which will hinder me from becoming a laughing stock."

She looked at him again with a penetrating glance, and said: "As youlike. I am agreeable."

Then he rose, and began to walk up and down again. He seemed to behesitating anew, and now avoided his wife's penetrating glance. He wassaying: "No, certainly not. Perhaps it would be better to give it upaltogether. That is more worthy, more correct, more honorable. And yetby this plan nothing could be imagined against us—absolutely nothing.The most unscrupulous people could only admit things as they were." Hepaused in front of Madeleine. "Well, then, if you like, darling, I willgo back alone to Maitre Lamaneur to explain matters to him and consulthim. I will tell him of my scruples, and add that we have arrived at thenotion of a division to prevent gossip. From the moment that I accepthalf this inheritance, it is plain that no one has the right to smile.It is equal to saying aloud: 'My wife accepts because I accept—I, herhusband, the best judge of what she may do without compromising herself.Otherwise a scandal would have arisen.'"

Madeleine merely murmured: "Just as you like."

He went on with a flow of words: "Yes, it is all as clear as daylightwith this arrangement of a division in two. We inherit from a friend whodid not want to make any difference between us, any distinction; who didnot wish to appear to say: 'I prefer one or the other after death, as Idid during life.' He liked the wife best, be it understood, but inleaving the fortune equally to both, he wished plainly to express thathis preference was purely platonic. And you may be sure that, if he hadthought of it, that is what he would have done. He did not reflect. Hedid not foresee the consequences. As you said very appropriately justnow, it was you to whom he offered flowers every week, it is to you hewished to leave his last remembrance, without taking into considerationthat—"

She checked him, with a shade of irritation: "All right; I understand.You have no need to make so many explanations. Go to the notary's atonce."

He stammered, reddening: "You are right. I am off."

He took his hat, and then, at the moment of going out, said: "I willtry to settle the difficulty with the nephew for fifty thousand francs,eh?"

She replied, with dignity: "No. Give him the hundred thousand francs heasks. Take them from my share, if you like."

He muttered, shamefacedly: "Oh, no; we will share that. Giving up fiftythousand francs apiece, there still remains to us a clear million." Headded: "Good-bye, then, for the present, Made." And he went off toexplain to the notary the plan which he asserted had been imagined byhis wife.

They signed the next day a deed of gift of five hundred thousand francs,which Madeleine Du Roy abandoned to her husband. On leaving the notary'soffice, as the day was fine, George suggested that they should walk asfar as the boulevards. He showed himself pleasant and full of attentionand affection. He laughed, pleased at everything, while she remainedthoughtful and somewhat severe.

It was a somewhat cool autumn day. The people in the streets seemed in ahurry, and walked rapidly. Du Roy led his wife to the front of the shopin which he had so often gazed at the longed-for chronometer. "Shall Istand you some jewelry?" said he.

She replied, indifferently: "Just as you like."

They went in, and he asked: "What would you prefer—a necklace, abracelet, or a pair of earrings?"

The sight of the trinkets in gold, and precious stones overcame herstudied coolness, and she scanned with kindling and inquisitive eyes theglass cases filled with jewelry. And, suddenly moved by desire, said:"That is a very pretty bracelet."

It was a chain of quaint pattern, every link of which had a differentstone set in it.

George inquired: "How much is this bracelet?"

"Three thousand francs, sir," replied the jeweler.

"If you will let me have it for two thousand five hundred, it is abargain."

The man hesitated, and then replied: "No, sir; that is impossible."

Du Roy went on: "Come, you can throw in that chronometer for fifteenhundred; that will make four thousand, which I will pay at once. Is itagreed? If not, I will go somewhere else."

The jeweler, in a state of perplexity, ended by agreeing, saying: "Verygood, sir."

And the journalist, after giving his address, added: "You will have themonogram, G. R. C., engraved on the chronometer under a baron'scoronet."

Madeleine, surprised, began to smile, and when they went out, took hisarm with a certain affection. She found him really clever and capable.Now that he had an income, he needed a title. It was quite right.

The jeweler bowed them out, saying: "You can depend upon me; it will beready on Thursday, Baron."

They paused before the Vaudeville, at which a new piece was beingplayed.

"If you like," said he, "we will go to the theater this evening. Let ussee if we can have a box."

They took a box, and he continued: "Suppose we dine at a restaurant."

"Oh, yes; I should like that!"

He was as happy as a king, and sought what else they could do. "Supposewe go and ask Madame de Marelle to spend the evening with us. Herhusband is at home, I hear, and I shall be delighted to see him."

They went there. George, who slightly dreaded the first meeting with hismistress, was not ill-pleased that his wife was present to preventanything like an explanation. But Clotilde did not seem to rememberanything against him, and even obliged her husband to accept theinvitation.

The dinner was lovely, and the evening pleasant. George and Madeleinegot home late. The gas was out, and to light them upstairs, thejournalist struck a wax match from time to time. On reaching thefirst-floor landing the flame, suddenly starting forth as he struck,caused their two lit-up faces to show in the glass standing out againstthe darkness of the staircase. They resembled phantoms, appearing andready to vanish into the night.

Du Roy raised his hand to light up their reflections, and said, with alaugh of triumph: "Behold the millionaires!"

XV

The conquest of Morocco had been accomplished two months back. France,mistress of Tangiers, held the whole of the African shore of theMediterranean as far as Tripoli, and had guaranteed the debt of thenewly annexed territory. It was said that two ministers had gained ascore of millions over the business, and Laroche-Mathieu was almostopenly named. As to Walter, no one in Paris was ignorant of the factthat he had brought down two birds with one stone, and made thirty orforty millions out of the loan and eight to ten millions out of thecopper and iron mines, as well as out of a large stretch of territorybought for almost nothing prior to the conquest, and sold after theFrench occupation to companies formed to promote colonization. He hadbecome in a few days one of the lords of creation, one of thoseomnipotent financiers more powerful than monarchs who cause heads tobow, mouths to stammer, and all that is base, cowardly, and envious, towell up from the depths of the human heart. He was no longer the JewWalter, head of a shady bank, manager of a fishy paper, deputy suspectedof illicit jobbery. He was Monsieur Walter, the wealthy Israelite.

He wished to show himself off. Aware of the monetary embarrassments ofthe Prince de Carlsbourg, who owned one of the finest mansions in theRue de Faubourg, Saint Honoré, with a garden giving onto the ChampsElysées, he proposed to him to buy house and furniture, without shiftinga stick, within twenty-four hours. He offered three millions, and theprince, tempted by the amount, accepted. The following day Walterinstalled himself in his new domicile. Then he had another idea, theidea of a conqueror who wishes to conquer Paris, the idea of aBonaparte. The whole city was flocking at that moment to see a greatpainting by the Hungarian artist, Karl Marcowitch, exhibited at adealer's named Jacques Lenoble, and representing Christ walking on thewater. The art critics, filled with enthusiasm, declared the picture themost superb masterpiece of the century. Walter bought it for fourhundred thousand francs, and took it away, thus cutting suddenly short aflow of public curiosity, and forcing the whole of Paris to speak of himin terms of envy, blame, or approbation. Then he had it announced in thepapers that he would invite everyone known in Parisian society to viewat his house some evening this triumph of the foreign master, in orderthat it might not be said that he had hidden away a work of art. Hishouse would be open; let those who would, come. It would be enough toshow at the door the letter of invitation.

This ran as follows: "Monsieur and Madame Walter beg of you to honorthem with your company on December 30th, between 9 and 12 p. m., to viewthe picture by Karl Marcowitch, 'Jesus Walking on the Waters,' lit up byelectric light." Then, as a postscript, in small letters: "Dancing aftermidnight." So those who wished to stay could, and out of these theWalters would recruit their future acquaintances. The others would viewthe picture, the mansion, and their owners with worldly curiosity,insolent and indifferent, and would then go away as they came. But DaddyWalter knew very well that they would return later on, as they had cometo his Israelite brethren grown rich like himself. The first thing wasthat they should enter his house, all these titled paupers who werementioned in the papers, and they would enter it to see the face of aman who had gained fifty millions in six weeks; they would enter it tosee and note who else came there; they would also enter it because hehad had the good taste and dexterity to summon them to admire aChristian picture at the home of a child of Israel. He seemed to say tothem: "You see I have given five hundred thousand francs for thereligious masterpiece of Marcowitch, 'Jesus Walking on the Waters.' Andthis masterpiece will always remain before my eyes in the house of theJew, Walter."

In society there had been a great deal of talk over these invitations,which, after all, did not pledge one in any way. One could go there asone went to see watercolors at Monsieur Petit's. The Walters owned amasterpiece, and threw open their doors one evening so that everyonecould admire it. Nothing could be better. The Vie Francaise for afortnight past had published every morning a note on this coming eventof the 30th December, and had striven to kindle public curiosity.

Du Roy was furious at the governor's triumph. He had thought himselfrich with the five hundred thousand francs extorted from his wife, andnow he held himself to be poor, fearfully poor, when comparing hismodest fortune with the shower of millions that had fallen around him,without his being able to pick any of it up. His envious hatred waxeddaily. He was angry with everyone—with the Walters, whom he had notbeen to see at their new home; with his wife, who, deceived byLaroche-Mathieu, had persuaded him not to invest in the Morocco loan;and, above all, with the minister who had tricked him, who had made useof him, and who dined at his table twice a week. George was his agent,his secretary, his mouthpiece, and when he was writing from hisdictation felt wild longings to strangle this triumphant foe. As aminister, Laroche-Mathieu had shown modesty in mien, and in order toretain his portfolio, did not let it be seen that he was gorged withgold. But Du Roy felt the presence of this gold in the haughtier tone ofthe parvenu barrister, in his more insolent gestures, his more daringaffirmation, his perfect self-confidence. Laroche-Mathieu now reigned inthe Du Roy household, having taken the place and the days of the Countde Vaudrec, and spoke to the servants like a second master. Georgetolerated him with a quiver running through him like a dog who wants tobite, and dares not. But he was often harsh and brutal towardsMadeleine, who shrugged her shoulders and treated him like a clumsychild. She was, besides, astonished at his continual ill-humor, andrepeated: "I cannot make you out. You are always grumbling, and yet yourposition is a splendid one."

He would turn his back without replying.

He had declared at first that he would not go to the governor'sentertainment, and that he would never more set foot in the house ofthat dirty Jew. For two months Madame Walter had been writing to himdaily, begging him to come, to make an appointment with her whenever heliked, in order, she said, that she might hand over the seventy thousandfrancs she had gained for him. He did not reply, and threw thesedespairing letters into the fire. Not that he had renounced receivinghis share of their profits, but he wanted to madden her, to treat herwith contempt, to trample her under feet. She was too rich. He wanted toshow his pride. The very day of the exhibition of the picture, asMadeleine pointed out to him that he was very wrong not to go, hereplied: "Hold your tongue. I shall stay at home."

Then after dinner he suddenly said: "It will be better after all toundergo this affliction. Get dressed at once."

She was expecting this, and said: "I will be ready in a quarter of anhour." He dressed growling, and even in the cab he continued to spit outhis spleen.

The court-yard of the Carlsbourg mansion was lit up by four electriclights, looking like four small bluish moons, one at each corner. Asplendid carpet was laid down the high flight of steps, on each of whicha footman in livery stood motionless as a statue.

Du Roy muttered: "Here's a fine show-off for you," and shrugged hisshoulders, his heart contracted by jealousy.

His wife said: "Be quiet and do likewise."

