第 十 章 · JEALOUSY

, nor

criticism as to my conduct. I pledge my word, however, never to

compromise the name of the man I marry, nor to render him ridiculous in

the eyes of the world. But that man must promise to look upon me as an

equal, an ally, and not as an inferior, or as an obedient, submissive

wife. My ideas, I know, are not like those of other people, but I shall

never change them. Do not answer me, it would be useless. We shall meet

again and talk it all over later. Now take a walk; I shall return to

him. Good-bye until to-night."

He kissed her hand and left her without having uttered a word. That

night they met at dinner; directly after the meal they sought their

rooms, worn out with fatigue.

Charles Forestier was buried the next day in the cemetery at Cannes

without any pomp, and Georges returned to Paris by the express which

left at one-thirty. Mme. Forestier accompanied him to the station. They

walked up and down the platform awaiting the hour of departure and

conversing on indifferent subjects.

The train arrived, the journalist took his seat; a porter cried:

"Marseilles, Lyons, Paris! All aboard!" The locomotive whistled and the

train moved slowly out of the station.

The young man leaned out of the carriage, and looked at the youthful

widow standing on the platform gazing after him. Just as she was

disappearing from his sight, he threw her a kiss, which she returned

with a more discreet wave of her hand.

CHAPTER IX.

MARRIAGE

Georges Duroy resumed his old habits. Installed in the cozy apartments

on Rue de Constantinople, his relations with Mme. de Marelle became

quite conjugal.

Mme. Forestier had not returned; she lingered at Cannes. He, however,

received a letter from her announcing her return about the middle of

April, but containing not a word as to their parting. He waited. He was

resolved to employ every means to marry her if she seemed to hesitate;

he had faith in his good fortune, in that power of attraction which he

felt within him--a power so irresistible that all women yielded to it.

At length a short note admonished him that the decisive moment had

arrived.

"I am in Paris. Come to see me."

"Madeleine Forestier."

Nothing more. He received it at nine o'clock. At three o'clock of the

same day he called at her house. She extended both hands to him with a

sweet smile, and they gazed into each other's eyes for several seconds,

then she murmured:

"How kind of you to come!"

He replied: "I should have come, whensoever you bade me."

They sat down; she inquired about the Walters, his associates, and the

newspaper.

"I miss that very much," said she. "I had become a journalist in

spirit. I like the profession." She paused. He fancied he saw in her

smile, in her voice, in her words, a kind of invitation, and although

he had resolved not to hasten matters, he stammered:

"Well--why--why do you not resume--that profession--under--the name of

Duroy?"

She became suddenly serious, and placing her hand on his arm, she said:

"Do not let us speak of that yet."

Divining that she would accept him, he fell upon his knees, and

passionately kissed her hands, saying:

"Thank you--thank you--how I love you."

She rose, she was very pale. Duroy kissed her brow. When she had

disengaged herself from his embrace, she said gravely: "Listen, my

friend, I have not yet fully decided; but my answer may be 'yes.' You

must wait patiently, however, until I disclose the secret to you."

He promised and left her, his heart overflowing with joy. He worked

steadily, spent little, tried to save some money that he might not be

without a sou at the time of his marriage, and became as miserly as he

had once been prodigal. Summer glided by; then autumn, and no one

suspected the tie existing between Duroy and Mme. Forestier, for they

seldom met in public.

One evening Madeleine said to him: "You have not yet told Mme. de

Marelle our plans?"

"No, my dear; as you wished them kept secret, I have not mentioned them

to a soul."

"Very well; there is plenty of time. I will tell the Walters."

She turned away her head and continued: "If you wish, we can be married

the beginning of May."

"I obey you in all things joyfully."

"The tenth of May, which falls on Saturday, would please me, for it is

my birthday."

"Very well, the tenth of May."

"Your parents live near Rouen, do they not?"

"Yes, near Rouen, at Canteleu."

"I am very anxious to see them!"

