 8. Death and a Proposal Durois moved his effect to the apartments in Rue de Constantinople. Two or three times a week, Madame de Marrelle paid him visits. Durois, to counterbalance them, dined at her house every Thursday, and delighted her husband by talking agriculture to him. It was almost the end of February. Durois was free from care. One night, when he returned home, he found a letter under his door. He examined the postmark. It was from Cannes. Having opened it, he read, Cannes, Villa Jolie. Dear sir and friend, you told me did you not that I could count upon you at any time? Very well. I have a favour to ask of you. It is to come and help me, not to leave me alone during Charles's last moments. He may not live through the week, although he is not confined to his bed, but the doctor has warned me. I have not the strength nor the courage to see that agony day and night, and I think with terror of the approaching end. I can only ask such a thing of you, for my husband has no relatives. You were his comrade. He helped you to your position. Come, I beg of you. I have no one else to ask. Your friend, Maglène Forrestier. George murmured, Certainly I will go. Poor Charles! The manager to whom he communicated the contents of that letter grumblingly gave his consent. He repeated, But return speedily. You are indispensable to us. George Durois left for Cannes the next day by the seven o'clock express, after having warned Madame de Marais by telegram. He arrived the following day at four o'clock in the afternoon. A commissionaire conducted him to Villa Jolie. The house was small and low, and of the Italian style of architecture. A servant opened the door and cried, Oh, sir, my dam is awaiting you patiently. Durois asked, How is your master? Not very well, sir. He will not be here long. The floor of the drawing on which the young man entered was covered with a Persian rug. The large windows looked upon the village and the sea. Durois murmured, How cosy it is here! Where the deuce do they get the money from? The rustling of a gown caused him to turn. Madame Forestier extended both her hands, saying, How kind of you to come! She was a trifle paler and thinner, but still as bright as ever, and perhaps prettier for being more delicate. She whispered, It is terrible. He knows he cannot be saved, and he tyrannizes over me. I have told him of your arrival. But where is your trunk? Durois replied, I left it at the station, not knowing which hotel you would advise me to stop at, in order to be near you. She hesitated, then said, You must stop here at the villa. Your chamber is ready. He might die at any moment, and if it should come in the night, I would be alone. I will send for your luggage. He bowed, as you will. Now let us go upstairs, said she. He followed her. She opened a door on the first floor, and Durois saw a form near a window seated in an easy chair and wrapped in coverlets. He divined that it was his friend, though he scarcely recognized him. Forestier raised his hand slowly and with difficulty, saying, You are here. You have come to see me die. I am much obliged. Durois forced a smile. To see you die, that would not be a very pleasant sight, and I would not choose that occasion on which to visit can. I came here to rest. Sit down, said Forestier, and he bowed his head as if deep in hopeless meditation. Seeing that he did not speak, his wife approached the window, and pointing to the horizon, said, Look at that! Is it not beautiful? In spite of himself, Durois felt the grandeur of the closing day, and exclaimed, Yes indeed, it is magnificent! Forestier raised his head, and said to his wife, Give me more air. She replied, You must be careful. It is late. The sun is setting. You will catch more cold, and that would be a serious thing in your condition. He made a feeble gesture of anger with his right hand, and said, I tell you, I am suffocating. What difference does it make if I die a day sooner or later since I must die? She opened the window wide. The air was soft and barmy. Forestier inhaled it in feverish gasps. He grasped the arms of his chair, and said in a low voice, Shut the window. I would rather die in a cellar. His wife slowly closed the window, then leaned her brow against the pain and looked out. Durois, ill at ease, wished to converse with the invalid to reassure him, but he could think of no words of comfort. He stammered, Have you not been better since you are here? His friend shrugged his shoulders impatiently. You will see very soon. And he bowed his head again. Durois continued. At home it is still wintry. It snows, hails, rains, and is so dark that they have to light the lamps at three o'clock in the afternoon. Forestier asked, Is there anything new at the office? Nothing. They have taken little lacquer of the Voltaire to fill your place, but he is incapable. It is time you came back. The invalid muttered, I, I will soon be writing under six feet of sod. A long silence ensued. Madame Forestier did not stir. She stood with her back to the room, her face towards the window. At length Forestier broke the silence in a gasping voice, not rending to listen to. How many more sunsets shall I see? Eight, ten, fifteen, twenty, or perhaps thirty, no more? You will have more time, you two, as for me, all is at an end. And everything will go on when I am gone, as if I were here. He paused a few moments, then continued. Everything that I see reminds me that I shall not see them long. It is horrible. I shall no longer see the smallest objects, the glasses, the dishes, the beds on which we rest, the carriages. It is fine to drive in the evening. How I loved all that. Again Norbert de Varen's words occurred to Diois. The room grew dark, Forestier asked irritably. Are we to have no lamp tonight? That is what is called caring for an invillid. The form outlined against the window disappeared, and an electric bell was heard to ring. A servant soon entered, and placed a lamp upon the mantelpiece. Madame Forestier asked her husband, Do you wish to retire, or will you go downstairs to dinner? I will go down to dinner. The meal seemed to Diois interminable. For there was no conversation, only that ticking of a clock broke the silence. When they had finished, Diois pleading fatigue retired to his room, and tried in vain to invent some pretext for returning home as quickly as possible. He consoled himself by saying, Perhaps it will not be for long. The next morning Georges rose early, and strolled down to the beach. When he returned, the servant said to him, Monsieur has asked for you two or three times, will you go upstairs? He ascended the stairs. Forestier appeared to be in a chair. His wife, reclining upon a couch, was reading. The invillid raised his head. Diois asked, Well, how are you? You look better this morning. Forestier murmured, Yes, I am better and stronger. Lunch was hastily as you can with Madeline, because we are going to take a drive. When Madame Forestier was alone with Diois, she said to him, You see, today he thinks he is better. He is making plans for tomorrow. We are now going to Gullfschwong to buy pottery for our rooms in Paris. He is determined to go, but he cannot stand the jolting on the road. The carriage arrived. Forestier descended the stairs step by step, supported by his servant. When he saw the closed landau, he wanted it uncovered. His wife opposed him. It is sheer madness. You will take cold. He persisted. No, I am going to be better. I know it. They first drove along a shady road, and then took the road by the sea. Forestier explained the different points of interest. Finally, they arrived at a pavilion over which were these words, Gullfschwong art pottery, and the carriage drew up at the door. Forestier wanted to buy a vase to put on his bookcase. As he could not leave the carriage, they brought the pieces to him one by one. It took him a long time to choose, consulting his wife and Diois. You know it is from my study. From my easy chair, I can see it constantly. I prefer the ancient form, the Greek. At length he made his choice. I shall return to Paris in a few days," he said he. On their way home along the gulf, a cool breeze suddenly sprang up, and the invalid began to cough. At first it was nothing, only a slight attack, but it grew worse and turned to a sort of hiccup, a rattle. Forestier choked, and every time he tried to breathe, he coughed violently. Nothing quieted him. He had to be carried from the land-out to his room. The heat of the bed did not stop, the attack which lasted until midnight. The first words the sick man uttered were to