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BEL AMI
The Works of Guy de Maupassant
VOLUME VI
NATIONAL LIBRARY COMPANYNEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1909, BYBIGELOW, SMITH & CO.
BEL AMI
(A LADIES' MAN)
I
When the cashier had given him the change out of his five francpiece,George Duroy left the restaurant.
As he had a good carriage, both naturally and from his militarytraining, he drew himself up, twirled his moustache, and threw upon thelingering customers a rapid and sweeping glance--one of those glanceswhich take in everything within their range like a casting net.
The women looked up at him in turn--three little work-girls, amiddle-aged music mistress, disheveled, untidy, and wearing a bonnetalways dusty and a dress always awry; and two shopkeepers' wives diningwith their husbands--all regular customers at this slap-bangestablishment.
When he was on the pavement outside, he stood still for a moment, askinghimself what he should do. It was the 28th of June, and he had justthree francs forty centimes in his pocket to carry him to the end of themonth. This meant the option of two dinners without lunch or two luncheswithout dinner. He reflected that as the earlier repasts cost twentysous apiece, and the latter thirty, he would, if he were content withthe lunches, be one franc twenty centimes to the good, which wouldfurther represent two snacks of bread and sausage and two bocks of beeron the boulevards. This latter item was his greatest extravagance andhis chief pleasure of a night; and he began to descend the RueNotre-Dame de Lorette.
He walked as in the days when he had worn a hussar uniform, his chestthrown out and his legs slightly apart, as if he had just left thesaddle, pushing his way through the crowded street, and shouldering folkto avoid having to step aside. He wore his somewhat shabby hat on oneside, and brought his heels smartly down on the pavement. He seemed everready to defy somebody or something, the passers-by, the houses, thewhole city, retaining all the swagger of a dashing cavalry-man in civillife.
Although wearing a sixty-franc suit, he was not devoid of a certainsomewhat loud elegance. Tall, well-built, fair, with a curly moustachetwisted up at the ends, bright blue eyes with small pupils, andreddish-brown hair curling naturally and parted in the middle, he bore astrong resemblance to the dare-devil of popular romances.
It was one of those summer evenings on which air seems to be lacking inParis. The city, hot as an oven, seemed to swelter in the stiflingnight. The sewers breathed out their poisonous breath through theirgranite mouths, and the underground kitchens gave forth to the streetthrough their windows the stench of dishwater and stale sauces.
The doorkeepers in their shirtsleeves sat astride straw-bottomed chairswithin the carriage entrances to the houses, smoking their pipes, andthe pedestrians walked with flagging steps, head bare, and hat in hand.
When George Duroy reached the boulevards he paused again, undecided asto what he should do. He now thought of going on to the Champs Elyseesand the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne to seek a little fresh air under thetrees, but another wish also assailed him, a desire for a love affair.
What shape would it take? He did not know, but he had been awaiting itfor three months, night and day. Occasionally, thanks to his good looksand gallant bearing, he gleaned a few crumbs of love here and there, buthe was always hoping for something further and better.
With empty pockets and hot blood, he kindled at the contact of theprowlers who murmur at street corners: "Will you come home with me,dear?" but he dared not follow them, not being able to pay them, and,besides, he was awaiting something else, less venally vulgar kisses.
He liked, however, the localities in which women of the townswarm--their balls, their cafes, and their streets. He liked to rubshoulders with them, speak to them, chaff them, inhale their strongperfumes, feel himself near them. They were women at any rate, womenmade for love. He did not despise them with the innate contempt of awell-born man.
He turned towards the Madeleine, following the flux of the crowd whichflowed along overcome by the heat. The chief cafes, filled withcustomers, were overflowing on to the pavement, and displayed theirdrinking public under the dazzling glare of their lit-up facias. Infront of them, on little tables, square or round, were glasses holdingfluids of every shade, red, yellow, green, brown, and inside thedecanters glittered the large transparent cylinders of ice, serving tocool the bright, clear water. Duroy had slackened his pace, a longing todrink parched his throat.
A hot thirst, a summer evening's thirst assailed him, and he fancied thedelightful sensation of cool drinks flowing across his palate. But if heonly drank two bocks of beer in the evening, farewell to the slendersupper of the morrow, and he was only too well acquainted with the hoursof short commons at the end of the month.
