Chương Chương 18 · ATTAINMENT

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ATTAINMENT

It was dark in the apartments in the Rue de Constantinople, when

Georges du Roy and Clotilde de Marelle, having met at the door, entered

them. Without giving him time to raise the shades, the latter said:

"So you are going to marry Suzanne Walter?"

He replied in the affirmative, adding gently: "Did you not know it?"

She answered angrily: "So you are going to marry Suzanne Walter? For

three months you have deceived me. Everyone knew of it but me. My

husband told me. Since you left your wife you have been preparing for

that stroke, and you made use of me in the interim. What a rascal you

are!"

He asked: "How do you make that out? I had a wife who deceived me; I

surprised her, obtained a divorce, and am now going to marry another.

What is more simple than that?"

She murmured: "What a villain!"

He said with dignity: "I beg of you to be more careful as to what you

say."

She rebelled at such words from him: "What! Would you like me to handle

you with gloves? You have conducted yourself like a rascal ever since I

have known you, and now you do not want me to speak of it. You deceive

everyone; you gather pleasure and money everywhere, and you want me to

treat you as an honest man."

He rose; his lips twitched: "Be silent or I will make you leave these

rooms."

She cried: "Leave here--you will make me--you? You forget that it is I

who have paid for these apartments from the very first, and you

threaten to put me out of them. Be silent, good-for-nothing! Do you

think I do not know how you stole a portion of Vaudrec's bequest from

Madeleine? Do you think I do not know about Suzanne?"

He seized her by her shoulders and shook her. "Do not speak of that; I

forbid you."

"I know you have ruined her!"

He would have taken anything else, but that lie exasperated him. He

repeated: "Be silent--take care"--and he shook her as he would have

shaken the bough of a tree. Still she continued; "You were her ruin, I

know it." He rushed upon her and struck her as if she had been a man.

Suddenly she ceased speaking, and groaned beneath his blows. Finally he

desisted, paced the room several times in order to regain his

self-possession, entered the bedroom, filled the basin with cold water

and bathed his head. Then he washed his hands and returned to see what

Clotilde was doing. She had not moved. She lay upon the floor weeping

softly. He asked harshly:

"Will you soon have done crying?"

She did not reply. He stood in the center of the room, somewhat

embarrassed, somewhat ashamed, as he saw the form lying before him.

Suddenly he seized his hat. "Good evening. You can leave the key with

the janitor when you are ready. I will not await your pleasure."

He left the room, closed the door, sought the porter, and said to him:

"Madame is resting. She will go out soon. You can tell the proprietor

that I have given notice for the first of October."

His marriage was fixed for the twentieth; it was to take place at the

Madeleine. There had been a great deal of gossip about the entire

affair, and many different reports were circulated. Mme. Walter had

aged greatly; her hair was gray and she sought solace in religion.

In the early part of September "La Vie Francaise" announced that Baron

du Roy de Cantel had become its chief editor, M. Walter reserving the

title of manager. To that announcement were subjoined the names of the

staff of art and theatrical critics, political reporters, and so forth.

Journalists no longer sneered in speaking of "La Vie Francaise;" its

success had been rapid and complete. The marriage of its chief editor

was what was called a "Parisian event," Georges du Roy and the Walters

having occasioned much comment for some time.

The ceremony took place on a clear, autumn day. At ten o'clock the

curious began to assemble; at eleven o'clock, detachments of officers

came to disperse the crowd. Soon after, the first guests arrived; they

were followed by others, women in rich costumes, men, grave and

dignified. The church slowly began to fill. Norbert de Varenne espied

Jacques Rival, and joined him.

"Well," said he, "sharpers always succeed."

His companion, who was not envious, replied: "So much the better for

him. His fortune is made."

Rival asked: "Do you know what has become of his wife?"

The poet smiled. "Yes and no--she lives a very retired life, I have

been told, in the Montmartre quarter. But--there is a but--for some

time I have read political articles in 'La Plume,' which resemble those

of Forestier and Du Roy. They are supposed to be written by a Jean Le

Dol, a young, intelligent, handsome man--something like our friend

Georges--who has become acquainted with Mme. Forestier. From that I

have concluded that she likes beginners and that they like her. She is,

moreover, rich; Vaudrec and Laroche-Mathieu were not attentive to her

for nothing."

Rival asked: "Tell me, is it true that Mme. Walter and Du Roy do not

speak?"

"Yes. She did not wish to give him her daughter's hand. But he

threatened the old man with shocking revelations. Walter remembered

Laroche-Mathieu's fate and yielded at once; but his wife, obstinate

like all women, vowed that she would never address a word to her

son-in-law. It is comical to see them together! She looks like the

statue of vengeance, and he is very uncomfortable, although he tries to

appear at his ease."

