 Chapter 12 of Bellamyche or the history of a scoundrel. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. Bellamyche or the history of a scoundrel by Guy de Moupasson. Translator unknown. Chapter 12. A Meeting and the Result The July sun shone upon the Place de la Trinité, which was almost deserted. Durois drew out his watch. It was only three o'clock. He was half an hour too early. He laughed as he thought of the place of meeting. He entered the sacred edifice of la Trinité. The coolness within was refreshing. Here and there an old woman kneeled at prayer, her face in her hands. Durois looked at his watch again. It was not yet a quarter past three. He took a seat, regretting that he could not smoke. At the end of the church, near the choir, he could hear the measured tread of a corpulent man, whom he had noticed when he entered. Suddenly the rustle of a gown made him start. It was she. He arose and advanced quickly. She did not offer him her hand, and whispered, I have only a few minutes. You must kneel near me, so that no one will notice us. She proceeded to a side aisle, after saluting the host on the high altar. Took a footstool, and kneeled down. Charch took one beside it, and when they were in the attitude of prayer, he said, Thank you, thank you, I adore you. I should like to tell you constantly how I began to love you, how I was conquered the first time I saw you. Will you permit me some day to unburden my heart, to explain all to you? She replied between her fingers, I am mad to let you speak to me thus, mad to have come hither, mad to do as I have done, to let you believe that this adventure can have any results, forget it, and never speak to me of it again. She paused. He replied, I expect nothing, I hope nothing, I love you, whatever you may do, I will repeat it so often, with so much force and ardour, that you will finally understand me, and reply, I love you too. He felt her frame tremble, as she involuntarily repeated, I love you too. He was overcome by astonishment. Oh my God! she continued incoherently. Should I say that to you? I feel guilty, despicable, I who have two daughters, but I cannot, cannot. I never thought it was stronger than I. Listen, listen, I have never loved any other but you. I swear it, I have loved you a year in secret. I have suffered and struggled. I can no longer. I love you. She wept and her bowed form was shaken by the violence of her emotion. Jarge murmured, give me your hand that I may touch, may press it. She slowly took her hand from her face. He seized it, saying, I should like to drink your tears. Placing the hand he held upon his heart, he asked, do you feel it beat? In a few moments the man Jarge had noticed before passed by them. When Madame Walter heard him near her, she snatched her fingers from Jarge's clasp and covered her face with them. After the man had disappeared, Durois asked, hoping for another place of meeting than La Trinité. Where shall I see you tomorrow? She did not reply. She seemed transformed into a statue of prayer. He continued, shall I meet you tomorrow at Pâques Monsoum? She turned a livid face toward him and said unsteadyly, Leave me, leave me now, go, go away for only five minutes. I suffer too much near you. I want to pray. Go, let me pray alone, five minutes. Let me ask God to pardon me, to save me. Leave me, five minutes. She looked so pitiful that he rose without a word and asked with some hesitation, shall I return presently? She nodded her head in the affirmative and he left her. She tried to pray. She closed her eyes in order not to see Jarge. She could not pray. She could only think of him. She would rather have died than have fallen thus. She had never been weak. She murmured several words of supplication. She knew that all was over, but the struggle was in vain. She did not, however, wish to yield, but she felt her weakness. Someone approached with a rapid step. She turned her head. It was a priest. She rose, ran toward him, and, clasping her hands, she cried, Save me, save me. He stopped in surprise. What do you want, madam? I want you to save me, have pity on me. If you do not help me, I am lost. He gazed at her, wondering if she were mad. What can I do for you? The priest was a young man somewhat inclined to corpulence. Receive my confession, said she, and counsel me, sustain me, tell me what to do. He replied, I confess every Saturday from three to six. Seizing his arm, she repeated, No, now, at once, at once, it is necessary. He is here, in this church, he is waiting for me. The priest asked, Who is waiting for you? A man who will be my ruin if you do not save me. I can no longer escape him. I am too weak, too weak. She fell upon her knees sobbing. Father, have pity upon me, save me for God's sake, save me. She seized his gown that he might not escape her, while he uneasily glanced around on all sides to see if anyone noticed the woman at his feet. Finally, seeing that he could not free himself from her, he said, Rise, I have the key to the confessional with me. Durois, having walked around the choir, was sauntering down the nave when he met the stout bold man wandering about, and he wondered, What can he be doing here? The man slackened his pace and looked at church with the evident desire to speak to him. When he was near him, he bowed and said politely, I beg your pardon, sir, for disturbing you, but can you tell me when this church was built? Durois replied, I do not know. I think it is twenty or twenty-five years. It is the first time I have been here. I have never seen it before. Feeling interested in the stranger, the journalist continued, It seems to me that you are examining into it very carefully. The man replied, I am not visiting the church. I have an appointment. He paused and in a few moments added, It is very warm outside. Durois looked at him and suddenly thought that he resembled Faistier. Are you from the provinces? he asked. Yes, I am from Rennes. And did you, sir, enter this church from curiosity? No, I am waiting for a lady. And with a smile upon his lips he walked away. He did not find Madame Walter in the place in which she had left her, and was surprised. She had gone. He was furious. Then he thought she might be looking for him, and he walked around the church. Not finding her, he returned and seated himself on the chair she had occupied, hoping that she would rejoin him there. Soon he heard the sound of a voice. He saw no one, whence came it. He rose to examine into it, and saw in a chapel nearby the doors of the confessionals. He drew nearer, in order to see the woman whose voice he heard. He recognized Madame Walter. She was confessing. At first he felt a desire to seize her by the arm and drag her away. Then he seated himself near by, and bided his time. He waited quite a while. At length Madame Walter rose, turned, saw him, and came toward him. Her face was cold and severe. Sir, said she, I beseech you not to accompany me, not to follow me, and not to come to my house alone. You will not be admitted. Adieu." And she walked away in a dignified manner. He permitted her to go, because it was against his principles to force matters. As the priest in his turn issued from the confessional, he advanced toward him and said, If you did not wear a gown, I would give you a sound thrashing. Then he turned upon his heel and left the church, whistling. In the doorway he met the stout gentleman. When durois passed him, they bowed. The journalist then