VI

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      George Duroy woke up chapfallen the next morning.

      He dressed himself slowly, and then sat down at his window and began to reflect. He felt a kind of aching sensation all over, just as though he had received a drubbing over night. At last the necessity of finding some money spurred him up, and he went first to Forestier.

      His friend received him in his study with his feet on the fender.

      “What has brought you out so early?” said he.

      “A very serious matter, a debt of honor.”

      “At play?”

      He hesitated a moment, and then said: “At play.”

      “Heavy?”

      “Five hundred francs.”

      He only owed two hundred and eighty.

      Forestier, skeptical on the point, inquired: “Whom do you owe it to?”

      Duroy could not answer right off. “To — to — a Monsieur de Carleville.”

      “Ah! and where does he live?”

      “At — at— “

      Forestier began to laugh. “Number ought, Nowhere Street, eh? I know that gentleman, my dear fellow. If you want twenty francs, I have still that much at your service, but no more.”

      Duroy took the offered louis. Then he went from door to door among the people he knew, and wound up by having collected at about five o’clock the sum of eighty francs. And he still needed two hundred more; he made up his mind, and keeping for himself what he had thus gleaned, murmured: “Bah! I am not going to put myself out for that cat. I will pay her when I can.”

      For a fortnight he lived regularly, economically, and chastely, his mind filled with energetic resolves. Then he was seized with a strong longing for love. It seemed to him that several years had passed since he last clasped a woman in his arms, and like the sailor who goes wild on seeing land, every passing petticoat made him quiver. So he went one evening to the Folies Bergère in the hope of finding Rachel. He caught sight of her indeed, directly he entered, for she scarcely went elsewhere, and went up to her smiling with outstretched hand. But she merely looked him down from head to foot, saying: “What do you want with me?”

      He tried to laugh it off with, “Come, don’t be stuck-up.”

      She turned on her heels, saying: “I don’t associate with ponces.”

      She had picked out the bitterest insult. He felt the blood rush to his face, and went home alone.

      Forestier, ill, weak, always coughing, led him a hard life at the paper, and seemed to rack his brain to find him tiresome jobs. One day, even, in a moment of nervous irritation, and after a long fit of coughing, as Duroy had not brought him a piece of information he wanted, he growled out: “Confound it! you are a bigger fool than I thought.”

      The other almost struck him, but restrained himself, and went away muttering: “I’ll manage to pay you out some day.” An idea shot through his mind, and he added: “I will make a cuckold of you, old fellow!” And he took himself off, rubbing his hands, delighted at this project.

      He resolved to set about it the very next day. He paid Madame Forestier a visit as a reconnaissance. He found her lying at full length on a couch, reading a book. She held out her hand without rising, merely turning her head, and said: “Good-day, Pretty-boy!”

      He felt as though he had received a blow. “Why do you call me that?” he said.

      She replied, with a smile: “I saw Madame de Marelle the other day, and learned how you had been baptized at her place.”

      He felt reassured by her amiable air. Besides, what was there for him to be afraid of?

      She resumed: “You spoil her. As to me, people come to see me when they think of it — the thirty-second of the month, or something like it.”

      He sat down near her, and regarded her with a new species of curiosity, the curiosity of the amateur who is bargain-hunting. She was charming, a soft and tender blonde, made for caresses, and he thought: “She is better than the other, certainly.” He did not doubt his success, it seemed to him that he had only to stretch out his hand and take her, as one gathers a fruit.

      He said, resolutely: “I did not come to see you, because it was better so.”

      She asked, without understanding: “What? Why?”

      “No, not at all.”

      “Because I am in love with you; oh! only a little, and I do not want to be head over ears.”

      She seemed neither astonished, nor shocked, nor flattered; she went on smiling the same indifferent smile, and replied with the same tranquillity: “Oh! you can come all the same. No one is in love with me long.”

      He was surprised, more by the tone than by the words, and asked: “Why not?”

      “Because it is useless. I let this be understood at once. If you had told me of your fear before, I should have reassured you, and invited you, on the contrary, to come as often as possible.”

      He exclaimed, in a pathetic tone: “Can we command our feelings?”

      She turned towards him: “My dear friend, for me a man in love is struck off the list of the living. He becomes idiotic, and not only idiotic, but dangerous. I cease all intimate relations with people who are in love with me, or who pretend to be so — because they bore me, in the first place; and, secondly, because they are as much objects of suspicion to me as a mad dog, which may have a fit of biting. I therefore put them into a kind of moral quarantine until their illness is over. Do not forget this. I know very well that in your case love is only a species of appetite, while with me it would be, on the contrary, a kind of — of — of communion of souls, which does not enter into a man’s religion. You understand its letter, and its spirit. But look me well in the face.” She no longer smiled. Her face was calm and cold, and she continued, emphatically: “I will never, never be your mistress; you understand. It is therefore absolutely useless, it would even be hurtful, for you to persist in this desire. And now that the operation is over, will you agree to be friends — good friends — real friends, I mean, without any mental reservation.”

      He had understood that any attempt would be useless in face of this irrevocable sentence. He made up his mind at once, frankly, and, delighted at being able to secure this ally in the battle of life, held out both hands, saying: “I am yours, madame, as you will.”

      She read the sincerity of his intention in his voice, and gave him her hands. He kissed them both, one after the other, and then said simply, as he raised his head: “Ah, if I had found a woman like you, how gladly I would have married her.”

      She was touched this time — soothed by this phrase, as women are by the compliments which reach their hearts, and she gave him one of those rapid and grateful looks which make us their slaves. Then, as he could find no change of subject to renew the conversation, she said softly, laying her finger on his arm: “And I am going to play my part of a friend at once. You are clumsy.” She hesitated a moment, and then asked: “May I speak plainly?”

      “Yes.”

      “Quite plainly?”

      “Quite.”

      “Well, go and see Madame Walter, who greatly appreciates you, and do your best to please her. You will find a place there for your compliments, although she is virtuous, you understand me, perfectly virtuous. Oh! there is no hope of — of poaching there, either. You may