Bel Ami, Guy de Maupassant [read me like a book txt] 📗

she welcomed him as if there had been no rupture, and said as she kissed him:

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

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

“No, I would rather not meet your husband.”

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

“Very well, I will come to dinner Monday.”

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

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

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

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

“Have you been engaged in journalism a long time?”

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

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

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

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

“He will not live long.”

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

Duroy asked: “Does she help him very much?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, old fellow, we shall soon meet again.”

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

She murmured: “Thank you, I shall not forget.”

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

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

On Thursday evening the Forestiers left town.

 

CHAPTER VII.

A DUEL WITH AN END

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

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

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

“What should I do? It is no direct attack.”

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

“See, here is another unpleasant remark for you.”

“Relative to what?”

“To the arrest of one Dame Aubert.”

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

As Saint-Potin entered, Duroy asked him: “Have you seen the paragraph in ‘La Plume’?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I sign myself, Louis Langremont.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I do not know.”

“Boisrenard?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a good swordsman?”

“No.”

“A good shot?”

“I have used a pistol a good deal.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Louis LANGREMONT, 176 Rue Montmartre.”

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

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

“Am I afraid?” he asked himself.

Why