He said to himself: "I must hold out till ten o'clock, and then I'llhave my bock at the American cafe. Confound it, how thirsty I amthough." And he scanned the men seated at the tables drinking, all thepeople who could quench their thirst as much as they pleased. He wenton, passing in front of the cafes with a sprightly swaggering air, andguessing at a glance from their dress and bearing how much money eachcustomer ought to have about him. Wrath against these men quietlysitting there rose up within him. If their pockets were rummaged, gold,silver, and coppers would be found in them. On an average each one musthave at least two louis. There were certainly a hundred to a cafe, ahundred times two louis is four thousand francs. He murmured "theswine," as he walked gracefully past them. If he could have had hold ofone of them at a nice dark corner he would have twisted his neck withoutscruple, as he used to do the country-folk's fowls on field-days.
And he recalled his two years in Africa and the way in which he used topillage the Arabs when stationed at little out-posts in the south. Abright and cruel smile flitted across his lips at the recollection of anescapade which had cost the lives of three men of the Ouled-Alanetribe, and had furnished him and his comrades with a score of fowls, acouple of sheep, some gold, and food for laughter for six months.
The culprits had never been found, and, what is more, they had hardlybeen looked for, the Arab being looked upon as somewhat in the light ofthe natural prey of the soldier.
In Paris it was another thing. One could not plunder prettily, sword byside and revolver in hand, far from civil authority. He felt in hisheart all the instincts of a sub-officer let loose in a conqueredcountry. He certainly regretted his two years in the desert. What a pityhe had not stopped there. But, then, he had hoped something better inreturning home. And now--ah! yes, it was very nice now, was it not?
He clicked his tongue as if to verify the parched state of his palate.
The crowd swept past him slowly, and he kept thinking. "Set of hogs--allthese idiots have money in their waistcoat pockets." He pushed againstpeople and softly whistled a lively tune. Gentlemen whom he thus elbowedturned grumbling, and women murmured: "What a brute!"
He passed the Vaudeville Theater and stopped before the American cafe,asking himself whether he should not take his bock, so greatly didthirst torture him. Before making up his mind, he glanced at theilluminated clock. It was a quarter past nine. He knew himself that assoon as the glassful of beer was before him he would gulp it down. Whatwould he do then up to eleven o'clock?
He passed on. "I will go as far as the Madeleine," he said, "and walkback slowly."
As he reached the corner of the Palace de l'Opera, he passed a stoutyoung fellow, whose face he vaguely recollected having seen somewhere.He began to follow him, turning over his recollections and repeating tohimse
lf half-aloud: "Where the deuce did I know that joker?"
He searched without being able to recollect, and then all at once, by astrange phenomenon of memory, the same man appeared to him thinner,younger, and clad in a hussar uniform. He exclaimed aloud: "What,Forestier!" and stepping out he tapped the other on the shoulder. Thepromenader turned round and looked at him, and then said: "What is it,sir?"
Duroy broke into a laugh. "Don't you know me?" said he.
"No."
"George Duroy, of the 6th Hussars."
Forestier held out his hands, exclaiming: "What, old fellow! How areyou?"
"Very well, and you?"
"Oh, not very brilliant! Just fancy, I have a chest in brown paper now.I cough six months out of twelve, through a cold I caught at Bougivalthe year of my return to Paris, four years ago."
And Forestier, taking his old comrade's arm, spoke to him of hisillness, related the consultations, opinions, and advice of the doctors,and the difficulty of following this advice in his position. He was toldto spend the winter in the South, but how could he? He was married, anda journalist in a good position.
"I am political editor of the _Vie Francaise_. I write the proceedingsin the Senate for the _Salut_, and from time to time literary criticismsfor the _Planete_. That is so. I have made my way."
Duroy looked at him with surprise. He was greatly changed, matured. Hehad now the manner, bearing, and dress of a man in a good position andsure of himself, and the stomach of a man who dines well. Formerly hehad been thin, slight, supple, heedless, brawling, noisy, and alwaysready for a spree. In three years Paris had turned him into someonequite different, stout and serious, and with some white hairs about histemples, though he was not more than twenty-seven.
