Norbert de Varenne replied: ‘He’s getting married in church because as far as the church is concerned, he wasn’t married, the first time.’
‘How so?’
‘Our friend Bel-Ami, either out of indifference or out of economy, thought the town hall adequate when he married Madeleine Forestier. He therefore did without an ecclesiastical blessing, which, in the eyes of our Holy Mother the Church, constitutes a simple state of concubinage. As a result, he can present himself to the church today as a bachelor, and she is giving him the benefit of all her ceremonial, which will cost old man Walter a pretty penny.’
Beneath the vaulted roof the noise of the assembled crowd was growing louder. You could hear voices speaking in almost normal tones. Guests were pointing out famous people to one another, individuals who, delighted to be on show, were posing, sedulously preserving their public image, accustomed to displaying themselves at every big social event for which they provided, they believed, essential ornamentation and artistic decoration.
Rival went on: ‘You often visit the Director, my dear fellow, so do tell me, is it true that Mme Walter and Du Roy never speak to one another now?’
‘Never. She didn’t want to give him the girl. But he had a hold over the father, it seems, connected with the Moroccan affair. So he threatened the old boy with dreadful revelations. Walter remembered what had happened to Laroche-Mathieu, and gave in immediately. But the mother, who like all women is stubborn, has sworn never to speak to her son-in-law again. They’re damn funny when they’re together. She looks like a statue, the statue of Revenge, and he’s very ill-at-ease, although he carries it off well, because he knows how to handle himself, if anyone does!’
Colleagues came over to shake them by the hand. Snippets of political talk could be heard. And, muffled like the sound of a distant sea, the rumbling of the crowd gathered in front of the church came in through the door with the sunlight, rising up into the vault, above the more discreet excitement of the select assembly collected inside the temple.
Suddenly, the verger knocked three times on the flagstones with the shaft of his staff. The entire congregation turned round, accompanied by much rustling of skirts and shifting of chairs. And the young woman appeared, on the arm of her father, in the bright light of the portal.
She still looked like a doll, a delicious white doll crowned with orange-blossom.
She stood for a few moments on the threshold, then when she took her first step down the nave, the organ gave a mighty shout, announcing the entrance of the bride with its great metallic voice.
She walked in with bent head, but not timidly: she seemed rather moved, sweet, charming, a miniature bride. Women smiled and murmured as they watched her go by. Men whispered: ‘Exquisite, adorable.’ M. Walter walked with exaggerated dignity, a little pale, his glasses firmly on his nose.
Behind them, four bridesmaids, all four of them wearing pink and all four of them pretty, were the court attendants to this jewel of a queen. The pages, carefully chosen to look the part, walked at a pace that might have been regulated by a ballet-master.
Mme Walter followed, on the arm of the seventy-two-year-old Marquis de Latour-Yvelin, the father of her other son-in-law. She was not walking, but dragging herself forward, almost fainting each time she took a step. You could sense that her feet were sticking to the flagstones, that her legs were refusing to move on, that her heart was beating in her chest like that of an animal making a dash for freedom.
She had grown thin. Her white hair made her face look even paler and more hollow-cheeked. She gazed straight ahead so as not to see anyone, so as not to think, perhaps, of anything except what was torturing her.
Then Georges Du Roy appeared, with an unknown elderly lady.
Walking with upright head, he too kept his gaze forward, his eyes intent, hard, beneath slightly contracted brows. His moustache flamed on his lip. People thought him a very handsome man. His bearing was proud, his waist slender, his leg straight. He looked well in his coat, on which the tiny red ribbon of the Legion of Honour made a spot like a drop of blood.
The family came next, Rose with Sénateur Rissolin. She had been married for six weeks. The Comte de Latour-Yvelin escorted the Vicomtesse de Percemur.
