THE COLLECTED NOVELS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT. Guy de Maupassant
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rubbed her hands, delighted with the idea.
She got up and walked about, after having lit another cigarette, and dictated as she puffed out little whiffs of smoke, which, issuing at first through a little round hole in the midst of her compressed lips, slowly evaporated, leaving in the air faint gray lines, a kind of transparent mist, like a spider’s web. Sometimes with her open hand she would brush these light traces aside; at others she would cut them asunder with her forefinger, and then watch with serious attention the two halves of the almost impenetrable vapor slowly disappear.
Duroy, with his eyes, followed all her gestures, her attitudes, the movements of her form and features — busied with this vague pastime which did not preoccupy her thoughts.
She now imagined the incidents of the journey, sketched traveling companions invented by herself, and a love affair with the wife of a captain of infantry on her way to join her husband.
Then, sitting down again, she questioned Duroy on the topography of Algeria, of which she was absolutely ignorant. In ten minutes she knew as much about it as he did, and she dictated a little chapter of political and colonial geography to coach the reader up in such matters and prepare him to understand the serious questions which were to be brought forward in the following articles. She continued by a trip into the provinces of Oran, a fantastic trip, in which it was, above all, a question of women, Moorish, Jewish, and Spanish.
“That is what interests most,” she said.
She wound up by a sojourn at Saïda, at the foot of the great tablelands; and by a pretty little intrigue between the sub-officer, George Duroy, and a Spanish work-girl employed at the alfa factory at Ain el Hadjar. She described their rendezvous at night amidst the bare, stony hills, with jackals, hyenas, and Arab dogs yelling, barking and howling among the rocks.
And she gleefully uttered the words: “To be continued.” Then rising, she added: “That is how one writes an article, my dear sir. Sign it, if you please.”
He hesitated.
“But sign it, I tell you.”
Then he began to laugh, and wrote at the bottom of the page, “George Duroy.”
She went on smoking as she walked up and down; and he still kept looking at her, unable to find anything to say to thank her, happy to be with her, filled with gratitude, and with the sensual pleasure of this newborn intimacy. It seemed to him that everything surrounding him was part of her, everything down to the walls covered with books. The chairs, the furniture, the air in which the perfume of tobacco was floating, had something special, nice, sweet, and charming, which emanated from her.
Suddenly she asked: “What do you think of my friend, Madame de Marelle?”
He was surprised, and answered: “I think — I think — her very charming.”
“Is it not so?”
“Yes, certainly.”
He longed to add: “But not so much as yourself,” but dared not.
She resumed: “And if you only knew how funny, original, and intelligent she is. She is a Bohemian — a true Bohemian. That is why her husband scarcely cares for her. He only sees her defects, and does not appreciate her good qualities.”
Duroy felt stupefied at learning that Madame de Marelle was married, and yet it was only natural that she should be.
He said: “Oh, she is married, then! And what is her husband?”
Madame Forestier gently shrugged her shoulders, and raised her eyebrows, with a gesture of incomprehensible meaning.
“Oh! he is an inspector on the Northern Railway. He spends eight days out of the month in Paris. What his wife calls ‘obligatory service,’ or ‘weekly duty,’ or ‘holy week.’ When you know her better you will see how nice and bright she is. Go and call on her one of these days.”
Duroy no longer thought of leaving. It seemed to him that he was going to stop for ever; that he was at home.
But the door opened noiselessly, and a tall gentleman entered without being announced. He stopped short on seeing a stranger. Madame Forestier seemed troubled for a moment; then she said in natural tones, though a slight rosy flush had risen to her cheeks:
“Come in, my dear sir. I must introduce one of Charles’ old friends, Monsieur George Duroy, a future journalist.” Then in another tone, she added: “Our best and most intimate friend, the Count de Vaudrec.”
The two men bowed, looking each other in the eyes, and Duroy at once took his leave.
There was no attempt to detain him. He stammered a few thanks, grasped the outstretched hand of Madame Forestier, bowed again to the newcomer, who preserved the cold, grave air of a man of position, and went out quite disturbed, as if he had made a fool of himself.
On finding himself once more in the street, he felt sad and uneasy, haunted by the vague idea of some hidden vexation. He walked on, asking himself whence came this sudden melancholy. He could not tell, but the stern face of the Count de Vaudrec, already somewhat aged, with gray hair, and the calmly insolent look of a very wealthy man, constantly recurred to his recollection. He noted that the arrival of this unknown, breaking off a charming tête-à-tête, had produced in him that chilly, despairing sensation that a word overheard, a trifle noticed, the least thing suffices sometimes to bring about. It seemed to him, too, that this man, without his being able to guess why, had been displeased at finding him there.
He had nothing more to do till three o’clock, and it was not yet noon. He had still six francs fifty centimes in his pocket, and he went and lunched at a Bouillon Duval. Then he prowled about the boulevard, and as three o’clock struck, ascended the staircase, in itself an advertisement, of the Vie Francaise.
The messengers-in-waiting were seated with folded arms on a bench, while at a kind of desk a doorkeeper was sorting the correspondence that had just arrived. The entire get-up of the place, intended to impress visitors, was perfect. Everyone had the appearance, bearing, dignity, and smartness suitable to the anteroom of a large newspaper.
“Monsieur Walter, if you please?” inquired Duroy.
“The manager is engaged, sir,” replied the doorkeeper. “Will you take a seat, sir?” and he indicated the waiting-room, already full of people.
There were men grave, important-looking, and decorated; and men without visible linen, whose frock-coats, buttoned up to the chin, bore upon the breast stains recalling the outlines of continents and seas on geographical maps. There were three women among them. One of them was pretty, smiling, and decked out, and had the air of a gay woman; her neighbor, with a wrinkled, tragic countenance, decked out also, but in more severe fashion, had about her something worn and artificial which old actresses generally have; a kind of false youth, like a scent of stale love. The third woman, in mourning, sat in a corner, with the air of a desolate widow. Duroy thought that she had come to ask for charity.
However, no one was ushered into the room beyond, and more than twenty minutes had elapsed.
Duroy was seized with an idea, and going back to the doorkeeper, said: “Monsieur Walter made an appointment for me to call on him here at three o’clock. At all events, see whether my friend, Monsieur Forestier, is here.”
He was at once ushered along a lengthy passage, which brought him to a large room where four gentlemen were writing at a large green-covered table.
Forestier standing before the fireplace was smoking a cigarette and playing at cup and ball. He was very clever at this, and kept spiking the huge ball of yellow boxwood on the wooden point. He was counting “Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five.”
“Twenty-six,” said Duroy.
His friend raised his eyes without interrupting the regular movement of his arm, saying: “Oh! here you are, then. Yesterday I landed the ball fifty-seven times right off. There is only Saint-Potin who can beat me at it among those here. Have you seen the governor? There is nothing funnier than to see that