Chương Chương 2 · MADAME FORESTIER

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MADAME FORESTIER

"Where does M. Forestier live?"

"Third floor on the left," said the porter pleasantly, on learning

Duroy's destination.

Georges ascended the staircase. He was somewhat embarrassed and

ill-at-ease. He had on a new suit but he was uncomfortable. He felt

that it was defective; his boots were not glossy, he had bought his

shirt that same evening at the Louvre for four francs fifty, his

trousers were too wide and betrayed their cheapness in their fit, or

rather, misfit, and his coat was too tight.

Slowly he ascended the stairs, his heart beating, his mind anxious.

Suddenly before him stood a well-dressed gentleman staring at him. The

person resembled Duroy so close that the latter retreated, then

stopped, and saw that it was his own image reflected in a pier-glass!

Not having anything but a small mirror at home, he had not been able to

see himself entirely, and had exaggerated the imperfections of his

toilette. When he saw his reflection in the glass, he did not even

recognize himself; he took himself for some one else, for a

man-of-the-world, and was really satisfied with his general appearance.

Smiling to himself, Duroy extended his hand and expressed his

astonishment, pleasure, and approbation. A door opened on the

staircase, He was afraid of being surprised and began to ascend more

rapidly, fearing that he might have been seen posing there by some of

his friend's invited guests.

On reaching the second floor, he saw another mirror, and once more

slackened his pace to look at himself. He likewise paused before the

third glass, twirled his mustache, took off his hat to arrange his

hair, and murmured half aloud, a habit of his: "Hall mirrors are most

convenient."

Then he rang the bell. The door opened almost immediately, and before

him stood a servant in a black coat, with a grave, shaven face, so

perfect in his appearance that Duroy again became confused as he

compared the cut of their garments.

The lackey asked:

"Whom shall I announce, Monsieur?" He raised a portiere and pronounced

the name.

Duroy lost his self-possession upon being ushered into a world as yet

strange to him. However, he advanced. A young, fair woman received him

alone in a large, well-lighted room. He paused, disconcerted. Who was

that smiling lady? He remembered that Forestier was married, and the

thought that the handsome blonde was his friend's wife rendered him

awkward and ill-at-ease. He stammered out:

"Madame, I am--"

She held out her hand. "I know, Monsieur--Charles told me of your

meeting last night, and I am very glad that he asked you to dine with

us to-day."

Duroy blushed to the roots of his hair, not knowing how to reply; he

felt that he was being inspected from his head to his feet. He half

thought of excusing himself, of inventing an explanation of the

carelessness of his toilette, but he did not know how to touch upon

that delicate subject.

He seated himself upon a chair she pointed out to him, and as he sank

into its luxurious depths, it seemed to him that he was entering a new

and charming life, that he would make his mark in the world, that he

was saved. He glanced at Mme. Forestier. She wore a gown of pale blue

cashmere which clung gracefully to her supple form and rounded

outlines; her arms and throat rose in, lily-white purity from the mass

of lace which ornamented the corsage and short sleeves. Her hair was

dressed high and curled on the nape of her neck.

Duroy grew more at his ease under her glance, which recalled to him, he

knew not why, that of the girl he had met the preceding evening at the

Folies-Bergeres. Mme. Forestier had gray eyes, a small nose, full lips,

and a rather heavy chin, an irregular, attractive face, full of

gentleness and yet of malice.

After a short silence, she asked: "Have you been in Paris a long time?"

Gradually regaining his self-possession, he replied: "a few months,

Madame. I am in the railroad employ, but my friend Forestier has

encouraged me to hope that, thanks to him, I can enter into journalism."

She smiled kindly and murmured in a low voice: "I know."

The bell rang again and the servant announced: "Mme. de Marelle." She

was a dainty brunette, attired in a simple, dark robe; a red rose in

her black tresses seemed to accentuate her special character, and a

young girl, or rather a child, for such she was, followed her.

Mme. Forestier said: "Good evening, Clotilde."

"Good evening, Madeleine."

They embraced each other, then the child offered her forehead with the

assurance of an adult, saying:

"Good evening, cousin."

Mme. Forestier kissed her, and then made the introductions:

"M. Georges Duroy, an old friend of Charles. Mme. de Marelle, my

friend, a relative in fact." She added: "Here, you know, we do not

stand on ceremony."

