He began to laugh and added: ‘It was that poor Forestier who was a cuckold… a cuckold without ever suspecting, a trusting, untroubled cuckold. Now I’m rid of the shrew he left me. My hands are no longer tied. I’ll go far.’
And old Walter went on staring at him, his eyes still unprotected by his glasses which remained up on his forehead, as he said to himself: ‘Oh yes, he’ll go far, the bastard.’
Georges stood up: ‘I’m going to write the piece for the gossip column. It must be done carefully. As you know, it will be a terrible thing for the minister. He’s done for. Nothing can save him. La Vie française has no incentive to spare him.’
The old man hesitated for a few moments, then made up his mind: ‘Go ahead,’ he said, ‘too bad for people who land themselves in that kind of mess.’
CHAPTER 9
Three months had passed. Du Roy’s divorce had just been made final. His wife had gone back to calling herself Forestier. As the Walters were leaving on the 15th of July for Trouville,* they resolved to spend a day in the country before going their separate ways.
They chose a Thursday, and set off at nine in the morning in a large touring landau, a six-seater drawn by four horses. They intended to lunch at Saint-Germain,* in the Pavilion Henri IV. Bel-Ami had asked that he be the only man of the party, for he could stand neither the presence, nor the appearance, of the Marquis de Cazolles. But, at the last moment, it was decided to pick up the Comte de Latour-Yvelin as soon as he was up. They had sent him word the preceding evening.
The carriage went up the Champs-Élysées at a brisk trot, then drove through the Bois de Boulogne.
It was a beautiful summer day, not too hot. Across the blue of the sky, the swallows were tracing broad arcs which still seemed to be visible even after the birds had gone.
The three women sat in the back of the landau, the mother between the two girls; the three men sat facing them, Walter between the two guests.
They crossed the Seine, skirted the Mont-Valérien,* then, after reaching Bougival, followed the river as far as Le Pecq.*
The not-so-young Comte de Latour-Yvelin had long, feathery side-whiskers whose ends fluttered in the slightest breeze; this had prompted Du Roy to remark: ‘The wind does pretty things with his beard.’ The Comte was gazing tenderly at Rose. They had been engaged for a month.
Georges, very pale, looked often at Suzanne, who was also pale. Their eyes would meet, seem to consult together, reach an understanding, exchange a secret thought, then dart away. Mme Walter sat quiet and content.
The lunch lasted a long time. Before returning to Paris, Georges proposed that they take a walk along the terrace.
First they stopped to admire the view. They all stood in a row along the wall, and went into raptures over the broad sweep of the horizon. The Seine, lying like a gigantic snake in the greenery at the base of a long hill, flowed towards Maisons-Laffitte. To the right, on the summit of the hill, the Marly* aqueduct, like a caterpillar with large feet, displayed its enormous silhouette against the sky, while below it Marly disappeared into a dense cluster of trees.
Here and there, on the immense plain stretching before them, they could see a village. The lakes of Vésinet appeared as distinct, neat patches in the scanty greenery of the little forest. On the left, in the far distance, you could see the pointed belfry of Sartrouville.*
Walter declared: ‘You won’t find a view like this anywhere in the world. Not even in Switzerland.’
Then, slowly, they set off to enjoy this view for a little while.
Georges and Suzanne hung back. As soon as the others were a few steps ahead, he said to her in a low, controlled voice: ‘Suzanne, I adore you. I’m head-over-heels in love with you!’
She murmured: ‘Me too, Bel-Ami.’
He went on: ‘If I can’t have you for my wife, I’ll leave Paris, and this country’
She answered: ‘Then try asking Papa for my hand. Perhaps he’ll agree.’
With a tiny gesture of impatience he said: ‘No, for the tenth time, I tell you it’s useless. I’ll never be able to come to your house again; I’ll be thrown out of the newspaper, and we won’t even be able to see each other any more. That’ll be the splendid result I’m sure to achieve if I make a formal request for your hand. You’ve been promised to the Marquis de Cazolles. They’re hoping that in the end you’ll say “yes”. They’re waiting.’
