الفصل الفصل 8 · DEATH AND A PROPOSAL

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DEATH AND A PROPOSAL

Duroy moved his effects to the apartments in Rue de Constantinople. Two

or three times a week, Mme. de-Marelle paid him visits. Duroy, to

counterbalance them, dined at her house every Thursday, and delighted

her husband by talking agriculture to him.

It was almost the end of February. Duroy was free from care. One night,

when he returned home, he found a letter under his door. He examined

the postmark; it was from Cannes. Having opened it, he read:

"Cannes, Villa Jolie."

"Dear sir and friend: You told me, did you not, that I could

count upon you at any time? Very well. I have a favor to ask

of you; it is to come and help me--not to leave me alone during

Charles's last moments. He may not live through the week,

although he is not confined to his bed, but the doctor has

warned me. I have not the strength nor the courage to see that

agony day and night, and I think with terror of the approaching

end I can only ask such a thing of you, for my husband has no

relatives. You were his comrade; he helped you to your

position; come, I beg of you; I have no one else to ask."

"Your friend,"

"Madeleine Forestier."

Georges murmured: "Certainly I will go. Poor Charles!"

The manager, to whom he communicated the contents of that letter,

grumblingly gave his consent. He repeated: "But return speedily, you

are indispensable to us."

Georges Duroy left for Cannes the next day by the seven o'clock

express, after having warned Mme. de Marelle by telegram. He arrived

the following day at four o'clock in the afternoon. A commissionnaire

conducted him to Villa Jolie. The house was small and low, and of the

Italian style of architecture.

A servant opened the door and cried: "Oh, sir, Madame is awaiting you

patiently."

Duroy asked: "How is your master?"

"Not very well, sir. He will not be here long."

The floor of the drawing-room which the young man entered was covered

with a Persian rug; the large windows looked upon the village and the

sea.

Duroy murmured: "How cozy it is here! Where the deuce do they get the

money from?"

The rustling of a gown caused him to turn. Mme. Forestier extended both

her hands, saying:

"How kind of you to come."

She was a trifle paler and thinner, but still as bright as ever, and

perhaps prettier for being more delicate. She whispered: "It is

terrible--he knows he cannot be saved and he tyrannizes over me. I have

told him of your arrival. But where is your trunk?"

Duroy replied: "I left it at the station, not knowing which hotel you

would advise me to stop at, in order to be near you."

She hesitated, then said: "You must stop here, at the villa. Your

chamber is ready. He might die any moment, and if it should come in the

night, I would be alone. I will send for your luggage."

He bowed. "As you will."

"Now, let us go upstairs," said she; he followed her. She opened a door

on the first floor, and Duroy saw a form near a window, seated in an

easy-chair, and wrapped in coverlets. He divined that it was his

friend, though he scarcely recognized him. Forestier raised his hand

slowly and with difficulty, saying:

"You are here; you have come to see me die. I am much obliged."

Duroy forced a smile. "To see you die? That would not be a very

pleasant sight, and I would not choose that occasion on which to visit

Cannes. I came here to rest."

"Sit down," said Forestier, and he bowed his head as if deep in

hopeless meditation. Seeing that he did not speak, his wife approached

the window and pointing to the horizon, said, "Look at that? Is it not

beautiful?"

In spite of himself Duroy felt the grandeur of the closing day and

exclaimed: "Yes, indeed, it is magnificent."

Forestier raised his head and said to his wife: "Give me more air."

She replied: "You must be careful; it is late, the sun is setting; you

will catch more cold and that would be a serious thing in your

condition."

He made a feeble gesture of anger with his right hand, and said: "I

tell you I am suffocating! What difference does it make if I die a day

sooner or later, since I must die?"

She opened the window wide. The air was soft and balmy. Forestier

inhaled it in feverish gasps. He grasped the arms of his chair and said

in a low voice: "Shut the window. I would rather die in a cellar."

His wife slowly closed the window, then leaned her brow against the

pane and looked out. Duroy, ill at ease, wished to converse with the

invalid to reassure him, but he could think of no words of comfort. He

stammered: "Have you not been better since you are here?"

His friend shrugged his shoulders impatiently: "You will see very

soon." And he bowed his head again.

Duroy continued: "At home it is still wintry. It snows, hails, rains,

and is so dark that they have to light the lamps at three o'clock in

the afternoon."

Forestier asked: "Is there anything new at the office?"

"Nothing. They have taken little Lacrin of the 'Voltaire' to fill your

place, but he is incapable. It is time you came back."