Duroy bowed. The door opened again and a short man entered, upon his

arm a tall, handsome woman, taller than he and much younger, with

distinguished manners and a dignified carriage. It was M. Walter,

deputy, financier, a moneyed man, and a man of business, manager of "La

Vie Francaise," with his wife, nee Basile Ravalade, daughter of the

banker of that name.

Then came Jacques Rival, very elegant, followed by Norbert de Varenne.

The latter advanced with the grace of the old school and taking Mme.

Forestier's hand kissed it; his long hair falling upon his hostess's

bare arm as he did so.

Forestier now entered, apologizing for being late; he had been detained.

The servant announced dinner, and they entered the dining-room. Duroy

was placed between Mme. de Marelle and her daughter. He was again

rendered uncomfortable for fear of committing some error in the

conventional management of his fork, his spoon, or his glasses, of

which he had four. Nothing was said during the soup; then Norbert de

Varenne asked a general question: "Have you read the Gauthier case? How

droll it was!"

Then followed a discussion of the subject in which the ladies joined.

Then a duel was mentioned and Jacques Rival led the conversation; that

was his province. Duroy did not venture a remark, but occasionally

glanced at his neighbor. A diamond upon a slight, golden thread

depended from her ear; from time to time she uttered a remark which

evoked a smile upon his lips. Duroy sought vainly for some compliment

to pay her; he busied himself with her daughter, filled her glass,

waited upon her, and the child, more dignified than her mother, thanked

him gravely saying, "You are very kind, Monsieur," while she listened

to the conversation with a reflective air. The dinner was excellent and

everyone was delighted with it.

The conversation returned to the colonization of Algeria. M. Walter

uttered several jocose remarks; Forestier alluded to the article he had

prepared for the morrow; Jacques Rival declared himself in favor of a

military government with grants of land to all the officers after

thirty years of colonial service.

"In that way," said he, "you can establish a strong colony, familiar

with and liking the country, knowing its language and able to cope with

all those local yet grave questions which invariably confront

newcomers."

Norbert de Varenne interrupted: "Yes, they would know everything,

except agriculture. They would speak Arabic, but they would not know

how to transplant beet-root, and how to sow wheat. They would be strong

in fencing, but weak in the art of farming. On the contrary, the new

country should be opened to everyone. Intelligent men would make

positions for themselves; the others would succumb. It is a natural

law."

A pause ensued. Everyone smiled. Georges Duroy, startled at the sound

of his own voice, as if he had never heard it, said:

"What is needed the most down there is good soil. Really fertile land

costs as much as it does in France and is bought by wealthy Parisians.

The real colonists, the poor, are generally cast out into the desert,

where nothing grows for lack of water."

All eyes turned upon him. He colored. M. Walter asked: "Do you know

Algeria, sir?"

He replied: "Yes, sir, I was there twenty-eight months." Leaving the

subject of colonization, Norbert de Varenne questioned him as to some

of the Algerian customs. Georges spoke with animation; excited by the

wine and the desire to please, he related anecdotes of the regiment, of

Arabian life, and of the war.

Mme. Walter murmured to him in her soft tones: "You could write a

series of charming articles."

Forestier took advantage of the situation to say to M. Walter: "My dear

sir, I spoke to you a short while since of M. Georges Duroy and asked

you to permit me to include him on the staff of political reporters.

Since Marambot has left us, I have had no one to take urgent and

confidential reports, and the paper is suffering by it."

M. Walter put on his spectacles in order to examine Duroy. Then he

said: "I am convinced that M. Duroy is original, and if he will call

upon me tomorrow at three o'clock, we will arrange matters." After a

pause, turning to the young man, he said: "You may write us a short

sketch on Algeria, M. Duroy. Simply relate your experiences; I am sure

they will interest our readers. But you must do it quickly."

Mme. Walter added with her customary, serious grace: "You will have a

charming title: 'Souvenirs of a Soldier in Africa.' Will he not, M.

Norbert?"

The old poet, who had attained renown late in life, disliked and

mistrusted newcomers. He replied dryly: "Yes, excellent, provided that

it is written in the right key, for there lies the great difficulty."

Mme. Forestier cast upon Duroy a protecting and smiling glance which

seemed to say: "You shall succeed." The servant filled the glasses with

wine, and Forestier proposed the toast: "To the long prosperity of 'La

Vie Francaise.'" Duroy felt superhuman strength within him, infinite

hope, and invincible resolution. He was at his ease now among these

people; his eyes rested upon their faces with renewed assurance, and

for the first time he ventured to address his neighbor:

"You have the most beautiful earrings I have ever seen."

