Madeleine, disconcerted by his silence, asked: ‘How about having an ice at Tortoni’s,* before we go home?’
He gave her a sidelong glance. He saw her delicate fair profile by the brilliant illumination of a string of gas lights advertising a music-hall. He thought: ‘She is pretty. Well! All the better. Tit for tat, my friend. But I’ll be damned if anyone ever catches me upsetting myself over you again.’ Then he replied: ‘Of course, darling.’
And, so that she would not suspect anything, he kissed her.
It seemed to Madeleine that her husband’s lips were icy cold. But as he helped her out of the cab in front of the cafe steps, he was smiling his usual smile.
CHAPTER 3
On arriving at the newspaper the following day, Du Roy went to look for Boisrenard. ‘My dear fellow,’ he said, ‘I’ve a favour to ask of you. For some time now people have been finding it amusing to call me Forestier. I myself am beginning to think it’s rather silly. Would you be so kind as to quietly inform our friends that I shall slap the face of the next one to take the liberty of making that joke. It’s up to them to decide whether this nonsense is worth a duel. I’m asking you because you’re a level-headed man who can stop things going to unfortunate extremes, and also because you acted as my second in that other affair of mine.’
Boisrenard agreed to carry out this request. Du Roy departed on various errands, then came back an hour later. No one called him Forestier.
When he returned home, he heard women’s voices in the drawing-room. ‘Who’s in there?’ he enquired.
The servant said: ‘Mme Walter and Mme de Marelle.’
His heart gave a little jump, then he told himself: ‘Well now, let’s see,’ and opened the door.
Clotilde was by the fireplace, in a ray of sunlight from the window. It seemed to Georges that she turned a little pale on seeing him. After first greeting Mme Walter and her two daughters, who were sitting on either side of their mother like a pair of sentries, he turned towards his former mistress. She gave him her hand; he took it and pressed it in a meaningful way, as if to say: ‘I still love you.’ She responded to this pressure.
‘It’s ages since we last met. Have you been keeping well?’
She replied easily: ‘Yes, indeed, and you, Bel-Ami?’ Then, turning to Madeleine, she added: ‘Have I your permission to go on calling him Bel-Ami?’
‘Of course, my dear; you have my permission to do anything you like.’ Perhaps there was a tinge of irony in this remark.
Mme Walter was talking about a party that Jacques Rival was going to throw in his bachelor apartments, a big fencing display which society ladies would be attending; she was saying: ‘It will be so interesting. But I’m really disappointed, we’ve no one to escort us; my husband has to be away just then.’
Du Roy immediately offered his services. She accepted: ‘We shall be most grateful, my daughters and I.’
He was looking at the younger of the Walter girls, and thinking: ‘She’s not at all bad, that little Suzanne, not at all bad.’ She had the look of a delicate blond doll, too small, but dainty, with a slender waist, shapely hips and breasts, the face of a miniature painting, eyes of grey-blue enamel drawn with subtle brush-strokes by a meticulous, whimsical artist, flesh that was too white, too smooth, glossy, uniform, without texture or colour, and tousled curly hair, an artful, gossamer mass, a charming cloud, exactly like, indeed, the hair of those pretty luxury dolls you see in the arms of girls who are considerably smaller than their toy.
The older sister, Rose, was ugly, dull, insignificant, one of those girls you don’t see, you don’t speak to, and you don’t talk about.
The mother rose, and turning towards Georges: ‘So, I’m relying on you for next Thursday at two.’ ‘You can count on me, Madame.’
As soon as she had left, Mme de Marelle rose in her turn. ‘Goodbye, Bel-Ami.’
It was she, now, who gave his hand a very tight, prolonged clasp, and, stirred by this silent admission, he suddenly felt a renewed desire for this good-natured little middle-class bohemian, who truly loved him, perhaps.
‘I’ll go and see her tomorrow,’ he thought.
Once he and his wife were alone, Madeleine began laughing in an open, happy way and said, looking him straight in the face: ‘I suppose you realize that Mme Walter’s taken quite a shine to you?’ He replied incredulously: ‘Oh, come on!’ ‘Yes, really, she’s spoken of you to me with the most extraordinary enthusiasm. It’s so unlike her! She wants to find two husbands like you for her daughters!… Lucky that in her case these things have no significance.’