repaired to the office of la vie française. As he entered, he saw by the clerk's busy air that something of importance was going on, and he hastened to the manager's room. The latter exclaimed joyfully as durois entered. What luck here is Bellamy! He stopped in confusion and apologized. I beg your pardon, I am very much bothered by circumstances, and then I hear my wife and daughter call you Bellamy from morning until night, and I have acquired the habit myself. Are you displeased? George laughed, not at all. Mr. Walter continued, Very well, then I will call you Bellamy as everyone else does. Great changes have taken place. The ministry has been overthrown. Marrois to form a new cabinet. He has chosen General Boutin-Dak as minister of war, and our friend La Roche-Matthieu as minister of foreign affairs. We shall all be very busy. I must write a leading article, a simple declaration of principles. Then I must have something interesting on the Morocco question. You must attend to that. Durois reflected a moment, and then replied, I have it. I will give you an article on the political situation of our African colony. And he proceeded to prepare Mr. Walter an outline of his work, which was nothing but a modification of his first article on souvenirs of a soldier in Africa. The manager, having read the article, said, It is perfect. You are a treasure, many thanks. Durois returned home to dinner, delighted with his day, not withstanding his failure at La Trinité. His wife was awaiting him anxiously. She exclaimed on seeing him. You know that La Roche is minister of foreign affairs. Yes, I have just written an article on that subject. How? Do you remember the first article we wrote on souvenirs of a soldier in Africa? Well, I revised and corrected it for the occasion. She smiled. Ah, yes, that will do very well. At that moment the servant entered with a dispatch containing these words without any signature. I was beside myself, pardon me, and come to Morro at four o'clock to pack Monsou. He understood the message, and with a joyful heart slipped the telegram into his pocket. During dinner he repeated the words to himself, as he interpreted them they meant. I yield, I am yours, where and when you will. He laughed. Madeline asked, what is it? Nothing much. I was thinking of a comical old priest I met a short while since. Durois arrived at the appointed hour the following day. The benches were all occupied by people trying to escape from the heat, and by nurses with their charges. He found Madame Walter in a little antique ruin. She seemed unhappy and anxious. When he had greeted her she said, how many people there are in the garden? He took advantage of the occasion. Yes, that is true. Shall we go somewhere else? Where? It matters not where. For a drive, for instance. You can lower the shade on your side, and you will be well concealed. Yes, I should like that better. I shall die of fear here. Very well, meet me in five minutes at the gate which opens on the boulevard. I will fetch a cab. When they were seated in the cab, she asked, where did you tell the coachman to drive to? Charles replied, do not worry, he knows. He had given the man his address on the rue de Constantinople. Madame Walter said to Durois, you cannot imagine how I suffer on your account, how I am tormented, tortured. Yesterday I was harsh, but I wanted to escape you at any price. I was afraid to remain alone with you. Have you forgiven me? He pressed her hand. Yes, yes, why should I not forgive you, loving you as I do? She looked at him with a beseeching air. Listen, you must promise to respect me, otherwise I could never see you again. At first he did not reply. A smile lurked beneath his moustache. Then he murmured, I am your slave. She told him how she had discovered that she loved him on learning that he was to marry Madeleine Forrestier. Suddenly she ceased speaking. The courage stopped. Durois opened the door. Where are we? she asked. He replied, alight and enter the house. We shall be undisturbed there. Where are we? she repeated. At my rooms they are my bachelor apartments, which I have rented for a few days, that we might have a corner in which to meet. She clung to the cab, startled at the thought of a tête à tête, and stammered, no, no, I do not want to. He said firmly, I swear to respect you. Come, you see that people are looking at us, that a crowd is gathering around us. Make haste. And he repeated, I swear to respect you. She was terror-stricken and rushed into the house. She was about to ascend the stairs. He seized her arm. It is here on the ground floor. When he had closed the door, he showered kisses upon her neck, her eyes, her lips. In spite of herself, she submitted to his caresses, and even returned them, hiding her face and murmuring in broken accents. I swear that I have never had a lover. While he thought, that is a matter of indifference to me. End of Chapter 12 Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmea Surrey. Chapter 13 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 13 Madame de Marelle Part 1 Autumn had come. The Durois had spent the entire summer in Paris, leading a vigorous campaign in la vie française, in favour of the new cabinet. Although it was only the early part of October, the chamber was about to resume its sessions. Four affairs in Morocco were becoming menacing. The celebrated speech made by Count du Lambert Sarasin had furnished Durois with material for ten articles on the Algerian colony. La vie française had gained considerable prestige by its connection with the power. It was the first to give political news, and every newspaper in Paris and the provinces sought information from it. It was quoted, feared, and began to be respected. It was no longer the organ of a group of political intrigues, but the avowed mouthpiece of the cabinet. La Roche Mathieu was the soul of the journal, and Durois his speaking trumpet. Monsieur Walter retired discreetly into the background. Madlène Salon became an influential centre in which several members of the cabinet met every week. The President of the Council had even dined there twice. The Minister of Foreign Affairs was quite at home at the Durois. He came at any hour, bringing dispatches or information, which he dictated either to the husband or wife as if they were his secretaries. After the Minister had departed, when Durois was alone with Madlène, he uttered threats and insinuations against the parvenues, as he called him. His wife simply shrugged her shoulder scornfully, repeating, Become a minister, and you can do the same, until then be silent. His reply was, No one knows of what I am capable, perhaps they will find out some day. She answered philosophically, He who lives will see. The morning of the reopening of the chamber, Durois lunched with Larache Mathieu in order to receive instructions from him, before the session, for a political article the following day in La vie française, which was to be a sort of official declaration of the plans of the cabinet. After listening to Larache Mathieu's eloquence for some time, with jealousy in his heart, Durois sauntered slowly toward the office to commence his work, for he had nothing to do until four o'clock, at which hour he was to meet Madame de Morel at Rue de Constantinople. They met there regularly twice a week, Mondays and Wednesdays. On entering the office he was handed a sealed dispatch. It was from Madame Walter and Red Dass. It is absolutely