ask for a barber, for he insisted on being shaved every morning. He rose to be shaved, but was obliged to go to bed at once, and began to breathe so painfully that Madame Forestier, in a fright, woke Dior and asked him to fetch the doctor. He returned almost immediately with Dr. Gavain, who prescribed for the sick man. When the journalist asked him his opinion, he said, It is the final stage. He will be dead tomorrow morning. Prepare that poor young wife and send for a priest. I can do nothing more. However, I am entirely at your disposal. Dior went to Madame Forestier. He is going to die. The doctor advises me to send for a priest. What will you do? She hesitated a moment and then said slowly, I will go and tell him that the curée wishes to see him. Will you be kind enough to procure one who will require nothing but the confession, and who will not make much fuss? The young man brought with him a kind old priest, who accommodated himself to circumstances. When he had entered the death chamber, Madame Forestier went out and seated herself with Dior in an adjoining run. That has upset him, said she. When I mentioned the priest to him, his face assumed a scared expression. He knew that the end was near. I shall never forget his face. At that moment they heard the priest saying to him, Why, no, you are not so low as that. You are ill, but not in danger. The proof of that is that I came as a friend, a neighbour. They could not hear his reply. The priest continued, No, I shall not administer the sacrament. We will speak of that when you are better. If you will only confess, I ask no more. I am a pastor. I take advantage of every occasion to gather in my sheep. A long silence followed. Then suddenly the priest said, In the tone of one officiating at the altar, The mercy of God is infinite. Repeat the confiteur, my son. Perhaps you have forgotten it. I will help you. Repeat with me. Confiteur deo omnipotenti. Beata marie semper virgini. He paused from time to time to permit the dying man to catch up to him. Then he said, Now confess. The sick man murmured something. The priest repeated, You have committed sins of what kind, my son. The young woman rose and said simply, Let us go into the garden. We must not listen to his secrets. They seated themselves upon a bench before the door, beneath a blossoming rose-bush. After several moments of silence, Dior asked, Will it be some time before you return to Paris? No, she replied. When all is over, I will go back. In about ten days. Yes, at most. He continued. Charles has no relatives then. None save cousins. His father and mother died when he was very young. In the course of a few minutes, the servant came to tell them that the priest had finished, and together they ascended the stairs. Forestier seemed to have grown thinner since the preceding day. The priest was holding his hand. Au revoir, my son. I will come again tomorrow morning. And he left. When he was gone, the dying man, who was panting, tried to raise his two hands towards his wife, and gasped. Save me. Save me, my darling. I do not want to die. Oh, save me. Go for the doctor. I will take anything. I do not want to die. He wept. The tears coursed down his pallid cheeks. Then his hands commenced to wander hither and thither continually, slowly and regularly, as if gathering something on the coverlet. His wife, who was also weeping, sobbed. No, it is nothing. It is only an attack. You will be better tomorrow. You tired yourself out with that drive. Forestier drew his breath quickly, and so faintly that one could scarcely hear him. He repeated, I do not want to die. Oh, my God! My God! What has happened to me? I cannot see. Oh, my God! His staring eyes saw something invisible to the others. His hands plucked continually at the counterpane. Suddenly he shuddered and gasped. The cemetery. Me, my God! He did not speak again. He lay there motionless and ghastly. The hours dragged on. The clock of a neighbouring convent chimed noon. Duois left the room to obtain some food. He returned an hour later. Madame Forestier would eat nothing. The invalid had not stirred. The young woman was seated in an easy chair at the foot of the bed. Duois likewise seated himself, and they watched in silence. A nurse sent by the doctor had arrived and was dozing by the window. Duois himself was almost asleep when he felt a presentiment that something was about to happen. He opened his eyes just in time to see Forestier close his. He coughed slightly, and two streams of blood issued from the corners of his mouth and flowed upon his night-robe. His hands ceased their perpetual motion. He had breathed his last. His wife, perceiving it, uttered a cry, and fell upon her knees by the bedside. Georges, in surprise and of fright, mechanically made the sign of the cross. The nurse, awakening, approached the bed and said, It has come. Duois, recovering his self-possession, murmured with a sigh of relief. It was not as hard as I feared it would be. That night Madame Forestier and Duois watched in the chamber of death. They were alone beside him who was no more. They did not speak. Georges's eyes seemed attracted to that emaciated face which the flickering light made more hollow. That was his friend, Charles Forestier, who the day before had spoken to him. For several years he had lived, eaten, laughed, loved, and hoped, as did everyone, and now all was ended for him, forever. Life lasted a few months or years, and then fled. One was born, grew, was happy, and died. Adieu, man or woman, you will never return to earth. He thought of the insects which live several hours, of the beasts which live several days, of the men who live several years, of the worlds which last several centuries. What was the difference between one and the other? A few more dawns, that was all. Duois turned away his eyes in order not to see the corpse. Madame Forestier's head was bowed. Her fair hair enhanced the beauty of her sorrowful face. The young man's heart grew hopeful. Why should he lament when he had so many years still before him? He glanced at the handsome widow. How had she ever consented to marry that man? Then he pondered upon all the hidden secrets of their lives. He remembered that he had been told of a count de Vaudrec, who had dowered and given her in marriage. What would she do now? Whom would she marry? Had she projects, plans, he would have liked to know. Why that anxiety as to what she would do? Georges questioned himself and found that it was caused by a desire to win her for himself. Why should he not succeed? He was positive that she liked him. She would have confidence in him, for she knew that he was intelligent, resolute, tenacious. Had she not sent for him? Was not that a kind of a vowel? He was impatient to question her, to find out her intentions. He would soon have to leave that villa, for he could not remain alone with the young widow. Therefore he must find out her plans before returning to Paris, in order that she might not yield to another's entreaties. He broke the oppressive silence by saying, You must be fatigued. Yes, but above all, I am grieved. Their voices sounded strange in that room. They glanced involuntarily at the corpse, as if they expected to see it move. You are continued. It is a heavy blow for you, and will make a complete change in your life. She sighed deeply, but did not reply. He added, It is very sad for a young woman like you to be left alone. He paused. She still did not reply, and he stammered. At any rate, you will remember the compact between us. You can command me as you will. I am yours. She held out her hand to him, and said mournfully and gently, Thanks, you are very kind. If I can do anything for you, I say, too, count on me. He took her proffered hand, gazed at it, and was seized with an ardent desire to kiss it. Slowly he raised it to his lips, and then relinquished it. As her delicate fingers lay upon her knee, the young widow said gravely, Yes, I shall be all alone, but I shall force myself to be brave. He did not know how to tell her that he would be delighted to wed her. Certainly it was no time to speak to her on such a subject. However, he thought he might be able to express himself by means of some phrase which would have a hidden meaning and would infer what he wished to say. But that rigid corpse lay between them. The atmosphere became oppressive, almost suffocating. Durois asked, Can we not open the window a little? The air seems to be impure. Certainly, she replied, I have noticed it, too. He opened the window, letting in the cool night air. He turned. Come and