They went in and handed their heavy outer garments to the footmen whoadvanced to meet them. Several ladies were also there with theirhusbands, freeing themselves from their furs. Murmurs of: "It is verybeautiful, very beautiful," could be heard. The immense entrance hallwas hung with tapestry, representing the adventures of Mars and Venus.To the right and left were the two branches of a colossal doublestaircase, which met on the first floor. The banisters were a marvel ofwrought-iron work, the dull old gilding of which glittered with discreetluster beside the steps of pink marble. At the entrance to thereception-rooms two little girls, one in a pink folly costume, and theother in a blue one, offered a bouquet of flowers to each lady. This washeld to be charming.

The reception-rooms were already crowded. Most of the ladies were inoutdoor dress, showing that they came there as to any other exhibition.Those who intended remaining for the ball were bare armed and barenecked. Madame Walter, surrounded by her friends, was in the second roomacknowledging the greetings of the visitors. Many of these did not knowher, and walked about as though in a museum, without troublingthemselves about the masters of the house.

When she perceived Du Roy she grew livid, and made a movement as thoughto advance towards him. Then she remained motionless, awaiting him. Hegreeted her ceremoniously, while Madeleine overwhelmed her withaffection and compliments. Then George left his wife with her and losthimself in the crowd, to listen to the spiteful things that assuredlymust be said.

Five reception-rooms opened one into the other, hung with costly stuffs,Italian embroideries, or oriental rugs of varying shades and styles, andbearing on their walls pictures by old masters. People stopped, aboveall, to admire a small room in the Louis XVI style, a kind of boudoir,lined with silk, with bouquets of roses on a pale blue ground. Thefurniture, of gilt wood, upholstered in the same material, was admirablyfinished.

George recognized some well-known people—the duch*ess de Ferraciné, theCount and Countess de Ravenal, General Prince d'Andremont, the beautifulMarchioness des Dunes, and all those folk who are seen at firstperformances. He was suddenly seized by the arm, and a young and pleasedvoice murmured in his ear: "Ah! here you are at last, you naughtyPretty-boy. How is it one no longer sees you?"

It was Susan Walter, scanning him with her enamel-like eyes from beneaththe curly cloud of her fair hair. He was delighted to see her again, andfrankly pressed her hand. Then, excusing himself, he said: "I have notbeen able to come. I have had so much to do during the past two monthsthat I have not been out at all."

She said, with her serious air: "That is wrong, very wrong. You havecaused us a great deal of pain, for we adore you, mamma and I. As tomyself, I cannot get on without you. When you are not here I am boredto death. You see I tell you so plainly, so that you may no longer havethe right of disappearing like that. Give me your arm, I will show you'Jesus Walking on the Waters' myself; it is right away at the end,beyond the conservatory. Papa had it put there so that they should beobliged to see everything before they could get to it. It is astonishinghow he is showing off this place."

They went on quietly among the crowd. People turned round to look atthis good-looking fellow and this charming little doll. A well-knownpainter said: "What a pretty pair. They go capitally together."

George thought: "If I had been really clever, this is the girl I shouldhave married. It was possible. How is it I did not think of it? How didI come to take that other one? What a piece of stupidity. We always acttoo impetuously, and never reflect sufficiently."

And envy, bitter envy, sank drop by drop into his mind like a gall,embittering all his pleasures, and rendering existence hateful.

Susan was saying: "Oh! do come often, Pretty-boy; we will go in for allmanner of things now, papa is so rich. We will amuse ourselves likemadcaps."

He answered, still following up his idea: "Oh! you will marry now. Youwill marry some prince, a ruined one, and we shall scarcely see oneanother."

She exclaimed, frankly: "Oh! no, not yet. I want someone who pleases me,who pleases me a great deal, who pleases me altogether. I am rich enoughfor two."

He smiled with a haughty and ironical smile, and began to point out toher people that were passing, very noble folk who had sold their rustytitles to the daughters of financiers like herself, and who now livedwith or away from their wives, but free, impudent, known, and respected.He concluded with: "I will not give you six months before you are caughtwith that same bait. You will be a marchioness, a duch*ess or a princess,and will look down on me from a very great height, miss."

She grew indignant, tapped him on the arm with her fan, and vowed thatshe would marry according to the dictates of her heart.

He sneered: "We shall see about all that, you are too rich."

She remarked: "But you, too, have come in for an inheritance."

He uttered in a tone of contempt: "Oh! not worth speaking about.Scarcely twenty thousand francs a year, not much in these days."

"But your wife has also inherited."

"Yes. A million between us. Forty thousand francs' income. We cannoteven keep a carriage on it."

They had reached the last of the reception-rooms, and before them laythe conservatory—a huge winter garden full of tall, tropical trees,sheltering clumps of rare flowers. Penetrating beneath this sombergreenery, through which the light streamed like a flood of silver, theybreathed the warm odor of damp earth, and an air heavy with perfumes. Itwas a strange sensation, at once sweet, unwholesome, and pleasant, of anature that was artificial, soft, and enervating. They walked on carpetsexactly like moss, between two thick clumps of shrubs. All at once DuRoy noticed on his left, under a wide dome of palms, a broad basin ofwhite marble, large enough to bathe in, and on the edge of which fourlarge Delft swans poured forth water through their open beaks. Thebottom of the basin was strewn with golden sand, and swimming about init were some enormous goldfish, quaint Chinese monsters, with projectingeyes and scales edged with blue, mandarins of the waters, who recalled,thus suspended above this gold-colored ground, the embroideries of theFlowery Land. The journalist halted with beating heart. He said tohimself: "Here is luxury. These are the houses in which one ought tolive. Others have arrived at it. Why should not I?"

He thought of means of doing so; did not find them at once, and grewirritated at his powerlessness. His companion, somewhat thoughtful, didnot speak. He looked at her in sidelong fashion, and again thought: "Tomarry this little puppet would suffice."

But Susan all at once seemed to wake up. "Attention!" said she; andpushing George through a group which barred their way, she made him turnsharply to the right.

In the midst of a thicket of strange plants, which extended in the airtheir quivering leaves, opening like hands with slender fingers, wasseen the motionless figure of a man standing on the sea. The effect wassurprising. The picture, the sides of which were hidden in the movingfoliage, seemed a black spot upon a fantastic and striking horizon. Ithad to be carefully looked at in order to understand it. The frame cutthe center of the ship in which were the apostles, scarcely lit up bythe oblique rays from a lantern, the full light of which one of them,seated on the bulwarks, was casting upon the approaching Savior. Jesuswas advancing with his foot upon a wave, which flattened itselfsubmissively and caressingly beneath the divine tread. All was darkabout him. Only the stars shone in the sky. The faces of the apostles,in the vague light of the lantern, seemed convulsed with surprise. Itwas a wonderful and unexpected work of a master; one of those workswhich agitate the mind and give you something to dream of for years.People who look at such things at the outset remain silent, and then gothoughtfully away, and only speak later on of the worth of the painting.Du Roy, having contemplated it for some time, said: "It is nice to beable to afford such trifles."

But as he was pushed against by others coming to see it, he went away,still keeping on his arm Susan's little hand, which he squeezedslightly. She said: "Would you like a glass of champagne? Come to therefreshment buffet. We shall find papa there."

And they slowly passed back through the saloons, in which the crowd wasincreasing, noisy and at home, the fashionable crowd of a public fête.George all at once thought he heard a voice say: "It is Laroche-Mathieuand Madame Du Roy." These words flitted past his ear like those distantsounds borne by the wind. Whence came they? He looked about on allsides, and indeed saw his wife passing by on the minister's arm. Theywere chatting intimately in a low tone, smiling, and with their eyesfixed on one another's. He fancied he noticed that people whispered asthey looked at them, and he felt within him a stupid and brutal desireto spring upon them, these two creatures, and smite them down. She wasmaking him ridiculous. He thought of Forestier. Perhaps they weresaying: "That cuckold Du Roy." Who was she? A little parvenu sharpenough, but really not over-gifted with parts. People visited himbecause they feared him, because they felt his strength, but they mustspeak in unrestrained fashion of this little journalistic household. Hewould never make any great way with this woman, who would always renderhis home a suspected one, who would always compromise herself, whosevery bearing betrayed the woman of intrigue. She would now be a cannonball riveted to his ankle. Ah! if he had only known, if he had onlyguessed. What a bigger game he would have played. What a fine match hemight have won with this little Susan for stakes. How was it he had beenblind enough not to understand that?

They reached the dining-room—an immense apartment, with marble columns,and walls hung with old tapestry. Walter perceived his descriptivewriter, and darted forward to take him by the hands. He was intoxicatedwith joy. "Have you seen everything? Have you shown him everything,Susan? What a lot of people, eh, Pretty-boy! Did you see the Prince deGuerche? He came and drank a glass of punch here just now," heexclaimed.

Then he darted towards the Senator Rissolin, who was towing along hiswife, bewildered, and bedecked like a stall at a fair. A gentleman bowedto Susan, a tall, thin fellow, slightly bald, with yellow whiskers, andthat air of good breeding which is everywhere recognizable. George heardhis name mentioned, the Marquis de Cazolles, and became suddenly jealousof him. How long had she known him? Since her accession to wealth, nodoubt. He divined a suitor.

He was taken by the arm. It was Norbert de Varenne. The old poet wasairing his long hair and worn dress-coat with a weary and indifferentair. "This is what they call amusing themselves," said he. "By and bythey will dance, and then they will go bed, and the little girls will bedelighted. Have some champagne. It is capital."

He had a glass filled for himself, and bowing to Du Roy, who had takenanother, said: "I drink to the triumph of wit over wealth." Then headded softly: "Not that wealth on the part of others hurts me; or that Iam angry at it. But I protest on principle."

George no longer listened to him. He was looking for Susan, who had justdisappeared with the Marquis de Cazolles, and abruptly quitting Norbertde Varenne, set out in pursuit of the young girl. A dense crowd in questof refreshments checked him. When he at length made his way through it,he found himself face to face with the de Marelles. He was still in thehabit of meeting the wife, but he had not for some time past met thehusband, who seized both his hands, saying: "How can I thank you, mydear fellow, for the advice you gave me through Clotilde. I have gainedclose on a hundred thousand francs over the Morocco loan. It is to you Iowe them. You are a valuable friend."

Several men turned round to look at the pretty and elegant brunette. DuRoy replied: "In exchange for that service, my dear fellow, I am goingto take your wife, or rather to offer her my arm. Husband and wife arebest apart, you know."

Monsieur de Marelle bowed, saying: "You are quite right. If I lose you,we will meet here in an hour."

"Exactly."

The pair plunged into the crowd, followed by the husband. Clotilde keptsaying: "How lucky these Walters are! That is what it is to havebusiness intelligence."

George replied: "Bah! Clever men always make a position one way oranother."

She said: "Here are two girls who will have from twenty to thirtymillions apiece. Without reckoning that Susan is pretty."

He said nothing. His own idea, coming from another's mouth, irritatedhim. She had not yet seen the picture of "Jesus Walking on the Water,"and he proposed to take her to it. They amused themselves by talkingscandal of the people they recognized, and making fun of those they didnot. Saint-Potin passed by, bearing on the lapel of his coat a number ofdecorations, which greatly amused them. An ex-ambassador following himshowed far fewer.

Du Roy remarked: "What a mixed salad of society."

Boisrenard, who shook hands with him, had also adorned his buttonholewith the green and yellow ribbon worn on the day of the duel. TheViscountess de Percemur, fat and bedecked, was chatting with a duke inthe little Louis XVI boudoir.