He hesitated, perplexed: "But--they are--" Then he added more firmly:

"My dear, they are plain, country people, innkeepers, who strained

every nerve to give me an education. I am not ashamed of them, but

their--simplicity--their rusticity might annoy you."

She smiled sweetly. "No, I will love them very much. We will visit

them; I wish to. I, too, am the child of humble parents--but I lost

mine--I have no one in the world"--she held out her hand to him--"but

you."

He was affected, conquered as he had never been by any woman.

"I have been thinking of something," said she, "but it is difficult to

explain."

He asked: "What is it?"

"It is this: I am like all women. I have my--my weaknesses. I should

like to bear a noble name. Can you not on the occasion of our marriage

change your name somewhat?" She blushed as if she had proposed

something indelicate.

He replied simply: "I have often thought of it, but it does not seem

easy to me."

"Why not?"

He laughed. "Because I am afraid I should be ridiculed."

She shrugged her shoulders. "Not at all--not at all. Everyone does it,

and no one laughs. Separate your name in this way: Du Roy. It sounds

very well."

He replied: "No, that will not do; it is too common a proceeding. I

have thought of assuming the name of my native place, first as a

literary pseudonym and then as my surname in conjunction with Duroy,

which might later on, as you proposed, be separated."

She asked: "Is your native place Canteleu?"

"Yes."

"I do not like the termination. Could we not modify it?"

She took a pen and wrote down the names in order to study them.

Suddenly she cried: "Now I have it," and held toward him a sheet of

paper on which was written: "Mme. Duroy de Cantel."

Gravely he replied: "Yes, it is very nice."

She was delighted, and repeated: "Duroy de Cantel. Mme. Duroy de

Cantel. It is excellent, excellent!"

Then she added with an air of conviction: "You will see how easily it

will be accepted by everyone! After to-morrow, sign your articles 'D.

de Cantel,' and your 'Echoes' simply 'Duroy.' That is done on the press

every day and no one will be surprised to see you take a nom de plume.

What is your father's name?"

"Alexandre."

She murmured "Alexandre!" two or three times in succession; then she

wrote upon a blank sheet:

"M. and Mme. Alexandre du Roy de Cantel announce the marriage of their

son, M. Georges du Roy de Cantel with Mme. Forestier."

She examined her writing, and, charmed with the effect, exclaimed:

"With a little method one can succeed in anything."

When Georges reached the street resolved to call himself, henceforth,

"Du Roy," or even "Du Roy de Cantel," it seemed to him that he was of

more importance. He swaggered more boldly, held his head more erect and

walked as he thought gentlemen should. He felt a desire to inform the

passers-by, "My name is Du Roy de Cantel."

Scarcely had he entered his apartments when the thought of Mme. de

Marelle rendered him uneasy, and he wrote to her immediately,

appointing a meeting for the following day.

"It will be hard," thought he. "There will be a quarrel surely."

The next morning he received a telegram from Madame, informing him that

she would be with him at one o'clock. He awaited her impatiently,

determined to confess at once and afterward to argue with her, to tell

her that he could not remain a bachelor indefinitely, and that, as M.

de Marelle persisted in living, he had been compelled to choose some

one else as a legal companion. When the bell rang, his heart gave a

bound.

Mme. de Marelle entered and cast herself into his arms, saying: "Good

afternoon, Bel-Ami." Perceiving that his embrace was colder than usual,

she glanced up at him and asked: "What ails you?"

"Take a seat," said he. "We must talk seriously."

She seated herself without removing her hat, and waited. He cast down

his eyes; he was preparing to commence.

Finally he said slowly: "My dear friend, you see that I am very much

perplexed, very sad, and very much embarrassed by what I have to

confess to you. I love you; I love you with all my heart, and the fear

of giving you pain grieves me more than what I have to tell you."

She turned pale, trembled, and asked: "What is it? Tell me quickly."

He said sadly but resolutely: "I am going to be married."

She sighed like one about to lose consciousness; then she gasped, but

did not speak.

