 Chapter 1 of Bellamy or the History of a Scoundrel. Recording by Martin Giesen. Bellamy or the History of a Scoundrel by Guy de Moupassant. Translator unknown. Chapter 1. Poverty. After changing his five-frank piece, Georges du Roi left the restaurant. He twisted his moustache in military style, and cast a rapid sweeping glance upon the diners, among whom were three sales-women, an untidy music teacher of uncertain age, and two women with their husbands. When he reached the sidewalk, he paused to consider what route he should take. It was the twenty-eighth of June, and he had only three francs in his pocket to last him the remainder of the month. That meant two dinners and no lunches, or two lunches and no dinners, according to choice. As he pondered upon this unpleasant state of affairs, he sauntered down rue Notre-Dame de Lorette, preserving his military air and carriage, and rudely jostled the people upon the streets in order to clear a path for himself. He appeared to be hostile to the passes by, and even to the houses, the entire city. Tall, well-built, fair, with blue eyes, a curled moustache, hair naturally wavy, and parted in the middle, he recalled the hero of the popular romances. It was one of those sultry Parisian evenings when not a breath of air is stirring. The sewers exhaled poisonous gases, and the restaurants the disagreeable odours of cooking and of kindred smells. Portas in their shirt sleeves astride their chairs, smoked their pipes at the carriage gates, and pedestrians strolled leisurely along, hats in hand. When Georges Durois reached the boulevard, he halted again, and decided as to which road to choose. Finally he turned toward the Magdalene, and followed the tide of people. The large, well-patronized cafes tempted Durois, but where he to drink only two glasses of beer in an evening, farewell to the meagre supper the following night. Yet he said to himself, I will take a glass at the American, by chauve I am thirsty. He glanced at men seated at the tables, men who could afford to slake their thirst, and he scowled at them. Mraskels, he muttered. If he could have caught one of them at a corner in the dark, he would have choked him without a scruple. He recalled the two years spent in Africa, and the manner in which he had extorted money from the Arabs. A smile hovered about his lips at the recollection of an escapade, which had cost three men their lives. A foray which had given his two comrades and himself seventy fowls, two sheep, money, and something to laugh about for six months. The culprits were never found. Indeed they were not sought for, the Arab being looked upon as the soldier's prey. But in Paris it was different, there one could not commit such deeds with impunity. He regretted that he had not remained where he was, but he had hoped to improve his condition, and for that reason he was in Paris. He passed the Vauderville and stopped at the Café Américain, debating as to whether he should take that glass. Before deciding he glanced at a clock. It was a quarter past nine. He knew that when the beer was placed in front of him he would drink it, and then what would he do at eleven o'clock? So he walked on, intending to go as far as the Madeleine, and return. When he reached the Place de l'opéra, a tall young man passed him, whose face he fancied was familiar. He followed him, repeating, Where the deuce have I seen that fellow? For a time he wracked his brain in vain. Then suddenly he saw the same man, but not so corpulent and more youthful, attired in the uniform of a hasard. He exclaimed, Wait for rest ye! and hastening up to him laid his hand upon the man's shoulder. The latter turned, looked at him, and said, What do you want, sir? Durois began to laugh. Don't you remember me? No. Not remember, Georges Durois of the Sixth Hussars. For est ye extended both hands. Ah, my dear fellow! How are you? Very well, and how are you? I am not very well. I coughed six months out of the twelve as a result of bronchitis, contracted at Bujival, about the time of my return to Paris four years ago. But you look well. For est ye, taking his former comrade's arm, told him of his malady, of the consultations, the opinions, and the advice of the doctors, and of the difficulty of following their advice in his position. They ordered him to spend the winter in the south, but how could he? He was married, and was a journalist in a responsible editorial position. I manage the political department on la vie française. I report the doings of the Senate for le salut, and from time to time I write for la planète. That is what I am doing. Durois, in surprise, glanced at him. He was very much changed. Formerly, for est ye had been thin, giddy, noisy, and always in good spirits. But three years of life in Paris had made another man of him. Now he was stout and serious, and his hair was grey on his temples, although he could not number more than 27 years. For est ye asked, Where are you going? Durois replied, nowhere in particular. Very well, will you accompany me to the vie française, where I have some proofs to correct, and afterwards take a drink with me? Yes, gladly. They walked along arm in arm, with that familiarity which exists between schoolmates and brother officers. What are you doing in Paris? Asked for est ye. Durois shrugged his shoulders. Dying of hunger simply. When my time was up I came hither to make my fortune, or rather to live in Paris, and for six months I have been employed in a railroad office at fifteen hundred francs a year. For est ye murmured, that is not very much. But what can I do? answered Durois. I am alone. I know no one. I have no recommendations. The spirit is not lacking, but the means are. His companion looked at him from head to foot, like a practical man who is examining a subject. Then he said, in a tone of conviction, you see, my dear fellow, all depends on assurance here. A shrewd observing man can sometimes become a minister. You must obtrude yourself, and yet not ask anything. But how is it you have not found anything better than a clock ship at the station? Durois replied. I hunted everywhere and found nothing else. Parts I know where I can get three thousand francs at least, as riding master at the Pelerin school. For est ye stopped him? Don't do it, for you can earn ten thousand francs. You will ruin your prospects at once. In your office, at least no one knows you. You could leave it if you wish at any time. But when you are once a riding master, all will be over. You might as well be a butler in a house to which all Paris comes to dine. When you have given riding lessons to men of the world, or to their sons, they will no longer consider you there equal. He paused, reflected several seconds, and then asked, Are you a bachelor? Yes, though I have been smitten several times. That makes no difference. If Cicero and Tiberius were mentioned, would you know who they were? Yes. Good. No one knows any more except about a score of fools. It is not difficult to pass for being learned. The secret is not to betray your ignorance. Just manoeuvre, avoid the quicksands and obstacles, and the rest can be found in a dictionary. He spoke like one who understood human nature, and he smiled as the crowd passed them by. Suddenly he began to cough, and stopped to allow the paroxysm to spend itself. Then he said in a discouraged tone, Isn't it tiresome not to be able to get rid of this bronchitis, and here is Midsummer. This winter I shall go to Manton. Health before everything. They reached the boulevard Poissonnière. Behind a large glass door an open paper was affixed. Three people were reading it. Above the door was printed the legend, la vie française. Forestier pushed open the door and said, Come in. Durois entered. They ascended the stairs, passed through an ante-chamber in which two clerks greeted their comrade, and then entered a kind