The invalid muttered: "I? I will soon be writing under six feet of

sod." A long silence ensued.

Mme. Forestier did not stir; she stood with her back to the room, her

face toward the window. At length Forestier broke the silence in a

gasping voice, heartrending to listen to: "How many more sunsets shall

I see--eight--ten--fifteen--twenty--or perhaps thirty--no more. You

have more time, you two--as for me--all is at an end. And everything

will go on when I am gone as if I were here." He paused a few moments,

then continued: "Everything that I see reminds me that I shall not see

them long. It is horrible. I shall no longer see the smallest

objects--the glasses--the dishes--the beds on which we rest--the

carriages. It is fine to drive in the evening. How I loved all that."

Again Norbert de Varenne's words occurred to Duroy. The room grew dark.

Forestier asked irritably:

"Are we to have no lamp to-night? That is what is called caring for an

invalid!"

The form outlined against the window disappeared and an electric bell

was heard to ring. A servant soon entered and placed a lamp upon the

mantel-piece. Mme. Forestier asked her husband: "Do you wish to retire,

or will you go downstairs to dinner?"

"I will go down to dinner."

The meal seemed to Duroy interminable, for there was no conversation,

only the ticking of a clock broke the silence. When they had finished,

Duroy, pleading fatigue, retired to his room and tried in vain to

invent some pretext for returning home as quickly as possible. He

consoled himself by saying: "Perhaps it will not be for long."

The next morning Georges rose early and strolled down to the beach.

When he returned the servant said to him: "Monsieur has asked for you

two or three times. Will you go upstairs?"

He ascended the stairs. Forestier appeared to be in a chair; his wife,

reclining upon a couch, was reading. The invalid raised his head. Duroy

asked:

"Well, how are you? You look better this morning."

Forestier murmured: "Yes, I am better and stronger. Lunch as hastily as

you can with Madeleine, because we are going to take a drive."

When Mme. Forestier was alone with Duroy, she said to him: "You see,

to-day he thinks he is better! He is making plans for to-morrow. We are

now going to Gulf Juan to buy pottery for our rooms in Paris. He is

determined to go, but he cannot stand the jolting on the road."

The carriage arrived, Forestier descended the stairs, step by step,

supported by his servant. When he saw the closed landau, he wanted it

uncovered. His wife opposed him: "It is sheer madness! You will take

cold."

He persisted: "No, I am going to be better, I know it."

They first drove along a shady road and then took the road by the sea.

Forestier explained the different points of interest. Finally they

arrived at a pavilion over which were these words: "Gulf Juan Art

Pottery," and the carriage drew up at the door. Forestier wanted to buy

a vase to put on his bookcase. As he could not leave the carriage, they

brought the pieces to him one by one. It took him a long time to

choose, consulting his wife and Duroy: "You know it is for my study.

From my easy-chair I can see it constantly. I prefer the ancient

form--the Greek."

At length he made his choice. "I shall return to Paris in a few days,"

said he.

On their way home along the gulf a cool breeze suddenly sprang up, and

the invalid began to cough. At first it was nothing, only a slight

attack, but it grew worse and turned to a sort of hiccough--a rattle;

Forestier choked, and every time he tried to breathe he coughed

violently. Nothing quieted him. He had to be carried from the landau to

his room. The heat of the bed did not stop the attack, which lasted

until midnight. The first words the sick man uttered were to ask for a

barber, for he insisted on being shaved every morning. He rose to be

shaved, but was obliged to go to bed at once, and began to breathe so

painfully that Mme. Forestier in affright woke Duroy and asked him to

fetch the doctor. He returned almost immediately with Dr. Gavant who

prescribed for the sick man. When the journalist asked him his opinion,

he said: "It is the final stage. He will be dead to-morrow morning.

Prepare that poor, young wife and send for a priest. I can do nothing

more. However, I am entirely at your disposal" Duroy went to Mme.

Forestier. "He is going to die. The doctor advises me to send for a

priest. What will you do?"

She hesitated a moment and then said slowly:

"I will go and tell him that the cure wishes to see him. Will you be

kind enough to procure one who will require nothing but the confession,

and who will not make much fuss?"

The young man brought with him a kind, old priest who accommodated

himself to circumstances. When he had entered the death chamber, Mme.

Forestier went out and seated herself with Duroy in an adjoining room.

"That has upset him," said she. "When I mentioned the priest to him,

his face assumed a scared expression. He knew that the end was near. I

shall never forget his face."