necessary that I should see you today. It is important. Expect me at two o'clock at Rue de Constantinople. I can render you a great service, your friend until death, Virginie. He exclaimed, Heaven's water bore, and left the office at once too much annoyed to work. For six weeks he had ineffectually tried to break with Madame Walter. At three successive meetings she had been a prey to remorse, and had overwhelmed her lover with reproaches. Angered by those scenes, and already weary of the dramatic woman, he had simply avoided her, hoping that the affair would end in that way. But she persecuted him with her affection, summoned him at all times by telegrams to meet her at street corners in shops or public gardens. She was very different from what he had fancied she would be, trying to attract him by actions ridiculous in one of her age. It disgusted him to hear her call him my rat, my dog, my treasure, my jewel, my bluebird, and to see her assume a kind of childish modesty when he approached. It seemed to him that being the mother of a family, a woman of the world, she should have been more sedate, and have yielded, with tears if she chose, but with the tears of a dido and knot of a Juliet. He never heard her call him little one, or baby, without wishing to reply, old woman, up to take his hat with an oath and leave the room. At first they had often met at Rue de Constantinople, but Durois, who feared an encounter with Madame de Marrelle, invented a thousand and one pretexts in order to avoid that rendez-vous. He was therefore obliged to either lunch or dine at her house daily, when she would clasp his hand under cover of the table, or offer him her lips behind the doors. Above all, Georges enjoyed being thrown so much in contact with Suzanne. She made sport of everything and everybody, with cutting appropriateness. At length, however, he began to feel an unconquerable repugnance to the love lavished upon him by the mother. He could no longer see her, hear her, nor think of her without anger. He ceased calling upon her, replying to her letters and yielding to her appeals. She finally divined that he no longer loved her, and the discovery caused her unutterable anguish. But she watched him, followed him in a cab with drawn blinds to the office, to his house, in the hope of seeing him pass by. He would have liked to strangle her, but he controlled himself on account of his position on la vie française, and he endeavored by means of coldness, and even at times harsh words, to make her comprehend that all was at an end between them. Then, too, she persisted in devising ruses for summoning him to rue de Constantinople, and he was in constant fear that the two women would someday meet face to face at the door. On the other hand, his affection for Madame de Marelle had increased during the summer. They were both bohemians by nature. They took excursions together to Argenteuil, Bougival, Maison and Poissy. And when he was forced to return and dine at Madame Walters, he detested his mature mistress more thoroughly, as he recalled the youthful one he had just left. He was congratulating himself upon having freed himself almost entirely from the former's clutches when he received the telegram above mentioned. He reread it as he walked along. He thought, What does that old owl want with me? I am certain she has nothing to tell me, except that she adores me. However, I will see. Perhaps there is some truth in it. Clotilde is coming at four. I must get rid of the other one at three or soon after, provided they do not meet. What jades women are! As he uttered those words, he was reminded of his wife, who was the only one who did not torment him. She lived by his side and seemed to love him very much at the proper time. For she never permitted anything to interfere with her ordinary occupations of life. He strolled toward the appointed place of meeting, mentally cursing Madame Walters. I will receive her in such a manner that she will not tell me anything. First of all, I will give her to understand that I shall never cross her threshold again. He entered to await her. She soon arrived and seeing him exclaimed, Ah, you received my dispatch! How fortunate! Yes, I received it at the office, just as I was setting out for the chamber. What do you want? he asked ungraciously. She had raised her veil in order to kiss him, and approached him timidly and humbly, with the air of a beaten dog. How unkind you are to me! How harshly you speak! What have I done to you? You do not know what I have suffered for you! He muttered, are you going to begin that again? She stood near him awaiting a smile, a word of encouragement, to cast herself into his arms, and whispered, You need not of one me to treat me thus. You might have left me virtuous and happy. Do you remember what you said to me in the church, and how you forced me to enter this house? And now this is the way you speak to me! Receive me! My God! My God! How you maltreat me! He stamped his foot and said violently, Enough be silent! I can never see you a moment without hearing that refrain. You were mature when you gave yourself to me. I am much obliged to you. I am infinitely grateful. But I need not be tied to your apron strings until I die. You have a husband, and I a wife. Neither of us is free. It was all a caprice, and now it is at an end. She said, How brutal you are! How coarse and villainous! No, I was no longer a young girl, but I had never loved, never wavered in my dignity. He interrupted her. I know it. You have told me that twenty times, but you have had two children. She drew back as if she had been struck. Oh, Josh! And pressing her hands to her heart, she burst into tears. When she began to weep, he took his hat. Ah, you are crying again! Good evening! Is it for this that you sent for me? She took a step forward in order to bar the way, and drawing a handkerchief from her pocket, she wiped her eyes. Her voice grew steadier. No, I came to give you political news, to give you the means of earning fifty thousand francs, or even more, if you wish to. Suddenly softened, he asked, How? By chance, last evening, I heard a conversation between my husband and La Roche. Walter advised the minister not to let you into the secret, for you would expose it. Durois placed his hat upon a chair, and listened attentively. They are going to take possession of Morocco. Why, I lunched with La Roche this morning, and he told me the cabinet's plans. No, my dear, they have deceived you, because they feared their secret would be made known. Sit down, said Josh. He sank into an armchair, and she drew up a stool, and took her seat at his feet. She continued, As I think of you continually, I pay attention to what is talked of around me, and she proceeded to tell him what she had heard, relative to the expedition to Tangiers, which had been decided upon the day that La Roche assumed his office. She told him how they had little by little bought up, through agents who aroused no suspicions, the Moroccan loan, which had fallen to sixty-four or sixty-five francs. How, when the expedition was entered upon, the French government would guarantee the debt, and their friends would make 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 La Roche, 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 Walther's bank. She pointed out to him that he had led the political campaign in La Vie Française, 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 Walther 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, Josh, I can no longer even embrace you. No, not today. 