George whispered: "An amorous tête-à-tête."

But on passing through the greenhouse, he noticed his wife seated besideLaroche-Mathieu, both almost hidden behind a clump of plants. Theyseemed to be asserting: "We have appointed a meeting here, a meeting inpublic. For we do not care a rap what people think."

Madame de Marelle agreed that the Jesus of Karl Marcowitch wasastounding, and they retraced their steps. They had lost her husband.George inquired: "And Laurine, is she still angry with me?"

"Yes, still so as much as ever. She refuses to see you, and walks awaywhen you are spoken of."

He did not reply. The sudden enmity of this little girl vexed andoppressed him. Susan seized on them as they passed through a doorway,exclaiming: "Ah! here you are. Well, Pretty-boy, you must remain alone.I am going to take away Clotilde to show her my room."

The two moved rapidly away, gliding through the throng with thatundulating snake-like motion women know how to adopt in a crowd. Almostimmediately a voice murmured: "George."

It was Madame Walter, who went on in a low tone: "Oh! how ferociouslycruel you are. How you do make me suffer without reason. I told Susan toget your companion away in order to be able to say a word to you.Listen, I must speak to you this evening, I must, or you don't know whatI will do. Go into the conservatory. You will find a door on the leftleading into the garden. Follow the path in front of it. At the end ofit you will find an arbor. Wait for me there in ten minutes' time. Ifyou won't, I declare to you that I will create a scene here at once."

He replied loftily: "Very well. I will be at the spot you mention withinten minutes."

And they separated. But Jacques Rival almost made him behindhand. He hadtaken him by the arm and was telling him a lot of things in a veryexcited manner. He had no doubt come from the refreshment buffet. Atlength Du Roy left him in the hands of Monsieur de Marelle, whom he hadcome across, and bolted. He still had to take precautions not to be seenby his wife or Laroche-Mathieu. He succeeded, for they seemed deeplyinterested in something, and found himself in the garden. The cold airstruck him like an ice bath. He thought: "Confound it, I shall catchcold," and tied his pocket-handkerchief round his neck. Then he slowlywent along the walk, seeing his way with difficulty after coming out ofthe bright light of the reception-rooms. He could distinguish to theright and left leafless shrubs, the branches of which were quivering.Light filtered through their branches, coming from the windows of themansion. He saw something white in the middle of the path in front ofhim, and Madame Walter, with bare arms and bosom, said in a quiveringvoice; "Ah here you are; you want to kill me, then?"

He answered quickly: "No melodramatics, I beg of you, or I shall bolt atonce."

She had seized him round the neck, and with her lips close to his, said:"But what have I done to you? You are behaving towards me like a wretch.What have I done to you?"

He tried to repulse her. "You wound your hair round every one of mybuttons the last time I saw you, and it almost brought about a rupturebetween my wife and myself."

She was surprised for a moment, and then, shaking her head, said: "Oh!your wife would not mind. It was one of your mistresses who had made ascene over it."

"I have no mistresses."

"Nonsense. But why do you no longer ever come to see me? Why do yourefuse to come to dinner, even once a week, with me? What I suffer isfearful. I love you to that degree that I no longer have a thought thatis not for you; that I see you continually before my eyes; that I can nolonger say a word without being afraid of uttering your name. You cannotunderstand that, I know. It seems to me that I am seized in some one'sclutches, tied up in a sack, I don't know what. Your remembrance, alwayswith me, clutches my throat, tears my chest, breaks my legs so as to nolonger leave me strength to walk. And I remain like an animal sittingall day on a chair thinking of you."

He looked at her with astonishment. She was no longer the big frolicsometomboy he had known, but a bewildered despairing woman, capable ofanything. A vague project, however, arose in his mind. He replied: "Mydear, love is not eternal. We take and we leave one another. But when itdrags on, as between us two, it becomes a terrible drag. I will have nomore of it. That is the truth. However, if you can be reasonable, andreceive and treat me as a friend, I will come as I used to. Do you feelcapable of that?"

She placed her two bare arms on George's coat, and murmured: "I amcapable of anything in order to see you."

"Then it is agreed on," said he; "we are friends, and nothing more."

She stammered: "It is agreed on;" and then, holding out her lips to him:"One more kiss; the last."

He refused gently, saying: "No, we must keep to our agreement."

She turned aside, wiping away a couple of tears, and then, drawing fromher bosom a bundle of papers tied with pink silk ribbon, offered it toDu Roy, saying: "Here; it is your share of the profit in the Moroccoaffair. I was so pleased to have gained it for you. Here, take it."

He wanted to refuse, observing: "No, I will not take that money."

Then she grew indignant. "Ah! so you won't take it now. It is yours,yours, only. If you do not take it, I will throw it into the gutter. Youwon't act like that, George?"

He received the little bundle, and slipped it into his pocket.

"We must go in," said he, "you will catch cold."

She murmured: "So much the better, if I could die."

She took one of his hands, kissed it passionately, with rage anddespair, and fled towards the mansion. He returned, quietly reflecting.Then he re-entered the conservatory with haughty forehead and smilinglip. His wife and Laroche-Mathieu were no longer there. The crowd wasthinning. It was becoming evident that they would not stay for thedance. He perceived Susan arm-in-arm with her sister. They both cametowards him to ask him to dance the first quadrille with the Count deLatour Yvelin.

He was astonished, and asked: "Who is he, too?"

Susan answered maliciously: "A new friend of my sister's." Rose blushed,and murmured: "You are very spiteful, Susan; he is no more my friendthan yours."

Susan smiled, saying: "Oh! I know all about it."

Rose annoyed, turned her back on them and went away. Du Roy familiarlytook the elbow of the young girl left standing beside him, and said inhis caressing voice: "Listen, my dear, you believe me to be yourfriend?"

"Yes, Pretty-boy."

"You have confidence in me?" "Quite."

"You remember what I said to you just now?"

"What about?"

"About your marriage, or rather about the man you are going to marry.""Yes."

"Well, then, you will promise me one thing?"

"Yes; but what is it?"

"To consult me every time that your hand is asked for, and not to acceptanyone without taking my advice."

"Very well."

"And to keep this a secret between us two. Not a word of it to yourfather or your mother."

"Not a word."

"It is a promise, then?" "It is a promise."

Rival came up with a bustling air. "Mademoiselle, your papa wants youfor the dance."

She said: "Come along, Pretty-boy."

But he refused, having made up his mind to leave at once, wishing to bealone in order to think. Too many new ideas had entered his mind, and hebegan to look for his wife. In a short time he saw her drinkingchocolate at the buffet with two gentlemen unknown to him. Sheintroduced her husband without mentioning their names to him. After afew moments, he said, "Shall we go?"

"When you like."

She took his arm, and they walked back through the reception-rooms, inwhich the public were growing few. She said: "Where is Madame Walter, Ishould like to wish her good-bye?"

"It is better not to. She would try to keep us for the ball, and I havehad enough of this."

"That is so, you are quite right."

All the way home they were silent. But as soon as they were in theirroom Madeleine said smilingly, before even taking off her veil. "I havea surprise for you."

He growled ill-temperedly: "What is it?"

"Guess." "I will make no such effort."

"Well, the day after to-morrow is the first of January."

"Yes."

"The time for New Year's gifts."

"Yes."

"Here's one for you that Laroche-Mathieu gave me just now."

She gave him a little black box resembling a jewel-case. He opened itindifferently, and saw the cross of the Legion of Honor. He grewsomewhat pale, then smiled, and said: "I should have preferred tenmillions. That did not cost him much."

She had expected an outburst of joy, and was irritated at this coolness."You are really incredible. Nothing satisfies you now," said she.

He replied, tranquilly: "That man is only paying his debt, and he stillowes me a great deal."

She was astonished at his tone, and resumed: "It is though, a big thingat your age."

He remarked: "All things are relative. I could have something biggernow."

He had taken the case, and placing it on the mantel-shelf, looked forsome moments at the glittering star it contained. Then he closed it andwent to bed, shrugging his shoulders.

The Journal Officiel of the first of January announced the nominationof Monsieur Prosper George Du Roy, journalist, to the dignity ofchevalier of the Legion of Honor, for special services. The name waswritten in two words, which gave George more pleasure than thederivation itself.

An hour after having read this piece of news he received a note fromMadame Walter begging him to come and dine with her that evening withhis wife, to celebrate his new honors. He hesitated for a few moments,and then throwing this note, written in ambiguous terms, into the fire,said to Madeleine:

"We are going to dinner at the Walter's this evening."

She was astonished. "Why, I thought you never wanted to set foot in thehouse again."

He only remarked: "I have changed my mind."

When they arrived Madame Walter was alone in the little Louis XVI.boudoir she had adopted for the reception of personal friends. Dressedin black, she had powdered her hair, which rendered her charming. Shehad the air at a distance of an old woman, and close at hand, of a youngone, and when one looked at her well, of a pretty snare for the eyes.

"You are in mourning?" inquired Madeleine.

She replied, sadly: "Yes, and no. I have not lost any relative. But Ihave reached the age when one wears the mourning of one's life. I wearit to-day to inaugurate it. In future I shall wear it in my heart."

Du Roy thought: "Will this resolution hold good?"

The dinner was somewhat dull. Susan alone chattered incessantly. Roseseemed preoccupied. The journalist was warmly congratulated. During theevening they strolled chatting through the saloons and the conservatory.As Du Roy was walking in the rear with Madame Walter, she checked him bythe arm.

"Listen," said she, in a low voice, "I will never speak to you ofanything again, never. But come and see me, George. It is impossible forme to live without you, impossible. It is indescribable torture. I feelyou, I cherish you before my eyes, in my heart, all day and all night.It is as though you had caused me to drink a poison which was eating meaway within. I cannot bear it, no, I cannot bear it. I am willing to benothing but an old woman for you. I have made my hair white to show youso, but come here, only come here from time to time as a friend."

She had taken his hand and was squeezing it, crushing it, burying hernails in his flesh.

He answered, quietly: "It is understood, then. It is useless to speak ofall that again. You see I came to-day at once on receiving your letter."

Walter, who had walked on in advance with his two daughters andMadeleine, was waiting for Du Roy beside the picture of "Jesus Walkingon the Waters."

"Fancy," said he, laughing, "I found my wife yesterday on her kneesbefore this picture, as if in a chapel. She was paying her devotions.How I did laugh."

Madame Walter replied in a firm voice—a voice thrilling with secretexultation: "It is that Christ who will save my soul. He gives mestrength and courage every time I look at Him." And pausing in front ofthe Divinity standing amidst the waters, she murmured: "How handsome heis. How afraid of Him those men are, and yet how they love Him. Look atHis head, His eyes—how simple yet how supernatural at the same time."

Susan exclaimed, "But He resembles you, Pretty-boy. I am sure Heresembles you. If you had a beard, or if He was clean shaven, you wouldbe both alike. Oh, but it is striking!"

She insisted on his standing beside the picture, and they all, indeed,recognized that the two faces resembled one another. Everyone wasastonished. Walter thought it very singular. Madeleine, smiling,declared that Jesus had a more manly air. Madame Walter stoodmotionless, gazing fixedly at the face of her lover beside the face ofChrist, and had become as white as her hair.