She asked: ‘So what should we do?’
He hesitated, glancing sideways at her: ‘Do you love me enough to do something insane?’
She replied firmly: ‘Yes.’
‘Completely insane?’
‘Yes.’
‘The most insane thing imaginable?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would you be brave enough to defy your father and your mother?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well now! There is a way, only one! It will have to come from you, not from me. You’re a spoilt child; they let you say anything you like, so they won’t be too astonished if you say something else outrageous. So listen. This evening, when you get home, first go and find your mother, just your mother by herself. And confess to her that you want to marry me. She will be terribly shocked and terribly angry…’
Suzanne interrupted him: ‘Oh! Mama will be very pleased…’
He went on sharply: ‘No. You don’t know her. She’ll be more upset and more furious than your father. You’ll see how she’ll refuse. But you’ll be firm, you won’t give way, you’ll keep saying that you want to marry me, only me, no one but me. Will you do that?’
‘I will.’
‘And when you’ve been to see your mother, then you’ll go and say the same thing to your father, in a very earnest, very decided manner.’
‘Yes, yes. And then?’
‘That’s when it gets serious. If you’re determined, really determined, really, really, really determined to be my wife, my dear, dear little Suzanne… We’ll… We’ll elope.’
She gave a great jump of joy and almost clapped her hands. ‘Oh! How wonderful! We’ll elope! When, oh when can we do that?’
All the old romances of nocturnal abductions, post-chaises, and inns, all the charming adventures in books flew simultaneously into her head like some enchanting dream about to come true. She said again: ‘When, when can we elope?’
He replied very softly: ‘Well… this evening… tonight.’
Trembling, she asked: ‘Where will we go?’
‘That’s my secret. Think carefully about what you’re doing. Remember that after this elopement you’ll have no choice but to be my wife. It’s the only way, but it’s… it’s very dangerous… for you.’
She declared: ‘I’ve made up my mind… where shall I meet you?’
‘Can you get out of the house, on your own?’
‘Yes. I know how to open the little door.’
‘Fine! When the concierge has gone to bed, about midnight, come and meet me in the Place de la Concorde. You’ll find me in a cab waiting in front of the Admiralty building.’
‘I’ll come.’
‘Really and truly?’
‘Really and truly.’
He took her hand and pressed it. ‘Oh, how I love you! How good you are, how brave! So, you don’t want to marry M. de Cazolles.’
‘Oh, no!’
‘Was your father very annoyed when you refused?’
‘He certainly was, he wanted to send me back to the convent.’
‘You can see we’ve got to do something decisive.’
‘I shall.’
She gazed at the broad horizon, her head full of this idea of elopement. She would be going further away than those distant places… with him! She was to be abducted! This made her proud. She gave no thought to her reputation, to the shameful dishonour to which she might be exposing herself. Did she even know about this? Had she the slightest notion of it?
Mme Walter, turning round, called: ‘Come alon
g, my pet. What are you doing with Bel-Ami?’
They caught up with the others, who were talking about seabathing at the coast, where they would soon be going. Then they drove back via Chatou, so as not to repeat the same route.
Georges sat in silence. He was thinking: so, if this little creature had just a tiny bit of courage, he was finally going to succeed! For the past three months he had enveloped her in the irresistible cocoon of his affection. He had led her on, captivated her, engineered her surrender. He had made her fall in love with him, as he was used to doing with women. This light-weight and immature doll had barely offered any resistance.
First of all, he had persuaded her to refuse M. de Cazolles. Now, he had just persuaded her to run away with him. For there was no other way.
He was well aware that Mme Walter would never consent to give him her daughter. She still loved him, she would always love him, violently and uncompromisingly. He restrained her with his calculated coldness, but he sensed that she was ravaged by a frustrated, voracious passion. Never would he be able to bring her round. Never would she agree to his having Suzanne.