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 today. 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. At you, 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. End of chapter 13 part 1 Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey Chapter 13 part 2 of Bellamych or The History of a Scoundrel This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen Bellamych or The History of a Scoundrel by Guy de Moupasson Translator Unknown Chapter 13 Madame de Morel Part 2 Du Roi 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 sweet meat. 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 Madame Walter. She too called him darling, little one, dearest, and the words seemed to him sweet and caressing from her lips, while from Madame Walter they irritated and nauseated him. Suddenly he remembered the seventy-thousand francs he was going to make, and bluntly interrupting Madame de Marelle's chatter. He said, Listen, my darling, I am going to entrust 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 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, Clue, 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 grey 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 Madame Walther, 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 jeweller's to look at a chronometer, which he had wanted for some time, and which would cost 1,800 francs. He thought with joy, if I make my 70,000 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 Walther again, and writing his article. He turned toward home. He reached Rue-Brouill, when he paused. He had forgotten to inquire for count de Vaudrec, who lived on Chaucé-Dentin. He retraced his steps with a light heart, thinking of a thousand things, of the fortune he would make, of that rascal of a l'arrache, and of old Walther. He was not at all uneasy as to Clotilde's anger, knowing that she would soon forgive him. When he asked the janeter of the house in which count de Vaudrec lived, how is Monsieur 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. Duhois was so startled that 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. Charch, 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 Monsieur 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 Madlène came home. Charch 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 Charch's 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 Vodrak 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 Madame Walter's promised 70,000 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 LaRache 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. End of Chapter 13 Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey Chapter 14 of Bellamyche or the History of a Scoundrel This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. Bellamyche or the History of a Scoundrel by Guy de Moupasson Translator Unknown Chapter 14 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 the coffin, and by Count de Vaudrec's nephew, who shook hands and returned salutations. When Georges Durois and his wife left the church, they walked along side by side on their way home. They did not speak. They were both preoccupied. At length Georges said, as if talking to himself, truly it is very astonishing. Madeline asked, What, my friend? That Vaudrec left as nothing. She blushed and said, Why should he leave us anything? Had he any reason for doing so? Then after several moments of silence she continued, Perhaps there is a will at a lawyer's. We should not know of it. He replied, That is possible, for he was our best friend. He dined with us twice a week. He came at any time. He was at home with us. He loved you as a father. He had no family, no children, no brothers nor sisters, only a nephew. Yes, there should be a will. I would not care for much, a remembrance to prove that he thought of us, that he recognized the affection we felt for him. We should certainly have a mark of friendship. She said with a pensive and indifferent air, It is possible that there is a will. When they entered the house, the footman handed Madeline a letter. She opened it and offered it to her husband. Office of Monsieur la Manœur, Notary, 17 Rue des Vosges Madame kindly call at my office at a quarter past two o'clock, Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday, on business which concerns you. Yours respectfully, la Manœur. George in his turn colored. That is as it should be. It is strange, however, that he should write to you and not to me, for I am the head of the family legally. Shall we go at once? she asked. Yes, I should like to. After luncheon they set out for Monsieur la Manœur's office. The Notary was a short, round man, round all over. His head looked like a ball, fastened to another ball, which was supported by legs so short that they too almost resembled balls. He bowed as Durois and his wife were shown into his office, pointed to seats, and said, turning to Madeline, Madame, I sent for you in order to inform you of Count de Vaudrec's will, which will be of interest to you. George could not help muttering. I suspected that. The Notary continued. I shall read you the document which is very brief. I, the undersigned, Paul-Emile Cyprien-Gontran, Count de Vaudrec, sound in body and mind, here express my last wishes. As death might take me away at any moment, I wish to take the precaution of drawing up my will, to be deposited with Monsieur la Manœur. Having no direct heirs, I bequeath all my fortune, comprising stocks and bonds for six hundred thousand francs, and landed property for five hundred thousand, to Madame Claire Madeline Durois, unconditionally. I beg her to accept that gift from a dead friend, as a proof of devoted, profound, and respectful affection. The Notary said that is all. That document bears the date of August last, and took the place of one of the same nature, made two years ago, in the name of Madame Claire Madeline Forestier. I have the first will, which would prove, in case of contestation on the part of the family, that Count de Vaudrec had not changed his mind. Madeline cast down her eyes. Her cheeks were pale. Georges nervously twisted his moustache. The Notary continued after a moment's pause. It is, of course, understood that Madame cannot accept that legacy without your consent. Durois rose and said shortly. I asked time for reflection. The Notary smiled, bowed, and replied pleasantly. I comprehend the scruples which cause you to hesitate. I may add that Monsieur de Vaudrec's nephew, who was informed this morning of his uncle's last wishes, expresses himself as ready to respect them, if he be given one hundred thousand francs. In my opinion the will cannot be broken, but a lawsuit would cause a sensation, which you would probably like to avoid. The world often judges uncharitably. Can you let me have your reply before Saturday? Georges bowed, and together with his wife left the office. When they arrived home, Durois closed the door and, throwing his hat on the bed, asked, what were the relations between you and Vaudrec? Madeline, who was taking off her veil, turned around with a shudder. Between us? Yes, between you and him. One does not leave one's entire fortune to a woman, unless she trembled, and could scarcely take out the pins which fastened the transparent tissue. Then she stammered in an agitated manner. You are