He continued: "You cannot imagine how much I suffered before taking

that resolution. But I have neither position nor money. I am alone in

Paris, I must have near me some one who can counsel, comfort, and

support me. What I need is an associate, an ally, and I have found

one!" He paused, hoping that she would reply, expecting an outburst of

furious rage, reproaches, and insults. She pressed her hand to her

heart and breathed with difficulty. He took the hand resting on the arm

of the chair, but she drew it away and murmured as if stupefied: "Oh,

my God!"

He fell upon his knees before her, without, however, venturing to touch

her, more moved by her silence than he would have been by her anger.

"Clo, my little Clo, you understand my position. Oh, if I could have

married you, what happiness it would have afforded me! But you were

married! What could I do? Just think of it! I must make my way in the

world and I can never do so as long as I have no domestic ties. If you

knew. There are days when I should like to kill your husband." He spoke

in a low, seductive voice. He saw two tears gather in Mme. de Marelle's

eyes and trickle slowly down her cheeks. He whispered: "Do not weep,

Clo, do not weep, I beseech you. You break my heart."

She made an effort to appear dignified and haughty, and asked, though

somewhat unsteadily: "Who is it?"

For a moment he hesitated before he replied: "Madeleine Forestier!"

Mme. de Marelle started; her tears continued to flow. She rose. Duroy

saw that she was going to leave him without a word of reproach or

pardon, and he felt humbled, humiliated. He seized her gown and

implored:

"Do not leave me thus."

She looked at him with that despairing, tearful glance so charming and

so touching, which expresses all the misery pent-up in a woman's heart,

and stammered: "I have nothing--to say; I can do nothing. You--you are

right; you have made a good choice."

And disengaging herself she left the room.

With a sigh of relief at escaping so easily, he repaired to Mme.

Forestier's, who asked him: "Have you told Mme. de Marelle?"

He replied calmly: "Yes."

"Did it affect her?"

"Not at all. On the contrary, she thought it an excellent plan."

The news was soon noised abroad. Some were surprised, others pretended

to have foreseen it, and others again smiled, inferring that they were

not at all astonished. The young man, who signed his articles, "D. de

Cantel," his "Echoes," "Duroy," and his political sketches, "Du Roy,"

spent the best part of his time with his betrothed, who had decided

that the date fixed for the wedding should be kept secret, that the

ceremony should be celebrated in the presence of witnesses only, that

they should leave the same evening for Rouen, and that the day

following they should visit the journalist's aged parents and spend

several days with them. Duroy had tried to persuade Madeleine to

abandon that project, but not succeeding in his efforts he was finally

compelled to submit.

The tenth of May arrived. Thinking a religious ceremony unnecessary, as

they had issued no invitations, the couple were married at a

magistrate's and took the six o'clock train for Normandy.

As the train glided along, Duroy seated in front of his wife, took her

hand, kissed it, and said: "When we return we will dine at Chatou

sometimes."

She murmured: "We shall have a great many things to do!" in a tone

which seemed to say: "We must sacrifice pleasure to duty."

He retained her hand wondering anxiously how he could manage to caress

her. He pressed her hand slightly, but she did not respond to the

pressure.

He said: "It seems strange that you should be my wife."

She appeared surprised: "Why?"

"I do not know. It seems droll. I want to embrace you and I am

surprised that I have the right."

She calmly offered him her cheek which he kissed as he would have

kissed his sister's. He continued:

"The first time I saw you (you remember, at that dinner to which I was

invited at Forestier's), I thought: 'Sacristi, if I could only find a

wife like that!' And now I have one."

She glanced at him with smiling eyes.

He said to himself: "I am too cold. I am stupid. I should make more

advances." And he asked: "How did you make Forestier's acquaintance?"

She replied with provoking archness: "Are we going to Rouen to talk of

him?"

He colored. "I am a fool. You intimidate me."

She was delighted. "I? Impossible."