Suddenly the beadle struck the floor three times with his staff. All

the people turned to see what was coming, and the young bride appeared

in the doorway leaning upon her father's arm. She looked like a

beautiful doll, crowned with a wreath of orange blossoms. She advanced

with bowed head. The ladies smiled and murmured as she passed them. The

men whispered:

"Exquisite, adorable!"

M. Walter walked by her side with exaggerated dignity. Behind them came

four maids of honor dressed in pink and forming a charming court for so

dainty a queen.

Mme. Walter followed on the arm of Count de Latour-Ivelin's aged

father. She did not walk; she dragged herself along, ready to faint at

every step. She had aged and grown thinner.

Next came Georges du Roy with an old lady, a stranger. He held his head

proudly erect and wore upon his coat, like a drop of blood, the red

ribbon of the Legion of Honor.

He was followed by the relatives: Rose, who had been married six weeks,

with a senator; Count de Latour-Ivelin with Viscountess de Percemur.

Following them was a motley procession of associates and friends of Du

Roy, country cousins of Mme. Walter's, and guests invited by her

husband.

The tones of the organ filled the church; the large doors at the

entrance were closed, and Georges kneeled beside his bride in the

choir. The new bishop of Tangiers, cross in hand, miter on head,

entered from the sacristy, to unite them in the name of the Almighty.

He asked the usual questions, rings were exchanged, words pronounced

which bound them forever, and then he delivered an address to the newly

married couple.

The sound of stifled sobs caused several to turn their heads. Mme.

Walter was weeping, her face buried in her hands. She had been obliged

to yield; but since the day on which she had told Du Roy: "You are the

vilest man I know; never speak to me again, for I will not answer you,"

she had suffered intolerable anguish. She hated Suzanne bitterly; her

hatred was caused by unnatural jealousy. The bishop was marrying a

daughter to her mother's lover, before her and two thousand persons,

and she could say nothing; she could not stop him. She could not cry:

"He is mine, that man is my lover. That union you are blessing is

infamous."

Several ladies, touched by her apparent grief, murmured: "How affected

that poor mother is!"

The bishop said: "You are among the favored ones of the earth. You,

sir, who are raised above others by your talent--you who write,

instruct, counsel, guide the people, have a grand mission to fulfill--a

fine example to set."

Du Roy listened to him proudly. A prelate of the Roman Church spoke

thus to him. A number of illustrious people had come thither on his

account. It seemed to him that an invisible power was impelling him on.

He would become one of the masters of the country--he, the son of the

poor peasants of Canteleu. He had given his parents five thousand

francs of Count de Vaudrec's fortune and he intended sending them fifty

thousand more; then they could buy a small estate and live happily.

The bishop had finished his harangue, a priest ascended the altar, and

the organ pealed forth. Suddenly the vibrating tones melted into

delicate, melodious ones, like the songs of birds; then again they

swelled into deep, full tones and human voices chanted over their bowed

heads. Vauri and Landeck of the Opera were singing.

Bel-Ami, kneeling beside Suzanne, bowed his head. At that moment he

felt almost pious, for he was filled with gratitude for the blessings

showered upon him. Without knowing just whom he was addressing, he

offered up thanks for his success. When the ceremony was over, he rose,

and, giving his arm to his wife, they passed into the sacristy. A

stream of people entered. Georges fancied himself a king whom the

people were coming to greet. He shook hands, uttered words which

signified nothing, and replied to congratulations with the words: "You

are very kind."

Suddenly he saw Mme. de Marelle, and the recollection of all the kisses

he had given her and which she had returned, of all their caresses, of

the sound of her voice, possessed him with the mad desire to regain

her. She was so pretty, with her bright eyes and roguish air! She

advanced somewhat timidly and offered him her hand. He took, retained,

and pressed it as if to say: "I shall love you always, I am yours."

Their eyes met, smiling, bright, full of love. She murmured in her soft

tones: "Until we meet again, sir!" and he gaily repeated her words.

Others approached, and she passed on. Finally the throng dispersed.

Georges placed Suzanne's hand upon his arm to pass through the church

with her. It was filled with people, for all had resumed their seats in

order to see them leave the sacred edifice together. He walked along

slowly, with a firm step, his head erect. He saw no one. He only

thought of himself.

When they reached the threshold he saw a crowd gathered outside, come

to gaze at him, Georges du Roy. The people of Paris envied him. Raising

his eyes, he saw beyond the Place de la Concorde, the chamber of

deputies, and it seemed to him that it was only a stone's throw from

the portico of the Madeleine to that of the Palais Bourbon.

Leisurely they descended the steps between two rows of spectators, but

Georges did not see them; his thoughts had returned to the past, and

before his eyes, dazzled by the bright sunlight, floated the image of

Mme. de Marelle, rearranging the curly locks upon her temples before

the mirror in their apartments.