of waiting-room. Sit down, said Forestier. I shall be back in five minutes. And he disappeared. Durois remained where he was. From time to time men passed him by, entering by one door and going out by another before he had time to glance at them. Now they were young men, very young, with a busy air, holding sheets of paper in their hands. Now compositors. Their shirts spotted with ink, carefully carrying what were evidently fresh proofs. Occasionally a gentleman entered, fashionably dressed, some reporter bringing news. Forestier reappeared, arm in arm, with a tall, thin man of thirty or forty, dressed in a black coat, with a white cravat, a dark complexion, and an insolent, self-satisfied air. Forestier said to him, Adieu, my dear sir. And the other pressed his hand with Auvoir, my friend. Then he descended the stairs, whistling, his cane under his arm. Durois asked his name. That is Jacques Réval, the celebrated writer and dualist. He came to correct his proofs. Carin, Montel, and he are the best witty and realistic writers we have in Paris. He earns thirty thousand francs a year for two articles a week. As they went downstairs they met a stout little man with long hair, who was ascending the stairs whistling. Forestier bowed low. Norbert de Varenne, said he, the poet, the author of Les Soleils morts, a very expensive man. Every poem he gives us costs three hundred francs, and the longest is not two hundred lines. But let us go into the Napolitan, I am getting thirsty. When they were seated at a table, Forestier ordered two glasses of beer. He emptied his at a single draft, while Durois sipped his beer slowly, as if it were something rare and precious. Suddenly his companion asked, Why don't you try journalism? Durois looked at him in surprise, and said, Because I have never written anything. Pah, we all have to make a beginning. I could employ you myself by sending you to obtain information. At first you would only get two hundred and fifty francs a month, but your cab fare would be paid. Shall I speak to the manager? If you will. Well, then come and dine with me to-morrow. I will only ask five or six to meet you. The manager, M. Welter, his wife, with Jacques Rivanne and Norbert de Varenne, whom you have just seen, and also a friend of Madame Forestier, will you come? Durois hesitated, blushing and perplexed. Finally he murmured, I have no suitable clothes. Forestier was amazed. You have no dress suit. He cut that is indispensable. In Paris it is better to have no bed than no clothes. Then, fumbling in his vest pocket, he drew from it to Louis, placed them before his companion, and said kindly, You can repay me when it is convenient. Buy yourself what you need, and pay an instalment on it, and come and dine with us at half-past seven, at seventeen rue Fontaine. In confusion Durois picked up the money and stammered. You were very kind. I am much obliged. Be sure I shall not forget. Forestier interrupted him. That's all right. Take another glass of beer. Waiter, two more glasses. When he had paid the score, the journalist asked, Would you like a stroll for an hour? Certainly. They turned toward the Madeleine. What shall we do? asked Forestier. They say that in Paris an idler can always find amusement, but it is not true. A turn in the bois is only enjoyable if you have a lady with you, and that is a rare occurrence. The café concert may divert my tailor and his wife, but they do not interest me. So what can we do? Nothing. There ought to be a summer garden here, open at night, where a man could listen to good music while drinking beneath the trees. It would be a pleasant, lounging place. You could walk in alleys bright with electric light, and seat yourself where you pleased to hear the music. It would be charming. Where would you like to go? Durois did not know what to reply. Finally he said, I have never been to the Folli Berger. I should like to go there. His companion exclaimed, The Folli Berger, very well. They turned and walked toward the Faubourg Montmartre. The brilliantly illuminated building loomed up before them. Forestier entered. Durois stopped him. We forgot to pass through the gate. The other replied in a consequential tone. I never pay, and approached the box-office. Have you a good box? Certainly, Monsieur Forestier. He took the ticket, handed him, pushed open the door, and they were within the hall. A cloud of tobacco smoke almost hid the stage and the opposite side of the theatre. In the spacious foyer, which led to the circular promenade, brilliantly dressed women mingled with black-coated men. Forestier forced his way rapidly through the throng, and accosted an usher. Box 17. This way, sir. The friends were shown into a tiny box, hung and carpeted in red, with four chairs upholstered in the same colour. They seated themselves. To their right and left were similar boxes. On the stage three men were performing on trapezes. But Durois paid no heed to them, his eyes finding more to interest them in the grand promenade. Forestier remarked upon the mockly appearance of the throng, but Durois did not listen to him. A woman leaning her arms upon the edge of her luge was staring at him. She was a tall, voluptuous brunette. Her face whitened with enamel. Her black eyes penciled, and her lips painted. With a movement of her head, she summoned a friend who was passing, a blonde with urban hair, likewise inclined to en bon poing, and said to her in a whisper intended to be heard. There is a nice fellow! Forestier heard it, and said to Durois with a smile. You are lucky, my dear boy! My congratulations! The Cidevan soldier blushed, and mechanically fingered the two pieces of gold in his pocket. The curtain fell. The orchestra played a waltz, and Durois said, shall we walk around the gallery? If you like. Soon they were carried along in the current of promenades. Durois drank in with delight the air, vitiated as it was by tobacco and cheap perfume, but Forestier perspired, panted, and coughed. Let us go into the garden, he said. Turning to the left, they entered a kind of covered garden, in which two large fountains were playing. Under the use, men and women sat at tables, drinking. Another glass of beer asked Forestier. Gladly they took their seats and watched the promenades. Occasionally a woman would stop and ask with a coarse smile. What a view to offer, sir! Forestier's invariable answer was a glass of water from the fountain, and the woman would mutter, go along, and walk away. At last the brunette reappeared, arm in arm with the blonde. They made a handsome couple. The former smiled on perceiving Durois, and taking a chair she calmly seated herself in front of him, and said in a clear voice, Waiter, two glasses. In astonishment Forestier exclaimed, You are not at all bashful. She replied, Your friend has bewitched me. He is such a fine fellow. I believe he has turned my head. Durois said nothing. The waiter brought the beer, which the women swallowed rapidly. Then they rose, and the brunette nodding her head and tapping Durois' arm with her fan, said to him, Thank you, my dear. However, you are not very talkative. As they disappeared, Forestier laughed and said, Tell me, old man, did you know that you had a charm for the weaker sex? You must be careful. Without replying Durois smiled. His friend asked, Shall you remain any longer? I am going. I have had enough. Georges murmured, Yes, I will stay a little longer. It is not late. Forestier arose. Very well, then. Goodbye until tomorrow. Do not forget 17 rue Fontaine at 7.30. I shall not forget. Thank you. The two friends shook hands, and the journalist left Durois to his own devices. Forestier, once out of sight, Durois felt free, and again he joyously touched the gold pieces in his pocket. Then rising he mingled with the crowd. He soon discovered the blonde and the brunette. He went towards them, but