He seated himself beside her. She exclaimed: "Ah! a stag!" The train

was passing through the forest of Saint-Germain and she had seen a

frightened deer clear an alley at a bound. As she gazed out of the open

window, Duroy bending over her, pressed a kiss upon her neck. For

several moments she remained motionless, then raising her head, she

said: "You tickle me, stop!"

But he did not obey her.

She repeated: "Stop, I say!"

He seized her head with his right hand, turned it toward him and

pressed his lips to hers. She struggled, pushed him away and repeated:

"Stop!"

He did not heed her. With an effort, she freed herself and rising,

said: "Georges, have done. We are not children, we shall soon reach

Rouen."

"Very well," said he, gaily, "I will wait."

Reseating herself near him she talked of what they would do on their

return; they would keep the apartments in which she had lived with her

first husband, and Duroy would receive Forestier's position on "La Vie

Francaise." In the meantime, forgetting her injunctions and his

promise, he slipped his arm around her waist, pressed her to him and

murmured: "I love you dearly, my little Made."

The gentleness of his tone moved the young woman, and leaning toward

him she offered him her lips; as she did so, a whistle announced the

proximity of the station. Pushing back some stray locks upon her

temples, she exclaimed:

"We are foolish."

He kissed her hands feverishly and replied:

"I adore you, my little Made."

On reaching Rouen they repaired to a hotel where they spent the night.

The following morning, when they had drunk the tea placed upon the

table in their room, Duroy clasped his wife in his arms and said: "My

little Made, I feel that I love you very, very much."

She smiled trustfully and murmured as she returned his kisses: "I love

you too--a little."

The visit to his parents worried Georges, although he had prepared his

wife. He began again: "You know they are peasants, real, not sham,

comic-opera peasants."

She smiled. "I know it, you have told me often enough."

"We shall be very uncomfortable. There is only a straw bed in my room;

they do not know what hair mattresses are at Canteleu."

She seemed delighted. "So much the better. It would be charming to

sleep badly--when--near you--and to be awakened by the crowing of the

cocks."

He walked toward the window and lighted a cigarette. The sight of the

harbor, of the river filled with ships moved him and he exclaimed:

"Egad, but that is fine!"

Madeleine joined him and placing both of her hands on her husband's

shoulder, cried: "Oh, how beautiful! I did not know that there were so

many ships!"

An hour later they departed in order to breakfast with the old couple,

who had been informed several days before of their intended arrival.

Both Duroy and his wife were charmed with the beauties of the landscape

presented to their view, and the cabman halted in order to allow them

to get a better idea of the panorama before them. As he whipped up his

horse, Duroy saw an old couple not a hundred meters off, approaching,

and he leaped from the carriage crying: "Here they are, I know them."

The man was short, corpulent, florid, and vigorous, notwithstanding his

age; the woman was tall, thin, and melancholy, with stooping

shoulders--a woman who had worked from childhood, who had never laughed

nor jested.

Madeleine, too, alighted and watched the couple advance, with a

contraction of her heart she had not anticipated. They did not

recognize their son in that fine gentleman, and they would never have

taken that handsome lady for their daughter-in-law. They walked along,

passed the child they were expecting, without glancing at the "city

folks."

Georges cried with a laugh: "Good day, Father Duroy."

Both the old man and his wife were struck dumb with astonishment; the

latter recovered her self-possession first and asked: "Is it you, son?"

The young man replied: "Yes, it is I, Mother Duroy," and approaching

her, he kissed her upon both cheeks and said: "This is my wife."

The two rustics stared at Madeleine as if she were a curiosity, with

anxious fear, combined with a sort of satisfied approbation on the part

of the father and of jealous enmity on that of the mother.

M. Duroy, senior, who was naturally jocose, made so bold as to ask with

a twinkle in his eye: "May I kiss you too?" His son uttered an

exclamation and Madeleine offered her cheek to the old peasant; who

afterward wiped his lips with the back of his hand. The old woman, in

her turn, kissed her daughter-in-law with hostile reserve. Her ideal

was a stout, rosy, country lass, as red as an apple and as round.

The carriage preceded them with the luggage. The old man took his son's

arm and asked him: "How are you getting on?"

