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

world”—she held out her hand to him— “but you.”

He was affected, conquered as he had never been by any woman.

“I have been thinking of something,” said she, “but it is difficult to explain.”

He asked: “What is it?”

“It is this: I am like all women. I have my—my weaknesses. I should like to bear a noble name. Can you not on the occasion of our marriage change your name somewhat?” She blushed as if she had proposed something indelicate.

He replied simply: “I have often thought of it, but it does not seem easy to me.”

“Why not?”

He laughed. “Because I am afraid I should be ridiculed.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Not at all—not at all. Everyone does it, and no one laughs. Separate your name in this way: Du Roy. It sounds very well.”

He replied: “No, that will not do; it is too common a proceeding. I have thought of assuming the name of my native place, first as a literary pseudonym and then as my surname in conjunction with Duroy, which might later on, as you proposed, be separated.”

She asked: “Is your native place Canteleu?”

“Yes.”

“I do not like the termination. Could we not modify it?”

She took a pen and wrote down the names in order to study them. Suddenly she cried: “Now I have it,” and held toward him a sheet of paper on which was written: “Mme. Duroy de Cantel.”

Gravely he replied: “Yes, it is very nice.”

She was delighted, and repeated: “Duroy de Cantel. Mme. Duroy de Cantel. It is excellent, excellent!”

Then she added with an air of conviction: “You will see how easily it will be accepted by everyone! After tomorrow, sign your articles ‘D. de Cantel,’ and your ‘Echoes’ simply ‘Duroy.’ That is done on the press every day and no one will be surprised to see you take a nom de plume. What is your father’s name?”

“Alexandre.”

She murmured “Alexandre!” two or three times in succession; then she wrote upon a blank sheet:

“M. and Mme. Alexandre du Roy de Cantel announce the marriage of their son, M. Georges du Roy de Cantel with Mme. Forestier.”

She examined her writing, and, charmed with the effect, exclaimed: “With a little method one can succeed in anything.”

When Georges reached the street resolved to call himself, henceforth, “Du Roy,” or even “Du Roy de Cantel,” it seemed to him that he was of more importance. He swaggered more boldly, held his head more erect and walked as he thought gentlemen should. He felt a desire to inform the passers-by, “My name is Du Roy de Cantel.”

Scarcely had he entered his apartments when the thought of Mme. de Marelle rendered him uneasy, and he wrote to her immediately, appointing a meeting for the following day.

“It will be hard,” thought he. “There will be a quarrel surely.”

The next morning he received a telegram from Madame, informing him that she would be with him at one o’clock. He awaited her impatiently, determined to confess at once and afterward to argue with her, to tell her that he could not remain a bachelor indefinitely, and that, as M. de Marelle persisted in living, he had been compelled to choose some one else as a legal companion. When the bell rang, his heart gave a bound.

Mme. de Marelle entered and cast herself into his arms, saying: “Good afternoon, Bel-Ami.” Perceiving that his embrace was colder than usual, she glanced up at him and asked: “What ails you?”

“Take a seat,” said he. “We must talk seriously.”

She seated herself without removing her hat, and waited. He cast down his eyes; he was preparing to commence.

Finally he said slowly: “My dear friend, you see that I am very much perplexed, very sad, and very much embarrassed by what I have to confess to you. I love you; I love you with all my heart, and the fear of giving you pain grieves me more than what I have to tell you.”

She turned pale, trembled, and asked: “What is it? Tell me quickly.”

He said sadly but resolutely: “I am going to be married.”

She sighed like one about to lose consciousness; then she gasped, but did not speak.

He continued: “You cannot imagine how much I suffered before taking that resolution. But I have neither position nor money. I am alone in Paris, I must have near me some one who can counsel, comfort, and support me. What I need is an associate, an ally, and I have found one!” He paused, hoping that she would reply, expecting an outburst of furious rage, reproaches, and insults. She pressed her hand to her heart and breathed with difficulty. He took the hand resting on the arm of the chair, but she drew it away and murmured as if stupefied: “Oh, my God!”

He fell upon his knees before her, without, however, venturing to touch her, more moved by her silence than he would have been by her anger.

“Clo, my little Clo, you understand my position. Oh, if I could have married you, what happiness it would have afforded me! But you were married! What could I do? Just think of it! I must make my way in the world and I can never do so as long as I have no domestic ties. If you knew. There are days when I should like to kill your husband.” He spoke in a low, seductive voice. He saw two tears gather in Mme. de Marelle’s eyes and trickle slowly down her cheeks. He whispered: “Do not weep, Clo, do not weep, I beseech you. You break my heart.”

She made an effort to appear dignified and haughty, and asked, though somewhat unsteadily: “Who is it?”

For a moment he hesitated before he replied: “Madeleine Forestier!”

Mme. de Marelle started; her tears continued to flow. She rose. Duroy saw that she was going to leave him without a word of reproach or pardon, and he felt humbled, humiliated. He seized her gown and implored:

“Do not leave me thus.”