look out, it is delightful. She glided softly to his side. He whispered, Listen to me. Do not be angry that I broach the subject at such a time, but the day after tomorrow I shall leave here, and when you return to Paris it might be too late. You know that I am only a poor devil who has his position to make, but I have the will and some intelligence, and I am advancing. A man who has attained his ambition knows what to count on. A man who has his way to make does not know what may come. It may be better or worse. I told you one day that my most cherished dream was to have a wife like you. I repeat it to you today. Do not reply, but let me continue. This is no proposal. The time and place would render it odious. I only wish to tell you that by a word you can make me happy, and that you can make of me as you will, either a friend or a husband, for my heart and my body are yours. I do not want you to answer me now. I do not wish to speak any more on the subject here. When we meet in Paris you can tell me your decision. He uttered those words without glancing at her, and she seemed not to have heard them. For she stood by his side motionless, staring vaguely and fixedly at the landscape before her, bathed in moonlight. At length she murmured, It is rather chilly, and turned towards the bed. Durois followed her. They did not speak, but continued their watch. Towards midnight Georges fell asleep. The daybreak the nurse entered, and he started up. Both he and Madame Forestier retired to their rooms to obtain some rest. At eleven o'clock they rose and lunched together, while through the open window was wafted the sweet perfumed air of spring. After lunch Madame Forestier proposed that they take a turn in the garden. As they walked slowly along, she suddenly said, without turning her head toward him, in a low grave voice, Listen to me, my dear friend. I have already reflected upon what you proposed to me, and I cannot allow you to depart without a word of reply. I will, however, say neither yes nor no. We will wait. We will see. We will become better acquainted. You must think it well over, too. Do not yield to an impulse. I mention this to you before even poor Charles is buried, because it is necessary, after what you have said to me, that you should know me as I am, in order not to cherish the hope you expressed to me any longer if you are not a man who can understand and bear with me. Now listen carefully. Marriage to me is not a chain, but an association. I must be free, entirely unfettered in all my actions, my coming and my going. I can tolerate neither control, jealousy nor criticism as to my conduct. I pledge my word, however, never to compromise the name of the man I marry, nor to render him ridiculous in the eyes of the world. But that man must promise to look upon me as an equal, an ally, and not as an inferior, or as an obedient submissive wife. My ideas, I know, are not like those of other people, but I shall never change them. Do not answer me, it would be useless. We shall meet again and talk it all over, later. Now take a walk. I shall return to him. Goodbye until to-night. He kissed her hand, and left her without having uttered a word. That night they met at dinner. Directly after the meal they sought their rooms, worn out with fatigue. Charles Forestier was buried the next day in the cemetery at Cannes, without any pomp, and Georges returned to Paris by the express which left at 1.30. Madame Forestier accompanied him to the station. They walked up and down the platform, awaiting the hour of departure, and conversing on indifferent subjects. The train arrived, the journalist took his seat. A porter cried. Marseille, Lyon, Paris, all aboard. The locomotive whistled, and the train moved slowly out of the station. The young man leaned out of the carriage, and looked at the youthful widow, standing on the platform, gazing after him. Just as she was disappearing from his sight, he threw her a kiss, which she returned with a more discreet wave of her hand. End of chapter 8. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey. Chapter 9 Part 1 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 Moupassant. Translator unknown. Chapter 9 Marriage Part 1 Georges du Roi resumed his old habits. Installed in the cosy apartments Henri de Constantinople, his relations with Madame de Marrelle became quite conjugal. Madame Forestier had not returned. She lingered at Cannes. He, however, received a letter from her, announcing her return about the middle of April, but containing not a word as to their parting. He waited. He was resolved to employ every means to marry her, if she seemed to hesitate. He had faith in his good fortune, in that power of attraction which he felt within him, a power so irresistible that all women yielded to it. At length, a short note admonished him that the decisive moment had arrived. I am in Paris. Come to see me. Madeline Forestier. Nothing more. He received it at nine o'clock. At three o'clock of the same day, he called at her house. She extended both hands to him with a sweet smile, and they gazed into each other's eyes for several seconds. Then she murmured, How kind of you to come. He replied, I should have come when so ever you bade me. They sat down. She inquired about the Walther's, his associates, and the newspaper. I miss that very much, said she. I had become a journalist in spirit. I like the profession. She paused. He fancied he saw in her smile, in her voice, in her words, a kind of invitation. And although he had resolved not to hasten matters, he stammered, Well, why do you not resume that profession under the name of Duois? She became suddenly serious, and placing her hand on his arm, she said, Do not let us speak of that yet. Divining that she would accept him, he fell upon his knees and passionately kissed her hands, saying, Thank you, thank you, how I love you. She rose. She was very pale. Duois kissed her brow. When she had disengaged herself from his embrace, she said gravely, Listen, my friend, I have not yet fully decided. But my answer may be yes. You must wait patiently, however, until I disclose the secret to you. He promised, and left her, his heart overflowing with joy. He worked steadily, spent little, tried to save some money that he might not be without a sue at the time of his marriage, and became as miserly as he had once been prodigal. Summer glided by, then autumn, and no one suspected the tie existing between Duois and Madame Forestier, for they seldom met in public. One evening Madlène said to him, You have not yet told Madame de Morel our plans. No, my dear, as you wished to keep them secret, I have not mentioned them to a soul. Very well there is plenty of time. I will tell the Walters. She turned away her head and continued, If you wish, we can be married at the beginning of May. I obey you in all things joyfully. The tenth of May, which falls on Saturday, would please me, for it is my birthday. Very well the tenth of May. Your parents live near Rouen, do they not? Yes, near Rouen, at Condoleu. I am very anxious to see them. He hesitated, perplexed. But they are, then he added more firmly, my dear, they are plain country people, innkeepers, who strained every nerve to give me an education. I am not ashamed of them, but their simplicity, their rusticity, might annoy you. She smiled sweetly. No, I will love them very much. We will visit them. I wish to. I too am the child of humble parents. But I lost mine. I have no one in the world. She held out her hand to him. But you! He was affected, conquered, as he had never been by any woman. I have been thinking of something, said she, but it is difficult to explain. He asked, what is it? It is this. I am like all women. I have my my weaknesses. I should like to bear a noble name. Can you not, on the occasion of our marriage, change your name somewhat? She blushed as if she had proposed something indelicate. He replied simply, I have often thought of it, but it does not seem easy to me. Why not? He laughed, because I am afraid I should be ridiculed. She shrugged her shoulders. Not at all. Not at all. Everyone does it, and no one laughs. Separate your name in this way. Do, wa, it sounds very well. He replied, no, that will not do. It is too common a proceeding. I have thought of assuming the name of my native place, first as a literary pseudonym, and then as my surname, in conjunction with Dua, which might later on as you proposed be separated. She asked, is your native place Cantelue? Yes. I do not like the termination. Could we not modify it? She took a pen and wrote down