"Very well."

"That is right. Tell me, has your wife any means?"

Georges replied: "Forty thousand francs."

His father whistled softly and muttered: "Whew!" Then he added: "She is

a handsome woman." He admired his son's wife, and in his day had

considered himself a connoisseur.

Madeleine and the mother walked side by side in silence; the two men

joined them. They soon reached the village, at the entrance to which

stood M. Duroy's tavern. A pine board fastened over the door indicated

that thirsty people might enter. The table was laid. A neighbor, who

had come to assist, made a low courtesy on seeing so beautiful a lady

appear; then recognizing Georges, she cried: "Oh Lord, is it you?"

He replied merrily: "Yes, it is I, Mother Brulin," and he kissed her as

he had kissed his father and mother. Then he turned to his wife:

"Come into our room," said he, "you can lay aside your hat."

They passed through a door to the right and entered a room paved with

brick, with whitewashed walls and a bed with cotton hangings.

A crucifix above a holy-water basin and two colored prints,

representing Paul and Virginia beneath a blue palm-tree, and Napoleon

I. on a yellow horse, were the only ornaments in that neat, but bare

room.

When they were alone, Georges embraced Madeleine.

"Good morning, Made! I am glad to see the old people once more. When

one is in Paris one does not think of this place, but when one returns,

one enjoys it just the same."

At that moment his father cried, knocking on the partition with his

fist: "Come, the soup is ready."

They re-entered the large public-room and took their seats at the

table. The meal was a long one, served in a truly rustic fashion.

Father Duroy, enlivened by the cider and several glasses of wine,

related many anecdotes, while Georges, to whom they were all familiar,

laughed at them.

Mother Duroy did not speak, but sat at the board, grim and austere,

glancing at her daughter-in-law with hatred in her heart.

Madeleine did not speak nor did she eat; she was depressed. Wherefore?

She had wished to come; she knew that she was coming to a simple home;

she had formed no poetical ideas of those peasants, but she had perhaps

expected to find them somewhat more polished, refined. She recalled her

own mother, of whom she never spoke to anyone--a governess who had been

betrayed and who had died of grief and shame when Madeleine was twelve

years old. A stranger had had the little girl educated. Her father

without doubt. Who was he? She did not know positively, but she had

vague suspicions.

The meal was not yet over when customers entered, shook hands with M.

Duroy, exclaimed on seeing his son, and seating themselves at the

wooden tables began to drink, smoke, and play dominoes. The smoke from

the clay pipes and penny cigars filled the room.

Madeleine choked and asked: "Can we go out? I cannot remain here any

longer."

Old Duroy grumbled at being disturbed. Madeleine rose and placed her

chair at the door in order to wait until her father-in-law and his wife

had finished their coffee and wine.

Georges soon joined her.

"Would you like to stroll down to the Seine?"

Joyfully she cried: "Yes."

They descended the hillside, hired a boat at Croisset, and spent the

remainder of the afternoon beneath the willows in the soft, warm,

spring air, and rocked gently by the rippling waves of the river. They

returned at nightfall. The evening repast by candle-light was more

painful to Madeleine than that of the morning. Neither Father Duroy nor

his wife spoke. When the meal was over, Madeleine drew her husband

outside in order not to have to remain in that room, the atmosphere of

which was heavy with smoke and the fumes of liquor.

When they were alone, he said: "You are already weary."

She attempted to protest; he interrupted her:

"I have seen it. If you wish we will leave tomorrow."

She whispered: "I should like to go."

They walked along and entered a narrow path among high trees, hedged in

on either side by impenetrable brushwood.

She asked: "Where are we?"

He replied: "In the forest--one of the largest in France."

Madeleine, on raising her head, could see the stars between the

branches and hear the rustling of the leaves. She felt strangely

nervous. Why, she could not tell. She seemed to be lost, surrounded by

perils, abandoned, alone, beneath that vast vaulted sky.

She murmured: "I am afraid; I should like to return."

