The Du Roys 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 ajar, 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 Mme. Du Roy's hand, he turned to her husband and cordially offered his hand, saying: "How are you, my dear Du Roy?"
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. Madeleine, 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, Madeleine 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 to-night before retiring. I did not have time to tell you before dinner, for Vaudrec came. Laroche-Mathieu brought me 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. Madeleine 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's 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 Madeleine pronounced it admirable and kissed one another with passionate admiration.
The article appeared with the signature of "G. du Roy 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 Madeleine with grave familiarity.
Deputy Laroche-Mathieu, who dined at Rue Fontaine 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 Roy hoped, later on, that some of the benefits promised by him to Forestier might fall to his share. They would be given to Madeleine's new husband—that was all—nothing was changed; even his associates sometimes called him Forestier, and it made Du Roy furious at 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 Roy, who liked sweetmeats, 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 am 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."
Madeleine ascribed her husband's burst of ill humor to puerile 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 bird!"
From that time Georges never called Charles anything but "poor Charles," with an accent of infinite pity. One evening as Du Roy 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 Made, 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 Madeleine reached the turning which led to the fortifications, they kissed one another and Madeleine stammered in confusion: "We are as childish as we were at Rouen."
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 Made."
She said to him: "Do you remember how gloomy the forest at Canteleu 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 Sevres is on the other side."
He replied: "In our forests there are nothing but stags, foxes, roebucks, 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' 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 alight at the cafe.
On entering the office the following day, Du Roy sought Boisrenard and told him to warn his associates not to continue the farce of calling him Forestier, or there would be war. When Du Roy 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?"
"Mme. Walter and Mme. de Marelle," was the reply.
His heart pulsated violently as he opened the door. Clotilde was seated by the fireplace; it seemed to Georges that she turned pale on perceiving him.
Having greeted Mme. 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, Bel-Ami?" And turning to Madeleine she added: "Will you permit me to call him Bel-Ami?"
"Certainly, my dear; I will permit anything you wish."
A shade of irony lurked beneath those words, uttered so pleasantly.
Mme. 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."
Du Roy 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 at all bad, not at all."
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 Georges, said: "I shall count on you next Thursday at two o'clock."
He replied: "Count upon me, Madame."
When the door closed upon Mme. Walter, Mme. de Marelle, in her turn, rose.
"Au revoir, Bel-Ami."
This time she pressed his hand and he was moved by that silent avowal. "I will go to see her to-morrow," thought he.
Left alone with his wife, she laughed, and looking into his eyes said: "Mme. 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, Mme. 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."
Du Roy was surprised: "I thought her a Jewess."
"She a Jewess! No, indeed! She is the prime mover in all the charitable movements at the Madeleine. She was even married by a priest. I am not sure but that M. Walter went through the form of baptism."
Georges murmured: "And—she—likes—me—"
"Yes. If you were not married I should advise you to ask for the hand of—Suzanne—would you not prefer her to Rose?"
He replied as he twisted his mustache: "Eh! the mother is not so bad!"
Madeleine replied: "I am not afraid of her. At her age one does not begin to make conquests—one should commence sooner."
Georges thought: "If I might have had Suzanne, ah!" Then he shrugged his shoulders: "Bah, it is absurd; her father would not have consented."
He determined to treat Mme. Walter very considerately 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 Monsieur well?"
He replied: "Yes, my child," and entered the drawing-room in which some one was practising scales. It was Laurine. 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 Clo, 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: 'Bah, 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 Laurine; 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 Bel-Ami, but M. Forestier instead."
Du Roy colored, 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."
Du Roy could not suppress a smile: "How opportunely that always happens!"
She replied naively: "Yes, it happens opportunely, 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 murmured: "When shall we meet again?"
"To-morrow, if you will."
"Yes, to-morrow at two o'clock."
He rose to take his leave somewhat embarrassed.
"You know I intend to take back the rooms on Rue de Constantinople myself. I wish to; it is not necessary for you to pay for them."
She kissed his hands, saying: "You may do as you like. I am satisfied to have kept them until we met again." And Du Roy took his leave very well satisfied.
When Thursday came, he asked Madeleine: "Are going to the fencing-match at Rival's?"
"No, I do not care about it. I will go to the chamber of deputies."
Georges called for Mme. 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 Rival's door was a long line of carriages. Du Roy offered his arm to Mme. Walter and they entered.
The entertainment was for the benefit of the orphans of the Sixth Ward under the patronage of all the wiles of the senators and deputies who were connected with "La Vie Francaise."
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 Du Roy's hand, he said: "Good evening, Bel-Ami."
Du Roy was surprised: "Who told you about that name?"
Rival replied: "Mme. Walter, who thinks it very pretty."
Mme. Walter blushed.
"Yes, I confess that if I knew you better, I should do as little Laurine, and I should call you Bel-Ami, too. It suits you admirably."
Du Roy 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.
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 theater. Mme. Walter and her daughters reached their seats in the front row.