when near them, dared not address them. The brunette called out to him, Have you found your tongue? He stammered, soonce. Too bashful to say another word. A pause ensued, during which the brunette took his arm, and together they left the hall. End of section 1 Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmayer Surrey. Chapter 2 of Bellamy, or the History of a Scoundrel This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. Bellamy, or the History of a Scoundrel, by Guy de Moupasson. Translator unknown. Chapter 2 Madame Forestier Where does Monsieur Forestier live? Third floor on the left. Said the porter pleasantly, on learning Bourroir's destination. Georges ascended the staircase. He was somewhat embarrassed and ill at ease. He had on a new suit, but he was uncomfortable. He felt that it was defective. His boots were not glossy. He had bought his shirt that same evening at the Louvre. For four francs fifty. His trousers were too wide, and betrayed their cheapness in their fit, or rather misfit, and his coat was too tight. Slowly he ascended the stairs, his heart beating, his mind anxious. Suddenly before him stood a well-dressed gentleman staring at him. The person resembled Duroir so close that the latter retreated, then stopped, and saw that it was his own image reflected in a pure glass. Not having anything but a small mirror at home, he had not been able to see himself entirely, and had exaggerated the imperfections of his toilette. When he saw his reflection in the glass, he did not even recognize himself. He took himself for someone else, for a man of the world, and was really satisfied with his general appearance. Smiling to himself, Duroir extended his hand, and expressed his astonishment, pleasure, and approbation. A door opened on the staircase. He was afraid of being surprised, and began to ascend more rapidly, fearing that he might have been seen posing there by some of his friends' invited guests. On reaching the second floor he saw another mirror, and once more slackened his pace to look at himself. He likewise paused before the third glass, twirled his moustache, took off his hat to arrange his hair, and murmured half a loud, a habit of his. All mirrors are most convenient. Then he rang the bell. The door opened almost immediately, and before him stood a servant in a black coat, with a grave, shaven face, so perfect in his appearance, that Duroir again became confused, as he compared the cut of their garments. The lackey asked, whom shall I announce, monsieur? He raised a portière, and pronounced the name. Duroir lost his self-possession, upon being ushered into a world as yet strange to him. However, he advanced. A young, fair woman received him alone in a large, well-lighted room. He paused, disconcerted. Who was this smiling lady? He remembered that Forestier was married, and the thought that the handsome blonde was his friend's wife rendered him awkward and ill at ease. He stammered out. Madame, I am—she held out her hand. I know, monsieur. Charles told me of your meeting last night, and I am very glad that he asked you to dine with us today. Duroir blushed the roots of his hair, not knowing how to reply. He felt that he was being inspected from his head to his feet. He half thought of excusing himself, of inventing an explanation of the carelessness of his toilette, but he did not know how to touch upon that delicate subject. He seated himself upon a chair, she pointed out to him, and as he sank into its luxurious depths, it seems to him that he was entering a new and charming life, that he would make his mark in the world, that he was saved. He glanced at Madame Forestier. She wore a gown of pale blue cashmere, which clung gracefully to her supple form and rounded outlines. Her arms and throat rose in lily-white purity from the mass of lace which ornamented the corsage and short sleeves. Her hair was dressed high and curled upon the nape of her neck. Duroir grew more at his ease under her glance, which recalled to him, he knew not why, that of the girl he had met the preceding evening at the Folly Berchere. Madame Forestier had grey eyes, a small nose, full lips, and a rather heavy chin, an irregular, attractive face, full of gentleness and yet of malice. After a short silence, she asked, Have you been in Paris a long time? Gradually regaining his self-possession, he replied, A few months, madame, I am in the railroad employ, but my friend Forestier has encouraged me to hope that, thanks to him, I can enter into journalism. She smiled kindly and murmured in a low voice, I know. The bell rang again and the servant announced, Madame de Marrelle. She was a dainty brunette, attired in a simple dark robe. A red rose in her black tresses seemed to accentuate her special character, and a young girl, or rather a child, for such she was, followed her. Madame Forestier said, Good evening, Clotilde. Good evening, Madeline. They embraced each other, then the child offered her forehead with the assurance of an adult, saying Good evening, cousin. Madame Forestier kissed her, and then made the introductions. Monsieur Georges du Roi, an old friend of Charles. Madame de Marrelle, my friend, my friend, relative in fact. She added, Here, you know, we do not stand on ceremony. Du Roi bowed. The door opened again and a short man entered, upon his arm a tall, handsome woman, taller than he and much younger, with distinguished manners and a dignified carriage. It was Monsieur Walter, deputy, financier, a moneyed man, and a man of business, manager of la vie française, with his wife, Né Basile Ravallade, daughter of the banker of that name. Then came Jacques Rival, very elegant, followed by Norbert de Varenne. The latter advanced with the grace of the old school, and, taking Madame Forestier's hand, kissed it, his long hair falling upon his hostess's bare arm as he did so. Forestier now entered, apologizing for being late, he had been detained. The servant announced dinner, and they entered the dining room. Du Roi was placed between Madame de Marrelle and her daughter. He was again rendered uncomfortable, for fear of committing some error in the conventional management of his fork, his spoon, or of his glasses, of which he had four. Nothing was said during the soup. Then Norbert de Varenne asked a general question. Have you read the Gautier case, how droll it was? Then followed a discussion of the subject in which the ladies joined. Then a duel was mentioned, and Jacques Rival led the conversation, that was his province. Du Roi did not venture a remark, but occasionally glanced at his neighbor. A diamond upon a slight golden thread depended from her ear. From time to time she uttered a remark which evoked a smile upon his lips. Du Roi sought vainly for some compliment to pay her. He busied himself with her daughter, filled her glass, waited upon her, and the child, more dignified than her mother, thanked him gravely, saying, You are very kind, monsieur. While she listened to the conversation with a reflective air. The dinner was excellent, and everyone was delighted with it. The conversation returned to the colonization of Algeria. Monsieur Walter uttered several juquose remarks. Forestier alluded to the article he had prepared for the morrow. Jacques Rival declared himself in favour of a military government, with grants of land to all the officers, after thirty years of colonial service. In that way, said he, you can establish a strong colony, familiar with and liking the country, knowing its language, and able to cope with all those local yet grave questions which invariably confront newcomers. Norbert de Varen interrupted. Yes, they would know everything except agriculture. They would speak Arabic, but they would not know how to transplant beetroot, and how to sow wheat. They would be strong in fencing, but weak in the art of farming. On the contrary, the