Forestier asked: "Where are you going?"
Duroy answered: "Nowhere; I am just taking a stroll before turning in."
"Well, will you come with me to the _Vie Francaise_, where I have someproofs to correct, and then we will take a bock together?"
"All right."
They began to walk on, arm-in-arm, with that easy familiarity existingbetween school-fellows and men in the same regiment.
"What are you doing in Paris?" asked Forestier.
Duroy shrugged his shoulders. "Simply starving. As soon as I finished myterm of service I came here--to make a fortune, or rather for the sakeof living in Paris; and for six months I have been a clerk in theoffices of the Northern Railway at fifteen hundred francs a year,nothing more."
Forestier murmured: "Hang it, that's not much!"
"I should think not. But how can I get out of it? I am alone; I don'tknow anyone; I can get no one to recommend me. It is not goodwill thatis lacking, but means."
His comrade scanned him from head to foot, like a practical manexamining a subject, and then said, in a tone of conviction: "You see,my boy, everything depends upon assurance here. A clever fellow can moreeasily become a minister than an under-secretary. One must obtrude one'sself on people; not ask things of them. But how the deuce is it that youcould not get hold of anything better than a clerk's berth on theNorthern Railway?"
Duroy replied: "I looked about everywhere, but could not find anything.But I have something in view just now; I have been offered ariding-master's place at Pellerin's. There I shall get three thousandfrancs at the lowest."
Forestier stopped short. "Don't do that; it is stupid, when you ought tobe earning ten thousand francs. You would nip your future in the bud. Inyour office, at any rate, you are hidden; no one knows you; you canemerge from it if you are strong enough to make your way. But once ariding-master, and it is all over. It is as if you were head-waiter at aplace where all Paris goes to dine. When once you have given ridinglessons to people in society or to their children, they will never beable to look upon you as an equal."
He remained silent for a few moments, evidently reflecting, and thenasked:
"Have you a bachelor's degree?"
"No; I failed to pass twice."
"That is no matter, as long as you studied for it. If anyone mentionsCicero or Tiberius, you know pretty well what they are talking about?"
"Yes; pretty well."
"Good; no one knows any more, with the exception of a score of idiotswho have taken the trouble. It is not difficult to pass for being wellinformed; the great thing is not to be caught in some blunder. You canmaneuver, avoid the difficulty, turn the obstacle, and floor others bymeans of a dictionary. Men are all as stupid as geese and ignorant asdonkeys."
He spoke like a self-possessed blade who knows what life is, and smiledas he watched the crowd go by. But all at once he began to cough, andstopped again until the fit was over, adding, in a tone ofdiscouragement: "Isn't it aggravating not to be able to get rid of thiscough? And we are in the middle of summer. Oh! this winter I shall goand get cured at Mentone. Health before everything."
They halted on the Boulevard Poissoniere before a large glass door, onthe inner side of which an open newspaper was pasted. Three passers-byhad stopped and were reading it.
Above the door, stretched in large letters of flame, outlined by gasjets, the inscription _La Vie Francaise_. The pedestrians passing intothe light shed by these three dazzling words suddenly appeared asvisible as in broad daylight, then disappeared again into darkness.
Forestier pushed the door open, saying, "Come in." Duroy entered,ascended an ornate yet dirty staircase, visible from the street, passedthrough an ante-room where two messengers bowed to his companion, andreached a kind of waiting-room, shabby and dusty, upholstered in dirtygreen Utrecht velvet, covered with spots and stains, and worn in placesas if mice had been gnawing it.
"Sit down," said Forestier. "I will be back in five minutes."
And he disappeared through one of the three doors opening into the room.
A strange, special, indescribable odor, the odor of a newspaper office,floated in the air of the room. Duroy remained motionless, slightlyintimidated, above all surprised. From time to time folk passedhurriedly before him, coming in at one door and going out at anotherbefore he had time to look at them.