She looked at him with that despairing, tearful glance so charming and so touching, which expresses all the misery pent-up in a woman’s heart, and stammered: “I have nothing—to say; I can do nothing. You—you are right; you have made a good choice.”

And disengaging herself she left the room.

With a sigh of relief at escaping so easily, he repaired to Mme. Forestier’s, who asked him: “Have you told Mme. de Marelle?”

He replied calmly: “Yes.”

“Did it affect her?”

“Not at all. On the contrary, she thought it an excellent plan.”

The news was soon noised abroad. Some were surprised, others pretended to have foreseen it, and others again smiled, inferring that they were not at all astonished. The young man, who signed his articles, “D. de Cantel,” his “Echoes,” “Duroy,” and his political sketches, “Du Roy,” spent the best part of his time with his betrothed, who had decided that the date fixed for the wedding should be kept secret, that the ceremony should be celebrated in the presence of witnesses only, that they should leave the same evening for Rouen, and that the day following they should visit the journalist’s aged parents and spend several days with them. Duroy had tried to persuade Madeleine to abandon that project, but not succeeding in his efforts he was finally compelled to submit.

The tenth of May arrived. Thinking a religious ceremony unnecessary, as they had issued no invitations, the couple were married at a magistrate’s and took the six o’clock train for Normandy.

As the train glided along, Duroy seated in front of his wife, took her hand, kissed it, and said: “When we return we will dine at Chatou sometimes.”

She murmured: “We shall have a great many things to do!” in a tone which seemed to say: “We must sacrifice pleasure to duty.”

He retained her hand wondering anxiously how he could manage to caress her. He pressed her hand slightly, but she did not respond to the pressure.

He said: “It seems strange that you should be my wife.”

She appeared surprised: “Why?”

“I do not know. It seems droll. I want to embrace you and I am surprised that I have the right.”

She calmly offered him her cheek which he kissed as he would have kissed his sister’s. He continued:

“The first time I saw you (you remember, at that dinner to which I was invited at Forestier’s), I thought: ‘Sacristi, if I could only find a wife like that!’ And now I have one.”

She glanced at him with smiling eyes.

He said to himself: “I am too cold. I am stupid. I should make more advances.” And he asked: “How did you make Forestier’s acquaintance?”

She replied with provoking archness: “Are we going to Rouen to talk of him?”

He colored. “I am a fool. You intimidate me.”

She was delighted. “I? Impossible.”

He seated himself beside her. She exclaimed: “Ah! a stag!” The train was passing through the forest of Saint-Germain and she had seen a frightened deer clear an alley at a bound. As she gazed out of the open window, Duroy bending over her, pressed a kiss upon her neck. For several moments she remained motionless, then raising her head, she said: “You tickle me, stop!”

But he did not obey her.

She repeated: “Stop, I say!”

He seized her head with his right hand, turned it toward him and pressed his lips to hers. She struggled, pushed him away and repeated: “Stop!”

He did not heed her. With an effort, she freed herself and rising, said: “Georges, have done. We are not children, we shall soon reach Rouen.”

“Very well,” said he, gaily, “I will wait.”

Reseating herself near him she talked of what they would do on their return; they would keep the apartments in which she had lived with her first husband, and Duroy would receive Forestier’s position on “La Vie Francaise.” In the meantime, forgetting her injunctions and his promise, he slipped his arm around her waist, pressed her to him and murmured: “I love you dearly, my little Made.”

The gentleness of his tone moved the young woman, and leaning toward him she offered him her lips; as she did so, a whistle announced the proximity of the station. Pushing back some stray locks upon her temples, she exclaimed:

“We are foolish.”

He kissed her hands feverishly and replied:

“I adore you, my little Made.”

On reaching Rouen they repaired to a hotel where they spent the night. The following morning, when they had drunk the tea placed upon the table in their room, Duroy clasped his wife in his arms and said: “My little Made, I feel that I love you very, very much.”

She smiled trustfully and murmured as she returned his kisses: “I love you too—a little.”

The visit to his parents worried Georges, although he had prepared his wife. He began again: “You know they are peasants, real, not sham, comic-opera peasants.”

She smiled. “I know it, you have told me often enough.”

“We shall be very uncomfortable. There is only a straw bed in my room; they do not know what hair mattresses are at Canteleu.”

She seemed delighted. “So much the better. It would be charming to sleep badly—when—near you—and to be awakened by the crowing of the cocks.”

He walked toward the window and lighted a cigarette. The sight of the harbor, of the river filled with ships moved him and he exclaimed: “Egad, but that is fine!”

Madeleine joined him and placing both of her hands on her husband’s shoulder, cried: “Oh, how beautiful! I did not know that there were so many ships!”

An hour later they departed in order to breakfast with the old couple, who had been informed several days