mad! You did not think he would leave you anything! Georges replied, emphasizing each word. Yes, he could have left me something. Me, your husband, his friend. But not you, my wife, and his friend. The distinction is material in the eyes of the world. Madeline gazed at him fixedly. It seems to me that the world would have considered a legacy from him to you very strange. Why? Because she hesitated, then continued. Because you are my husband, because you were not well acquainted, because I have been his friend so long, because his first will, made during Forestier's lifetime, was already in my favour. Georges began to pace to and fro. He finally said, you cannot accept that. She answered indifferently, very well. It is not necessary, then, to wait until Saturday. You can inform Monsieur Lamanard at once. He paused before her, and they gazed into one another's eyes, as if by that mutant, ardent interrogation they were trying to examine each other's consciences. In a low voice, he murmured, come, confess your relations. She shrugged her shoulders. You are absurd. Boudrec was very fond of me, very, but there was nothing more, never. He stamped his foot. You lie, it is not possible. She replied calmly, it is so, nevertheless. He resumed his pacing to and fro, then pausing again, he said, explain to me, then, why he left all his fortune to you. She did so with a nonchalant air. It is very simple. As you said just now, we were his only friends, or rather I was his only friend, for he knew me when a child. My mother was a governess in his father's house. He came here continually, and as he had no legal heirs, he selected me. It is possible that he even loved me a little, but what woman has never been loved thus? He brought me flowers every Monday. You were never surprised at that, and he never brought you any. Today he leaves me his fortune for the same reason, because he had no one else to leave it to. It would, on the other hand, have been extremely surprising if he had left it to you. Why? What are you to him? She spoke so naturally and so calmly that Josh hesitated before replying. It makes no difference. We cannot accept that bequest under those conditions. Everyone would talk about it and laugh at me. My fellow journalists are already too much disposed to be jealous of me and to attack me. I have to be especially careful of my honour and my reputation. I cannot permit my wife to accept a legacy of that kind, from a man whom rumour has already assigned to her as her lover. Vochestier might perhaps have tolerated that, but I shall not. She replied gently, Very well, my dear, we will not take it. It will be a million less in our pockets, that is all. Josh paced the room and uttered his thoughts aloud, thus speaking to his wife without addressing her. Yes, a million, so much the worse. He did not think when making his will what a breach of etiquette he was committing. He did not realise in what a false, ridiculous position he was placing me. He should have left half of it to me. That would have made matters right. He seated himself, crossed his legs, and began to twist the ends of his moustache, as was his custom when annoyed, uneasy, or pondering over a weighty question. Madlène took up a piece of embroidery upon which she worked occasionally, and said, I have nothing to say. You must decide. It was some time before he replied. Then he said hesitatingly, The world would never understand how it was that Vaudrec constituted you his sole heiress, and that I allowed it. To accept that legacy would be to avow guilty relations on your part, and an infamous lack of self-respect on mine. Do you know how the acceptance of it might be interpreted? We should have to find some adroit means of palliating it. We should have to give people to suppose, for instance, that he divided his fortune between us, giving half to you and half to me. She said, I do not see how that can be done, since there is a formal will. He replied, Oh, that is very simple. We have no children. You can therefore deed me part of the inheritance. In that way we can silence malignant tongues. She answered somewhat impatiently, I do not see how we can silence malignant tongues, since the will is there, signed by Vaudrec. He said angrily, Do you need to exhibit it, or affix it to the door? You are absurd. We will say that the fortune was left us jointly by Count de Vaudrec. That is all. You cannot moreover accept the legacy without my authority. I will only consent on the condition of a partition, which will prevent me from becoming a laughing stock for the world. She glanced sharply at him. As you will, I am ready. He seemed to hesitate again. Rose paced the floor, and avoiding his wife's piercing gaze, he said, No, decidedly no. Perhaps it would be better to renounce it altogether. It would be more correct, more honourable. From the nature of the bequest even charitably disposed people would suspect illicit relations. He paused before Madeleine. If you like, my darling, I will return to Monsieur Lamanard's alone, to consult him, and to explain the matter to him. I will tell him of my scruples, and I will add that we have agreed to divide it in order to avoid any scandal. From the moment that I accept a portion of the inheritance, it will be evident that there is nothing wrong. I can say my wife accepts it, because I, her husband, accept. I, who am the best judge of what she can do without compromising herself. Madeleine simply murmured, As you wish. He continued, Yes, it will be as clear as day if that is done. We inherit a fortune from a friend who wished to make no distinction between us, thereby showing that his liking for you was purely platonic. You may be sure that if he had given us a thought, that is what he would have done. He did not reflect. He did not foresee the consequences. As you said just now, he offered you flowers every week. He left you his wealth. She interrupted him with a shade of annoyance. I understand. No more explanations are necessary. Go to the notary at once. He stammered in confusion. You are right. I will go. He took his hat, and as he was leaving the room, he asked, Shall I try to compromise with the nephew for fifty thousand francs? She replied haughtily. No, give him the hundred thousand francs he demands, and take them from my share, if you wish. Abashed he murmured. No, we will share it. After deducting fifty thousand francs each, we will still have a million net. Then he added, until later, my little mad. He proceeded to the notaries to explain the arrangement decided upon, which he claimed originated with his wife. The following day they signed a deed for five hundred thousand francs, which Madlène Dior gave up to her husband. On leaving the office, as it was pleasant, Gersh proposed that they take a stroll along the boulevard. He was very tender, very careful of her, and laughed joyously while she remained pensive and grave. It was a cold autumn day. The pedestrians seemed in haste and walked along rapidly. Dior led his wife to the shop, into the windows of which he had so often gazed at the coveted chronometer. Shall I buy you some trinket? he asked. She replied indifferently. As you like, they entered the shop. What would you prefer, a necklace, a bracelet, or earrings? The sight of the brilliant gems made her eyes sparkle in spite of herself, as she glanced at the cases filled with costly baubles. Suddenly she exclaimed, there is a lovely bracelet. It was a chain very