"Very well, we will."

On their return they found the old people in bed. The next morning

Madeleine rose early and was ready to leave at daybreak. When Georges

told his parents that they were going to return home, they guessed

whose wish it was.

His father asked simply: "Shall I see you soon again?"

"Yes--in the summer-time."

"Very well."

His mother grumbled: "I hope you will not regret what you have done."

Georges gave them two hundred francs to appease them, and the cab

arriving at ten o'clock, the couple kissed the old peasants and set out.

As they were descending the side of the hill, Duroy laughed. "You see,"

said he, "I warned you. I should, however, not have presented you to M.

and Mme. du Roy de Cantel, senior."

She laughed too and replied: "I am charmed now! They are nice people

whom I am beginning to like very much. I shall send them confections

from Paris." Then she murmured: "Du Roy de Cantel. We will say that we

spent a week at your parents' estate," and drawing near him, she kissed

him saying:

"Good morning, Georges."

He replied: "Good morning, Madeleine," as he slipped his arm around her

waist.

CHAPTER X.

JEALOUSY

The Du Roys had been in Paris two days and the journalist had resumed

work; he had given up his own especial province to assume that of

Forestier, and to devote himself entirely to politics. On this

particular evening he turned his steps toward home with a light heart.

As he passed a florist's on Rue Notre Dame de Lorette he bought a

bouquet of half-open roses for Madeleine. Having forgotten his key, on

arriving at his door, he rang and the servant answered his summons.

Georges asked: "Is Madame at home?"

"Yes, sir."

In the dining-room he paused in astonishment to see covers laid for

three: the door of the salon being ajar, he saw Madeleine arranging in

a vase on the mantelpiece a bunch of roses similar to his.

He entered the room and asked: "Have you invited anyone to dinner?"

She replied without turning her head and continuing the arrangement of

her flowers: "Yes and no: it is my old friend, Count de Vaudrec, who is

in the habit of dining here every Monday and who will come now as he

always has."

Georges murmured: "Very well."

He stopped behind her, the bouquet in his hand, the desire strong

within him to conceal it--to throw it away. However, he said:

"Here, I have brought you some roses!"

She turned to him with a smile and said: "Ah, how thoughtful of you!"

and she kissed him with such evident affection that he felt consoled.

She took the flowers, inhaled their perfume, and put them in an empty

vase. Then she said as she noted the effect: "Now I am satisfied; my

mantelpiece looks pretty," adding with an air of conviction:

"Vaudrec is charming; you will become intimate with him at once,"

A ring announced the Count. He entered as if he were at home. After

gallantly kissing Mme. Du Roy's hand, he turned to her husband and

cordially offered his hand, saying: "How are you, my dear Du Roy?"

He had no longer that haughty air, but was very affable. One would have

thought in the course of five minutes, that the two men had known one

another for ten years. Madeleine, whose face was radiant, said: "I will

leave you together. I have work to superintend in the kitchen." The

dinner was excellent and the Count remained very late. When he was

gone, Madeleine said to her husband: "Is he not nice? He improves, too,

on acquaintance. He is a good, true, faithful friend. Ah, without him--"

She did not complete her sentence and Georges replied: "Yes, he is very

pleasant, I think we shall understand each other well."

"You do not know," she said, "that we have work to do to-night before

retiring. I did not have time to tell you before dinner, for Vaudrec

came. Laroche-Mathieu brought me important news of Morocco. We must

make a fine article of that. Let us set to work at once. Come, take the

lamp."

He carried the lamp and they entered the study. Madeleine leaned,

against the mantelpiece, and having lighted a cigarette, told him the

news and gave him her plan of the article. He listened attentively,

making notes as she spoke, and when she had finished he raised

objections, took up the question and, in his turn, developed another

plan. His wife ceased smoking, for her interest was aroused in

following Georges's line of thought. From time to time she murmured:

"Yes, yes; very good--excellent--very forcible--" And when he had

finished speaking, she said: "Now let us write."