XVI

During the remainder of the winter the Du Roys often visited theWalters. George even dined there by himself continually, Madeleinesaying she was tired, and preferring to remain at home. He had adoptedFriday as a fixed day, and Madame Walter never invited anyone thatevening; it belonged to Pretty-boy, to him alone. After dinner theyplayed cards, and fed the goldfish, amusing themselves like a familycircle. Several times behind a door or a clump of shrubs in theconservatory, Madame Walter had suddenly clasped George in her arms, andpressing him with all her strength to her breast, had whispered in hisear, "I love you, I love you till it is killing me." But he had alwayscoldly repulsed her, replying, in a dry tone: "If you begin thatbusiness once again, I shall not come here any more."

Towards the end of March the marriage of the two sisters was all at oncespoken about. Rose, it was said, was to marry the Count deLatour-Yvelin, and Susan the Marquis de Cazolles. These two gentlemenhad become familiars of the household, those familiars to whom specialfavors and marked privileges are granted. George and Susan continued tolive in a species of free and fraternal intimacy, romping for hours,making fun of everyone, and seeming greatly to enjoy one another'scompany. They had never spoken again of the possible marriage of theyoung girl, nor of the suitors who offered themselves.

The governor had brought George home to lunch one morning. Madame Walterwas called away immediately after the repast to see one of thetradesmen, and the young fellow said to Susan: "Let us go and feed thegoldfish."

They each took a piece of crumb of bread from the table and went intothe conservatory. All along the marble brim cushions were left lying onthe ground, so that one could kneel down round the basin, so as to benearer the fish. They each took one of these, side by side, and bendingover the water, began to throw in pellets of bread rolled between thefingers. The fish, as soon as they caught sight of them, flocked round,wagging their tails, waving their fins, rolling their great projectingeyes, turning round, diving to catch the bait as it sank, and coming upat once to ask for more. They had a funny action of the mouth, suddenand rapid movements, a strangely monstrous appearance, and against thesand of the bottom stood out a bright red, passing like flames throughthe transparent water, or showing, as soon as they halted, the blueedging to their scales. George and Susan saw their own faces looking upin the water, and smiled at them. All at once he said in a low voice:"It is not kind to hide things from me, Susan."

"What do you mean, Pretty-boy?" asked she.

"Don't you remember, what you promised me here on the evening of thefête?"

"No."

"To consult me every time your hand was asked for."

"Well?"

"Well, it has been asked for."

"By whom?"

"You know very well."

"No. I swear to you."

"Yes, you do. That great fop, the Marquis de Cazolles."

"He is not a fop, in the first place."

"It may be so, but he is stupid, ruined by play, and worn out bydissipation. It is really a nice match for you, so pretty, so fresh, andso intelligent."

She inquired, smiling: "What have you against him?"

"I, nothing."

"Yes, you have. He is not all that you say."

"Nonsense. He is a fool and an intriguer."

She turned round somewhat, leaving off looking into the water, and said:"Come, what is the matter with you?"

He said, as though a secret was being wrenched from the bottom of hisheart: "I—I—am jealous of him."

She was slightly astonished, saying: "You?"

"Yes, I."

"Why so?"

"Because I am in love with you, and you know it very well, you naughtygirl."

She said, in a severe tone: "You are mad, Pretty-boy."

He replied; "I know very well that I am mad. Ought I to have admittedthat—I, a married man, to you, a young girl? I am more than mad, I amguilty. I have no possible hope, and the thought of that drives me outof my senses. And when I hear it said that you are going to be married,I have fits of rage enough to kill someone. You must forgive me this,Susan."

He was silent. The whole of the fish, to whom bread was no longer beingthrown, were motionless, drawn up in line like English soldiers, andlooking at the bent heads of those two who were no longer troublingthemselves about them. The young girl murmured, half sadly, half gayly:"It is a pity that you are married. What would you? Nothing can be done.It is settled."

He turned suddenly towards her, and said right in her face: "If I werefree, would you marry me?"

She replied, in a tone of sincerity: "Yes, Pretty-boy, I would marryyou, for you please me far better than any of the others."

He rose, and stammered: "Thanks, thanks; do not say 'yes' to anyone yet,I beg of you; wait a little longer, I entreat you. Will you promise methis much?"

She murmured, somewhat uneasily, and without understanding what hewanted: "Yes, I promise you."

Du Roy threw the lump of bread he still held in his hand into the water,and fled as though he had lost his head, without wishing her good-bye.All the fish rushed eagerly at this lump of crumb, which floated, nothaving been kneaded in the fingers, and nibbled it with greedy mouths.They dragged it away to the other end of the basin, and forming a movingcluster, a kind of animated and twisting flower, a live flower falleninto the water head downwards.

Susan, surprised and uneasy, got up and returned slowly to thedining-room. The journalist had left.

He came home very calm, and as Madeleine was writing letters, said toher: "Are you going to dine at the Walters' on Friday? I am going."

She hesitated, and replied: "No. I do not feel very well. I would ratherstay at home."

He remarked: "Just as you like."

Then he took his hat and went out again at once. For some time past hehad been keeping watch over her, following her about, knowing all hermovements. The hour he had been awaiting was at length at hand. He hadnot been deceived by the tone in which she had said: "I would ratherstay at home."

He was very amiable towards her during the next few days. He evenappeared lively, which was not usual, and she said: "You are growingquite nice again."

He dressed early on the Friday, in order to make some calls before goingto the governor's, he said. He started just before six, after kissinghis wife, and went and took a cab at the Place Notre Dame de Lorette. Hesaid to the driver: "Pull up in front of No. 17, Rue Fontaine, and staythere till I tell you to go on again. Then drive to the co*ck Pheasantrestaurant in the Rue Lafayette."

The cab started at a slow trot, and Du Roy drew down the blinds. As soonas he was opposite the door he did not take his eyes off it. Afterwaiting ten minutes he saw Madeleine come out and go in the direction ofthe outer boulevards. As soon as she had got far enough off he put hishead through the window, and said to the driver: "Go on." The cabstarted again, and landed him in front of the co*ck Pheasant, awell-known middle-class restaurant. George went into the maindining-room and ate slowly, looking at his watch from time to time. Athalf-past seven, when he had finished his coffee, drank two liqueurs ofbrandy, and slowly smoked a good cigar, he went out, hailed another cabthat was going by empty, and was driven to the Rue La Rochefoucauld. Heascended without making any inquiry of the doorkeeper, to the thirdstory of the house he had told the man to drive to, and when a servantopened the door to him, said: "Monsieur Guibert de Lorme is at home, ishe not?"

"Yes sir."

He was ushered into the drawing-room, where he waited for a few minutes.Then a gentleman came in, tall, and with a military bearing, gray-hairedthough still young, and wearing the ribbon of the Legion of Honor. DuRoy bowed, and said: "As I foresaw, Mr. Commissionary, my wife is nowdining with her lover in the furnished rooms they have hired in the Ruedes Martyrs."

The commissary of police bowed, saying: "I am at your service, sir."

George continued: "You have until nine o'clock, have you not? That limitof time passed, you can no longer enter a private dwelling to proveadultery."

"No, sir; seven o'clock in winter, nine o'clock from the 31st March. Itis the 5th of April, so we have till nine o'clock.

"Very well, Mr. Commissionary, I have a cab downstairs; we can take theofficers who will accompany you, and wait a little before the door. Thelater we arrive the best chance we have of catching them in the act."

"As you like, sir."

The commissary left the room, and then returned with an overcoat, hidinghis tri-colored sash. He drew back to let Du Roy pass out first. But thejournalist, who was preoccupied, declined to do so, and kept saying:"After you, sir, after you."

The commissary said: "Go first, sir, I am at home."

George bowed, and passed out. They went first to the police office topick up three officers in plain clothes who were awaiting them, forGeorge had given notice during the day that the surprise would takeplace that evening. One of the men got on the box beside the driver. Theother two entered the cab, which reached the Rue des Martyrs. Du Roysaid: "I have a plan of the rooms. They are on the second floor. Weshall first find a little ante-room, then a dining-room, then thebedroom. The three rooms open into one another. There is no way out tofacilitate flight. There is a locksmith a little further on. He isholding himself in readiness to be called upon by you."

When they arrived opposite the house it was only a quarter past eight,and they waited in silence for more than twenty minutes. But when hesaw the three quarters about to strike, George said: "Let us start now."

They went up the stairs without troubling themselves about thedoorkeeper, who, indeed, did not notice them. One of the officersremained in the street to keep watch on the front door. The four menstopped at the second floor, and George put his ear to the door and thenlooked through the keyhole. He neither heard nor saw anything. He rangthe bell.

The commissary said to the officers: "You will remain in readiness tillcalled on."

And they waited. At the end of two or three minutes George again pulledthe bell several times in succession. They noted a noise from thefurther end of the rooms, and then a slight step approached. Someone wascoming to spy who was there. The journalist then rapped smartly on thepanel of the door. A voice, a woman's voice, that an attempt wasevidently being made to disguise asked: "Who is there?"

The commissary replied: "Open, in the name of the law."

The voice repeated: "Who are you?"

"I am the commissary of police. Open the door, or I will have it brokenin."

The voice went on: "What do you want?"

Du Roy said: "It is I. It is useless to seek to escape."

The light steps, the tread of bare feet, was heard to withdraw, and thenin a few seconds to return.

George said: "If you won't open, we will break in the door."

He grasped the handle, and pushed slowly with his shoulder. As therewas no longer any reply, he suddenly gave such a violent and vigorousshock that the old lock gave way. The screws were torn out of the wood,and he almost fell over Madeleine, who was standing in the ante-room,clad in a chemise and petticoat, her hair down, her legs bare, and acandle in her hand.

He exclaimed: "It is she, we have them," and darted forward into therooms. The commissary, having taken off his hat, followed him, and thestartled woman came after, lighting the way. They crossed adrawing-room, the uncleaned table of which displayed the remnants of arepast—empty champagne bottles, an open pot of fatted goose liver, thebody of a fowl, and some half-eaten bits of bread. Two plates piled onthe sideboard were piled with oyster shells.

The bedroom seemed disordered, as though by a struggle. A dress wasthrown over a chair, a pair of trousers hung astride the arm of another.Four boots, two large and two small, lay on their sides at the foot ofthe bed. It was the room of a house let out in furnished lodgings, withcommonplace furniture, filled with that hateful and sickening smell ofall such places, the odor of all the people who had slept or lived therea day or six months. A plate of cakes, a bottle of chartreuse, and twoliqueur glasses, still half full, encumbered the mantel-shelf. The upperpart of the bronze clock was hidden by a man's hat.

The commissary turned round sharply, and looking Madeleine straight inthe face, said: "You are Madame Claire Madeleine Du Roy, wife ofMonsieur Prosper George Du Roy, journalist, here present?"

She uttered in a choking voice: "Yes, sir."

"What are you doing here?" She did not answer.

The commissary went on: "What are you doing here? I find you away fromhome, almost undressed, in furnished apartments. What did you come herefor?" He waited for a few moments. Then, as she still remained silent,he continued: "Since you will not confess, madame, I shall be obliged toverify the state of things."

In the bed could be seen the outline of a form hidden beneath theclothes. The commissary approached and said: "Sir."

The man in bed did not stir. He seemed to have his back turned, and hishead buried under a pillow. The commissary touched what seemed to be hisshoulder, and said: "Sir, do not, I beg of you, force me to takeaction."

But the form still remained as motionless as a corpse. Du Roy, who hadadvanced quickly, seized the bed-clothes, pulled them down, and tearingaway the pillow, revealed the pale face of Monsieur Laroche-Mathieu. Hebent over him, and, quivering with the desire to seize him by the throatand strangle him, said, between his clenched teeth: "Have at least thecourage of your infamy."