He did not understand what she was trying to say. ‘What do you mean, no significance?’ She answered with the conviction of a woman confident in her own judgment. ‘Oh, Mme Walter is one of those women about whom there’s never been any gossip; oh, in her case, never, never. She’s beyond reproach in every way. Her husband, well you know him as well as I do. But, as for her, that’s another matter. She’s suffered quite a bit, moreover, from marrying a Jew, but she’s remained faithful to him. She’s a good woman.’
Du Roy was surprised. ‘I thought she was Jewish too.’
‘She? Not at all. She’s lady patroness of all the charities run by the Madeleine. She was even married in church. I can’t remember, now, whether there was some pretence of baptizing Walter, or whether the Church just closed its eyes.’
Georges muttered: ‘Oh! So… she’s… gone on me?’
‘Definitely, and totally. If you weren’t already taken, I’d advise you to ask for the hand of… Suzanne, I think, rather than Rose?’
Twirling his moustache, he replied: ‘Hey! The mother’s not half bad still.’
But Madeleine said impatiently: ‘Well, my love, I wish you joy of the mother. But I’m not worried. You don’t stray for the first time at her age. You have to start earlier.’
Georges was thinking: ‘But what if it were true, that I could have married Suzanne?…’
Then he shrugged: ‘Bah! It’s crazy… Would the father ever have accepted me?’ Nevertheless he told himself that from then on he would watch Mme Walter’s behaviour towards him more closely, without, however, wondering whether he might ever profit from it in any way.
All evening, he was haunted by memories of his love-affair with Clotilde, memories both tender and sensual. He remembered the funny things she said, her sweet ways, their escapades. He kept telling himself: ‘She’s really very nice. Yes, I’ll go and see her tomorrow.’
The next day, as soon as he had had lunch, he did go to the Rue de Verneuil. The same servant opened the door, and, in the familiar way of the servants of modest households, asked: ‘Are you keeping well, Monsieur?’
He answered: ‘Yes, fine, my dear.’
And he went into the drawing-room, where an unskilled hand was playing scales on the piano. It was Laurine. He expected her to fling her arms round his neck. She stood up solemnly, greeted him ceremoniously as an adult would have done, and departed in a stately fashion.
Her manner so closely resembled that of a slighted woman, that he was taken aback. Her mother came in. He grasped her hands and kissed them.
‘I’ve thought of you so much!’ he said.
‘And I of you,’ she said.
They sat down. They were smiling at one another, gazing into each other’s eyes, longing to kiss one another’s lips.
‘My dear little Clo, I love you.’
‘And I love you too.’
‘So… so… you haven’t been too angry with me?’
‘Yes, and no… It hurt me, but then I understood your reasons, and I told myself: “Bah! He’ll come back to me one of these fine days.”’
‘I didn’t dare come back: I wondered how I would be received. I didn’t dare, but I desperately wanted to. By the way, do tell me what’s got into Laurine. She hardly said “hallo,” and then off she went, looking furious.’
‘I don’t know. But, since you got married, one can’t talk to her about you any more. I do
believe she’s jealous.’
‘Oh, come on.’
‘No, my dear, really. She no longer calls you Bel-Ami, she calls you M. Forestier.’
Du Roy blushed, then, going up to the young woman: ‘Give me a kiss.’
She did so. ‘Where can we see each other again?’ he asked.
‘In the Rue de Constantinople, of course.’
‘Oh! So the flat hasn’t been let?’
‘No… I kept it.’
‘You kept it?’
‘Yes, I thought you’d come back there.’
A surge of joyful pride swelled his chest. So this woman loved him, with a love that was true, constant, and deep. He murmured: ‘I adore you.’ Then he asked: ‘Your husband’s well?’
‘Yes, fine. He’s just been here a month; he left the day before yesterday.’
Du Roy couldn’t help laughing: ‘How convenient!’
She replied ingenuously: ‘Yes, very convenient. However, he’s not a bother when he is here. Isn’t that so?’