unique in shape, every link of which was set with a different stone. Gersh asked, how much is that bracelet? The jeweler replied, three thousand francs, sir. If you will let me have it for two thousand five hundred, I will take it. The man hesitated, then replied, no, sir, it is impossible. Dior said, see here, throw in this chronometer at fifteen hundred francs. That makes four thousand, and I will pay cash. If you do not agree, I will go somewhere else. The jeweler finally yielded. Very well, sir. The journalist, after leaving his address, said, you can have my initials, G. R. C., interlaced below a baron's crown, engraved on the chronometer. Madlen, in surprise, smiled, and when they left the shop, she took his arm quite affectionately. She thought him very shrewd and clever. He was right. Now that he had a fortune, he must have a title. They passed the Vaudville on their way, and entering secured a box. Then they repaired to Madame de Marrelles at Gersh's suggestion to invite her to spend the evening with them. Gersh rather dreaded the first meeting with Clotilde, but she did not seem to bear him any malice, or even to remember their disagreement. The dinner which they took at a restaurant was excellent, and the evening altogether enjoyable. Gersh and Madlen returned home late. The gas was extinguished, and in order to light the way, the journalist from time to time struck a match. On reaching the landing on the first floor, they saw their reflections in the mirror. Duhois raised his hand with the lighted match in it, in order to distinguish their images more clearly, and said with a triumphant smile. The millionaires are passing by. End of chapter 14. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelnair Surrey. Chapter 15 part 1 of Bellamyche or the History of a Scoundrel. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. Bellamyche or the History of a Scoundrel by Guy de Moupasson. Translator unknown. Chapter 15. Suzanne part 1. Morocco had been conquered. France, the mistress of Tangiers, had guaranteed the debt of the annexed country. It was rumoured that two ministers, L'Archmatieu, being one of them, had made 20 millions. As for Walter, in a few days he had become one of the masters of the world, a financier more omnipotent than a king. He was no longer the Jew Walter, the director of a bank, the proprietor of a yellow newspaper. He was Monsieur Walter, the wealthy Israelite, and he wished to prove it. Knowing the straightened circumstances of the Prince de Carlesbourg, who owned one of the fairest mansions en rue du Fort Bourg Saint-Honoré, he proposed to buy it. He offered three million francs for it. The Prince, tempted by the sum, accepted his offer. The next day Walter took possession of his new dwelling. Then another idea occurred to him, an idea of conquering all Paris, an idea à la Bonaparte. At that time everyone was raving over a painting by the Hungarian Karl Markovic, exhibited by Jacques Lenoble, and representing Christ walking on the water. Art critics enthusiastically declared it to be the most magnificent painting of the age. Walter bought it, thereby causing entire Paris to talk of him, to envy him, to censure or approve his action. He issued an announcement in the papers that everyone was invited to come on a certain evening to see it. Du Hois was jealous of Monsieur Walter's success. He had thought himself wealthy with the 500,000 francs extorted from his wife, and now he felt poor as he compared his paltry fortune with the shower of millions around him. His envious rage increased daily. He cherished ill will toward everyone, toward the Walters, even toward his wife, and above all toward the man who had deceived him, made use of him, and who dined twice a week at his house. Charles acted as his secretary, agent, mouthpiece, and when he wrote at his dictation, he felt a mad desire to strangle him. La Roche reigned supreme in the Durois household, having taken the place of Count de Vaudrec. He spoke to the servants as if he were their master. Charles submitted to it all, like a dog which wishes to bite and dares not. But he was often harsh and brutal to Madeleine, who merely shrugged her shoulders and treated him as one would a fretful child. She was surprised, too, at his constant ill humour, and said, I do not understand you, you are always complaining. Your position is excellent. His only reply was to turn his back upon her. He declared that he would not attend Monsieur Walters' fet, that he would not cross the miserable Jew's threshold. For two months Madame Walters had written to him daily, beseeching him to come to see her, to appoint a meeting where he would, in order that she might give him the seventy thousand francs she had made for him. He did not reply, and threw her letters into the fire. Not that he would have refused to accept his share of the profits, but he enjoyed treating her scornfully, trampling her under foot. She was too wealthy. He would be inflexible. The day of the exhibition of the picture, as Madeleine chided him for not going, he replied, leave me in peace, I shall remain at home. After they had dined, he said suddenly, I suppose I shall have to go through with it, get ready quickly. I shall be ready in fifteen minutes, she said. As they entered the courtyard of the Hotel de Calzburg, it was one blaze of light. A magnificent carpet was spread upon the steps leading to the entrance, and upon each one stood a man in livery, as rigid as marble. Duois's heart was torn with jealousy. He and his wife ascended the steps, and gave their wraps to the footmen who approached them. At the entrance to the drawing-room, two children, one in pink, the other in blue, handed bouquets to the ladies. The rooms were already well filled. The majority of the ladies were in street costumes, a proof that they came thither as they would go to any exhibition. The few who intended to remain to the ball, which was to follow, wore evening dress. Madame Welter, surrounded by friends, stood in the second salon and received the visitors. Many did not know her, and walked through the rooms as if in a museum, without paying any heed to the host and hostess. When Virginie perceived Duois, she grew livid, and made a movement toward him. Then she paused, and waited for him to advance. He bowed ceremoniously, while Maglène greeted her effusively. Judge left his wife near Madame Welter, and mingled with the guests. Five drawing-rooms opened one into the other. They were carpeted with rich oriental rugs, and upon their walls hung paintings by the old masters. As he made his way through the throng, someone seized his arm, and a fresh youthful voice whispered in his ear. Ah, here you are at last! Naughty Bellamy, why do we never see you any more? It was Suzanne Welter, with her azure eyes and wealth of golden hair. He was delighted to see her, and apologized as they shook hands. I have been so busy for two months that I have been nowhere. She replied gravely, that is too bad. You have grieved us deeply, for Mama and I adore you. As for myself, I cannot do without you. If you are not here, I am bored to death. You see, I tell you so frankly, so that you will not remain away like that any more. Give me your arm. I will show you Christ walking on the water myself. It is at the very end behind the conservatory. Papa put it back there, so that everyone would be obliged to go through the rooms. It is astonishing how proud Papa is of this house. As