Finally a bizarre procession of Du Roy’s connections or friends appeared, people whom he had introduced to his new family, well-known figures on the fringe of Paris society who instantly become the close friends or, if appropriate, the distant cousins of wealthy upstarts: noblemen who have come down in the world, or lost their money, or have a bad reputation, or sometimes a wife, which is worse. These were M. de Belvigne, the Marquis de Banjolin, the Comte and Comtesse de Ravenel, the Due de Ramorano, the Prince Kravalow, and the Chevalier Valreali; then came the Walters’ guests, the Prince de Guerche, the Due and Duchesse de Ferracine, the beautiful Marquise des Dunes. Some of Mme Walters’ relatives still retained, in the middle of this procession, their air of provincial respectability.
And the organ went on singing, spreading throughout the vast building the throbbing, rhythmical notes of its shining throat, which proclaim to the heavens the joy or suffering of men. The great doors of the entrance were closed again, and suddenly it was dark, as if the sun had been shut out.
Now Georges was kneeling beside his bride in the choir, facing the illuminated altar. The newly appointed bishop of Tangiers,* his crozier in his hand and his mitre on his head, appeared from the sacristy, to unite them in the name of the Lord.
He asked the customary questions, exchanged the rings, pronounced the words that bind like chains, and addressed a Christian homily to the newly weds. He spoke at length, in pompous language, of fidelity. He was a heavy man of good stature, one of those handsome prelates whose belly has majesty.
A sound of sobbing made some heads turn. Mme Walter was weeping, her face in her hands.
She had had to give in. What could she have done? But since the day when, upon her daughter’s return, Mme Walter had ordered her out of her bedroom, refusing to embrace her, since the day when she had said, her voice very low, to Du Roy, in response to his ceremonious greeting when he reappeared before her: ‘You are the vilest creature I know, never speak to me again, for I shall not answer you!’–ever since then she had been suffering an intolerable and unbearable torture. She hated Suzanne with a bitter hatred, made up of exacerbated passion and agonizing jealousy, the strange jealousy of a mother and a mistress, unacknowledgeable, fierce, burning like an open wound.
And now a bishop was marrying them, her daughter and her lover, in a church, in the presence of two thousand people, and in front of her! And she could say nothing? She could not prevent this? She could not shout: ‘But he’s mine, that man, he’s my lover. This union that you are blessing is infamous.’
Several women murmured sympathetically: ‘How affected the poor mother is.’
The bishop was declaiming: ‘You are among the blessed of this earth, among the richest and the most respected. You, Monsieur, whose talent raises you above others, you who write, and teach, and advise, you who guide the common people, you have a fine mission to carry out, a fine example to set…’
Du Roy listened, drunk with pride. A prelate of the Roman Catholic Church was speaking to him like this, to him. And he was conscious, behind his back, of a crowd, a distinguished crowd that was here because of him. He felt as if a power was thrusting him forward, raising him up. He was becoming one of the masters of the earth, he, the son of two poor peasants of Canteleu.
Suddenly he saw them, in their humble tavern at the top of the hill, up above the great valley of Rouen, his father and his mother, serving drinks to the local countryfolk. He had sent them five thousand francs on receiving the legacy from the Comte de Vaudrec. Now he was going to send them fifty thousand, and they would buy a small property. They would be pleased, happy.
The bishop had completed his homily. A priest dressed in a golden stole climbed up to the altar. And once again the organ began proclaiming the gl
ory of the newly wed couple.
Sometimes it gave long-drawn-out, tremendous shouts that swelled like waves, so resonant and so powerful that it seemed they must raise the roof and shatter it, spreading out into the blue sky. Their vibrant sound filled the whole church, sending shivers through body and soul. Then, abruptly, they quietened; and delicate, sprightly notes ran through the air, brushing the ear like soft breath: charming, slight, frisky little tunes that hopped about like birds; then suddenly this charming little tune was amplified afresh, again inspiring fear with its power and volume, as if a grain of sand was transforming itself into a world.