The commissary again asked: "Who are you?"

The bewildered lover not replying, he continued: "I am a commissary ofpolice, and I summon you to tell me your name."

George, who was quivering with brutal wrath, shouted: "Answer, youcoward, or I will tell your name myself."

Then the man in the bed stammered: "Mr. Commissary, you ought not toallow me to be insulted by this person. Is it with you or with him thatI have to do? Is it to you or to him that I have to answer?"

His mouth seemed to be dried up as he spoke.

The commissary replied: "With me, sir; with me alone. I ask you who youare?"

The other was silent. He held the sheet close up to his neck, and rolledhis startled eyes. His little, curled-up moustache showed up black uponhis blanched face.

The commissary continued: "You will not answer, eh? Then I shall beforced to arrest you. In any case, get up. I will question you when youare dressed."

The body wriggled in the bed, and the head murmured: "But I cannot,before you."

The commissary asked: "Why not?"

The other stammered: "Because I am—I am—quite naked."

Du Roy began to chuckle sneeringly, and picking up a shirt that hadfallen onto the floor, threw it onto the bed, exclaiming: "Come, get up.Since you have undressed in my wife's presence, you can very well dressin mine."

Then he turned his back, and returned towards the fireplace. Madeleinehad recovered all her coolness, and seeing that all was lost, was readyto dare anything. Her eyes glittered with bravado, and twisting up apiece of paper she lit, as though for a reception, the ten candles inthe ugly candelabra, placed at the corners of the mantel-shelf. Then,leaning against this, and holding out backwards to the dying fire one ofher bare feet which she lifted up behind the petticoat, scarcelysticking to her hips, she took a cigarette from a pink paper case, litit, and began to smoke. The commissary had returned towards her, pendingthat her accomplice got up.

She inquired insolently: "Do you often have such jobs as these, sir?"

He replied gravely: "As seldom as possible, madame."

She smiled in his face, saying: "I congratulate you; it is dirty work."

She affected not to look at or even to see her husband.

But the gentleman in the bed was dressing. He had put on his trousers,pulled on his boots, and now approached putting on his waistcoat. Thecommissary turned towards him, saying: "Now, sir, will you tell me whoyou are?"

He made no reply, and the official said: "I find myself obliged toarrest you."

Then the man exclaimed suddenly: "Do not lay hands on me. My person isinviolable."

Du Roy darted towards him as though to throw him down, and growled inhis face: "Caught in the act, in the act. I can have you arrested if Ichoose; yes, I can." Then, in a ringing tone, he added: "This man isLaroche-Mathieu, Minister of Foreign Affairs."

The commissary drew back, stupefied, and stammered: "Really, sir, willyou tell me who you are?"

The other had made up his mind, and said in forcible tones: "For oncethat scoundrel has not lied. I am, indeed, Laroche-Mathieu, theminister." Then, holding out his hand towards George's chest, in which alittle bit of red ribbon showed itself, he added: "And that rascal wearson his coat the cross of honor which I gave him."

Du Roy had become livid. With a rapid movement he tore the bit of ribbonfrom his buttonhole, and, throwing it into the fireplace, exclaimed:"That is all that is fit for a decoration coming from a swine likeyou."

They were quite close, face to face, exasperated, their fists clenched,the one lean, with a flowing moustache, the other stout, with a twistedone. The commissary stepped rapidly between the pair, and pushing themapart with his hands, observed: "Gentlemen, you are forgettingyourselves; you are lacking in self-respect."

They became quiet and turned on their heels. Madeleine, motionless, wasstill smoking in silence.

The police official resumed: "Sir, I have found you alone with Madame DuRoy here, you in bed, she almost naked, with your clothes scatteredabout the room. This is legal evidence of adultery. You cannot deny thisevidence. What have you to say for yourself?"

Laroche-Mathieu murmured: "I have nothing to say; do your duty."

The commissary addressed himself to Madeleine: "Do you admit, madame,that this gentleman is your lover?"

She said with a certain swagger: "I do not deny it; he is my lover."

"That is enough."

The commissary made some notes as to the condition and arrangement ofthe rooms. As he was finishing writing, the minister, who had finisheddressing, and was waiting with his greatcoat over his arm and his hat inhis hand, said: "Have you still need of me, sir? What am I to do? Can Iwithdraw?"

Du Roy turned towards him, and smiling insolently, said: "Why so? Wehave finished. You can go to bed again, sir; we will leave you alone."And placing a finger on the official's arm, he continued: "Let usretire, Mr. Commissary, we have nothing more to do in this place."

Somewhat surprised, the commissary followed, but on the threshold of theroom George stopped to allow him to pass. The other declined, out ofpoliteness. Du Roy persisted, saying: "Pass first, sir."

"After you, sir," replied the commissary.

The journalist bowed, and in a tone of ironical politeness, said: "It isyour turn, sir; I am almost at home here."

Then he softly reclosed the door with an air of discretion.

An hour later George Du Roy entered the offices of the Vie Francaise.Monsieur Walter was already there, for he continued to manage andsupervise with solicitude his paper, which had enormously increased incirculation, and greatly helped the schemes of his bank. The managerraised his head and said: "Ah! here you are. You look very strange. Whydid you not come to dinner with us? What have you been up to?"

The young fellow, sure of his effect, said, emphasizing every word: "Ihave just upset the Minister of Foreign Affairs."

The other thought he was joking, and said: "Upset what?"

"I am going to turn out the Cabinet. That is all. It is quite time toget rid of that rubbish."

The old man thought that his leader-writer must be drunk. He murmured:"Come, you are talking nonsense."

"Not at all. I have just caught Monsieur Laroche-Mathieu committingadultery with my wife. The commissary of police has verified the fact.The minister is done for."

Walter, amazed, pushed his spectacles right back on his forehead, andsaid: "You are not joking?"

"Not at all. I am even going to write an article on it."

"But what do you want to do?"

"To upset that scoundrel, that wretch, that open evil-doer." Georgeplaced his hat on an armchair, and added: "Woe to those who cross mypath. I never forgive."

The manager still hesitated at understanding matters. He murmured:"But—your wife?"

"My application for a divorce will be lodged to-morrow morning. I shallsend her back to the departed Forestier."

"You mean to get a divorce?"

"Yes. I was ridiculous. But I had to play the idiot in order to catchthem. That's done. I am master of the situation."

Monsieur Walter could not get over it, and watched Du Roy with startlingeyes, thinking: "Hang it, here is a fellow to be looked after."

George went on: "I am now free. I have some money. I shall offer myselfas a candidate at the October elections for my native place, where I amwell known. I could not take a position or make myself respected withthat woman, who was suspected by every one. She had caught me like afool, humbugged and ensnared me. But since I became alive to her littlegame I kept watch on her, the slu*t." He began to laugh, and added: "Itwas poor Forestier who was cuckold, a cuckold without imagining it,confiding and tranquil. Now I am free from the leprosy he left me. Myhands are free. Now I shall get on." He had seated himself astride achair, and repeated, as though thinking aloud, "I shall get on."

And Daddy Walter, still looking at him with unveiled eyes, hisspectacles remaining pushed up on his forehead, said to himself: "Yes,he will get on, the rascal."

George rose. "I am going to write the article. It must be donediscreetly. But you know it will be terrible for the minister. He hasgone to smash. He cannot be picked up again. The Vie Francaise has nolonger any interest to spare him."

The old fellow hesitated for a few moments, and then made up his mind."Do so," said he; "so much the worse for those who get into suchmesses."

XVII

Three months had elapsed. Du Roy's divorce had just been granted. Hiswife had resumed the name of Forestier, and, as the Walters were toleave on the 15th of July for Trouville, it was decided that he and theyshould spend a day in the country together before they started. AThursday was selected, and they started at nine in the morning in alarge traveling landau with six places, drawn by four horses withpostilions. They were going to lunch at the Pavilion Henri-Quatre atSaint Germain. Pretty-boy had asked to be the only man of the party, forhe could not endure the presence of the Marquis de Cazolles. But at thelast moment it was decided that the Count de Latour-Yvelin should becalled for on the way. He had been told the day before.

The carriage passed up the Avenue of the Champs Elyseés at a swingingtrot, and then traversed the Bois de Boulogne. It was splendid summerweather, not too warm. The swallows traced long sweeping lines acrossthe blue sky that one fancied one could still see after they had passed.The three ladies occupied the back seat, the mother between herdaughters, and the men were with their backs to the horses, Walterbetween the two guests. They crossed the Seine, skirted Mount Valerien,and gained Bougival in order to follow the river as far as Le Pecq.

The Count de Latour-Yvelin, a man advancing towards middle-age, withlong, light whiskers, gazed tenderly at Rose. They had been engaged fora month. George, who was very pale, often looked at Susan, who was paletoo. Their eyes often met, and seemed to concert something, tounderstand one another, to secretly exchange a thought, and then to fleeone another. Madame Walter was quiet and happy.

The lunch was a long one. Before starting back for Paris, Georgesuggested a turn on the terrace. They stopped at first to admire theview. All ranged themselves in a line along the parapet, and went intoecstasies over the far-stretching horizon. The Seine at the foot of along hill flowed towards Maisons-Lafitte like an immense serpentstretched in the herbage. To the right, on the summit of the slope, theaqueduct of Marly showed against the skyline its outline, resemblingthat of a gigantic, long-legged caterpillar, and Marly was lost beneathit in a thick cluster of trees. On the immense plain extending in frontof them, villages could be seen dotted. The pieces of water at LeVesinet showed like clear spots amidst the thin foliage of the littleforest. To the left, away in the distance, the pointed steeple ofSastrouville could be seen.

Walter said: "Such a panorama is not to be found anywhere in the world.There is not one to match it in Switzerland."

Then they began to walk on gently, to have a stroll and enjoy theprospect. George and Susan remained behind. As soon as they were a fewpaces off, he said to her in a low and restrained voice: "Susan, I adoreyou. I love you to madness."

She murmured: "So do I you, Pretty-boy."

He went on: "If I do not have you for my wife, I shall leave Paris andthis country."

She replied: "Ask Papa for my hand. Perhaps he will consent."

He made a gesture of impatience. "No, I tell you for the twentieth timethat is useless. The door of your house would be closed to me. I shouldbe dismissed from the paper, and we should not be able even to see oneanother. That is a pretty result, at which I am sure to arrive by aformal demand for you. They have promised you to the Marquis deCazolles. They hope that you will end by saying 'yes,' and they arewaiting for that."

She asked: "What is to be done?"

He hesitated, glancing at her, sidelong fashion. "Do you love me enoughto run a risk?"

She answered resolutely: "Yes."

"A great risk?"

"Yes."

"The greatest of risks?"

"Yes."

"Have you the courage to set your father and mother at defiance?"

"Yes."

"Really now?"

"Yes."

"Very well, there is one way and only one. The thing must come from youand not from me. You are a spoilt child; they let you say whatever youlike, and they will not be too much astonished at an act of daring themore on your part. Listen, then. This evening, on reaching home, youmust go to your mamma first, your mamma alone, and tell her you want tomarry me. She will be greatly moved and very angry—"

Susan interrupted him with: "Oh, mamma will agree."

He went on quickly: "No, you do not know her. She will be more vexed andangrier than your father. You will see how she will refuse. But you mustbe firm, you must not give way, you must repeat that you want to marryme, and no one else. Will you do this?"