They were now young lads, with an appearance of haste, holding in theirhand a sheet of paper which fluttered from the hurry of their progress;now compositors, whose white blouses, spotted with ink, revealed a cleanshirt collar and cloth trousers like those of men of fashion, and whocarefully carried strips of printed paper, fresh proofs damp from thepress. Sometimes a gentleman entered rather too elegantly attired, hiswaist too tightly pinched by his frock-coat, his leg too well set off bythe cut of his trousers, his foot squeezed into a shoe too pointed atthe toe, some fashionable reporter bringing in the echoes of the
evening.
Others, too, arrived, serious, important-looking men, wearing tall hatswith flat brims, as if this shape distinguished them from the rest ofmankind.
Forestier reappeared holding the arm of a tall, thin fellow, betweenthirty and forty years of age, in evening dress, very dark, with hismoustache ends stiffened in sharp points, and an insolent andself-satisfied bearing.
Forestier said to him: "Good night, dear master."
The other shook hands with him, saying: "Good night, my dear fellow,"and went downstairs whistling, with his cane under his arm.
Duroy asked: "Who is that?"
"Jacques Rival, you know, the celebrated descriptive writer, theduellist. He has just been correcting his proofs. Garin, Montel, and heare the three best descriptive writers, for facts and points, we have inParis. He gets thirty thousand francs a year here for two articles aweek."
As they were leaving they met a short, stout man, with long hair anduntidy appearance, who was puffing as he came up the stairs.
Forestier bowed low to him. "Norbert de Varenne," said he, "the poet;the author of '_Les Soleils Morts_'; another who gets long prices. Everytale he writes for us costs three hundred francs, and the longest do notrun to two hundred lines. But let us turn into the Neapolitan _cafe_, Iam beginning to choke with thirst."
As soon as t
hey were seated at a table in the _cafe_, Forestier calledfor two bocks, and drank off his own at a single draught, while Duroysipped his beer in slow mouthfuls, tasting it and relishing it likesomething rare and precious.
His companion was silent, and seemed to be reflecting. Suddenly heexclaimed: "Why don't you try journalism?"
The other looked at him in surprise, and then said: "But, you know, Ihave never written anything."
"Bah! everyone must begin. I could give you a job to hunt up informationfor me--to make calls and inquiries. You would have to start with twohundred and fifty francs a month and your cab hire. Shall I speak to themanager about it?"
"Certainly!"
"Very well, then, come and dine with me to-morrow. I shall only havefive or six people--the governor, Monsieur Walter and his wife, JacquesRival, and Norbert de Varenne, whom you have just seen, and a lady, afriend of my wife. Is it settled?"
Duroy hesitated, blushing and perplexed. At length he murmured: "Yousee, I have no clothes."
Forestier was astounded. "You have no dress clothes? Hang it all, theyare indispensable, though. In Paris one would be better off without abed than without a dress suit."
Then, suddenly feeling in his waistcoat pocket, he drew out some gold,took two louis, placed them in front of his old comrade, and said in acordial and familiar tone: "You will pay me back when you can. Hire orarrange to pay by installments for the clothes you want, whichever youlike, but come and dine with me to-morrow, half-past seven, numberseventeen Rue Fontaine."
Duroy, confused, picked up the money, stammering: "You are too good; Iam very much obliged to you; you may be sure I shall not forget."
The other interrupted him. "All right. Another bock, eh? Waiter, twobocks."
Then, when they had drunk them, the journalist said: "Will you strollabout a bit for an hour?"
"Certainly."
And they set out again in the direction of the Madeleine.
"What shall we, do?" said Forestier. "They say that in Paris a loungercan always find something to amuse him, but it is not true. I, when Iwant to lounge about of an evening, never know where to go. A driveround the Bois de Boulogne is only amusing with a woman, and one has notalways one to hand; the _cafe_ concerts may please my chemist and hiswife, but not me. Then what is there to do? Nothing. There ought to be asummer garden like the Parc Monceau, open at night, where one would hearvery good music while sipping cool drinks under the trees. It should notbe a pleasure resort, but a lounging place, with a high price forentrance in order to attract the fine ladies. One ought to be able tostroll along well-graveled walks lit up by electric light, and to sitdown when one wished to hear the music near or at a distance. We hadabout the sort of thing formerly at Musard's, but with a smack of thelow-class dancing-room, and too much dance music, not enough space, notenough shade, not enough gloom. It would want a very fine garden and avery extensive one. It would be delightful. Where shall we go?"