But once he had the girl far away, he could negotiate with the father, as one powerful man to another.
Absorbed in these thoughts, he gave disjointed replies to the remarks addressed to him, which he barely listened to. When they drove into Paris, he seemed to pull himself together.
Suzanne, too, was deep in thought; and in her head the harness bells of the four horses were ringing, filling her imagination with never-ending highways bathed in eternal moonlight, dark forests traversed, roadside inns, and ostlers hurrying to bring fresh horses, for everyone would guess that they were being pursued.
When the landau reached the courtyard of the mansion, Georges was pressed to stay for dinner. He refused, and returned home.
After having something to eat, he organized his papers as if he were setting off on a long journey. He burned some compromising letters and hid some others, then he wrote to a few friends.
From time to time he would glance at the clock and think: ‘Things’ll be warming up over there.’ Anxiety gnawed at his heart. What if he failed? But what had he to fear? He could always find a way out! Still, this time, it was a very powerful opponent he was taking on!
He left again towards eleven, wandered about for a while, then hailed a cab and ordered it to stop in the Place de la Concorde, alongside the arcades of the Admiralty building.
Now and again he lit a match to look at the time by his watch. When he saw that midnight was approaching, he became feverish with impatience. He kept poking his head out of the window to look.
A distant clock struck twelve times, then another, closer by, then two together, then a final one, very far away. When that one stopped chiming, he thought: ‘It’s over. It hasn’t worked. She isn’t going to come.’
He was, however, determined to remain there until daybreak. In these matters you had to be patient. Again he heard the quarter strike, then the half-hour, then the three-quarters; and all the clocks repeated one o’clock, exactly as they had announced midnight.
No longer waiting, he went on sitting there, racking his brains to guess what might have happened. All of a sudden a woman’s head appeared through the window and asked: ‘Is that you, Bel-Ami?’
He gave a start, and gasped. ‘Suzanne?’
‘Yes, it’s me.’
He couldn’t turn the handle fast enough, and kept saying: ‘Ah! It’s you… it’s you… get in.’
She got in and collapsed against him. He shouted to the cab driver: ‘Drive on!’ and the cab set off.
She was panting, and said nothing.
He asked: ‘Well? What happened?’
So then, almost fainting, she whispered: ‘Oh, it was terrible, especially with Mama.’
Trembling with apprehension, he said: ‘Your Mama? What did she say? Tell me.’
‘Oh, it was ghastly. I went in to her room and recited my little piece, I’d prepared it very carefully. Then she turned white, and shouted: “Never! never!” As for me, I cried, I got angry, I swore I’d marry no one but you. I thought she was going to hit me. She seemed to go crazy; she said she’d send me back to the convent, tomorrow. I’d never seen her like that, never! Then, hearing her gabbling all this nonsense, Papa came in. He didn’t get as angry as her, but he declared that you weren’t a good enough match.
‘As they’d made me angry too, I shouted louder than them. And Papa told me to leave the room in a dramatic way that didn’t suit him in the least. That’s what made me decide to run away with you. Here I am, where are we going?’
He had put his arm gently round her waist; and he was listening avidly, his heart pounding and a feeling of bitter hatred for these people welling up in him. But he had her, their daughter. Now they would see.
He replied: ‘It’s too late to catch the train, so this cab’s going to take us to Sevres, where we’ll spend the night. Then tomorrow we’ll set off for La Roche-Guyon. It’s a pretty village on the Seine, between Mantes and Bonniéres.’
She murmured: ‘It’s just that I haven’t any things. I haven’t anything.’
He smiled unconcernedly. ‘Bah! We’ll see to that when we’re there.’
The cab drove along the streets. Georges took one of the young girl’s hands and began kissing it, slowly, respectfully. He did not know what to say to her, being quite unaccustomed to platonic endearments. But, suddenly, he thought he could see that she was crying.