"I will."

"On leaving your mother you must tell your father the same thing in avery serious and decided manner."

"Yes, yes; and then?"

"And then it is that matters become serious. If you are determined, verydetermined—very, very determined to be my wife, my dear, dear littleSusan—I will—run away with you."

She experienced a joyful shock, and almost clapped her hands. "Oh! howdelightful. You will run away with me. When will you run away with me?"

All the old poetry of nocturnal elopements, post-chaises, country inns;all the charming adventures told in books, flashed through her mind,like an enchanting dream about to be realized. She repeated: "When willyou run away with me?"

He replied, in low tones: "This evening—to-night."

She asked, quivering: "And where shall we go to?"

"That is my secret. Reflect on what you are doing. Remember that aftersuch a flight you can only be my wife. It is the only way, but is—it isvery dangerous—for you."

She declared: "I have made up my mind; where shall I rejoin you?"

"Can you get out of the hotel alone?"

"Yes. I know how to undo the little door."

"Well, when the doorkeeper has gone to bed, towards midnight, come andmeet me on the Place de la Concorde. You will find me in a cab drawn upin front of the Ministry of Marine."

"I will come."

"Really?"

"Really."

He took her hand and pressed it. "Oh! how I love you. How good and braveyou are! So you don't want to marry Monsieur de Cazolles?"

"Oh! no."

"Your father was very angry when you said no?"

"I should think so. He wanted to send me back to the convent."

"You see that it is necessary to be energetic."

"I will be so."

She looked at the vast horizon, her head full of the idea of being ranoff with. She would go further than that with him. She would be ran awaywith. She was proud of it. She scarcely thought of her reputation—ofwhat shame might befall her. Was she aware of it? Did she even suspectit?

Madame Walter, turning round, exclaimed: "Come along, little one. Whatare you doing with Pretty-boy?"

They rejoined the others and spoke of the seaside, where they would soonbe. Then they returned home by way of Chatou, in order not to go overthe same road twice. George no longer spoke. He reflected. If the littlegirl had a little courage, he was going to succeed at last. For threemonths he had been enveloping her in the irresistible net of his love.He was seducing, captivating, conquering her. He had made himself lovedby her, as he knew how to make himself loved. He had captured herchildish soul without difficulty. He had at first obtained of her thatshe should refuse Monsieur de Cazolles. He had just obtained that shewould fly with him. For there was no other way. Madame Walter, he wellunderstood, would never agree to give him her daughter. She still lovedhim; she would always love him with unmanageable violence. He restrainedher by his studied coldness; but he felt that she was eaten up by hungryand impotent passion. He could never bend her. She would never allow himto have Susan. But once he had the girl away he would deal on a levelfooting with her father. Thinking of all this, he replied by brokenphrases to the remarks addressed to him, and which he did not hear. Heonly seemed to come to himself when they returned to Paris.

Susan, too, was thinking, and the bells of the four horses rang in herears, making her see endless miles of highway under eternal moonlight,gloomy forests traversed, wayside inns, and the hurry of the hostlers tochange horses, for every one guesses that they are pursued.

When the landau entered the court-yard of the mansion, they wanted tokeep George to dinner. He refused, and went home. After having eaten alittle, he went through his papers as if about to start on a longjourney. He burnt some compromising letters, hid others, and wrote tosome friends. From time to time he looked at the clock, thinking:"Things must be getting warm there." And a sense of uneasiness gnawed athis heart. Suppose he was going to fail? But what could he fear? Hecould always get out of it. Yet it was a big game he was playing thatevening.

He went out towards eleven o'clock, wandered about some time, took acab, and had it drawn up in the Place de la Concorde, by the Ministry ofMarine. From time to time he struck a match to see the time by hiswatch. When he saw midnight approaching, his impatience became feverish.Every moment he thrust his head out of the window to look. A distantclock struck twelve, then another nearer, then two together, then a lastone, very far away. When the latter had ceased to sound, he thought: "Itis all over. It is a failure. She won't come." He had made up his mind,however, to wait till daylight. In these matters one must be patient.

He heard the quarter strike, then the half-hour, then the quarter to,and all the clocks repeated "one," as they had announced midnight. He nolonger expected her; he was merely remaining, racking his brain todivine what could have happened. All at once a woman's head was passedthrough the window, and asked: "Are you there, Pretty-boy?"

He started, almost choked with emotion, "Is that you, Susan?"

"Yes, it is I."

He could not manage to turn the handle quickly enough, and repeated:"Ah! it is you, it is you; come inside."

She came in and fell against him. He said, "Go on," to the driver, andthe cab started.

She gasped, without saying a word.

He asked: "Well, how did it go off?"

She murmured, almost fainting: "Oh! it was terrible, above all withmamma."

He was uneasy and quivering. "Your mamma. What did she say? Tell me."

"Oh! it was awful. I went into her room and told her my little storythat I had carefully prepared. She grew pale, and then she cried:'Never, never.' I cried, I grew angry. I vowed I would marry no one butyou. I thought that she was going to strike me. She went on just as ifshe were mad; she declared that I should be sent back to the convent thenext day. I had never seen her like that—never. Then papa came in,hearing her shouting all her nonsense. He was not so angry as she was,but he declared that you were not a good enough match. As they had putme in a rage, too, I shouted louder than they did. And papa told me toleave the room, with a melodramatic air that did not suit him at all.This is what decided me to run off with you. Here I am. Where are wegoing to?"

He had passed his arm gently round her and was listening with all hisears, his heart throbbing, and a ravenous hatred awakening within himagainst these people. But he had got their daughter. They should justsee.

He answered: "It is too late to catch a train, so this cab will take usto Sevres, where we shall pass the night. To-morrow we shall start forLa Roche-Guyon. It is a pretty village on the banks of the Seine,between Nantes and Bonnieres."

She murmured: "But I have no clothes. I have nothing."

He smiled carelessly: "Bah! we will arrange all that there."

The cab rolled along the street. George took one of the young girl'shands and began to kiss it slowly and with respect. He scarcely knewwhat to say to her, being scarcely accustomed to platonic love-making.But all at once he thought he noted that she was crying. He inquired,with alarm: "What is the matter with you, darling?"

She replied in tearful tones: "Poor mamma, she will not be able to sleepif she has found out my departure."

Her mother, indeed, was not asleep.

As soon as Susan had left the room, Madame Walter remained face to facewith her husband. She asked, bewildered and cast down: "Good heavens!What is the meaning of this?"

Walter exclaimed furiously: "It means that that schemer has bewitchedher. It is he who made her refuse Cazolles. He thinks her dowry worthtrying for." He began to walk angrily up and down the room, and wenton: "You were always luring him here, too, yourself; you flattered him,you cajoled him, you could not cosset him enough. It was Pretty-boyhere, Pretty-boy there, from morning till night, and this is the returnfor it."

She murmured, livid: "I—I lured him?"

He shouted in her face: "Yes, you. You were all mad over him—Madame deMarelle, Susan, and the rest. Do you think I did not see that you couldnot pass a couple of days without having him here?"

She drew herself up tragically: "I will not allow you to speak to melike that. You forget that I was not brought up like you, behind acounter."

He stood for a moment stupefied, and then uttered a furious "Damn itall!" and rushed out, slamming the door after him. As soon as she wasalone she went instinctively to the glass to see if anything was changedin her, so impossible and monstrous did what had happened appear. Susanin love with Pretty-boy, and Pretty-boy wanting to marry Susan! No, shewas mistaken; it was not true. The girl had had a very natural fancy forthis good-looking fellow; she had hoped that they would give him her fora husband, and had made her little scene because she wanted to have herown way. But he—he could not be an accomplice in that. She reflected,disturbed, as one in presence of great catastrophes. No, Pretty-boycould know nothing of Susan's prank.

She thought for a long time over the possible innocence or perfidy ofthis man. What a scoundrel, if he had prepared the blow! And what wouldhappen! What dangers and tortures she foresaw. If he knew nothing, allcould yet be arranged. They would travel about with Susan for sixmonths, and it would be all over. But how could she meet him herselfafterwards? For she still loved him. This passion had entered into herbeing like those arrowheads that cannot be withdrawn. To live withouthim was impossible. She might as well die.

Her thoughts wandered amidst these agonies and uncertainties. A painbegan in her head; her ideas became painful and disturbed. She worriedherself by trying to work things out; grew mad at not knowing. Shelooked at the clock; it was past one. She said to herself: "I cannotremain like this, I shall go mad. I must know. I will wake up Susan andquestion her."

She went barefooted, in order not to make a noise, and with a candle inher hand, towards her daughter's room. She opened the door softly, wentin, and looked at the bed. She did not comprehend matters at first, andthought that the girl might still be arguing with her father. But all atonce a horrible suspicion crossed her mind, and she rushed to herhusband's room. She reached it in a bound, blanched and panting. He wasin bed reading.

He asked, startled: "Well, what is it? What is the matter with you?"

She stammered: "Have you seen Susan?"

"I? No. Why?"

"She has—she has—gone! She is not in her room."

He sprang onto the carpet, thrust his feet into his slippers, and, withhis shirt tails floating in the air, rushed in turn to his daughter'sroom. As soon as he saw it, he no longer retained any doubt. She hadfled. He dropped into a chair and placed his lamp on the ground infront of him.

His wife had rejoined him, and stammered: "Well?"

He had no longer the strength to reply; he was no longer enraged, heonly groaned: "It is done; he has got her. We are done for."

She did not understand, and said: "What do you mean? done for?"

"Yes, by Jove! He will certainly marry her now."

She gave a cry like that of a wild beast: "He, never! You must be mad!"

He replied, sadly: "It is no use howling. He has run away with her, hehas dishonored her. The best thing is to give her to him. By setting towork in the right way no one will be aware of this escapade."

She repeated, shaken by terrible emotion: "Never, never; he shall neverhave Susan. I will never consent."

Walter murmured, dejectedly: "But he has got her. It is done. And hewill keep her and hide her as long as we do not yield. So, to avoidscandal, we must give in at once."

His wife, torn by pangs she could not acknowledge, repeated: "No, no, Iwill never consent."

He said, growing impatient: "But there is no disputing about it. It mustbe done. Ah, the rascal, how he has done us! He is a sharp one. All thesame, we might have made a far better choice as regards position, butnot as regards intelligence and prospects. He will be a deputy and aminister."

Madame Walter declared, with savage energy: "I will never allow him tomarry Susan. You understand—never."

He ended by getting angry and taking up, as a practical man, the cudgelson behalf of Pretty-boy. "Hold your tongue," said he. "I tell you againthat it must be so; it absolutely must. And who knows? Perhaps we shallnot regret it. With men of that stamp one never knows what may happen.You saw how he overthrew in three articles that fool of aLaroche-Mathieu, and how he did it with dignity, which was infernallydifficult in his position as the husband. At all events, we shall see.It always comes to this, that we are nailed. We cannot get out of it."

She felt a longing to scream, to roll on the ground, to tear her hairout. She said at length, in exasperated tones: "He shall not have her. Iwon't have it."

Walter rose, picked up his lamp, and remarked: "There, you are stupid,just like all women. You never do anything except from passion. You donot know how to bend yourself to circ*mstances. You are stupid. I willtell you that he shall marry her. It must be."

He went out, shuffling along in his slippers. He traversed—a comicalphantom in his nightshirt—the broad corridor of the huge slumberinghouse, and noiselessly re-entered his room.

