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

fifty or sixty millions.

He cried: “Are you sure of that?”

She replied: “Yes, I am sure.”

He continued: “That is indeed fine! As for that rascal of a Laroche, let him beware! I will get his ministerial carcass between my fingers yet!”

Then, after a moment’s reflection, he muttered: “One might profit by that!”

“You too can buy some stock,” said she; “it is only seventy-two francs.”

He replied: “But I have no ready money.”

She raised her eyes to his—eyes full of supplication.

“I have thought of that, my darling, and if you love me a little, you will let me lend it to you.”

He replied abruptly, almost harshly: “No, indeed.”

She whispered imploringly: “Listen, there is something you can do without borrowing money. I intended buying ten thousand francs’ worth of the stock; instead, I will take twenty thousand and you can have half. There will be nothing to pay at once. If it succeeds, we will make seventy thousand francs; if not, you will owe me ten thousand which you can repay at your pleasure.”

He said again: “No, I do not like those combinations.”

She tried to persuade him by telling him that she advanced nothing— that the payments were made by Walter’s bank. She pointed out to him that he had led the political campaign in “La Vie Francaise,” and that he would be very simple not to profit by the results he had helped to bring about. As he still hesitated, she added: “It is in reality Walter who will advance the money, and you have done enough for him to offset that sum.”

“Very well,” said he, “I will do it. If we lose I will pay you back ten thousand francs.”

She was so delighted that she rose, took his head between her hands, and kissed him. At first he did not repulse her, but when she grew more lavish with her caresses, he said:

“Come, that will do.”

She gazed at him sadly. “Oh, Georges, I can no longer even embrace you.”

“No, not to-day. I have a headache.”

She reseated herself with docility at his feet and asked:

“Will you dine with us tomorrow? It would give me such pleasure,”

He hesitated at first, but dared not refuse.

“Yes, certainly.”

“Thank you, dearest.” She rubbed her cheek against the young man’s vest; as she did so, one of her long black hairs caught on a button; she twisted it tightly around, then she twisted another around another button and so on. When he rose, he would tear them out of her head, and would carry away with him unwittingly a lock of her hair. It would be an invisible bond between them. Involuntarily he would think, would dream of her; he would love her a little more the next day.

Suddenly he said: “I must leave you, for I am expected at the Chamber for the close of the session. I cannot be absent to-day.”

She sighed: “Already!” Then adding resignedly: “Go, my darling, but you will come to dinner tomorrow”; she rose abruptly. For a moment she felt a sharp, stinging pain, as if needles had been stuck into her head, but she was glad to have suffered for him.

“Adieu,” said she.

He took her in his arms and kissed her eyes coldly; then she offered him her lips which he brushed lightly as he said: “Come, come, let us hurry; it is after three o’clock.”

She passed out before him saying: “Tomorrow at seven”; he repeated her words and they separated.

Du Roy returned at four o’clock to await his mistress. She was somewhat late because her husband had come home for a week. She asked:

“Can you come to dinner tomorrow? He will be delighted to see you.”

“No; I dine at the Walters. We have a great many political and financial matters to talk over.”

She took off her hat. He pointed to a bag on the mantelpiece: “I bought you some sweetmeats.”

She clapped her hands. “What a darling you are!” She took them, tasted one, and said: “They are delicious. I shall not leave one. Come, sit down in the armchair, I will sit at your feet and eat my bonbons.”

He smiled as he saw her take the seat a short while since occupied by Mme. Walter. She too, called him “darling, little one, dearest,” and the words seemed to him sweet and caressing from her lips, while from Mme. Walter’s they irritated and nauseated him.

Suddenly he remembered the seventy thousand francs he was going to make, and bluntly interrupting Mme. de Marelle’s chatter, he said:

“Listen, my darling; I am going to intrust you with a message to your husband. Tell him from me to buy tomorrow ten thousand francs’ worth of Moroccan stock which is at seventy-two, and I predict that before three months are passed he will have made eighty thousand francs. Tell him to maintain absolute silence. Tell him that the expedition to Tangiers, is decided upon, and that the French government will guarantee the Moroccan debt. It is a state secret I am confiding to you, remember!”

She listened to him gravely and murmured:

“Thank you. I will tell my husband this evening. You may rely upon him; he will not speak of it; he can be depended upon; there is no danger.”

She had eaten all of her bonbons and began to toy with the buttons on his vest. Suddenly she drew a long hair out of the buttonhole and began to laugh.

“See! Here is one of Madeleine’s hairs; you are a faithful husband!” Then growing serious, she examined the scarcely perceptible thread more closely and said: “It is not Madeleine’s, it is dark.”

He smiled. “It probably belongs to the housemaid.”

But she glanced at the vest with the care of a police-inspector and found a second hair twisted around a second button; then she saw a third; and turning pale and trembling somewhat, she exclaimed: “Oh, some woman has left hairs around all your buttons.”