the names in order to study them. Suddenly she cried, now I have it, and held toward him a sheet of paper, on which was written Madame du Roi de Cantelue. Gravely he replied, yes, it is very nice. She was delighted and repeated, du Roi de Cantelue, Madame du Roi de Cantelue. It is excellent, excellent. Then she added with an air of conviction. You will see how easily it will be accepted by everyone. After tomorrow, sign your articles D de Cantelue, and your echoes simply du Roi. That is done on the press every day, and no one will be surprised to see you take a nom de plume. What is your father's name? Alexandre. She murmured, Alexandre, two or three times in succession. Then she wrote upon a blank sheet. Monsieur and Madame Alexandre du Roi de Cantelue announced the marriage of their son, Monsieur Georges du Roi de Cantelue, with Madame Forestier. She examined her writing, and charmed with the effect exclaimed. With a little method one can succeed in anything. When Georges reached the street, resolved to call himself henceforth du Roi, or even du Roi de Cantelue, it seemed to him that he was of more importance. He swaggered more boldly, held his head more erect, and walked as he thought gentlemen should. He felt a desire to inform the passers-by. My name is du Roi de Cantelue. Scarcely had he entered his apartments when the thought of Madame de Marrelle rendered him uneasy, and he wrote to her immediately, appointing a meeting for the following day. It will be hard, thought he. There will be a quarrel, surely. The next morning he received a telegram from Madame, informing him that she would be with him at one o'clock. He awaited her impatiently, determined to confess at once, and afterward to argue with her, to tell her that he could not remain a bachelor indefinitely, and that as Monsieur de Marrelle persisted in living, he had been compelled to choose someone else as a legal companion. When the bell rang, his heart gave a bound. Madame de Marrelle entered, and cast herself into his arms, saying, Good afternoon, bella me! Perceiving that his embrace was colder than usual, she glanced up at him and asked, What ails you? Take a seat, said he. We must talk seriously. She seated herself without removing her hat, and waited. He cast down his eyes. He was preparing to commence. Finally he said slowly, My dear friend, you see that I am very much perplexed, very sad, and very much embarrassed by what I have to confess to you. I love you, I love you with all my heart, and the fear of giving you pain grieves me more than what I have to tell you. She turned pale, trembled, and asked, What is it? Tell me quickly. He said sadly, but resolutely, I am going to be married. She sighed like one about to lose consciousness. Then she gasped, but did not speak. He continued, You cannot imagine how much I suffered before taking that resolution. But I have neither position nor money. I am alone in Paris. I must have near me someone who can counsel, comfort, and support me. What I need is an associate, an ally, and I have found one. He paused, hoping that she would reply, expecting an outburst of furious rage, reproaches, and insults. She pressed her hand to her heart, and breathed with difficulty. He took the hand resting on the arm of the chair, but she drew it away, and murmured as if stupefied. Oh, my God! He fell upon his knees before her, without, however, venturing to touch her, more moved by her silence than he would have been by her anger. Clo, my little Clo, you understand my position. Oh, if I could have married you, what happiness it would have afforded me. But you were married. What could I do? Just think of it. I must make my way in the world, and I could never do so as long as I have no domestic ties. If you knew, there are days when I should like to kill your husband. He spoke in a low, seductive voice. He saw two tears gather in Madame de Marl's eyes, and trickle slowly down her cheeks. He whispered, Do not weep, Clo. Do not weep. I beseech you. You break my heart. She made an effort to appear dignified and haughty, and asked, oh, somewhat unsteadyly, who is it? For a moment he hesitated before he replied, Madeleine Forestier. Madame de Marl started. Her tears continued to flow. She rose. Durois saw that she was going to leave him without a word of reproach or pardon, and he felt humbled, humiliated. He seized her gown and implored. Do not leave me thus. She looked at him with that despairing, tearful glance, so charming and so touching, which expresses all the misery pent up in a woman's heart, and stammered, I have nothing to say. I can do nothing. You are right. You have made a good choice. And disengaging herself, she left the room. With a sigh of relief at escaping so easily, he repaired to Madame Forestiers, who asked him, Have you told Madame de Marl? He replied calmly, Yes. Did it affect her? Not at all. On the contrary, she thought it an excellent plan. The news was soon loised abroad. Some were surprised, others pretended to have foreseen it, and others again smiled, inferring that they were not at all astonished. The young man who signed his articles, Di de Cantel, his echoes, Durois, and his political sketches, spent the best part of his time with his betrothed, who had decided that the day fixed for the wedding should be kept secret, that the ceremony should be celebrated in the presence of witnesses only, that they should leave the same evening for Rouen, and that the day following they should visit the journalist's aged parents and spend several days with them. Durois had tried to persuade Madeleine to abandon that project, but not succeeding in his efforts, he was finally compelled to submit. 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 9 Marriage, Part 2 The 10th of May arrived. Thinking a religious ceremony unnecessary, as they had issued no invitations, the couple were married at a magistrate's, and took the six o'clock train for Normandy. As the train glided along, Durois, sitting in front of his wife, took her hand, kissed it, and said, When we return, we will dine at Chateau sometimes. She murmured, We shall have a great many things to do. In a tone which seemed to say, We must sacrifice pleasure to duty. He retained her hand, wondering anxiously how he could manage to caress her. He pressed her hand slightly, but she did not respond to the pressure. He said, It seems strange that you should be my wife. She appeared surprised. Why? I do not know. It seems droll. I want to embrace you, and I am surprised that I have the right. She calmly offered him her cheek, which he kissed as he would have kissed his sisters. He continued, The first time I saw you, you remember, at that dinner to which I was invited at Forestier's. I thought, Sacristi, if I could only find a wife like that. And now I have one. She glanced at him with smiling eyes. He said to himself, I am too cold. I am stupid. I should make more advances. And he asked, How did you make Forestier's acquaintance? She replied with provoking arch-ness. Are we going to Huang to talk of him? He coloured. I am a fool. You intimidate me. She was delighted. I impossible. He seated himself beside her. She exclaimed, Ah, a stag! The train was passing through the forest of Saint-Germain, and she had seen a frightened deer, clear and alley, at a bound. As she gazed out of the open window, Diora bending over her pressed a kiss upon her neck. For several moments she remained motionless. Then raising her head she said, You tickle me. Stop. But he did not obey her. She repeated, Stop, I say. He seized her head with his right hand, turned it toward him, and pressed his lips to hers. She struggled, pushed him away, and repeated, Stop. He did not heed her. With an effort she freed herself, and rising said, Sharsh, have done. We are not children. We shall soon reach Huang. Very well, said he gaily, I will wait. Receitting herself near him, she talked of what they would do on their return. They would keep the apartments in which she had lived with her first husband, and Diora would receive Forestier's position on la vie française. In the meantime, forgetting her injunctions and his promise, he slipped his arm around her waist, pressed her to him and murmured, I love you dearly, my little mad. The gentleness of his tone moved the young woman, and leaning toward him, she offered him her lips. As she did so, a whistle announced the proximity of the station. Pushing back some stray locks upon her temples, she exclaimed, We are foolish. He kissed her hands feverishly, and replied, I adore you, my little mad. On reaching