Madame Walter remained standing, torn by intolerable grief. She did notyet quite understand it. She was only conscious of suffering. Then itseemed to her that she could not remain there motionless till daylight.She felt within her a violent necessity of fleeing, of running away, ofseeking help, of being succored. She sought whom she could summon toher. What man? She could not find one. A priest; yes, a priest! Shewould throw herself at his feet, acknowledge everything, confess herfault and her despair. He would understand that this wretch must notmarry Susan, and would prevent it. She must have a priest at once. Butwhere could she find one? Whither could she go? Yet she could not remainlike that.

Then there passed before her eyes, like a vision, the calm figure ofJesus walking on the waters. She saw it as she saw it in the picture. Sohe was calling her. He was saying: "Come to me; come and kneel at myfeet. I will console you, and inspire you with what should be done."

She took her candle, left the room, and went downstairs to theconservatory. The picture of Jesus was right at the end of it in a smalldrawing-room, shut off by a glass door, in order that the dampness ofthe soil should not damage the canvas. It formed a kind of chapel in aforest of strange trees. When Madame Walter entered the winter garden,never having seen it before save full of light, she was struck by itsobscure profundity. The dense plants of the tropics made the atmospherethick with their heavy breath; and the doors no longer being open, theair of this strange wood, enclosed beneath a glass roof, entered thechest with difficulty; intoxicated, caused pleasure and pain, andimparted a confused sensation of enervation, pleasure, and death. Thepoor woman walked slowly, oppressed by the shadows, amidst whichappeared, by the flickering light of her candle, extravagant plants,recalling monsters, living creatures, hideous deformities. All at onceshe caught sight of the picture of Christ. She opened the doorseparating her from it, and fell on her knees. She prayed to him,wildly, at first, stammering forth words of true, passionate, anddespairing invocations. Then, the ardor of her appeal slackening, sheraised her eyes towards him, and was struck with anguish. He resembledPretty-boy so strongly, in the trembling light of this solitary candle,lighting the picture from below, that it was no longer Christ—it washer lover who was looking at her. They were his eyes, his forehead, theexpression of his face, his cold and haughty air.

She stammered: "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!" and the name "George" rose to herlips. All at once she thought that at that very moment, perhaps, Georgehad her daughter. He was alone with her somewhere. He with Susan! Sherepeated: "Jesus, Jesus!" but she was thinking of them—her daughter andher lover. They were alone in a room, and at night. She saw them. Shesaw them so plainly that they rose up before her in place of thepicture. They were smiling at one another. They were embracing. She roseto go towards them, to take her daughter by the hair and tear her fromhis clasp. She would seize her by the throat and strangle her, thisdaughter whom she hated—this daughter who was joining herself to thisman. She touched her; her hands encountered the canvas; she was pressingthe feet of Christ. She uttered a loud cry and fell on her back. Hercandle, overturned, went out.

What took place then? She dreamed for a long time wild, frightfuldreams. George and Susan continually passed before her eyes, with Christblessing their horrible loves. She felt vaguely that she was not in herroom. She wished to rise and flee; she could not. A torpor had seizedupon her, which fettered her limbs, and only left her mind on the alert,tortured by frightful and fantastic visions, lost in an unhealthydream—the strange and sometimes fatal dream engendered in human mindsby the soporific plants of the tropics, with their strange andoppressive perfumes.

The next morning Madame Walter was found stretched out senseless, almostasphyxiated before "Jesus Walking on the Waters." She was so ill thather life was feared for. She only fully recovered the use of her sensesthe following day. Then she began to weep. The disappearance of Susanwas explained to the servants as due to her being suddenly sent back tothe convent. And Monsieur Walter replied to a long letter of Du Roy bygranting him his daughter's hand.

Pretty-boy had posted this letter at the moment of leaving Paris, for hehad prepared it in advance the evening of his departure. He said in it,in respectful terms, that he had long loved the young girl; that therehad never been any agreement between them; but that finding her comefreely to him to say, "I wish to be your wife," he considered himselfauthorized in keeping her, even in hiding her, until he had obtained ananswer from her parents, whose legal power had for him less weight thanthe wish of his betrothed. He demanded that Monsieur Walter shouldreply, "post restante," a friend being charged to forward the letter tohim.

When he had obtained what he wished he brought back Susan to Paris, andsent her on to her parents, abstaining himself from appearing for somelittle time.

They had spent six days on the banks of the Seine at La Roche-Guyon.

The young girl had never enjoyed herself so much. She had played atpastoral life. As he passed her off as his sister, they lived in a freeand chaste intimacy—a kind of loving friendship. He thought it a cleverstroke to respect her. On the day after their arrival she had purchasedsome linen and some country-girl's clothes, and set to work fishing,with a huge straw hat, ornamented with wild flowers, on her head. Shethought the country there delightful. There was an old tower and an oldchateau, in which beautiful tapestry was shown.

George, dressed in a boating jersey, bought ready-made from a localtradesman, escorted Susan, now on foot along the banks of the river, nowin a boat. They kissed at every moment, she in all innocence, and heready to succumb to temptation. But he was able to restrain himself; andwhen he said to her, "We will go back to Paris to-morrow; your fatherhas granted me your hand," she murmured simply, "Already? It was so nicebeing your wife here."

XVIII

It was dark in the little suite of rooms in the Rue de Constantinople;for George Du Roy and Clotilde de Marelle, having met at the door, hadgone in at once, and she had said to him, without giving him time toopen the Venetian blinds: "So you are going to marry Susan Walter?"

He admitted it quietly, and added: "Did not you know it?"

She exclaimed, standing before him, furious and indignant:

"You are going to marry Susan Walter? That is too much of a good thing.For three months you have been humbugging in order to hide that from me.Everyone knew it but me. It was my husband who told me of it."

Du Roy began to laugh, though somewhat confused all the same; and havingplaced his hat on a corner of the mantel-shelf, sat down in an armchair.She looked at him straight in the face, and said, in a low and irritatedtone: "Ever since you left your wife you have been preparing this move,and you only kept me on as a mistress to fill up the interim nicely.What a rascal you are!"

He asked: "Why so? I had a wife who deceived me. I caught her, Iobtained a divorce, and I am going to marry another. What could besimpler?"

She murmured, quivering: "Oh! how cunning and dangerous you are."

He began to smile again. "By Jove! Simpletons and fools are alwayssomeone's dupes."

But she continued to follow out her idea: "I ought to have divined yournature from the beginning. But no, I could not believe that you could besuch a blackguard as that."

He assumed an air of dignity, saying: "I beg of you to pay attention tothe words you are making use of."

His indignation revolted her. "What? You want me to put on gloves totalk to you now. You have behaved towards me like a vagabond ever sinceI have known you, and you want to make out that I am not to tell you so.You deceive everyone; you take advantage of everyone; you filch moneyand enjoyment wherever you can, and you want me to treat you as anhonest man!"

He rose, and with quivering lip, said: "Be quiet, or I will turn you outof here."

She stammered: "Turn me out of here; turn me out of here! You will turnme out of here—you—you?" She could not speak for a moment for chokingwith anger, and then suddenly, as though the door of her wrath had beenburst open, she broke out with: "Turn me out of here? You forget, then,that it is I who have paid for these rooms from the beginning. Ah, yes,you have certainly taken them on from time to time. But who first tookthem? I did. Who kept them on? I did. And you want to turn me out ofhere. Hold your tongue, you good-for-nothing fellow. Do you think Idon't know you robbed Madeleine of half Vaudrec's money? Do you think Idon't know how you slept with Susan to oblige her to marry you?"

He seized her by the shoulders, and, shaking her with both hands,exclaimed: "Don't speak of her, at any rate. I won't have it."

She screamed out: "You slept with her; I know you did."

He would have accepted no matter what, but this falsehood exasperatedhim. The truths she had told him to his face had caused thrills of angerto run through him, but this lie respecting the young girl who was goingto be his wife, awakened in the palm of his hand a furious longing tostrike her.

He repeated: "Be quiet—have a care—be quiet," and shook her as weshake a branch to make the fruit fall.

She yelled, with her hair coming down, her mouth wide open, her eyesaglow: "You slept with her!"

He let her go, and gave her such a smack on the face that she fell downbeside the wall. But she turned towards him, and raising herself on herhands, once more shouted: "You slept with her!"

He rushed at her, and, holding her down, struck her as though striking aman. She left off shouting, and began to moan beneath his blows. She nolonger stirred, but hid her face against the bottom of the wall anduttered plaintive cries. He left off beating her and rose up. Then hewalked about the room a little to recover his coolness, and, an ideaoccurring to him, went into the bedroom, filled the basin with coldwater, and dipped his head into it. Then he washed his hands and cameback to see what she was doing, carefully wiping his fingers. She hadnot budged. She was still lying on the ground quietly weeping.

"Shall you have done grizzling soon?"

She did not answer. He stood in the middle of the room, feeling somewhatawkward and ashamed in the presence of the form stretched out beforehim. All at once he formed a resolution, and took his hat from themantel-shelf, saying: "Good-night. Give the key to the doorkeeper whenyou leave. I shan't wait for your convenience."

He went out, closed the door, went to the doorkeeper's, and said:"Madame is still there. She will be leaving in a few minutes. Tell thelandlord that I give notice to leave at the end of September. It is the15th of August, so I am within the limits."

And he walked hastily away, for he had some pressing calls to maketouching the purchase of the last wedding gifts.

The wedding was fixed for the 20th of October after the meeting of theChambers. It was to take place at the Church of the Madeleine. There hadbeen a great deal of gossip about it without anyone knowing the exacttruth. Different tales were in circulation. It was whispered that anelopement had taken place, but no one was certain about anything.According to the servants, Madame Walter, who would no longer speak toher future son-in-law, had poisoned herself out of rage the very eveningthe match was decided on, after having taken her daughter off to aconvent at midnight. She had been brought back almost dead. Certainly,she would never get over it. She had now the appearance of an old woman;her hair had become quite gray, and she had gone in for religion, takingthe Sacrament every Sunday.

At the beginning of September the Vie Francaise announced that theBaron Du Roy de Cantel had become chief editor, Monsieur Walterretaining the title of manager. A battalion of well-known writers,reporters, political editors, art and theatrical critics, detached fromold important papers by dint of monetary influence, were taken on. Theold journalists, the serious and respectable ones, no longer shruggedtheir shoulders when speaking of the Vie Francaise. Rapid and completesuccess had wiped out the contempt of serious writers for the beginningsof this paper.

The marriage of its chief editor was what is styled a Parisian event,George Du Roy and the Walters having excited a great deal of curiosityfor some time past. All the people who are written about in the paperspromised themselves to be there.

The event took place on a bright autumn day.

At eight in the morning the sight of the staff of the Madeleinestretching a broad red carpet down the lofty flight of steps overlookingthe Rue Royale caused passers-by to pause, and announced to the peopleof Paris that an important ceremony was about to take place. The clerkson the way to their offices, the work-girls, the shopmen, paused,looked, and vaguely speculated about the rich folk who spent so muchmoney over getting spliced. Towards ten o'clock idlers began to halt.They would remain for a few minutes, hoping that perhaps it would beginat once, and then moved away. At eleven squads of police arrived and setto work almost at once to make the crowd move on, groups forming everymoment. The first guests soon made their appearance—those who wanted tobe well placed for seeing everything. They took the chairs bordering themain aisles. By degrees came others, ladies in rustling silks, andserious-looking gentlemen, almost all bald, walking with well-bred air,and graver than usual in this locality.