they walked through the rooms, all turned to look at that handsome man and that bewitching girl. A well-known painter said, there is a fine couple. Josh thought, if my position had been made, I would have married her. Why did I never think of it? How could I have taken the other one? What folly! One always acts too hastily. One never reflects sufficiently. And longing, bitter, longing possessed him, corrupting all his pleasure, rendering life odious. Suzanne said, you must come often, Bellamy. We can do anything we like now, Papa is rich. He replied, oh, you will soon marry. Some prince, perhaps, and we shall never meet any more. She cried frankly, oh, oh, I shall not. I shall choose someone I love very dearly. I am rich enough for two. He smiled ironically and said, I give you six months. By that time you will be Madame la Marquise, Madame la Duchesse, or Madame la Princesse, and you will look down upon me, mademoiselle. She pretended to be angry, patted his arm with her fan, and vowed that she would marry according to the dictates of her heart. He replied, we shall see. You are too wealthy. You too have inherited some money. Barely twenty thousand leave us a year. It is a mere pittance nowadays. But your wife has the same. Yes, we have a million together, forty thousand a year. We cannot even keep a carriage on that. They had, in the meantime, breached the last drawing-room, and before them lay the conservatory with its rare shrubs and plants. To their left, under a dome of palms, was a marble basin, on the edges of which four large swans of delftware emitted the water from their beaks. The journalist stopped and said to himself, This is luxury. This is the kind of house in which to live. Why can I not have one? His companion did not speak. He looked at her and thought once more, If I only had taken her. Suddenly Suzanne seemed to awaken from her reverie. Come, said she, dragging George through a group which barred their way, and turning him to the right. Before him, surrounded by verdure on all sides, was the picture. One had to look closely at it in order to understand it. It was a grand work, the work of a master. One of those triumphs of art, which furnishes one for years with food for thought. Duois gazed at it for some time, and then turned away to make room for others. Suzanne's tiny hand still rested upon his arm. She asked, Would you like a glass of champagne? We will go to the buffet. We shall find papa there. Slowly they traversed the crowded rooms. Suddenly George heard a voice say, That is L'Arche and Madame Duois. He turned and saw his wife passing upon the minister's arm. They were talking in low tones and smiling into each other's eyes. He fancied he saw some people whisper as they gazed at them, and he felt a desire to fall upon those two beings and smite them to the earth. His wife was making a laughing stock of him. Who was she? A shrewd little parva knew that was all. He could never make his way with a wife who compromised him. She would be a stumbling block in his path. Ah, if he had foreseen, if he had known, he would have played for higher stakes. What a brilliant match he might have made with little Suzanne. How could he have been so blind? They reached the dining-room with its marble columns, and walls hung with old goblins tapestry. Walter spied his editor, and hastened to shake hands. He was beside himself with joy. Have you seen everything? Say, Suzanne, have you shown him everything? What a lot of people are! Have you seen Prince de Gersh? He just drank a glass of punch. Then he pounced upon Senator Risola and his wife. A gentleman greeted Suzanne, a tall, slender man with fair whiskers and a worldly air. Gersh heard her call him Marquis de Casol, and he was suddenly inspired with jealousy. How long had she known him? Since she had become wealthy, no doubt. He saw in him a possible suitor. Someone seized his arm. It was Norbert de Varenne. The old poet said, This is what they call amusing themselves. After a while they will dance, then they will retire, and the young girls will be satisfied. Take some champagne, it is excellent. Gersh scarcely heard his words. He was looking for Suzanne, who had gone off with the Marquis de Casol. He left Norbert de Varenne abruptly, and went in pursuit of the young girl. The thirsty crowd stopped him. When he had made his way through it, he found himself face to face with Monsieur and Madame de Marrelle. He had often met the wife, but he had not met the husband for some time. The latter grasped both of his hands, and thanked him for the message he had sent him by Clotilde, relative to the stocks. Duois replied, In exchange for that service, I shall take your wife, or rather offer her my arm. Husband and wife should always be separated. End of Chapter 15 Part 1 Chapter 15 Part 2 of Bellamyche or the History of a Scoundrel This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. Bellamyche or the History of a Scoundrel by Guy de Moupasson. Translator Unknown Chapter 15 Suzanne Part 2 Monsieur de Marrelle bowed. Very well, if I lose you, we can meet her again in an hour. The two young people disappeared in the crowd, followed by the husband. Madame de Marrelle said, There are two girls who will have twenty or thirty millions each, and Suzanne is pretty in the bargain. He made no reply. His own thought coming from the lips of another irritated him. He took Clotilde to see the painting. As they crossed the conservatory, he saw his wife seated near L'Arrache Mathieu, both of them almost hidden behind a group of plants. They seemed to say, We are having a meeting in public, for we do not care for the world's opinion. Madame de Marrelle admired Karl Malkovich's painting, and they turned to repair to the other rooms. They were separated from Monsieur de Marrelle. He asked, Is Lorraine still vexed with me? Yes, she refuses to see you, and goes away when you are mentioned. He did not reply. The child's sudden enmity grieved and annoyed him. Suzanne met them at a door, and cried, Oh, here you are! Now, bella me, you are going to be left alone, for I shall take Clotilde to see my room. And the two women glided through the strong. At that moment a voice at his side murmured, Châche! It was Madame Walter. She continued in a low voice. How cruel you are! How needlessly you inflict suffering upon me! I bade Suzanne take that woman away, that I might have a word with you. Listen, I must speak with you this evening, or you do not know what I shall do. Go into the conservatory. You will find a door to the left, through which you can reach the garden. Follow the walk directly in front of you. At the end of it you will see an arbor. Expect me in ten minutes. If you do not meet me, I swear I will cause a scandal here at once. He replied haughtily. Very well I shall be at the place you named in ten minutes. But Chacrival detained him. When he reached the alley he saw Madame Walter in front of him. She cried, Oh, here you are! Do you wish to kill me? He replied calmly. I beseech you none of that, or I shall leave you at once. Throwing her arms around his neck, she exclaimed, What have I done to you that you should treat me so? He tried to push her away. You twisted your hair around my coat-buttons the last time we met, and it caused trouble between my wife and myself. She shook her head. Your wife would not care. It was one of your mistresses who made a scene. I have none. Indeed. Why do you never come to see me? Why