new country should be opened up to everyone. Intelligent men would make positions for themselves. The others would succumb. It is a natural law. A pause ensued. Everyone smiled. Georges Dirois, startled at the sound of his own voice, as if he had never heard it, said, What is needed the most down there is good soil. Really fertile land costs as much as it does in France, and is bought by wealthy Parisians. The real colonists, the poor, are generally cast out into the desert, where nothing grows for lack of water. All eyes turned upon him. He coloured. Monsieur Walter asked, Do you know Algeria, sir? He replied, Yes, sir. I was there twenty-eight months. Leaving the subject of colonisation, Norbert de Varene questioned him as to some of the Algerian customs. Georges spoke with animation. Excited by the wine and the desire to please, he related anecdotes of the regiment, of Arabian life, and of the war. Madame Walter murmured to him in her soft tones. You could write a series of charming articles. Forestier took advantage of the situation to say to Monsieur Walter, My dear sir, I spoke to you a short while since of Monsieur Georges Dirois, and asked you to permit me to include him on the staff of political reporters. Since Marambeau has left us, I have had no one to take urgent and confidential reports, and the paper is suffering by it. Monsieur Walter put on his spectacles in order to examine Dirois. Then he said, I am convinced that Monsieur Dirois is original, and if he will call upon me tomorrow at three o'clock, we will arrange matters. After a pause, turning to the young man, he said, You may write us a short sketch on Algeria, Monsieur Dirois. Simply relate your experiences. I am sure they will interest our readers, but you must do it quickly. Madame Walter added with her customary serious grace, you will have a charming title, Souvenirs of a Soldier in Africa. Will he not, Monsieur Norbert? The old poet, who had attained renown late in life, disliked and mistrusted newcomers, he replied dryly, Yes, excellent, provided that it is written in the right key, that there lies the great difficulty. Madame Forestier cast upon Dirois a protecting and smiling glance, which seemed to say, you shall succeed. The servant filled the glasses with wine, and Forestier proposed the toast, to the long prosperity of la vie française. Dirois felt superhuman strength within him, infinite hope, and invincible resolution. He was at his ease now among these people. His eyes rested upon their faces with renewed assurance, and for the first time he ventured to address his neighbour. You have the most beautiful earrings I have ever seen. She turned towards him with a smile. It is a fancy of mine to wear diamonds like this, simply on a thread. He murmured in reply, trembling at his audacity. It is charming, but the ear increases the beauty of the ornament. She thanked him with a glance. As he turned his head, he met Madame Forestier's eyes, in which he fancied he saw a mingled expression of gaiety, malice, and encouragement. All the men were talking at the same time, their discussion was animated. When the party left the dining-room, Dior offered his arm to the little girl. She thanked him gravely, and stood upon tiptoe in order to lay her hand upon his arm. Upon entering the drawing-room, the young man carefully surveyed it. It was not a large room, but there were no bright colours, and one felt at ease. It was restful. The walls were draped with violet hangings, covered with tiny embroidered flowers of yellow silk. The partières were of a greyish blue, and the chairs were of all shapes, of all sizes. Scattered about the room were couches and large and small easy chairs, all covered with Louiser's brocade, or Utrecht velvet, a cream-coloured ground with garnet flowers. Do you take coffee, Monsieur Diorois? Madame Forestier offered him a cup, with the smile that was always on her lips. Yes, madame, thank you. He took the cup, and as he did so, the young woman whispered to him, pay madame Walter some attention. Then she vanished before he could reply. First he drank his coffee, which he feared he should let fall upon the carpet. Then he sought a pretext for approaching the manager's wife, and commencing a conversation. Suddenly he perceived that she held an empty cup in her hand, and as she was not near a table, she did not know where to put it. He rushed toward her. Allow me, madame. Thank you, sir. He took away the cup, and returned. If you but knew, madame, what pleasant moments la vie française afforded me, when I was in the desert. It is indeed the only paper one cares to read outside of France. It contains everything. She smiled with amiable indifference, as she replied, Monsieur Walter had a great deal of trouble in producing the kind of journal which was required. They talked of Paris, the suburbs, the Seine, the delights of summer, of everything they could think of. Finally Monsieur Norbert de Varene advanced a glass of liqueur in his hand, and du roi discreetly withdrew. Madame de Marrelle, who was chatting with her hostess, called him. So, sir, she said bluntly, you are going to try journalism. That question led to a renewal of the interrupted conversation with Madame Walter. In her turn, Madame de Marrelle related anecdotes, and, becoming familiar, laid her hand upon du roi's arm. He felt that he would like to devote himself to her, to protect her, and the slowness with which she replied to her questions indicated his preoccupation. Suddenly, without any cause, Madame de Marrelle called. And the girl came to her. Sit down here, my child, you will be cold near the window. Du roi was seized with an eager desire to embrace the child, as if part of that embrace would revert to the mother. He asked in a gallant yet paternal tone, will you permit me to kiss you, mademoiselle? The child raised her eyes with an air of surprise. Madame de Marrelle said with a smile, reply, I will allow you to day, monsieur, but not all the time. Seating himself, du roi took Lorraine on his knee, and kissed her lips and her fine wavy hair. Her mother was surprised. Well, that is strange. Ordinarily, she only allows ladies to caress her. You are irresistible, monsieur. Du roi colored, but did not reply. When Madame Forestier joined them, a cry of astonishment escaped her. Well, Lorraine has become sociable. What a miracle! The young man rose to take his leave, fearing he might spoil his conquest by some awkward word. He bowed to the ladies, clasped and gently pressed their hands, and then shook hands with the men. He observed that Jacques Rivales was dry and warm, and responded cordially to his pressure. Norbert de Varennes was moist and cold, and slipped through his fingers. Walter's was cold and soft, without life, expressionless. Forestier's fat and warm. His friend whispered to him, tomorrow at three o'clock, do not forget. Never fear. When he reached the staircase, he felt like running down. His joy was so great. He went down two steps at a time. But suddenly, on the second floor, in the large mirror, he saw a gentleman hurrying on, and he slackened his pace, as much ashamed as if he had been surprised in a crime. He surveyed himself some time with a complacent smile. Then, taking leave of his image, he bowed low, ceremoniously, as if saluting some grand personage. End of chapter 2 Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey Chapter 3 of Bellamy, or The History of a Scoundrel This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen Bellamy, or The History of a Scoundrel, by Guy de Moupasson Translator Unknown Chapter 3 First Attempts When Georges du Roi reached the street, he hesitated as to what he should do. He felt inclined to stroll along, dreaming of the future, and inhaling the soft night air. But the thought of the series of articles ordered by Monsieur Walter occurred to him, and