The church slowly filled. A flood of sunlight entered by the hugedoorway lit up the front row of guests. In the choir, which lookedsomewhat gloomy, the altar, laden with tapers, shed a yellow light, paleand humble in face of that of the main entrance. People recognized oneanother, beckoned to one another, and gathered in groups. The men ofletters, less respectful than the men in society, chatted in low tonesand looked at the ladies.

Norbert de Varenne, who was looking out for an acquaintance, perceivedJacques Rival near the center of the rows of chair, and joined him."Well," said he, "the race is for the cunning."

The other, who was not envious, replied: "So much the better for him.His career is safe." And they began to point out the people theyrecognized.

"Do you know what became of his wife?" asked Rival.

The poet smiled. "Yes, and no. She is living in a very retired style, Iam told, in the Montmartre district. But—there is a but—I have noticedfor some time past in the Plume some political articles terribly likethose of Forestier and Du Roy. They are by Jean Le Dal, a handsome,intelligent young fellow, of the same breed as our friend George, andwho has made the acquaintance of his late wife. From whence I concludethat she had, and always will have, a fancy for beginners. She is,besides, rich. Vaudrec and Laroche-Mathieu were not assiduous visitorsat the house for nothing."

Rival observed: "She is not bad looking, Madeleine. Very clever and verysharp. She must be charming on terms of intimacy. But, tell me, how isit that Du Roy comes to be married in church after a divorce?"

Norbert replied: "He is married in church because, in the eyes of theChurch, he was not married before."

"How so?"

"Our friend, Pretty-boy, from indifference or economy, thought theregistrar sufficient when marrying Madeleine Forestier. He thereforedispensed with the ecclesiastical benediction, which constituted in theeyes of Holy Mother Church a simple state of concubinage. Consequentlyhe comes before her to-day as a bachelor, and she lends him all her pompand ceremony, which will cost Daddy Walter a pretty penny."

The murmur of the augmented throng swelled beneath the vaulted room.Voices could be heard speaking almost out loud. People pointed out toone another celebrities who attitudinized, pleased to be seen, andcarefully maintained the bearing adopted by them towards the publicaccustomed to exhibit themselves thus at all such gatherings, of whichthey were, it seemed to them, the indispensable ornaments.

Rival resumed: "Tell me, my dear fellow, you who go so often to thegovernor's, is it true that Du Roy and Madame Walter no longer speak toone another?"

"Never. She did not want to give him the girl. But he had a hold, itseems, on the father through skeletons in the house—skeletons connectedwith the Morocco business. He threatened the old man with frightfulrevelations. Walter recollected the example he made of Laroche-Mathieu,and gave in at once. But the mother, obstinate like all women, sworethat she would never again speak a word to her son-in-law. She lookslike a statue, a statue of Vengeance, and he is very uneasy at it,although he puts a good face on the matter, for he knows how to controlhimself, that fellow does."

Fellow-journalists came up and shook hands with them. Bits of politicalconversation could be caught. Vague as the sound of a distant sea, thenoise of the crowd massed in front of the church entered the doorwaywith the sunlight, and rose up beneath the roof, above the more discreetmurmur of the choicer public gathered within it.

All at once the beadle struck the pavement thrice with the butt of hishalberd. Every one turned round with a prolonged rustling of skirts anda moving of chairs. The bride appeared on her father's arm in thebright light of the doorway.

She had still the air of a doll, a charming white doll crowned withorange flowers. She stood for a few moments on the threshold, then, whenshe made her first step up the aisle, the organ gave forth a powerfulnote, announcing the entrance of the bride in loud metallic tones. Sheadvanced with bent head, but not timidly; vaguely moved, pretty,charming, a miniature bride. The women smiled and murmured as theywatched her pass. The men muttered: "Exquisite! Adorable!" MonsieurWalter walked with exaggerated dignity, somewhat pale, and with hisspectacles straight on his nose. Behind them four bridesmaids, all fourdressed in pink, and all four pretty, formed the court of this gem of aqueen. The groomsmen, carefully chosen to match, stepped as thoughtrained by a ballet master. Madame Walter followed them, giving her armto the father of her other son-in-law, the Marquis de Latour-Yvelin,aged seventy-two. She did not walk, she dragged herself along, ready tofaint at each forward movement. It could be felt that her feet stuck tothe flagstones, that her legs refused to advance, and that her heart wasbeating within her breast like an animal bounding to escape. She hadgrown thin. Her white hair made her face appear still more blanched andher cheeks hollower. She looked straight before her in order not to seeany one—in order not to recall, perhaps, that which was torturing her.

Then George Du Roy appeared with an old lady unknown. He, too, kept hishead up without turning aside his eyes, fixed and stern under hisslightly bent brows. His moustache seemed to bristle on his lip. He wasset down as a very good-looking fellow. He had a proud bearing, a goodfigure, and a straight leg. He wore his clothes well, the little redribbon of the Legion of Honor showing like a drop of blood on his dresscoat.

Then came the relations, Rose with the Senator Rissolin. She had beenmarried six weeks. The Count de Latour-Yvelin accompanied by theViscountess de Percemur. Finally, there was a strange procession of thefriends and allies of Du Roy, whom he introduced to his new family;people known in the Parisian world, who became at once the intimates,and, if need be, the distant cousins of rich parvenus; gentlemen ruined,blemished; married, in some cases, which is worse. There were Monsieurde Belvigne, the Marquis de Banjolin, the Count and Countess de Ravenel,Prince Kravalow, the Chevalier, Valréali; then some guests of Walter's,the Prince de Guerche, the Duke and the duch*ess de Ferraciné, thebeautiful Marchioness des Dunes. Some of Madame Walter's relativespreserved a well-to-do, countrified appearance amidst the throng.

The organ was still playing, pouring forth through the immense buildingthe sonorous and rhythmic accents of its glittering throats, which cryaloud unto heaven the joy or grief of mankind. The great doors wereclosed, and all at once it became as gloomy as if the sun had just beenturned out.

Now, George was kneeling beside his wife in the choir, before the lit-upaltar. The new Bishop of Tangiers, crozier in hand and miter on head,made his appearance from the vestry to join them together in the Eternalname. He put the customary questions, exchanged the rings, uttered thewords that bind like chains, and addressed the newly-wedded couple aChristian allocution. He was a tall, stout man, one of those handsomeprelates to whom a rounded belly lends dignity.

The sound of sobs caused several people to look round. Madame Walter wasweeping, with her face buried in her hands. She had to give way. Whatcould she have done else? But since the day when she had driven from herroom her daughter on her return home, refusing to embrace her; since theday when she had said, in a low voice, to Du Roy, who had greeted herceremoniously on again making his appearance: "You are the vilestcreature I know of; never speak to me again, for I shall not answeryou," she had been suffering intolerable and unappeasable tortures. Shehated Susan with a keen hatred, made up of exasperated passion andheartrending jealousy, the strange jealousy of a mother andmistress—unacknowledgable, ferocious, burning like a new wound. And nowa bishop was marrying them—her lover and her daughter—in a church, inpresence of two thousand people, and before her. And she could saynothing. She could not hinder it. She could not cry out: "But that manbelongs to me; he is my lover. This union you are blessing is infamous!"

Some ladies, touched at the sight, murmured: "How deeply the poor motherfeels it!"

The bishop was declaiming: "You are among the fortunate ones of thisworld, among the wealthiest and most respected. You, sir, whom yourtalent raises above others; you who write, who teach, who advise, whoguide the people, you who have a noble mission to fulfill, a nobleexample to set."

Du Roy listened, intoxicated with pride. A prelate of the Roman CatholicChurch was speaking thus to him. And he felt behind him a crowd, anillustrious crowd, gathered on his account. It seemed to him that somepower impelled and lifted him up. He was becoming one of the masters ofthe world—he, the son of two poor peasants at Canteleu. He saw them allat once in their humble wayside inn, at the summit of the slopeoverlooking the broad valley of Rouen, his father and mother, servingthe country-folk of the district with drink, He had sent them fivethousand francs on inheriting from the Count de Vaudrec. He would nowsend them fifty thousand, and they would buy a little estate. They wouldbe satisfied and happy.

The bishop had finished his harangue. A priest, clad in a golden stole,ascended the steps of the altar, and the organ began anew to celebratethe glory of the newly-wedded couple. Now it gave forth long, loudnotes, swelling like waves, so sonorous and powerful that it seemed asthough they must lift and break through the roof to spend abroad intothe sky. Their vibrating sound filled the church, causing body andspirit to thrill. Then all at once they grew calmer, and delicate notesfloated through the air, little graceful, twittering notes, flutteringlike birds; and suddenly again this coquettish music waxed once more, inturn becoming terrible in its strength and fullness, as if a grain ofsand had transformed itself into a world. Then human voices rose, andwere wafted over the bowed heads—Vauri and Landeck, of the Opera, weresinging. The incense shed abroad a delicate odor, and the DivineSacrifice was accomplished on the altar, to consecrate the triumph ofthe Baron George Du Roy!

Pretty-boy, on his knees beside Susan, had bowed his head. He felt atthat moment almost a believer, almost religious; full of gratitudetowards the divinity who had thus favored him, who treated him with suchconsideration. And without exactly knowing to whom he was addressinghimself, he thanked him for his success.

When the ceremony was concluded he rose up, and giving his wife his arm,he passed into the vestry. Then began the interminable defiling past ofthe visitors. George, with wild joy, believed himself a king whom anation had come to acclaim. He shook hands, stammered unmeaning remarks,bowed, and replied: "You are very good to say so."

All at once he caught sight of Madame de Marelle, and the recollectionof all the kisses that he had given her, and that she had returned; therecollection of all their caresses, of her pretty ways, of the sound ofher voice, of the taste of her lips, caused the desire to have her oncemore for his own to shoot through his veins. She was so pretty andelegant, with her boyish air and bright eyes. George thought to himself:"What a charming mistress, all the same."

She drew near, somewhat timid, somewhat uneasy, and held out her hand.He took it in his, and retained it. Then he felt the discreet appeal ofa woman's fingers, the soft pressure that forgives and takes possessionagain. And for his own part, he squeezed it, that little hand, as thoughto say: "I still love you; I am yours."

Their eyes met, smiling, bright, full of love. She murmured in herpleasant voice: "I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you again soon,sir."

He replied, gayly: "Soon, madame."

She passed on. Other people were pushing forward. The crowd flowed bylike a stream. At length it grew thinner. The last guests took leave.

George took Susan's arm in his to pass through the church again. It wasfull of people, for everyone had regained their seats in order to seethem pass together. They went by slowly, with calm steps and upliftedheads, their eyes fixed on the wide sunlit space of the open door. Hefelt little quiverings run all over his skin those cold shivers causedby over-powering happiness. He saw no one. His thoughts were solely forhimself. When he gained the threshold he saw the crowd collected—adense, agitated crowd, gathered there on his account—on account ofGeorge Du Roy. The people of Paris were gazing at and envying him. Then,raising his eyes, he could see afar off, beyond the Palace de laConcorde, the Chamber of Deputies, and it seemed to him that he wasgoing to make but one jump from the portico of the Madeleine to that ofthe Palais Bourbon.

He slowly descended the long flight of steps between two ranks ofspectators. But he did not see them; his thoughts had now flownbackwards, and before his eyes, dazzled by the brilliant sun, nowfloated the image of Madame de Marelle, re-adjusting before the glassthe little curls on her temples, always disarranged when she rose.