Huang, they repaired to a hotel where they spent the night. The following morning, when they had drunk the tea placed upon the table in their room, Diora clasped his wife in his arms, and said, My little mad, I feel that I love you very, very much. She smiled trustfully, and murmured as she returned his kisses. I love you too, a little. The visit to his parents worried George. Although he had prepared his wife, he began again. You know they are peasants, real, not sham, comic opera peasants. She smiled, I know it, you have told me often enough. We shall be very uncomfortable. There is only a straw bed in my room. They do not know what hair mattresses are at Cantolou. She seemed delighted. So much the better. It would be charming to sleep badly when near you, and to be awakened by the crowing of the cocks. He walked toward the window, and lighted a cigarette. The sight of the harbour, of the river filled with ships, moved him, and he exclaimed, God, but that is fine. And Len joined him, and placing both of her hands on her husband's shoulder, cried, Oh, how beautiful! I did not know that there were so many ships. An hour later they departed in order to breakfast with the old couple, who had been informed several days before of their intended arrival. Both Duois and his wife were charmed with the beauties of the landscape, presented to their view, and the cabman halted in order to allow them to get a better idea of the panorama before them. As he whipped up his horse, Duois saw an old couple, not a hundred meters off, approaching, and he leaped from the carriage, crying, Here they are! I know them! The man was short, corpulent, florid, and vigorous, not withstanding his age. The woman was tall, thin, and melancholy, with stooping shoulders, a woman who had worked from childhood, who had never laughed, nor gested. Madlène too alighted and watched the couple advance, with a contraction of her heart she had not anticipated. They did not recognise their son in that fine gentleman, and they would never have taken that handsome lady for their daughter-in-law. They walked along, past the child they were expecting, without glancing at the city-folks. Josh cried with a laugh, Good day, Father Duois! Both the old man and his wife were struck dumb with astonishment. The latter recovered her self-possession first, and asked, Is it you, son? The young man replied, Yes, it is I, Mother Duois. And approaching her, he kissed her upon both cheeks, and said, This is my wife. The two rustics stared at Madlène as if she were a curiosity, with anxious fear, combined with a sort of satisfied approbation on the part of the father, and of jealous enmity on that of the mother. Monsieur Duois Sr., who was naturally jocose, made so bold as to ask with a twinkle in his eye. May I kiss you too? His son uttered an exclamation, and Madlène offered her cheek to the old peasant, who afterwards wiped his lips with the back of his hand. The old woman, in her turn, kissed her daughter-in-law with hostile reserve. Her ideal was a stout, rosy, contrary lass, as red as an apple, and as round. The carriage preceded them with the luggage. The old man took his son's arm, and asked him, How are you getting on? Very well. That is right. Tell me, as your wife, any means. George replied, Forty thousand francs. His father whistled softly and muttered, Then he added, She is a handsome woman. He admired his son's wife, and in his day had considered himself a connoisseur. Madlène and the mother walked side by side in silence. The two men joined them. They soon reached the village, at the entrance to which stood Monsieur Duois' tavern. A pine board fastened over the door, indicated that thirsty people might enter. The table was laid. A neighbour, who had come to assist, made a low curtsy on seeing so beautiful a lady appear. Then, recognising George, she cried, Oh, Lord, is it you? He replied merrily, Yes, it is I, mother Brûlain. And he kissed her, as he had kissed his father and mother. Then he turned to his wife. Come into our room, said he. You can lay aside your hat. They passed through a door to the right, and entered a room paved with brick, with whitewashed walls, and a bed with cotton hangings, a crucifix above a holy water basin, and two coloured prints representing Paul and Virginia beneath a blue palm tree, and Napoleon I on a yellow horse, where the only ornaments in that neat but bare room. When they were alone, George embraced Madeleine. Good morning, Mad. I am glad to see the old people once more. When one is in Paris, one does not think of this place. But when one returns, one enjoys it just the same. At that moment, his father cried, knocking on the partition with his fist. Come, the soup is ready. They re-entered the large public room, and took their seats at the table. The meal was a long one, served in a truly rustic fashion. Father Durois, enlivened by the cider and several glasses of wine, related many anecdotes, while George, to whom they were all familiar, laughed at them. Mother Durois did not speak, but sat at the board, grim and austere, glancing at her daughter-in-law with hatred in her heart. Madeleine did not speak, nor did she eat. She was depressed. Wherefore, she had wished to come. She knew that she was coming to a simple home. She had formed no poetical ideas of those peasants, but she had perhaps expected to find them somewhat more polished, refined. She recalled her own mother, of whom she never spoke to anyone. A governess who had been betrayed, and who had died of grief and shame, when Madeleine was twelve years old. A stranger had had the little girl educated. Her father, without doubt. Who was he? She did not know positively, but she had vague suspicions. The meal was not yet over when customers entered. Shook hands with Monsieur Durois, exclaimed on seeing his son, and seating themselves at the wooden tables began to drink, smoke, and play dominoes. The smoke from the clay pipes and penny cigars filled the room. Madeleine choked and asked, Can we go out? I cannot remain here any longer. Old Durois grumbled at being disturbed. Madeleine rose and placed her chair at the door, in order to wait until her father-in-law and his wife had finished their coffee and wine. Georges soon joined her. Would you like to stroll down to the Seine? Joyfully she cried, Yes! They descended the hillside, hired a boat at Croissé, and spent the remainder of the afternoon beneath the willows in the soft warm spring air, and rocked gently by the rippling waves of the river. They returned at nightfall. The evening repressed by candlelight was more painful to Madeleine than that of the morning. Neither father Durois nor his wife spoke. When the meal was over, Madeleine drew her husband outside, in order not to have to remain in that room, the atmosphere of which was heavy with smoke and the fumes of liquor. When they were alone, he said, You are already weary. She attempted to protest. He interrupted her. I have seen it, if you wish, we will leave tomorrow. She whispered, I should like to go. They walked along and entered a narrow path among high trees, hedged in on either side by impenetrable brushwood. She asked, Where are we? He replied, In the forest, one of the largest in France. Madeleine, on raising her head, could see the stars between the branches, and hear the rustling of the leaves. She felt strangely nervous. Why, she could not tell. She seemed to be lost, surrounded by perils, abandoned, alone, beneath that vast vaulted sky. She murmured, I am afraid, I should like to return. Very well, we will. On their return, they found the old people in bed. The next morning, Madeleine rose early, and was ready to leave at daybreak. When Georges told his parents that they were going to return home, they guessed whose wish it was. His father asked simply, Shall I see you soon again? Yes, in the summer time. Very well. His mother grumbled, I hope you will not regret what you have done. Georges gave them two hundred francs to appease them, and the cab arriving at ten o'clock, the couple kissed the old peasants and set out. As they were descending the side of the hill, Durois laughed. You see, said he, I warned you, I should, however, not have presented you to Monsieur and Madame Durois de Cantel, senior. She laughed too, and replied, I am charmed now. They are nice people who I am beginning to like very much. I shall send them confections from Paris. Then she murmured, Durois de Cantel, We will say that we spent a week at your parents' estate. And drawing near him, she kissed him, saying, Good morning, Georges. He replied, Good morning, Madeleine, as he slipped his arm around her waist. End of chapter nine. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmeyer Surrey. Chapter ten 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 ten. Jealousy. The Durois had been in Paris two days, and the journalist had resumed work. He had given up his own Especial Province to assume that of Forestier, and to devote himself entirely to politics. On this particular evening, he turned his steps toward home with a light heart. As he passed a florist's on Rue Notre-Dame de Lorette, he bought a bouquet of half-open roses for Madeleine. Having forgotten his key, on arriving at his door, he rang, and the servant answered his summons. Georges asked, Is Madame at home? Yes, sir. In the dining-room he paused in astonishment to see covers laid for three. The door of the salon being a jar, he saw Madeleine arranging in a vase on the mantelpiece a bunch of roses similar to his. He entered the room and asked, Have you invited anyone to dinner? She replied without turning her head and continuing the arrangement of her flowers. Yes and no, it is my old friend Count de Vaudrec, who is in the habit of dining here every Monday, and who will come now as he always has. Georges murmured, Very well! He stopped behind her the bouquet in his hand, the desire strong within him to conceal it, to throw it away. However, he said, Here I have brought you some roses. She turned to him with a smile and said, Ah, how thoughtful of you! And she kissed him with such evident affection that he felt consoled. She took the flowers, inhaled their perfume, and put them in an empty vase. Then she said, as she noted the effect, Now I am satisfied, my mantelpiece looks pretty, adding with an air of conviction. Vaudrec is charming, you will become intimate with him at once. A ring announced the Count. He entered as if he were at home. After gallantly kissing Madame du Roi's hand, he turned to her husband and cordially offered his hand, saying, How are you, my dear du Roi? He had no longer that haughty air, but was very affable. One would have thought in the course of five minutes that the two men had known one another for ten years. Madlène, whose face was radiant, said, I will leave you together. I have work to superintend in the kitchen. The dinner was excellent, and the Count remained very late. When he was gone, Madlène said to her husband, Is he not nice? He improves too on acquaintance. He is a good, true, faithful friend. Ah, without him! She did not complete her sentence, and Georges replied. Yes, he is very pleasant. I think we shall understand each other well. You do not know, she said, that we have work to do tonight before retiring. I did not have time to tell you before dinner, for Vaudrec came. La Roche Mathieu brought me some important news of Morocco. We must make a fine article of that. Let us set to work at once. Come, take the lamp. He carried the lamp, and they entered the study. Madlène leaned against the mantelpiece, and having lighted a cigarette, told him the news, and gave him her plan of the article. He listened attentively, making notes as she spoke, and when she had finished, he raised objections, took up the question, and in his turn developed another plan. His wife ceased smoking, for her interest was aroused in following Georges' line of thought. From time to time she murmured, Yes, yes, very good, excellent, very forcible, and when he had finished speaking, she said, Now, let us write. It was always difficult for him to make a beginning, and she would lean over his shoulder and whisper the phrases in his ear, then he would add a few lines. When their article was completed, Georges re-read it. Both he and Madlène pronounced it admirable, and kissed one another with passionate admiration. The article appeared with the signature of G. du Roi de Cantel, and made a great sensation. M. Walter congratulated the author, who soon became celebrated in political circles. His wife too surprised him by the ingenuousness of her mind, the cleverness of her wit, and the number of her acquaintances. At almost any time upon returning home, he found in his salon a senator, a deputy, a magistrate, or a general, who treated Madlène with grave familiarity. Deputy Laroche Mathieu, who dined at Réfontaine every Tuesday, was one of the largest stockholders of M. Walter's paper, and the latter's colleague and associate in many business transactions. Du Roi hoped, later on, that some of the benefits promised by him to Forrestier might fall to his share. They would be given to Madlène's new husband, that was all, nothing was changed. Even his associate sometimes called him Forrestier, and it made Du Roi fiori a set the dead. He grew to hate the very name. It was to him almost an insult. Even at home the obsession continued. The entire house reminded him of Charles. One evening Du Roi, who liked sweet meats, asked, Why do we never have sweets? His wife replied pleasantly, I never think of it, because Charles disliked them. He interrupted her with an impatient gesture. Do you know I'm getting tired of Charles? It is Charles here, Charles there, Charles liked this, Charles liked that. Since Charles is dead, let him rest in peace. Madlène ascribed her husband's burst of ill humour to pureile jealousy. But she was flattered and did not reply. On retiring, haunted by the same thought, he asked, Did Charles wear a cotton nightcap to keep the draft out of his ears? She replied pleasantly, No a lace one! Georges shrugged his shoulders and said scornfully, What a pert! From that time Georges never called Charles anything but poor Charles, with an accent of infinite pity. One evening, as Du Roi was smoking a cigarette at his window, toward the end of June, the heat awoke in him a desire for fresh air. He asked, My little mad, would you like to go as far as the bois? Yes, certainly. They took an open carriage and drove to the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne. It was a sultry evening. A host of cabs lined the drive, one behind another. When the carriage containing Georges and Madlène reached the turning which led to the fortifications, they kissed one another, and Madlène stammered in confusion. We are as childish as we wear at home. The road they followed was not so much frequented. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the trees. The sky was studded with brilliant stars, and Georges murmured as he pressed his wife to his breast. Oh, my little mad! She said to him, Do you remember how gloomy the forest at Cantelure was? It seemed to me that it was full of horrible beasts, and that it was interminable. While here it is charming, one can feel the caressing breezes, and I know that Sèvres is on the other side. He replied, In our forests there are nothing but stags, foxes, robux, and boars, with here and there a forester's house. He paused for a moment and then asked, Did you come here in the evening with Charles occasionally? She replied, Frequently. He felt a desire to return home at once. Forestier's image haunted him, however. He could think of nothing else. The carriage rolled on toward the Arc de Triomphe, and joined the stream of carriages returning home. As Georges remained silent, his wife, who divined his thoughts, asked in her soft voice, Of what are you thinking? For half an hour you have not uttered a word. He replied with a sneer. I am thinking of all those fools who kiss one another, and I believe truly that there is something else to be done in life. She whispered, Yes, but it is nice sometimes. It is nice when one has nothing better to do. Georges's thoughts were busy with the dead. He said to himself angrily, I am foolish to worry, to torment myself as I have done. After remonstrating thus with himself, he felt more reconciled to the thought of Forestier, and felt like exclaiming, Good evening, old fellow. Madeleine, who was bored by his silence, asked, Shall we go to Tortoni's for ices before returning home? He glanced at her from his corner and thought, She is pretty, so much the better, tit for tat, my comrade. But if they begin again to annoy me with you, it will get somewhat hot at the North Pole. Then he replied, Certainly my darling, and before she had time to think, he kissed her. It seemed to Madeleine that her husband's lips were icy. However, he smiled as usual, and gave her his hand to assist her to a light at the cafe. End of chapter 10. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey. Chapter 11. 