he decided to return home at once and begin work. He walked rapidly along, until he came to Reboursau. The tenement in which he lived was occupied by twenty families, families of working men, and as he mounted the staircase, he experienced a sensation of disgust, and a desire to live as wealthy men do. Du Roi's room was on the fifth floor. He entered it, opened his window, and looked out. The view was anything but prepossessing. He turned away, thinking, this won't do, I must go to work. So he placed his light upon the table, and began to write. He dipped his pen into the ink, and wrote at the head of his paper in a bold hand, souvenirs of a soldier in Africa. Then he cast about for the first phrase. He rested his head upon his hand, and stared at the blank sheet before him. What should he say? Suddenly he thought, I must begin with my departure. And he wrote, in 1874, about the fifteenth of May, when exhausted France was recruiting after the catastrophe of the terrible years. Here he stopped short, not knowing how to introduce his subject. After a few minutes' reflection, he decided to lay aside that page until the following day, and to write a description of Algiers. He began, Algiers is a very clean city. But he could not continue. After an effort, he added, it is inhabited partly by Arabs. Then he threw his pen upon the table and arose. He glanced around his miserable room. Mentally he rebelled against his poverty, and resolved to leave the next day. Suddenly the desire to work came on him, and he tried to begin the article again. He had vague ideas of what he wanted to say, but he could not express his thoughts in words. Convinced of his inability, he arose once more, his blood coursing rapidly through his veins. He turned to the window just as the train was coming out of the tunnel, and his thoughts reverted to his parents. He saw their tiny home on the heights overlooking Rouen, and the valley of the Seine. His father and mother kept an inn, La Belle Vu, at which the citizens of the Faworks took their lunches on Sundays. They had wished to make a gentleman of their son, and had sent him to college. As studies completed, he had entered the army, with the intention of becoming an officer, a colonel or a general. But becoming disgusted with military life, he determined to try his fortune in Paris. When his time of service had expired, he went thither, with what results we have seen. He awoke from his reflections as the locomotive whistled shrilly, closed his window, and began to disrobe, muttering, I shall be able to work better tomorrow morning. My brain is not clear tonight. I have drunk a little too much. I can't work well under such circumstances. He extinguished his light and fell asleep. He awoke early, and rising opened his window to inhale the fresh air. In a few moments he seated himself at his table, dipped his pen in the ink, rested his head upon his hand, and thought. But in vain. However, he was not discouraged, but in thought reassured himself. I am not accustomed to it. It is a profession that must be learned, like all professions. Someone must help me the first time. I'll go to Forestier. He'll start my article for me in ten minutes. When he reached the street, Durois decided that it was rather early to present himself at his friend's house. So he strolled along under the trees on one of the boulevards for a time. On arriving at Forestier's door he found his friend going out. You here at this hour! Can I do anything for you? Durois stammered in confusion. I cannot write that article on Algeria that Monsieur Welter wants. It is not very surprising, seeing that I have never written anything. It requires practice. I could write very rapidly, I'm sure, if I could make a beginning. I have the ideas, but I cannot express them. He paused and hesitated. Forestier smiled maliciously. I understand that. Durois continued. Yes, anyone is liable to have that trouble at the beginning, and, well, I have come to ask you to help me. In ten minutes you can set me right. You can give me a lesson in style. Without you I can do nothing. The other smiled gaily. He patted his companion's arm and said to him, Go to my wife. She will help you better than I can. I have trained her for that work. I have not time this morning, or I would do it willingly. But Durois hesitated. At this hour I cannot inquire for her. Oh, yes, you can. She has risen. You will find her in my study. I will go, but I shall tell her you sent me. Forestier walked away, and Durois slowly ascended the stairs, wondering what he should say and what kind of a reception he would receive. The servant who opened the door said, Monsieur has gone out. Durois replied, Ask Madame Forestier if she will see me, and tell her that Monsieur Forestier whom I met on the street sent me. The lucky soon returned and ushered Durois into Madame's presence. She was seated at a table and extended her hand to him. So soon, said she, it was not a reproach, but a simple question. He stammered. I did not want to come up, Madame, but your husband whom I met below insisted. I dare scarcely tell you my errand. I worked late last night, and early this morning, to write the article on Algeria which Monsieur Walter wants, and I did not succeed. I destroyed all my attempts. I am not accustomed to the work, and I came to ask Forestier to assist me this once. She interrupted with a laugh, and he sent you to me. He said you could help me better than he, but I dared not. I did not like to. She rose. It will be delightful to work together that way. I am charmed with your idea. Wait, take my chair, for they know my handwriting on the paper. We will write a successful article. She took a cigarette from the mantelpiece and lighted it. I cannot work without smoking, she said. What are you going to say? He looked at her in astonishment. I do not know. I came here to find that out. She replied, I will manage it all right. I will make the sauce, but I must have the dish. She questioned him in detail, and finally said, Now we will begin. First of all we will suppose that you are a dressing of friend, which will allow a scope for remarks of all kinds. Begin this way. My dear Henry, you wish to know something about Algeria? You shall. Then followed a brilliantly worded description of Algeria, and of the port of Algiers, an excursion to the province of Oran, a visit to Saida, and an adventure with a pretty Spanish maid employed in a factory. When the article was concluded he could find no words of thanks. He was happy to be near her, grateful for, and delighted with their growing intimacy. It seemed to him that everything about him was a part of her, even to the books upon the shelves, the chairs, the furniture, the air, all were permeated with that delightful fragrance peculiar to her. She asked bluntly, What do you think of my friend Madame de Morel? I think of very fascinating, he said, and he would have liked to add, but not as much so as you. He had not the courage to do so. She continued, if you only knew how comical, original, and intelligent she is. She is a true bohemian. It is for that reason that her husband no longer loves her. He only sees her defects and none of her good qualities. Durois was surprised to hear that Madame de Morel was married. What, he asked, is she married? What does her husband do? Madame Forestier shrugged her shoulders. Oh, he is superintendant of a railroad. He is in Paris a week out of each month. His wife calls it Holy Week, or the Week of Duty. When you get better acquainted with her, you will see how witty she is. Come here and see her some day. As she spoke, the door opened noiselessly, and a gentleman entered unannounced. He halted on seeing a man. For a moment Madame Forestier seemed confused. Then she said in a natural voice, though her cheeks were tinged with a blush. Come in, my dear sir, allow me to present