In surprise, he stammered: “Why you—you are mad.”

She continued to unwind the hairs and cast them upon the floor. With her woman’s instinct she had divined their meaning and gasped in her anger, ready to cry:

“She loves you and she wished you to carry away with you something of hers. Oh, you are a traitor.” She uttered a shrill, nervous cry: “Oh, it is an old woman’s hair—here is a white one—you have taken a fancy to an old woman now. Then you do not need me—keep the other one.” She rose.

He attempted to detain her and stammered: “No—Clo—you are absurd— I do not know whose it is—listen—stay—see—stay—”

But she repeated: “Keep your old woman—keep her—have a chain made of her hair—of her gray hair—there is enough for that—”

Hastily she donned her hat and veil, and when he attempted to touch her she struck him in the face, and made her escape while he was stunned by the blow. When he found that he was alone, he cursed Mme. Walter, bathed his face, and went out vowing vengeance. That time he would not pardon. No, indeed.

He strolled to the boulevard and stopped at a jeweler’s to look at a chronometer he had wanted for some time and which would cost eighteen hundred francs. He thought with joy: “If I make my seventy thousand francs, I can pay for it”—and he began to dream of all the things he would do when he got the money. First of all he would become a deputy; then he would buy the chronometer; then he would speculate on ‘Change, and then, and then—he did not enter the office, preferring to confer with Madeleine before seeing Walter again and writing his article; he turned toward home. He reached Rue Drouot when he paused; he had forgotten to inquire for Count de Vaudrec, who lived on Chaussee d’Antin. He retraced his steps with a light heart, thinking of a thousand things—of the fortune he would make,—of that rascal of a Laroche, and of old Walter.

He was not at all uneasy as to Clotilde’s anger, knowing that she would soon forgive him.

When he asked the janitor of the house in which Count de Vaudrec lived: “How is M. de Vaudrec? I have heard that he has been ailing of late,” the man replied; “The Count is very ill, sir; they think he will not live through the night; the gout has reached his heart.”

Du Roy was so startled he did not know what to do! Vaudrec dying! He stammered: “Thanks—I will call again”—unconscious of what he was saying. He jumped into a cab and drove home. His wife had returned. He entered her room out of breath: “Did you know? Vaudrec is dying!”

She was reading a letter and turning to him asked: “What did you say?”

“I said that Vaudrec is dying of an attack of gout.”

Then he added: “What shall you do?”

She rose; her face was livid; she burst into tears and buried her face in her hands. She remained standing, shaken by sobs, torn by anguish. Suddenly she conquered her grief and wiping her eyes, said: “I am going to him—do not worry about me—I do not know what time I shall return—do not expect me.”

He replied: “Very well. Go.”

They shook hands and she left in such haste that she forgot her gloves. Georges, after dining alone, began to write his article. He wrote it according to the minister’s instructions, hinting to the readers that the expedition to Morocco would not take place. He took it, when completed, to the office, conversed several moments with M. Walter, and set out again, smoking, with a light heart, he knew not why.

His wife had not returned. He retired and fell asleep. Toward midnight Madeleine came home. Georges sat up in bed and asked: “Well?”

He had never seen her so pale and agitated. She whispered: “He is dead!”

“Ah—and—he told you nothing?”

“Nothing. He was unconscious when I arrived.”

Questions which he dared not ask arose to Georges’ lips.

“Lie down and rest,” said he.

She disrobed hastily and slipped into bed.

He continued: “Had he any relatives at his death-bed?”

“Only a nephew.”

“Ah! Did he often see that nephew?”

“They had not met for ten years.”

“Had he other relatives?”

“No, I believe not.”

“Will that nephew be his heir?”

“I do not know.”

“Was Vaudrec very rich?”

“Yes, very.”

“Do you know what he was worth?”

“No, not exactly—one or two millions perhaps.”

He said no more. She extinguished the light. He could not sleep. He looked upon Mme. Walter’s promised seventy thousand francs as very insignificant. Suddenly he thought he heard Madeleine crying. In order to insure himself he asked: “Are you asleep?”

“No.” Her voice was tearful and unsteady.

He continued: “I forgot to tell you that your minister has deceived us.”

“How?”

He gave her a detailed account of the combination prepared by Laroche and Walter. When he concluded she asked: “How did you know that?”

He replied: “Pardon me if I do not tell you! You have your means of obtaining information into which I do not inquire; I have mine which I desire to keep. I can vouch at any rate for the truth of my statements.”

She muttered: “It may be possible. I suspected that they were doing something without our knowledge.”

As she spoke Georges drew near her; she paid no heed to his proximity, however, and turning toward the wall, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

 

CHAPTER XIV.

THE WILL

The church was draped in black, and over the door a large escutcheon surmounted by a coronet announced to the passers-by that a nobleman was being buried. The ceremony was just over; those present went out slowly, passing by