‘Yes, that is so. Besides, he’s a charming man.’
‘How about you,’ she said, ‘how are you finding your new life?’
‘Neither good nor bad. My wife’s a friend, a partner.’
‘Nothing more?’ ‘Nothing more… as regards my feelings…’
‘Yes, I understand. Still, she’s very nice.’
‘Yes, but I don’t find her exciting.’ He went up to Clotilde, and whispered: ‘When can we see each other?’
‘Well… tomorrow… if you like.’
‘Yes, tomorrow; two o’clock?’
‘Two o’clock.’
He rose to leave, and then, a little embarrassed, stammered: ‘You know, I plan to rent the Rue de Constantinople flat again on my own account. I want to. It wouldn’t do at all for you to go on paying for it.’
It was she who kissed his hands adoringly, as she whispered: ‘You do as you wish. I’m glad I kept it so we can meet there again.’ And Du Roy, feeling very pleased with life, took his leave.
As he passed a photographer’s shop-window, the portrait of a tall woman with large eyes reminded him of Mme Walter. ‘All the same,’ he thought, ‘she’s really not bad. How did I never happen to notice her? I’m looking forward to seeing how she behaves towards me on Thursday.’
He walked along rubbing his hands together, filled with a very private pleasure, pleasure at knowing success in all its forms, a selfish pleasure at being both clever and successful, and a subtle kind, made up of flattered vanity and satisfied sensuality, that comes from being loved by women.
On the Thursday, he said to Madeleine: ‘Aren’t you going to that fencing affair of Rival’s?’
‘Oh, no. It doesn’t appeal to me at all; I’ll go to the Chamber of Deputies.’
And he went to fetch Mme Walter in an open landau, for the weather was superb.
When he saw her he was surprised, she looked so beautiful and young. She was wearing a light-coloured outfit with rather a low-cut bodice, which, beneath the golden lace, hinted at generously rounded breasts. Never had she seemed so radiant. He found her truly desirable. Her manner was, as always, composed and well bred, with a certain air of maternal placidity that rendered her virtually invisible to a roving male eye. Furthermore, she rarely spoke, except to say reasonable things that were widely known and accepted, for her ideas were judicious, systematic, well organized, and free of all excess.
Her daughter Suzanne, all in pink, resembled a freshly varnished Watteau;* and her elder sister looked like the governess responsible for keeping this pretty little bauble of a girl company.
A row of carriages was standing in front of Rival’s door. Du Roy offered Mme Walter his arm, and they went in. The fencing exhibition was being held to raise money for the orphans of the sixth arrondissement of the city, under the patronage of all the wives of those senators and deputies connected with La Vie française. Mme Walter had promised to come with her daughters, but had refused to be a patroness, for she only let her name be associated with charities run by the clergy, not because she was extremely devout, but because she believed that her marriage to an Israelite obliged her to maintain a certain standard of religious observance; and the affair organized by the journalist was taking on a kind of republican character that might be seen as anticlerical.
Over the last three weeks, people had read, in newspapers of every shade of opinion, the following announcement:
‘Our distinguished colleague Jacques Rival has just come up with an idea as ingenious as it is generous: to organize, for the benefit of the orphans of the sixth arrondissement, a grand display of swordsmanship in the attractive fencing hall that adjoins his bachelor apartments.
‘Invitations are being sent out by Mmes Laloigne, Remontel, and Rissolin, wives of those senators, and by Mmes Laroche-Mathieu, Percerol, and Firmin, whose husbands are well-known deputies.* A single collection will be taken during the intermission, and the sum collected will be immediately handed over to the mayor of the sixth arrondissement, or to his representative.’
The shrewd journalist had had the bright idea of this large-scale self-advertisement.
Jacques Rival was receiving the guests in the entrance-hall of his home, where refreshments had been laid out; their cost was to be deducted from the moneys received.
With a courteous gesture, he indicated the little staircase leading down to the cellar, where he had set up his fencing school and shooting gallery, saying: ‘Downstairs, ladies, downstairs. The display will take place in the basement rooms.’