to you an old comrade of Charles, Monsieur Georges Durois, a future journalist. Then in a different tone she said, our best and dearest friend, Count de Vaudrec. The two men bowed, gazed into one another's eyes, and then Durois took his leave. Neither tried to detain him. On reaching the street he felt sad and uncomfortable. Count de Vaudrec's face was constantly before him. It seemed to him that the man was displeased at finding him tête à tête with Madame Forestier, though why he should be, he could not divine. To while away the time until three o'clock, he lunched at Duval's, and then lounged along the boulevard. When the clock chimed the hour of his appointment, he climbed the stairs leading to the office of la vie française. Durois asked, is Monsieur Walter in? Monsieur Walter is engaged, was the reply. Will you please take a seat? Durois waited twenty minutes. Then he turned to the clock and said, Monsieur Walter had an appointment with me at three o'clock. At any rate, see if my friend Monsieur Forestier is here. He was conducted along a corridor, and ushered into a large room in which four men were writing at a table. Forestier was standing before the fireplace, smoking a cigarette. After listening to Durois's story, he said, come with me. I will take you to Monsieur Walter, or else you might remain here until seven o'clock. They entered the manager's room. Norbert de Varenne was writing an article, seated in an easy chair. Jacques Rival, stretched upon a divan, was smoking a cigar. The room had the peculiar odour familiar to all journalists. When they approached Monsieur Walter, Forestier said, here is my friend Durois. The manager looked keenly at the young man and asked, have you brought my article? Durois drew the sheets of manuscript from his pocket. Here they are, Monsieur. The manager seemed delighted and said with a smile, very good. You are a man of your word. Need I look over it, Forestier? But Forestier hastened to reply. It is not necessary, Monsieur Walter. I helped him, in order to initiate him into the profession. It is very good. Then, bending towards him, he whispered, you know you promised to engage Durois to replace Marambou. Will you allow me to retain him on the same terms? Certainly. Taking his friend's arm, the journalist drew him away, while Monsieur Walter returned to the game of écarté he had been engaged in when they entered. Forestier and Durois returned to the room in which Georges had found his friend. The latter said to his new reporter, you must come here every day at three o'clock, and I will tell you what places to go to. First of all, I shall give you a letter of introduction to the chief of the police, who will in turn introduce you to one of his employees. You can arrange with him for all important news, official and semi-official. For details, you can apply to Saint-Pôtein, who is posted. You will see him tomorrow. Above all, you must learn to make your way everywhere, in spite of closed doors. You will receive two hundred francs a month, two sous a line for original matter, and two sous a line for articles you are ordered to write on different subjects. What shall I do today? asked Durois. I have no work for you today. You can go if you wish to. And our article? Oh, do not worry about it. I will correct the proofs. Do the rest tomorrow, and come here at three o'clock as you did today. And after shaking hands Durois descended the staircase with a light heart. End of Chapter 3 Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey. Chapter 4 of Bellamy or the History of a Scoundrel This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. Bellamy or the History of a Scoundrel by Guy de Moupasson. Translator unknown. Chapter 4 Durois Learned Something Georges Durois did not sleep well, so anxious was he to see his article in print. He rose at daybreak, and was on the street long before the newsboys. When he secured a paper, and saw his name at the end of a column in large letters, he became very much excited. He felt inclined to enact the part of a newsboy, and cry out to the hurrying throng. By this it contains an article by me. He strolled along to a café, and seated himself in order to read the article through. That done, he decided to go to the railroad office, draw his salary, and hand in his resignation. With great pomposity, he informed the chief clerk that he was on the staff of La Vie Française, and by that means was avenged for many petty insults which had been offered him. He then had some cards written with his new calling beneath his name, made several purchases, and repaired to the office of La Vie Française. Forestier received him loftily, as one would an inferior. Ah, here you are! Very well! I have several things for you to do. Just wait ten minutes till I finish this work. He continued writing. At the other end of the table sat a short, pale man, very stout and bald. Forestier asked him when his letter was completed, Saint-Potein, at what time shall you interview those people? At four o'clock. Take du roi who is here with you, and initiate him into the business. Very well! Then turning to his friend, Forestier added, Have you brought the other paper on Algeria? The article this morning was very successful. Du Roi stammered. No, I thought I should have time this afternoon. I had so much to do. I could not. The other shrugged his shoulders. If you are not more careful, you will spoil your future. Monsieur Walter, count it on your copy. I will tell him it will be ready tomorrow. If you think you will be paid for doing nothing, you are mistaken. After a pause, he added, you should strike while the iron is hot. Saint-Potein rose. I am ready, said he. Forestier turned around in his chair and said to Du Roi, Listen, the Chinese general Li Teng-Fao, stopping at the Continental, and Raja Tapos-Aib Ramadirau Pali, stopping at Hotel Bishop, have been in Paris two days. You must interview them. Addressing Saint-Potein, he said, Do not forget the principal points I indicated to you. Ask the general and the Raja their opinions on the dealings of England in the extreme east, their ideas of their system of colonisation and government, their hopes relative to the intervention of Europe and of France in particular. To Du Roi, he said, Observe what Saint-Potein says. He is an excellent reporter, and try to learn how to draw out a man in five minutes. Then he resumed his work. The two men walked down the boulevard together, while Saint-Potein gave Du Roi a sketch of all the officials connected with the paper, sparing no one in his criticism. When he mentioned Forestier, he said, As for him, he was fortunate in marrying his wife. Du Roi asked, What about his wife? Saint-Potein rubbed his hands. Oh, she is beloved by an old fellow named Vaudrec. He totes upon her. Du Roi felt as if he would like to box Saint-Potein's ears. To change the subject, he said, It seems to me that it is late, and we have two noble lords to call upon. Saint-Potein laughed. You are very innocent. Do you think that I am going to interview that Chinese and that Indian, as if I did not know better than they do what they should think to please the readers of Lavive Horses? I have interviewed five hundred Chinese, Prussians, Hindus, Chillians and Japanese. They all say the same thing. I need only copy my article on the last comma, word for word, changing the heading, names, titles, and ages. In that there must be no error, or I shall be hauled over the coals by the Figaro or Goliwa. But on that subject, the porter of the hotels will post me in five minutes. We will smoke our cigars and stroll in that direction. Total one hundred sews for cab fare. That is the way, my dear fellow. When they arrived at the Madeleine, Saint-Potein said to his companion, If you have anything to do, I do not need you. Duois shook hands with him and walked away. The thought of the