Du Roy, having obtained their places for them, whispered: "I shall be obliged to leave you; men cannot occupy the seats."
Mme. 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—Bel-Ami—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. Du Roy retained his place beside the ladies and gave them all the necessary information. When the entertainment was over and all expenses were paid, two hundred and twenty francs remained for the orphans of the Sixth Ward.
Du Roy, escorting the Walters, awaited his carriage. When seated face to face with Mme. Walter, he met her troubled but caressing glance.
"Egad, I believe she is affected," thought he; and he smiled as he recognized the fact that he was really successful with the female sex, for Mme. de Marelle, since the renewal of their relations, seemed to love him madly.
With a light heart he returned home. Madeleine 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 Laroche will profit by the occasion."
Du Roy, 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, Georges!"
He added: "Poor devil!" in a tone of profound pity.
Madeleine turned her back upon him scornfully; after a moment of silence, she continued: "We shall have some company Tuesday. Mme. Laroche-Mathieu is coming here to dine with Viscountess de Percemur. Will you invite Rival and Norbert de Varenne? I shall go to Mmes. Walter and de Marelle to-morrow. Perhaps, too, we may have Mme. Rissolin."
Du Roy replied: "Very well, I will see to Rival and Norbert."
The following day he thought he would anticipate his wife's visit to Mme. Walter and attempt to find out if she really was in love with him. He arrived at Boulevard Malesherbes at two o'clock. He was ushered into the salon and waited. Finally Mme. 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 candor 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-day?"
"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 waist, 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 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: "Cristi! 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 Mme. 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 Madeleine received a message from Mme. Walter to this effect: "I have succeeded in arranging matters and I shall be with you, but my husband cannot accompany me."
Du Roy 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. Mmes. Laroche-Mathieu and Rissolin were accompanied by their husbands. Mme. de Marelle looked bewitching in an odd combination of yellow and black.
At Du Roy's right sat Mme. 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 Mme. 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: "Bah! 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 to-morrow."
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 Trinite to-morrow, at half past three."
After alighting, she said to her coachman: "Take M. du Roy 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."
Mme. de Marelle approached him: "You must take me home, Bel-Ami; you know that I only dine so far from home on that condition." Turning to Madeleine, she asked: "You are not jealous?"
Mme. du Roy 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 Bel-Ami, I love you more dearly every day."
The cab rolled on, and Georges' thoughts were with Mme. Walter.
The July sun shone upon the Place de la Trinite, which was almost deserted. Du Roy 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 Trinite; the coolness within was refreshing. Here and there an old woman kneeled at prayer, her face in her hands. Du Roy 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 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. Georges 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—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 ardor 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.
Georges 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 Georges had noticed before passed by them. When Mme. Walter heard him near her, she snatched her fingers from Georges's clasp and covered her face with them. After the man had disappeared, Du Roy asked, hoping for another place of meeting than La Trinite: "Where shall I see you to-morrow?"
She did not reply; she seemed transformed into a statue of prayer. He continued: "Shall I meet you to-morrow at Park Monceau?"
She turned a livid face toward him and said unsteadily: "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 Georges. 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, that the struggle was in vain. She did not however wish to yield, but she felt her weakness. Some one 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, Madame?"
"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: "Oh, 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."
Du Roy 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 Georges 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?"
Du Roy 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."
Du Roy looked at him and suddenly thought that he resembled Forestier. "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 Mme. Walter in the place in which he 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 near by, the doors of the confessionals. He drew nearer in order to see the woman whose voice he heard. He recognized Mme. 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 awhile. At length Mme. 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 Du Roy passed him, they bowed.
The journalist then repaired to the office of "La Vie Francaise." As he entered he saw by the clerks' busy air that something of importance was going on, and he hastened to the manager's room. The latter exclaimed joyfully as Du Roy entered: "What luck! here is Bel-Ami."
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 Bel-Ami from morning until night, and I have acquired the habit myself. Are you displeased?"
Georges laughed. "Not at all."
M. Walter continued: "Very well, then I will call you Bel-Ami as everyone else does. Great changes have taken place. The ministry has been overthrown. Marrot is to form a new cabinet. He has chosen General Boutin d'Acre as minister of war, and our friend Laroche-Mathieu as minister of foreign affairs. We shall 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."
Du Roy 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 M. 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."
Du Roy returned home to dinner delighted with his day, notwithstanding his failure at La Trinite. His wife was awaiting him anxiously. She exclaimed on seeing him:
"You know that Laroche 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-morrow at four o'clock to Park Monceau."
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.
Madeleine asked: "What is it?"
"Nothing much. I was thinking of a comical old priest I met a short while since."
Du Roy 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 Mme. 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?"
Georges replied: "Do not worry; he knows."
He had given the man his address on the Rue de Constantinople.
Mme. Walter said to Du Roy: "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 mustache; 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 Forestier. Suddenly she ceased speaking. The carriage stopped. Du Roy 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 tete-a-tete, 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."