do you refuse to dine with me even once a week? I have no other thoughts than of you. I suffer terribly. You cannot understand that your image always present closes my throat, stifles me, and leaves me scarcely strength enough to move my limbs in order to walk. So I remain all day in my chair, thinking of you. He looked at her in astonishment. These were the words of a desperate woman, capable of anything. He, however, cherished a vague project, and replied, My dear, love is not eternal. One loves, and one ceases to love. When it lasts, when it lasts, it becomes a drawback. I want none of it. However, if you will be reasonable, and will receive and treat me as a friend, I will come to see you as formally. Can you do that? She murmured, I can do anything in order to see you. Then it is agreed that we are to be friends, nothing more. She gasped. It is agreed. Offering him her lips, she cried in her despair. One more kiss, one last kiss. He gently drew back. No, we must adhere to our rules. She turned her head and wiped away two tears, then drawing from her bosom a package of notes, tied with pink ribbon. She held it towards duroir. Here is your share of the profits in that Moroccan affair. I was so glad to make it for you. Here, take it. He refused. No, I cannot accept that money. She became excited. Oh, you will not refuse it now. It is yours, yours alone. If you do not take it, I will throw it in the sewer. You will not refuse it, Sharsh. He took the package and slipped it into his pocket. We must return to the house. You will take cold. So much the better, if I could but die. She seized his hand, kissed it passionately, and fled toward the house. He returned more leisurely, and entered the conservatory with head erect and smiling lips. His wife and LaHush were no longer there. The crowd had grown thinner. Suzanne, leaning on her sister's arm, advanced toward him. In a few moments Rose, whom they teased about a certain count, turned upon her heel and left them. Duroir, finding himself alone with Suzanne, said in a caressing voice, Listen, my dear little one, do you really consider me a friend? Why, yes, Bellamy, you have faith in me. Perfect faith! Do you remember what I said to you a while since? About what? About your marriage, or rather the man you would marry? Yes. Well, will you promise me one thing? Yes, what is it? To consult me when you receive a proposal, and to accept no one without asking my advice. Yes, I will gladly. And it is to be a secret between us, not a word to your father or mother. Not a word. Rival approached them, saying, Mademoiselle, your father wants you in the ballroom. She said, Come, Bellamy. But he refused, for he had decided to leave at once, wishing to be alone with his thoughts. He went in search of his wife, and found her drinking chocolate at the buffet with two strange men. She introduced her husband without naming them. In a short while he asked, Shall we go? Whenever you like. She took his arm, and they passed through the almost deserted rooms. Madeline asked, Where is Madame Walter? I should like to bid her goodbye. It is unnecessary. She would try to keep us in the ballroom, and I have had enough. You are right. On the way home they did not speak. But when they had entered their room, Madeline, without even taking off her veil, said to him with a smile, I have a surprise for you. He growled ill-naturedly. What is it? Guess, I cannot make the effort. The day after tomorrow is the first of January. Yes. It is the season for New Year's gift. Yes. Here is yours, which La Hush handed me just now. She gave him a small black box, which resembled a jewel casket. He opened it indifferently, and saw the cross of the Legion of Honor. He turned a trifle pale, then smiled, and said, I should have preferred ten millions. That did not cost him much. She had expected a transport of delight, and was irritated by his indifference. You are incomprehensible. Nothing seems to satisfy you. He replied calmly. That man is only paying his debts. He owes me a great deal more. She was astonished at his tone, and said, It is very nice, however, at your age. He replied, I should have much more. He took the casket, placed it on the mantelpiece, and looked for some minutes at the brilliant star within it. Then he closed it with a shrug of his shoulders, and began to prepare to retire. L'Officiel of January the 1st announced that Monsieur Prosper Georges du Roi had been decorated with the Legion of Honor for exceptional services. The name was written in two words, and that afforded Georges more pleasure than the decoration itself. An hour after having read that notice, he received a note from Madame Walter, inviting him to come and bring his wife to dine with them that evening, to celebrate his distinction. At first he hesitated, then throwing the letter in the fire, he said to Madeleine, We shall dine at the Walters this evening. In her surprise, she exclaimed, Why, I thought you would never set your foot in their house again. His sole reply was, I have changed my mind. When they arrived at Rue du Faubourg St. Honoré, they found Madame Walter alone in the dainty boudoir in which she received her intimate friends. She was dressed in black, and her hair was powdered. At a distance she appeared like an old lady, in proximity like a youthful one. Are you in mourning? asked Madeleine. She replied sadly, Yes and no. I have lost none of my relatives, but I have arrived at an age when one should wear somber colours. I wear it today to inaugurate it. Hitherto I have worn it in my heart. The dinner was somewhat tedious. Suzanne alone talked incessantly. Rose seemed preoccupied. The journalist was overwhelmed with congratulations after the meal, when all repaired to the drawing-rooms. Madame Walter detained him as they were about to enter the salon, saying, I will never speak of anything to you again, only come to see me, Jarge. It is impossible for me to live without you. I see you, I feel you in my heart, all day and all night. It is as if I had drunk a poison which prayed upon me. I cannot bear it. I would rather be as an old woman to you. I powdered my hair for that reason to-night, but come here, come from time to time as a friend. He replied calmly. Very well, it is unnecessary to speak of it again. You see, I came today on receipt of your letter. Walter, who had preceded them with his two daughters and Madeleine, awaited Durois near the picture of Christ walking on the water. Only think, said he, I found my wife yesterday kneeling before that painting, as if in a chapel. She was praying. Madame Walter replied in a firm voice, in a voice in which vibrated a secret exultation. That Christ will save my soul. He gives me fresh courage and strength every time that I look at him. And pausing before the picture, she murmured, how beautiful he is, how frightened those men are, and how they love him. Look at his head, his eyes, how simple and supernatural he is, at the same time. Suzanne cried, Why, he looks like you, Bellamy. I am sure he looks like you. The resemblance is striking. She made him stand beside the painting, and everyone recognized the likeness. Durois was embarrassed. Walter thought it very singular. Madeleine, with a smile, remarked that Jesus looked more manly. Madame Walter stood by motionless, staring fixedly at her lover's face. Her cheeks as white as her hair. End of chapter 15. Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmere Surrey.