Terrified, he asked: ‘Whatever’s the matter, my little sweetheart?’
She answered in a very tearful voice: ‘It’s my poor Mama, who at this moment won’t be able to sleep, if she’s discovered I’ve gone.’
Her mother, indeed, was not asleep.
When Suzanne had walked out of her room, Mme Walter was left with her husband. Bewildered and horror-stricken, she asked: ‘My God! Whatever does this mean?’
Walter shouted furiously: ‘It means that that schemer has got round her. He’s the one who got her to refuse Cazolles. He likes the look of her dowry, God help us!’
He began striding angrily round the room, and continued: ‘And as for you, you were forever enticing him here, flattering him, stroking his vanity; you thought nothing was too good for him. It was Bel-Ami here, Bel-Ami there, morning, noon, and night. Well, it serves you right.’
She had gone white, and whispered: ‘Me? I enticed him here?’
He bellowed into her face: ‘Yes, you! You’re all crazy about him, the Marelle woman, Suzanne, and the others. Do you imagine I didn’t see that you couldn’t let two days pass without inviting him here?’
She drew herself up, full of tragic dignity. ‘I will not allow you to speak to me like that. You forget that, unlike you, I was not brought up in a shop.’
At first he stood rooted to the spot in stupefaction, then, uttering an enraged ‘God Almighty!’, he left, slamming the door.
As soon as she was alone she went instinctively to the mirror, as if to see whether she herself looked any different, so impossible, so monstrous did everything that was happening to her seem. Suzanne in love with Bel-Ami! And Bel-Ami wanting to marry Suzanne! No, she was mistaken, it wasn’t true. Naturally enough, the girl had taken a violent fancy to this handsome young man, she’d hoped they’d let her have him for a husband, she’d had her little moment of madness! But what about him? Surely he couldn’t be party to this! She mulled it over, deeply perturbed as people are when faced with great disasters. No, surely Bel-Ami couldn’t know anything about what Suzanne had in mind.
And for a long time she thought about the possible treachery or innocence of this man. What a scoundrel, if he had planned this! And what would happen? She could foresee so many dangers, so much anguish!
If he knew nothing, everything could still turn out all right. They would take Suzanne on a trip for six months, and that would be the end of it. But how could she herself see him again, afterwards? For she still loved him. This passion had entered i
nto her like one of those arrowheads that can never be removed.
It was impossible to live without him. She might as well die.
In the agony of her uncertainty, she did not know what to think. Her head began to ache, her thoughts were becoming laboured, confused, painful. She grew agitated as she sought for answers, and angry at not knowing for certain. Looking at the clock, she saw it was past one, and thought: ‘I can’t go on like this, I’m losing my mind. I must know. I’ll wake Suzanne up, to ask her.’
And, candle in hand, she set off, her feet bare so as to make no noise, to her daughter’s room. She opened the door very softly, went in, and looked at the bed. It had not been slept in. At first she did not understand, and supposed that the girl was still talking to her father. But, instantly, a dreadful suspicion suggested itself; she raced to her husband’s bedroom and burst in, white-faced and panting. He was in bed, still reading.
He looked startled: ‘Well, what is it? What’s the matter with you?’
She stammered: ‘Have you seen Suzanne?’
‘Me? No. Why?’
‘She’s… she’s… gone. She’s not in… in her room.’
He leapt down onto the rug, put on his slippers and, bare-legged, his nightshirt flying, rushed in his turn to his daughter’s room.
The moment he saw it, he realized the truth. She had run away.
He sank into an armchair, setting his lamp down on the floor in front of him.
His wife had joined him. She said falteringly: ‘Well?’
He did not have the strength to reply; he was no longer even angry; he moaned: ‘It’s over, he’s got her. We’re done for.’
She didn’t understand: ‘What do you mean, done for?’
‘Oh, Lord, yes. He’ll have to marry her now.’
She gave a kind of animal cry: ‘Him! Never! Are you mad?’