Duroy, rather perplexed, did not know what to say; at length he made uphis mind. "I have never been in the Folies Bergere. I should not mindtaking a look round there," he said.
"The Folies Bergere," exclaimed his companion, "the deuce; we shallroast there as in an oven. But, very well, then, it is always funnythere."
And they turned on their heels to make their way to the Rue du FaubourgMontmartre.
The lit-up front of the establishment threw a bright light into the fourstreets which met in front of it. A string of cabs were waiting for theclose of the performance.
Forestier was walking in when Duroy checked him.
"You are passing the pay-box," said he.
"I never pay," was the reply, in a tone of importance.
When he approached the check-takers they bowed, and one of them held outhis hand. The journalist asked: "Have you a good box?"
"Certainly, Monsieur Forestier."
He took the ticket held out to him, pushed the padded door with itsleather borders, and they found themselves in the auditorium.
Tobacco smoke slightly veiled like a faint mist the stage and thefurther side of the theater. Rising incessantly in thin white spiralsfrom the cigars and pipes, this light fog ascended to the ceiling, andthere, accumulating, formed under the dome above the crowded gallery acloudy sky.
In the broad corridor leading to the circular promenade a group of womenwere awaiting new-comers in front of one of the bars, at which satenthroned three painted and faded vendors of love and liquor.
The tall mirrors behind them reflected their backs and the faces ofpassers-by.
Forestier pushed his way through the groups, advancing quickly with theair of a man entitled to consideration.
He went up to a box-keeper. "Box seventeen," said he.
"This way, sir."
And they were shut up in a little open box draped with red, and holdingfour chairs of the same color, so near to one another that one couldscarcely slip between them. The two friends sat down. To the right, asto the left, following a long curved line, the two ends of which joinedthe proscenium, a row of similar cribs held people seated in likefashion, with only their heads and chests visible.
On the stage, three young fellows in fleshings, one tall, one of middlesize, and one small, were executing feats in turn upon a trapeze.
The tall one first advanced with short, quick steps, smiling and wavinghis hand as though wafting a kiss.
The muscles of his arms and legs stood out under his tights. He expandedhis chest to take off the effect of his too prominent stomach, and hisface resembled that of a barber's block, for a careful parting dividedhis locks equally on the center of the skull. He gained the trapeze by agraceful bound, and, hanging by the hands, whirled round it like a wheelat full speed, or, with stiff arms and straightened body, held himselfout horizontally in space.
Then he jumped down, saluted the audience again with a smile amidst theapplause of the stalls, and went and leaned against the scenery, showingoff the muscles of his legs at every step.
The second, shorter and more squarely built, advanced in turn, and wentthrough the same performance, which the third also recommenced amidstmost marked expressions of approval from the public.
But Duroy scarcely noticed the performance, and, with head averted, kepthis eyes on the promenade behind him, full of men and prostitutes.
Said Forestier to him: "Look at the stalls; nothing but middle-classfolk with their wives and children, good noodlepates who come to seethe show. In the boxes, men about town, some artistes, some girls, goodsecond-raters; and behind us, the strangest mixture in Paris. Who arethese men? Watch them. There is something of everything, of everyprofession, and every caste; but blackguardism predominates. There areclerks of all kinds--bankers' clerks, government clerks, shopmen,reporters, ponces, officers in plain clothes, swells in evening dress,who have dined out, and have dropped in here on their way from the Operato the Theatre des Italiens; and then again, too, quite a crowd ofsuspicious folk who defy analysis. As to the women, only one type, thegirl who sups at the American _cafe_, the girl at one or two louis wholooks out for foreigners at five louis, and lets her regular customersknow when she is disengaged. We have known them for the last ten years;we see them every evening all the year round in the same places, exceptwhen they are making a hygienic sojourn at Saint Lazare or at Lourcine."
Duroy no longer heard him. One of these women was leaning against theirbox and looking at him. She was a stout brunette, her skin whitened withpaint, her black eyes lengthened at the corners with pencil and shadedby enormous and artificial eyebrows. Her too exuberant bosom stretchedthe dark silk of her dress almost to bursting; and her painted lips, redas a fresh wound, gave her an aspect bestial, ardent, unnatural, butwhich, nevertheless, aroused desire.