At that moment they heard the priest saying to him: "Why no, you are

not so low as that. You are ill, but not in danger. The proof of that

is that I came as a friend, a neighbor." They could not hear his reply.

The priest continued: "No, I shall not administer the sacrament. We

will speak of that when you are better. If you will only confess, I ask

no more. I am a pastor; I take advantage of every occasion to gather in

my sheep."

A long silence followed. Then suddenly the priest said, in the tone of

one officiating at the altar:

"The mercy of God is infinite; repeat the 'Confiteor,' my son. Perhaps

you have forgotten it; I will help you. Repeat with me: 'Confiteor Deo

omnipotenti; Beata Mariae semper virgini.'" He paused from time to time

to permit the dying man to catch up to him.

Then he said: "Now, confess." The sick man murmured something. The

priest repeated: "You have committed sins: of what kind, my son?"

The young woman rose and said simply: "Let us go into the garden. We

must not listen to his secrets."

They seated themselves upon a bench before the door, beneath a

blossoming rosebush. After several moments of silence Duroy asked:

"Will it be some time before you return to Paris?"

"No," she replied; "when all is over, I will go back."

"In about ten days?"

"Yes, at most."

He continued; "Charles has no relatives then?"

"None, save cousins. His father and mother died when he was very young."

In the course of a few minutes, the servant came to tell them that the

priest had finished, and together they ascended the stairs. Forestier

seemed to have grown thinner since the preceding day. The priest was

holding his hand.

"Au revoir, my son. I will come again to-morrow morning"; and he left.

When he was gone, the dying man, who was panting, tried to raise his

two hands toward his wife and gasped:

"Save me--save me, my darling. I do not want to die--oh, save me--go

for the doctor. I will take anything. I do not want to die." He wept;

the tears coursed down his pallid cheeks. Then his hands commenced to

wander hither and thither continually, slowly, and regularly, as if

gathering something on the coverlet. His wife, who was also weeping,

sobbed:

"No, it is nothing. It is only an attack; you will be better to-morrow;

you tired yourself with that drive."

Forestier drew his breath quickly and so faintly that one could

scarcely hear him. He repeated:

"I do not want to die! Oh, my God--my God--what has happened to me? I

cannot see. Oh, my God!" His staring eyes saw something invisible to

the others; his hands plucked continually at the counterpane. Suddenly

he shuddered and gasped: "The cemetery--me--my God!" He did not speak

again. He lay there motionless and ghastly. The hours dragged on; the

clock of a neighboring convent chimed noon.

Duroy left the room to obtain some food. He returned an hour later;

Mme. Forestier would eat nothing. The invalid had not stirred. The

young woman was seated in an easy-chair at the foot of the bed. Duroy

likewise seated himself, and they watched in silence. A nurse, sent by

the doctor, had arrived and was dozing by the window.

Duroy himself was almost asleep when he felt a presentiment that

something was about to happen. He opened his eyes just in time to see

Forestier close his. He coughed slightly, and two streams of blood

issued from the corners of his mouth and flowed upon his night robe;

his hands ceased their perpetual motion; he had breathed his last. His

wife, perceiving it, uttered a cry and fell upon her knees by the

bedside. Georges, in surprise and affright, mechanically made the sign

of the cross.

The nurse, awakening, approached the bed and said: "It has come."

Duroy, recovering his self-possession, murmured with a sigh of relief:

"It was not as hard as I feared it would be."

That night Mme. Forestier and Duroy watched in the chamber of death.

They were alone beside him who was no more. They did not speak,

Georges's eyes seemed attracted to that emaciated face which the

flickering light made more hollow. That was his friend, Charles

Forestier, who the day before had spoken to him. For several years he

had lived, eaten, laughed, loved, and hoped as did everyone--and now

all was ended for him forever.

Life lasted a few months or years, and then fled! One was born, grew,

was happy, and died. Adieu! man or woman, you will never return to

earth! He thought of the insects which live several hours, of the

feasts which live several days, of the men who live several years, of

the worlds which last several centuries. What was the difference

between one and the other? A few more dawns, that was all.

Duroy turned away his eyes in order not to see the corpse. Mme.

Forestier's head was bowed; her fair hair enhanced the beauty of her

sorrowful face. The young man's heart grew hopeful. Why should he

lament when he had so many years still before him? He glanced at the

handsome widow. How had she ever consented to marry that man? Then he

pondered upon all the hidden secrets of their lives. He remembered that

he had been told of a Count de Vaudrec who had dowered and given her in