She turned toward him with a smile: "It is a fancy of mine to wear

diamonds like this, simply on a thread."

He murmured in reply, trembling at his audacity: "It is charming--but

the ear increases the beauty of the ornament."

She thanked him with a glance. As he turned his head, he met Mme.

Forestier's eyes, in which he fancied he saw a mingled expression of

gaiety, malice, and encouragement. All the men were talking at the same

time; their discussion was animated.

When the party left the dining-room, Duroy offered his arm to the

little girl. She thanked him gravely and stood upon tiptoe in order to

lay her hand upon his arm. Upon entering the drawing-room, the young

man carefully surveyed it. It was not a large room; but there were no

bright colors, and one felt at ease; it was restful. The walls were

draped with violet hangings covered with tiny embroidered flowers of

yellow silk. The portieres were of a grayish blue and the chairs were

of all shapes, of all sizes; scattered about the room were couches and

large and small easy-chairs, all covered with Louis XVI. brocade, or

Utrecht velvet, a cream colored ground with garnet flowers.

"Do you take coffee, M. Duroy?" Mme. Forestier offered him a cup, with

the smile that was always upon her lips.

"Yes, Madame, thank you." He took the cup, and as he did so, the young

woman whispered to him: "Pay Mme. Walter some attention." Then she

vanished before he could reply.

First he drank his coffee, which he feared he should let fall upon the

carpet; then he sought a pretext for approaching the manager's wife and

commencing a conversation. Suddenly he perceived that she held an empty

cup in her hand, and as she was not near a table, she did not know

where to put it. He rushed toward her:

"Allow me, Madame."

"Thank you, sir."

He took away the cup and returned: "If you, but knew, Madame, what

pleasant moments 'La Vie Francaise' afforded me, when I was in the

desert! It is indeed the only paper one cares to read outside of

France; it contains everything."

She smiled with amiable indifference as she replied: "M. Walter had a

great deal of trouble in producing the kind of journal which was

required."

They talked of Paris, the suburbs, the Seine, the delights of summer,

of everything they could think of. Finally M. Norbert de Varenne

advanced, a glass of liqueur in his hand, and Duroy discreetly

withdrew. Mme. de Marelle, who was chatting with her hostess, called

him: "So, sir," she said bluntly, "you are going to try journalism?"

That question led to a renewal of the interrupted conversation with

Mme. Walter. In her turn Mme. de Marelle related anecdotes, and

becoming familiar, laid her hand upon Duroy's arm. He felt that he

would like to devote himself to her, to protect her--and the slowness

with which he replied to her questions indicated his preoccupation.

Suddenly, without any cause, Mme. de Marelle called: "Laurine!" and the

girl came to her. "Sit down here, my child, you will be cold near the

window."

Duroy was seized with an eager desire to embrace the child, as if part

of that embrace would revert to the mother. He asked in a gallant, yet

paternal tone: "Will you permit me to kiss you, Mademoiselle?" The

child raised her eyes with an air of surprise. Mme. de Marelle said

with a smile: "Reply."

"I will allow you to-day, Monsieur, but not all the time."

Seating himself, Duroy took Laurine upon his knee, and kissed her lips

and her fine wavy hair. Her mother was surprised: "Well, that is

strange! Ordinarily she only allows ladies to caress her. You are

irresistible, Monsieur!"

Duroy colored, but did not reply.

When Mme. Forestier joined them, a cry of astonishment escaped her:

"Well, Laurine has become sociable; what a miracle!"

The young man rose to take his leave, fearing he might spoil his

conquest by some awkward word. He bowed to the ladies, clasped and

gently pressed their hands, and then shook hands with the men. He

observed that Jacques Rival's was dry and warm and responded cordially

to his pressure; Norbert de Varenne's was moist and cold and slipped

through his fingers; Walter's was cold and soft, without life,

expressionless; Forestier's fat and warm.

His friend whispered to him: "To-morrow at three o'clock; do not

forget."

"Never fear!"

When he reached the staircase, he felt like running down, his joy was

so great; he went down two steps at a time, but suddenly on the second

floor, in the large mirror, he saw a gentleman hurrying on, and he

slackened his pace, as much ashamed as if he had been surprised in a

crime.

He surveyed himself some time with a complacent smile; then taking

leave of his image, he bowed low, ceremoniously, as if saluting some

grand personage.