She beckoned with her head one of the friends who was passing, a blondewith red hair, and stout, like herself, and said to her, in a voice loudenough to be heard: "There is a pretty fellow; if he would like to haveme for ten louis I should not say no."
; Forestier turned and tapped Duroy on the knee, with a smile. "That ismeant for you; you are a success, my dear fellow. I congratulate you."
The ex-sub-officer blushed, and mechanically fingered the two pieces ofgold in his waistcoat pocket.
The curtain had dropped, and the orchestra was now playing a waltz.
Duroy said: "Suppose we take a turn round the promenade."
"Just as you like."
They left their box, and were at once swept away by the throng ofpromenaders. Pushed, pressed, squeezed, shaken, they went on, havingbefore their eyes a crowd of hats. The girls, in pairs, passed amidstthis crowd of men, traversing it with facility, gliding between elbows,chests, and backs as if quite at home, perfectly at their ease, likefish in water, amidst this masculine flood.
Duroy, charmed, let himself be swept along, drinking in withintoxication the air vitiated by tobacco, the odor of humanity, and theperfumes of the hussies. But Forestier sweated, puffed, and coughed.
"Let us go into the garden," said he.
And turning to the left, they entered a kind of covered garden, cooledby two large and ugly fountains. Men and women were drinking at zinctables placed beneath evergreen trees growing in boxes.
"Another bock, eh?" said Forestier.
"Willingly."
They sat down and watched the passing throng.
From time to time a woman would stop and ask, with stereotyped smile:"Are you going to stand me anything?"
And as Forestier answered: "A glass of water from the fountain," shewould turn away, muttering: "Go on, you duffer."
But the stout brunette, who had been leaning, just before, against thebox occupied by the two comrades, reappeared, walking proudly arm-in-armwith the stout blonde. They were really a fine pair of women, wellmatched.
She smiled on perceiving Duroy, as though their eyes had already toldsecrets, and, taking a chair, sat down quietly in face of him, andmaking her friend sit down, too, gave the order in a clear voice:"Waiter, two grenadines!"
Forestier, rather surprised, said: "You make yourself at home."
She replied: "It is your friend that captivates me. He is really apretty fellow. I believe that I could make a fool of myself for hissake."
Duroy, intimidated, could find nothing to say. He twisted his curlymoustache, smiling in a silly fashion. The waiter brought the drinks,which the women drank off at a draught; then they rose, and thebrunette, with a friendly nod of the head, and a tap on the arm with herfan, said to Duroy: "Thanks, dear, you are not very talkative."
And they went off swaying their trains.
Forestier laughed. "I say, old fellow, you are very successful with thewomen. You must look after it. It may lead to something." He was silentfor a moment, and then continued in the dreamy tone of men who thinkaloud: "It is through them, too, that one gets on quickest."
And as Duroy still smiled without replying, he asked: "Are you going tostop any longer? I have had enough of it. I am going home."
The other murmured: "Yes, I shall stay a little longer. It is not late."
Forestier rose. "Well, good-night, then. Till to-morrow. Don't forget.Seventeen Rue Fontaine, at half-past seven."
"That is settled. Till to-morrow. Thanks."
They shook hands, and the journalist walked away.
As soon as he had disappeared Duroy felt himself free, and again hejoyfully felt the two pieces of gold in his pocket; then rising, hebegan to traverse the crowd, which he followed with his eyes.
He soon caught sight of the two women, the blonde and the brunette, whowere still making their way, with their proud bearing of beggars,through the throng of men.
He went straight up to them, and when he was quite close he no longerdared to do anything.
The brunette said: "Have you found your tongue again?"
He stammered "By Jove!" without being able to say anything else.
The three stood together, checking the movement, the current of whichswept round them.
All at once she asked: "Will you come home with me?"
And he, quivering with desire, answered roughly: "Yes, but I have only alouis in my pocket."
She smiled indifferently. "It is all the same to me,"' and took his armin token of possession.
As they went out he thought that with the other louis he could easilyhire a suit of dress clothes for the next evening.