article he had to write that evening haunted him. Mentally he collected the material, as he wended his way to the café at which he dined. Then he returned home and seated himself at his table to work. Before his eyes was the sheet of blank paper. But all the material he had amassed had escaped him. After trying for an hour, and after filling five pages with sentences which had no connection one with the other, he said, I am not yet familiar with the work. I must take another lesson. At ten o'clock the following morning he rang the bell at his friend's house. The servant who opened the door said, Monsieur is busy. Duois had not expected to find Forestier at home. However, he said, tell him it is Monsieur Duois on important business. In the course of five minutes he was ushered into the room in which he had spent so happy a morning. In the place Madame Forestier had occupied, her husband was seated writing, while Madame Forestier stood by the mantelpiece and dictated to him a cigarette between her lips. Duois paused upon the threshold and murmured, I beg your pardon, I am interrupting you. His friend growled angrily. What do you want again? Make haste, we are busy. Georges stammered. It is nothing. But Forestier persisted. Come, we are losing time. You did not force your way into the house for the pleasure of bidding us good morning. Duois in confusion replied, No, it is this. I cannot complete my article. And you were so kind the last time that I hoped that I dared to come. Forestier interrupted with, So you think I will do your work, and that you have only to take the money? Well, that is fine. His wife smoked on without interfering. Duois hesitated. Excuse me, I believed, I thought. Then in a clear voice he said, I beg a thousand pardons, Madame, and thank you very much for the charming article you wrote for me yesterday. Then he bowed and said to Chal, I will be at the office at three o'clock. He returned home, saying to himself, Very well, I will write it alone, and they shall see. Scarcely had he entered than he began to write, Anger spurring him on. In an hour he had finished an article, which was a chaos of absurd matter, and took it boldly to the office. Duois handed Forestier his manuscript. Here is the rest of Algeria. Very well, I will hand it to the manager. That will do. When Duois and Saint-Potin, who had some political information to look up, were in the hall, the latter asked, Have you been to the cashier's room? No, why? Why? To get your pay. You should always get your salary a month in advance. One cannot tell what might happen. I will introduce you to the cashier. Duois drew his two hundred francs, together with twenty-eight francs for his article of the preceding day, which in addition to what remained to him of his salary from the railroad office, left him three hundred and forty francs. He had never had so much, and he thought himself rich for an indefinite time. Saint-Potin took him to the offices of four or five rival papers, hoping that the news he had been commissioned to obtain had been already received by them, and that he could obtain it by means of his diplomacy. When evening came, Duois, who had nothing more to do, turned toward the Fully Berchers, and walking up to the office, he said, My name is Georges Duois. I am on the staff of la vie française. I was here the other night with Monsieur Forestier, who promised to get me a pass. I do not know if he remembered it. The register was consulted, but his name was not inscribed upon it. However, the cashier, a very affable man, said to him, Come in, Monsieur Duois, and speak to the manager yourself. He will see that everything is all right. He entered, and almost at once came upon Rachel, the woman he had seen there before. She approached him. Good evening, my dear. Are you well? Very well. How are you? I am not ill. I have dreamed of you twice since the other night. Duois smiled. What does that mean? That means that I like you. She raised her eyes to the young man's face, took his arm, and leaning upon it, said, Let us drink a glass of wine, and then take a walk. I should like to go to the opera, like this, with you, to show you off. At daybreak, he again salied forth to obtain a vie française. He opened the paper feverishly. His article was not there. On entering the office several hours later, he said to Monsieur Walter, I was very much surprised this morning not to see my second article on Algeria. The manager raised his head and said sharply, I gave it to your friend for estier, and asked him to read it. He was dissatisfied with it. It will have to be done over. Without a word, Duois left the room, and entering his friend's office, brusquely asked, Why did not my article appear this morning? The journalist, who was smoking a cigar, said calmly, The manager did not consider it good, and bade me return it to you to be revised. There it is. Duois revised it several times, only to have it reject it. He said nothing more of his souvenirs, but gave his whole attention to reporting. He became acquainted behind the scenes at the theatres, and in the halls and corridors of the Chamber of Deputies. He knew all the cabinet ministers, generals, police agents, princes, ambassadors, men of the world, Greeks, cab men, waiters at cafes, and many others. In short, he soon became a remarkable reporter of great value to the paper. So Monsieur Walter said, But as he only received 10 centimes a line, in addition to his fixed salary of 200 francs, and as his expenses were large, he never had a sue. When he saw certain of his associates with their pockets full of money, he wondered what secret means they employed in order to obtain it. He determined to penetrate that mystery, to enter into the association, to obtrude himself upon his comrades, and make them share with him. Often at evening, as he watched the trains pass his window, he dreamed of the conduct he might pursue. End of chapter 4 Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmere Surrey. Chapter 5 part 1 of Bellamy, or The History of a Scoundrel This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Geeson. Bellamy, or The History of a Scoundrel, by Guy de Moupasson. Translator unknown. Chapter 5 The First Intrigue. Part 1 Two months elapsed. It was September. The fortune which Duroir had hoped to make so rapidly seemed to him slow in coming. Above all, he was dissatisfied with the mediocrity of his position. He was appreciated, but was treated according to his rank. Forrestier himself no longer invited him to dinner, and treated him as an inferior. Often he had thought of making Madame Forrestier a visit, but the remembrance of their last meeting restrained him. Madame de Marelle had invited him to call, saying, I am always at home about three o'clock. So, one afternoon, when he had nothing to do, he proceeded toward her house. She lived on Rue Verneuil, on the fourth floor. A maid answered his summons, and said, Yes, Madame is at home, but I do not know whether she has risen. She conducted Duroir into the drawing-room, which was large, poorly furnished, and somewhat untidy. The shabby, threadbare chairs were ranged along the walls, according to the servant's fancy, for there was not a trace visible of the care of a woman who loves her home. Duroir took a seat, and waited some time. Then a door opened, and Madame de Marelle entered hastily, clad in a Japanese dressing-gown. She exclaimed, How kind of you to come to see me! I was positive you had forgotten me. She held out her hand to him with a gesture of delight, and Duroir, quite at his ease, in that shabby apartment, kissed it as he had seen Norbert de Verneuil. Examining him from head to foot, she cried, How you have changed! Well, tell me the news! They began to chat at once, as if they were old acquaintances. And in five minutes an intimacy, a mutual understanding, was established