Next, human voices rose up, passing above the bowed heads. Vauri and Landeck, of the Opéra, were singing. A delicate fragrance of incense was filling the church and, on the altar, the divine sacrifice was being celebrated; the Son of God, at the summons of his priest, was descending to earth to consecrate the triumph of the Baron Georges Du Roy.
Bel-Ami, kneeling at Suzanne’s side, had bent his head. At that moment, he felt himself almost a believer, almost religious, full of gratitude for the divinity that had thus blessed him, that was favouring him in this way.
As soon as the service was over, he stood up and, with his wife on his arm, passed into the vestry. Then, in an unending stream, members of the congregation appeared. Wild with joy, Georges felt like a king being acclaimed by his people. He shook people’s hands, stammered out meaningless words, bowed, said in response to compliments: ‘You’re most kind.’
Unexpectedly, he caught sight of Mme de Marelle; and the memory of all the kisses that he had given her, that she had given him in return, the memory of all their caresses, of her charming ways, of the sound of her voice, of the taste of her lips, kindled in his blood a sudden desire to get her back. She was pretty, elegant, with her impish air and bright eyes. Georges thought: ‘After all, she really is a delightful mistress!’
She came up, a little diffident, a little uneasy, and offered him her hand. He took it in his, and kept it. Then, he felt the discreet signal of her womanly fingers, the soft pressure of forgiveness and promise. And he gripped it, this tiny hand, as if to say: ‘I still love you, I belong to you!’
Their eyes met, smiling, sparkling, full of love. She murmured in her pleasant voice: ‘Goodbye for now, Monsieur.’
He replied cheerfully: ‘Goodbye for now, Madame.’ And she moved away.
Other people were pushing forward. Like a river, the crowd flowed along before him. Eventually, it thinned. The last guests left.
Once more Georges took Suzanne’s arm, to go back down through the church. It was full of people, for every one had resumed his or her place, in order to watch them pass by together. He walked slowly, his pace steady, his head held high and his eyes fixed on the great sunlit opening of the door. He could feel faint shivers running over his skin, those cold shivers that come with great happiness. He noticed no one. He was thinking only of himself.
When he reached the threshold, he saw the crowd that had gathered, a dark, buzzing crowd that had gathered there for him, for him, Georges Du Roy. The people of Paris were gazing at him and envying him.
Then, raising his eyes, he saw in the distance, behind the Place de la Concorde, the Chamber of Deputies. And it seemed to him that he was about to make one leap from the portico of the Madeleine, to the portico of the Palais-Bourbon.
He walked slowly down the long flight of steps, between the two rows of spectators. But he did not see them; his thoughts now were of the past, and before his eyes, which were dazzled by the brilliant sunshine, there floated the image of Mme de Marelle in front of the mirror, tidying the little curls on her temples, which were always undone when she got out of bed.
EXPLANATORY NOTES
Five-franc piece: monetary denominations are notoriously difficult to translate into modern values. They make more sense in relative terms. In i860, for example, the average male wage in Paris was about five francs per day. By 1900 the annual salary of a civil servant was 1,490 francs, which was little better than that of a labourer. Duroy’s subsequent calculation here of his daily budget gives an indication of the cost of living during this period.
Former NCO: while it covers the same non-commissioned ranks between sergeant and officer cadet, the original French here, sous-officier, ironically underlines the contradiction between Duroy’s pretentious pose and the subaltern status of one whose ambitions had been to become ‘an officer, a colonel or a general’ (p. 31).
28th of June: the novel supposedly begins in 1880 (see Introduction, p. ix).
twenty-two sous: the expression has outlived the actual coin, worth five centimes.
boulevard: i.e. the Boulevard des Italiens, so well-known as the hub of metropolitan life that it could be referred to in this abbreviated form (see Introduction, p. xxvii).
Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette: in the ninth arrondissement, but it is not by chance that Duroy takes this particular street to make his way down from working-class Montmartre to the centre of the city. A lorette signified a young woman of easy virtue.
hussars: light cavalry.
cocky air: the original French term here, chic, had specific military connotations, derived as it was from the exemplary elegance associated with the contemporary German officer-corps.
sixty-franc outfit: the French here, a complet, included not only a silk-lined cape, trousers, jacket, and satin waistcoat, but also a silk hat. In 1885 a mere thirty-five francs would have bought a top-quality outfit. Duroy goes to extravagant lengths to impress.
the ‘ne’er-do-well’ of popular novels: exemplified by the work of Georges Ohnet (Le Maître de forges, 1882) and Xavier de Montépin (La Porteuse de pain, 1884), in whose sentimental fictions the villain likely to seduce the innocent daughter of the house is characterized by a roguish charm.
Madeleine: i.e. the church of the Madeleine (built between 1764 and 1842, facing–down the Rue Royale–the Place de la Concorde) situated at the far end of the boulevard along which Duroy is making his way as he ventures further into the city (see Introduction, p. xxxvi).
L’Américain: i.e. the fashionable Café Américain, at 4 boulevard des Capucines (across the Place de l’Opéra from the Boulevard des Italiens).
gold and silver: there were gold coins worth 5, 10, 20, 50, and 100 francs; denominations between 20 centimes and 5 francs were silver; small change (1, 2, 5, and 10 centimes pieces) was bronze.
in the South: i.e. in the southern part of Algeria. See Introduction, p. x.
an escapade which had cost three Ouled-Alane tribesmen their lives: real-life incident exploited by Maupassant as the basis for his short story, Mohammed-Fripouille, published in Le Gaulois on 20 September 1884, while he was writing Bel-Ami. The Ouleds were the dominant nomadic tribe of southern Algeria.
the Vaudeville: i.e. the Théâtre du Vaudeville, reopened in 1869 at the corner of the Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin and the Boulevard des Capucines, specializing in light comedy known, precisely, as le boulevard. It closed down in 1925.
Bougival: hamlet on the Seine (just to the west of Paris), the site of many of Maupassant’s boating stories and often pictured by the Impressionists.
La Vie française … Le Salut… La Planète: see Introduction, p. xi.
a paltry fifteen hundred francs a year: exactly Maupassant’s own starting salary, in 1873, when he worked as a clerk in the Admiralty.
Pellerin riding-school: there were half a dozen such schools in Paris at the time, none of them of this name. This is a further example of Maupassant’s caution in his transposition of identifiable realities; see Introduction, p. xvii.
baccalauréat: secondary education terminal certificate giving those successful the right to pursue university studies; the subsequent ironic reference to the knowledge of Cicero and Tiberius thereby acquired reflects the nineteenth-century reality of the many careers spectacularly made without prior scholarly certification.
Menton: on the French Riviera, near the Italian border. Those Mediterrane
an climes were already so populated by the elderly and the convalescent that Maupassant elsewhere scathingly refers to it as a paradise for pharmacists (‘la Californie des pharmaciens’).
Boulevard Poissonnière: located east of the Boulevard des Italiens. Duroy, having met Forestier, is thus retracing his steps.
thirty thousand francs a year … for two articles a week: precisely Maupassant’s own income for the same number of contributions to Le Gaulois and the Gil Bias.
the Napolitain: i.e. the Café Napolitain, on the Boulevard des Capucines.
louis: a twenty-franc piece.
Rue Fontaine: in the ninth arrondissement, which becomes the Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette down which Duroy walked at the beginning of the novel (cf. note to p. 3).
the Bois: i.e. the Bois de Boulogne, the park developed for the specific enjoyment of the leisured classes.
Café-concert: place of entertainment where spectators could drink, smoke and walk around during the performance of singers, acrobats and other kinds of popular artists.
Pare Monceau: in the wealthy eighth arrondissement and fashionable since the Second Empire (1852–70). It had been purchased by the state in 1852 and subsequently developed as a public space within Haussmann’s rebuilding of Paris.