He hurried forward to greet his editor’s wife, then, shaking Du Roy by the hand, said: ‘Good afternoon, Bel-Ami.’ Surprised, Du Roy asked: ‘Who told you that…’ Rival interrupted him: ‘This very lady, Mme Walter herself, who thinks it a delightful nickname.’
Mme Walter blushed: ‘Yes, I must admit that if I knew you better, I would do like little Laurine, I too would call you Bel-Ami. It suits you very well.’
Du Roy laughed: ‘But please do so, Madame.’
Mme Walter had dropped her gaze. ‘No, we don’t know each other well enough.’
He murmured: ‘May I hope that we shall become better acquainted?’
‘Well, we shall have to see,’ she said.
He stood aside at the entrance to the narrow stairway that was lit by a gas-burner; the sudden transition from daylight to this yellow glow had a dismal quality. A subterranean smell rose up from this spiral staircase, an odour of heated humidity and damp walls wiped dry for the occasion, together with gusts of aromatic scents evocative of religious services, and feminine perfumes of Lubin water, verbena, iris, and violet.
Out of this cavern arose a loud buzz of voices and the bustle of an excited crowd. The whole cellar was illuminated with strings of gas lights and Chinese lanterns hidden in the foliage which screened the walls of mould-encrusted stone. You could see nothing but greenery. The ceiling was decorated with ferns, the floor with leaves and flowers. People thought it all charming, delightfully imaginative. In the little cellar at the back, a stage for the fencers had been set up, between two rows of chairs for the judges. The entire cellar, on both sides, was filled with seating arranged in groups of ten, sufficient to accommodate about two hundred people. Four hundred had been invited.
In front of the stage, young men in fencing outfits–slender, long-legged, deep-chested, with curly moustaches–were already posing for the spectators. People were identifying them, pointing out the experts and the amateurs, all the well-known names of the Paris fencing world. Standing around them chatting were frock-coated gentlemen, both young and old, who bore a family resemblance to the swordsmen dressed in fencing gear. They too wished to be seen, recognized, and identified, for they were the princes of swordplay in mufti, the experts of the foil.
Ladies occupied almost every bench, creating a great stir of rustling skirts, a great buzz of voices. They were fanning themselves, as if in the theatre, for it was already as hot as an oven in that leafy grotto. From
time to time some wit would bellow: ‘Barley-water! Lemonade! Beer!’
Mme Walter and her daughters took the seats reserved for them in the front row. Du Roy, having installed them, was about to depart, murmuring: ‘I’ll have to leave you, the men can’t take up these seats.’
But Mme Walter replied hesitatingly: ‘I’m very tempted to keep you here all the same. You can tell me who the fencers are. Look, if you were to stand just at the end of this bench, you wouldn’t be in anyone’s way.’ She was gazing at him with her large soft eyes. She insisted: ‘Come, stay with us, Monsieur… Monsieur Bel-Ami. We need you.’
He replied: ‘I shall obey… with pleasure, Madame.’
On every side people were repeating: ‘This cellar is such fun, it’s really nice.’
Georges knew this vaulted room only too well! He was remembering the morning he had spent there, the day before his duel, all alone, in front of a small white carton which stared at him, from the depths of the back cellar, like an enormous, menacing eye.
From the staircase Jacques Rival’s voice rang out: ‘Ladies, we’re about to begin.’
And six gentlemen, their coats tightly buttoned so as to show off their chests to advantage, stepped onto the stage and took the seats placed there for the judges. Their names* spread through the crowd: General de Raynaldi, a little man with a big moustache, who was presiding; the painter Joséphin Roudet, a tall, bald man with a long beard; Matthéo de Ujar, Simon Ramoncel, Pierre de Carvin, three elegant young men, and Gaspard Merleron, a fencing master.
Two placards were displayed, one on either side of the cellar. The one on the right announced: M. Crèvecœur, the one on the left: M. Plumeau. These were two fencing masters, both of them good, though not in the top rank. They appeared; they were lean men of military bearing, who moved stiffly. Having saluted with the foils in a robot-like manner, they began to fight, reminiscent, in their costumes of canvas and white leather, of a pair of clowns pretending to be soldiers and fighting to raise a laugh.