between those two beings alike in character and kind. Suddenly the young woman said in surprise, It is astonishing how I feel with you. It seems to me as if I had known you ten years. We shall undoubtedly become good friends. Would that please you? He replied, certainly, with a smile more expressive than words. He thought her very bewitching in her pretty gown. When near Madame Forestier, whose impassive, gracious smile attracted, yet held at a distance, and seemed to say, I like you, yet take care. He felt a desire to cast himself at her feet, or to kiss the hem of her garment. When near Madame de Marrelle, he felt a more passionate desire. A gentle rap came at the door through which Madame de Marrelle had entered, and she cried, You may come in, my darling. The child entered, advanced to Durois, and offered him her hand. The astonished mother murmured, That is a conquest! The young man, having kissed the child, seated her by his side, and with a serious air, questioned her as to what she had done since they last met. She replied in a flute-like voice, and with the manner of a woman. The clock struck three. The journalist rose. Come often, said Madame de Marrelle, It has been a pleasant cause-a-rie. I shall always be glad to welcome you. Why do I never meet you at the Forestier? For no particular reason. I am very busy. I hope, however, that we shall meet there one of these days. In the course of a few days he paid another visit to the enchantress. The maid ushered him into the drawing-room, and Lorine soon entered. She offered him not her hand, but her forehead, and said, Mama, wish me to ask you to wait for her for about fifteen minutes, for she is not dressed. I will keep you company. Durois, who was amused at the child's ceremonious manner, replied, Indeed, mademoiselle, I shall be enchanted to spend a quarter of an hour with you. When the mother entered, they were in the midst of an exciting game, and Madame de Marrelle paused in amazement, crying, Lorine, playing, You are a sorcerer, sir. He placed the child whom he had caught in his arms upon the floor, kissed the lady's hand, and they seated themselves, the child between them. They tried to converse, but Lorine, usually so silent, monopolised the conversation, and her mother was compelled to send her to her room. When they were alone, Madame de Marrelle lowered her voice, and said, I have a great project. It is this. As I dine every week at the Forestiers, I return it from time to time by inviting them to a restaurant. I do not like to have company at home. I am not so situated that I can have any. I know nothing about housekeeping or cooking. I prefer a life free from care. Therefore I invite them to the café occasionally. But it is not lively when we are only three. I am telling you this in order to explain such an informal gathering. I should like you to be present at our Saturdays, at the café Riche, at 7.30. Do you know the house? Durois accepted gladly. He left her in a transport of delight, and impatiently awaited the day of the dinner. He was the first to arrive at the place appointed, and was shown into a small private room, in which the table was laid for four. That table looked very inviting, with its coloured glasses, silver and candelabra. Durois seated himself upon a low bench. Forestiers entered and shook hands with him, with a cordiality he never evinced at the office. The two ladies will come together, said he. These dinners are truly delightful. Very soon the door opened, and Madame Forestiers and Dumarelle appeared, heavily veiled, surrounded by the charming mystery necessary to a rendezvous in a place so public. As Durois greeted the former, she took him to task for not having been to see her. Then she added with a smile. Ah, you prefer Madame Dumarelle. The time passes more pleasantly with her. When the waiter handed the wine list to Forestiers, Madame Dumarelle exclaimed, bring the gentlemen whatever they want. As for us, we want nothing but champagne. Forestiers, who seemed not to have heard her, asked, do you object to my closing the window? My cough has troubled me for several days. Not at all. His wife did not speak. The various courses were duly served, and then the guests began to chat. They discussed a scandal which was being circulated about a society bell. Forestiers was very much amused by it. Durois said with a smile, how many would abandon themselves to a caprice, a dream of love, if they did not fear that they would pay for a brief happiness with tears and an irremediable scandal. Both women glanced at him approvingly. Forestiers cried with a sceptical laugh, the poor husbands. Then they talked of love. Durois said, when I love a woman, everything else in the world is forgotten. Madame Forestiers murmured, there is no happiness comparable to that first clasp of the hand. When one asks, do you love me, and the other replies, yes, I love you. Madame de Marais cried gaily as she drank a glass of champagne. I am less platonic. Forestiers lying upon the couch said in a serious tone, that frankness does you honour and proves you to be a practical woman, but might one ask, what is Monsieur de Marais's opinion? She shrugged her shoulders disdainfully and said, Monsieur de Marais has no opinion on that subject. The conversation grew slow. Madame de Marais seemed to offer provocation by her remarks, while Madame Forestiers' charming reserve, the modesty in her voice, in her smile, all seemed to extenuate the bold sallies which issued from her lips. The dessert came and then followed the coffee. The hostess and her guests lighted cigarettes, but Forestiers suddenly began to cough. When the attack was over, he growled angrily. These parties are not good for me. They are stupid. Let us go home. Madame de Marais summoned the waiter and asked for her bill. She tried to read it, but the figures danced before her eyes. She handed the paper to Duroir. Here, pay it for me. I cannot see. At the same time, she put her purse in his hand. The total was 130 francs. Duroir glanced at the bill, and when it was settled, whispered, How much shall I give the waiter? Whatever you like, I do not know. He laid five francs upon the plate, and handed the purse to its owner, saying, Shall I escort you home? Certainly, I am unable to find the house. They shook hands with the Forestiers, and were soon rolling along in a cab, side by side. Duroir could think of nothing to say. He felt impelled to clasp her in his arms. If I should dare, what would she do? Thought he. The recollection of their conversation at dinner emboldened, but the fear of scandal restrained him. Madame de Marais reclined silently in her corner. He would have thought her asleep, had he not seen her eyes glisten whenever a ray of light penetrated the dark recesses of the carriage. Of what was she thinking? Suddenly she moved her foot nervously, impatiently. That movement caused him to tremble, and turning quickly, he cast himself upon her, seeking her lips with his. She uttered a cry, attempted to repulse him, and then yielded to his caresses, as if she had not the strength to resist. The carriage stopped at her door, but she did not rise. She did not move, stunned by what had just taken place. Fearing that the cab man would mistrust something, Duroir alighted from the cab first, and offered his hand to the young woman. Finally she got out, but in silence. Georges rang the bell, and when the door was opened he asked timidly, when shall I see you again? She whispered so low that he could barely hear her. Come and lunch with me to-morrow. With those words she disappeared. Duroir gave the cab man a five frank peace, and turned away with a triumphant joyful air. He had at last conquered a married woman, a woman of the world, a Parisian. How easy it had been! End of chapter five, part one. Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmere Surrey