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 11. Madame Walter takes a hand. Part 1. On entering the office the following day, Durois sought Boire-Renard and told him to warn his associates not to continue the farce of calling him Forrestier, or there would be war. When Durois returned an hour later, no one called him by that name. From the office he proceeded to his home, and hearing the sound of ladies' voices in the drawing-room, he asked the servant, who is here. Madame Walter and Madame de Morel was the reply. His heart pulsated violently as he opened the door. Clotilde was seated by the fireplace. It seemed to Josh that she turned pale on perceiving him. Having greeted Madame Walter and her two daughters, seated like sentinels beside her, he turned to his former mistress. She extended her hand. He took and pressed it, as if to say, I love you still. She returned the pressure. He said, Have you been well since we last met? Yes, have you, Bellamy? And turning to Madlène, she added, will you permit me to call him Bellamy? Certainly, my dear, I will permit you anything you wish. The shade of irony lurked beneath those words uttered so pleasantly. Madame Walter mentioned a fencing-match, to be given at Jacques Rival's apartments, the proceeds to be devoted to charities, and in which many society-ladies were going to assist. She said, It will be very entertaining, but I am in despair, for we have no one to escort us, my husband having an engagement. Durois offered his services at once. She accepted, saying, My daughters and I shall be very grateful. He glanced at the younger of the two girls, and thought, Little Suzanne is not a tall bad, not a tall. She resembled a doll, being very small and dainty, with a well-proportioned form, a pretty delicate face, blue-gray eyes, a fair skin, and curly flaxen hair. Her elder sister, Rose, was plain, one of those girls to whom no attention is ever paid. Her mother rose, and turning to Jacques said, I shall count on you next Thursday at two o'clock. He replied, Count upon me, madame. When the door closed upon madame Walter, madame de Marrelle in her turn rose. This time she pressed his hand, and he was moved by that silent avowal. I will go to see her tomorrow, thought he. Left alone with his wife, she laughed, and looking into his eyes said, madame Walter has taken a fancy to you. He replied incredulously, nonsense. But I know it. She spoke of you to me with great enthusiasm. She said she would like to find two husbands like you for her daughters. Fortunately, she is not susceptible herself. He did not understand her, and repeated, susceptible herself. She replied in a tone of conviction. Oh, madame Walter is irreproachable. Her husband, you know, as well as I, but she is different. Still, she has suffered a great deal in having married a Jew, though she has been true to him. She is a virtuous woman. Duois was surprised. I thought her a Jewess. She a Jewess, no indeed. She is the prime mover in all the charitable movements at the Madeline. She was even married by a priest. I am not sure but that Mr. Walter went through the form of baptism. George murmured, and she likes me. Yes, if you were not married, I should advise you to ask for the hand of Cezanne. Would you not prefer her to Rose? He replied as he twisted his moustache. The mother is not so bad. Madeline replied, I am not afraid of her. At her age one does not begin to make conquests. One should commence sooner. George thought, if I might have had Cezanne, then he shrugged his shoulders. It is absurd her father would not have consented. He determined to treat madame Walter very considerably in order to retain her regard. All that evening he was haunted by recollections of his love for Clotilde. He recalled their escapades, her kindness. He repeated to himself, She is indeed nice. Yes, I shall call upon her to-morrow. When he had lunched the following morning he repaired to Rue Verneuil. The same maid opened the door, and with the familiarity of an old servant she asked, Is Mr. Well? He replied, Yes, my child! and entered the drawing-room in which someone was practising scales. It was Lorraine. He expected she would fall upon his neck. She, however, rose ceremoniously, bowed coldly, and left the room with dignity. Her manner was so much like that of an outraged woman that he was amazed. Her mother entered. He kissed her hand. How much I have thought of you! said he. And I of you! she replied. They seated themselves and smiled as they gazed into one another's eyes. My dear little clue, I love you! And I love you! Still, still you did not miss me. Yes and no. I was grieved, but when I heard your reason, I said to myself, He will return to me some day. I dared not come. I did not know how I should be received. I dared not, but I longed to come. Now, tell me what ails Lorraine. She scarcely bade me good morning, and left the room with an angry air. I do not know, but one cannot mention you to her since your marriage. I really believe she is jealous. Nonsense! Yes, my dear, she no longer calls you bella me, but Monsieur Forestier instead. Duois coloured. Then drawing nearer the young woman, he said, kiss me. She obeyed him. Where can we meet again? he asked. At Rue de Constantinople. Ah! are the apartments not rented? No, I kept them. You did? Yes, I thought you would return. His heart bounded joyfully. She loved him then with a lasting love. He whispered, I adore you. Then he asked, Is your husband well? Yes, very well. He has just been home for a month. He went away the day before yesterday. Duois could not suppress a smile. How opportunally that always happens. She replied naively. Yes, it happens opportunally, but he is not in the way when he is here, is he? That is true, he is a charming man. How do you like your new life? Tolerably. My wife is a comrade, an associate, nothing more, as for my heart. I understand, but she is good. Yes, she does not trouble me. He drew near Clotilde and Mermet. When shall we meet again? Tomorrow, if you will. Yes, tomorrow at two o'clock. He rose to take his leave, somewhat embarrassed. You know, I intend to take back the rooms Henri de Constantinople myself. I wish to. It is not necessary for you to pay for them. She kissed his hand, saying, You may do as you like. I am satisfied to have kept them until we met again. And Durois took his leave, very well satisfied. When Thursday came, he asked Madeleine, Are you going to the fencing match at Rivales? No, I do not care about it. I will go to the Chamber of Deputies. Jarge called for Madame Walter in an open carriage, for the weather was delightful. He was surprised to find her looking so handsome, and so young. Never had she appeared so fresh. Her daughter, Suzanne, was dressed in pink. Her sister looked like her governess. At Rivales' door was a long line of carriages. Durois offered his arm to Madame Walter, and they entered. The entertainment was for the benefit of the orphans of the Sixth Ward, and the patronage of all the wives of the senators and deputies, who were connected with la vie française. Jacques Rival received the arrivals at the entrance to his apartments. Then he pointed to a small staircase, which led to the cellar, in which were his shooting gallery and fencing room, saying downstairs, ladies, downstairs, the match will take place in the subterranean apartments. Pressing Durois' hand, he said, good evening, bella me. Durois was surprised. Who told you about that name? Rival replied, Madame Walter, who thinks it is very pretty. Madame Walter blushed. Yes, I confess that if I knew you better, I should do us little lorraine, and I should call you bella me, too. It suits you admirably. Durois laughed. I beg you to do so, Madame. She cast down her eyes. No, we are not well enough acquainted. He murmured, permit me to hope that we shall become so. Well, we shall see, said she. End of chapter 11 part 1. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey. Chapter 11 part 2 of bella me, or the history of a scoundrel. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. Bella me, or the history of a scoundrel, by Guy du Moupasson. Translator unknown. Chapter 11 Madame Walter takes a hand. Part 2. They descended the stairs, and entered a large room, which was lighted by Venetian lanterns, and decorated with festoons of gauze. Nearly all the benches were filled with ladies, who were chatting as if they were at a theatre. Madame Walter and her daughters reached their seats in the front row. Durois, having obtained their places for them, whispered, I shall be obliged to leave you. Men cannot occupy the seats. Madame Walter replied hesitatingly, I should like to keep you just the same. You could tell me the names of the participants. See, if you stand at the end of the seat, you will not annoy anyone. She raised her large, soft eyes to his, and insisted, Come, stay with us, bella me, we need you. He replied, I obey with pleasure, Madame. Suddenly Jacques Rival's voice announced, We will begin, ladies. Then followed the fencing match. Durois retained his place beside the ladies, and gave them all the necessary information. When the entertainment was over, and all expenses were paid, 220 francs remained for the orphans of the Sixth Ward. Durois, escorting the Walters, awaited his courage. When seated face to face with Madame Walter, he met her troubled but caressing glance. He gasped, I believe she is affected, thought he, and he smiled as he recognised the fact that he was really successful with the female sex. For Madame de Marrelle, since the renewal of their relations seemed to love him madly. With a light heart he returned home. Madlène was awaiting him in the drawing-room. I have some news, said she. The affair with Morocco is becoming complicated. France may send an expedition out there in several months. In any case, the ministry will be overthrown, and La Rache will profit by the occasion. Durois, in order to draw out his wife, pretended not to believe it. France would not be silly enough to commence any folly with tunis. She shrugged her shoulders impatiently. I tell you, she will. You do not understand that it is a question of money. You are as simple as forestier. Her object was to wound and irritate him, but he only smiled and replied. What as simple as that, stupid fellow! She ceased and murmured. Oh, charge! He added, poor devil, in a tone of profound pity. Madlène turned her back upon him scornfully. After a moment of silence she continued. We shall have some company Tuesday. Madame La Roche Mathieu is coming here to dine with Viscountes de Perse-Mure. Will you invite Rival and Norbert de Varenne? I shall go to Madame Walter and de Marelle tomorrow. Perhaps, too, we may have Madame Ries-Solin. Durois replied, very well, I will see to Rival and Norbert. The following day he thought he would anticipate his wife's visit to Madame Walter, and attempt to find out if she really was in love with him. He arrived at Boulevard Malserp at two o'clock. He was ushered into the salon and waited. Finally Madame Walter appeared and offered him her hand cordially. What good wind blows you here! No good wind but a desire to see you! Some power has impelled me hither. I do not know why. I have nothing to say except that I have come. Here I am. Pardon the morning call and the candour of my explanation. He uttered those words with a smile upon his lips and a serious accent in his voice. In her astonishment she stammered with a blush. But indeed I do not understand. You surprise me. He added, it is a declaration made in jest in order not to startle you. They were seated near each other. She took the matter as a jest. Is it a declaration, seriously? Yes, for a long time I have wished to make it, but I dared not. They say you are so austere, so rigid. She had recovered her self-possession and replied, Why did you choose to date? I do not know. Then he lowered his voice. Or rather, because I have thought only of you since yesterday. Suddenly turning pale, she gasped. Come, enough of this childishness. Let us talk of something else. But he fell upon his knees before her. She tried to rise. He prevented her by twining his arms about her. And repeated in a passionate voice, Yes, it is true that I have loved you madly for some time. Do not answer me. I am mad. I love you. Oh, if you only knew how I love you. She could utter no sound. In her agitation she repulsed him with both hands. For she could feel his breath upon her cheek. He rose suddenly and attempted to embrace her. But gaining her liberty for a moment, she escaped him and ran from chair to chair. He, considering such pursuit beneath his dignity, sank into a chair, buried his face in his hands, and feigned to sob convulsively. Then he rose, cried, adieu, adieu, and fled. In the hall he took his cane calmly, and left the house, saying, Christi, I believe she loves me. He went at once to the telegraph office, to send a message to Clotilde, appointing a rendezvous for the next day. On entering the house at his usual time, he said to his wife, Well, is everyone coming to dinner? She replied, Yes, all but madame Walter, who is uncertain as to whether she can come. She acted very strangely. Never mind, perhaps she can manage it anyway. He replied, She will come. He was not, however, certain, and was rendered uneasy until the day of the dinner. That morning Madeline received a message from madame Walter to this effect. I have succeeded in arranging matters, and I shall be with you, but my husband cannot accompany me. Duois thought, I did right not to return there. She has calmed down. Still he awaited her arrival anxiously. She appeared very composed, somewhat reserved and haughty. He was very humble, very careful, and submissive. Midame La Roche Mathieu and Rhys-Olin were accompanied by their husbands. Madame de Marelle looked bewitching in an odd combination of yellow and black. At Duois's right sat madame Walter, and he spoke to her only of serious matters with exaggerated respect. From time to time he glanced at Clotilde. She is really very pretty and fresh-looking, thought he, but madame Walter attracted him by the difficulty of the conquest. She took her leave early. I will escort you, said he. She declined his offer. He insisted, why do you not want me? You wound me deeply. Do not let me feel that I am not forgiven. You see that I am calm. She replied, you cannot leave your guests thus. He smiled, I shall be absent twenty minutes. No one will even notice it. If you refuse me you will break my heart. Very well, she whispered, I will accept. When they were seated in the carriage he seized her hand, and kissing it passionately said, I love you. I love you. Let me tell it to you. I will not touch you. I only wish to repeat that I love you. She stammered. After what you promised me, it is too bad, too bad. He seemed to make a great effort. Then he continued in a subdued voice. See how I can control myself. And yet let me only tell you this. I love you. Yes, let me go home with you, and kneel before you five minutes to utter those three words, and gaze upon your beloved face. She suffered him to take her hand, and replied in broken accents. No, I cannot. I do not wish to. Think of what my servants, my daughters would say. No, no, it is impossible. He continued, I cannot live without seeing you, whether it be at your house or elsewhere. I must see you for only a moment each day that I may touch your hand, breathe the air stirred by your gown, contemplate the outlines of your form, and see your beautiful eyes. She listened tremblingly to the musical language of love, and made answer. No, it is impossible. Be silent. He spoke very low. He whispered in her ear, comprehending that it was necessary to win that simple woman gradually, to persuade her to appoint a meeting where she willed at first, and later on where he willed. Listen, I must see you. I will wait at your door like a beggar. If you do not come down, I will come to you, but I shall see you tomorrow. She repeated, No, do not come. I shall not receive you. Think of my daughters. Then tell me where I can meet you. In the street it matters not where. At any hour you wish provided that I can see you. I will greet you. I will say I love you, and then go away. She hesitated, almost distracted. As the coupe stopped at the door, she whispered hastily, I will be at La Trinité tomorrow at half past three. After a lighting, she said to her coachman, Take Monsieur du Roi home. When he returned, his wife asked, Where have you been? He replied in a low voice, I have been to send an important telegram. Madame de Marrelle approached him. You must take me home, Bellamy. You know that I only dine so far from home on that condition. Turning to Madeleine, she asked, you are not jealous. Madame du Roi replied slowly. No, not at all. The guests departed. Clotilde enveloped in laces, whispered to Madeleine at the door. Your dinner was perfect. In a short while, you will have the best political salon in Paris. When she was alone with Georges, she said, Oh my darling Bellamy, I love you more dearly every day. The cab rolled on, and Georges' thoughts were with Madame Walter. End of chapter 11 Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmeyer Surrey