It was always difficult for him to make a beginning and she would lean

over his shoulder and whisper the phrases in his ear, then he would add

a few lines; when their article was completed, Georges re-read it. Both

he and Madeleine pronounced it admirable and kissed one another with

passionate admiration.

The article appeared with the signature of "G. du Roy de Cantel," and

made a great sensation. M. Walter congratulated the author, who soon

became celebrated in political circles. His wife, too, surprised him by

the ingenuousness of her mind, the cleverness of her wit, and the

number of her acquaintances. At almost any time upon returning home he

found in his salon a senator, a deputy, a magistrate, or a general, who

treated Madeleine with grave familiarity.

Deputy Laroche-Mathieu, who dined at Rue Fontaine every Tuesday, was

one of the largest stockholders of M. Walter's paper and the latter's

colleague and associate in many business transactions. Du Roy hoped,

later on, that some of the benefits promised by him to Forestier might

fall to his share. They would be given to Madeleine's new husband--that

was all--nothing was changed; even his associates sometimes called him

Forestier, and it made Du Roy furious at the dead. He grew to hate the

very name; it was to him almost an insult. Even at home the obsession

continued; the entire house reminded him of Charles.

One evening Du Roy, who liked sweetmeats, asked:

"Why do we never have sweets?"

His wife replied pleasantly: "I never think of it, because Charles

disliked them."

He interrupted her with an impatient gesture: "Do you know I am getting

tired of Charles? It is Charles here, Charles there, Charles liked

this, Charles liked that. Since Charles is dead, let him rest in peace."

Madeleine ascribed her husband's burst of ill humor to puerile

jealousy, but she was flattered and did not reply. On retiring, haunted

by the same thought, he asked:

"Did Charles wear a cotton nightcap to keep the draft out of his ears?"

She replied pleasantly: "No, a lace one!"

Georges shrugged his shoulders and said scornfully: "What a bird!"

From that time Georges never called Charles anything but "poor

Charles," with an accent of infinite pity. One evening as Du Roy was

smoking a cigarette at his window, toward the end of June, the heat

awoke in him a desire for fresh air. He asked:

"My little Made, would you like to go as far as the Bois?"

"Yes, certainly."

They took an open carriage and drove to the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne.

It was a sultry evening; a host of cabs lined the drive, one behind

another. When the carriage containing Georges and Madeleine reached the

turning which led to the fortifications, they kissed one another and

Madeleine stammered in confusion: "We are as childish as we were at

Rouen."

The road they followed was not so much frequented, a gentle breeze

rustled the leaves of the trees, the sky was studded with brilliant

stars and Georges murmured, as he pressed his wife to his breast: "Oh,

my little Made."

She said to him: "Do you remember how gloomy the forest at Canteleu

was? It seemed to me that it was full of horrible beasts and that it

was interminable, while here it is charming. One can feel the caressing

breezes, and I know that Sevres is on the other side."

He replied: "In our forests there are nothing but stags, foxes,

roebucks, and boars, with here and there a forester's house." He paused

for a moment and then asked: "Did you come here in the evening with

Charles occasionally?"

She replied: "Frequently."

He felt a desire to return home at once. Forestier's image haunted him,

however; he could think of nothing else. The carriage rolled on toward

the Arc de Triomphe and joined the stream of carriages returning home.

As Georges remained silent, his wife, who divined his thoughts, asked

in her soft voice: "Of what are you thinking? For half an hour you have

not uttered a word."

He replied with a sneer: "I am thinking of all those fools who kiss one

another, and I believe truly that there is something else to be done in

life."

She whispered: "Yes, but it is nice sometimes! It is nice when one has

nothing better to do."

Georges' thoughts were busy with the dead; he said to himself angrily:

"I am foolish to worry, to torment myself as I have done." After

remonstrating thus with himself, he felt more reconciled to the thought

of Forestier, and felt like exclaiming: "Good evening, old fellow!"

Madeleine, who was bored by his silence, asked: "Shall we go to

Tortoni's for ices before returning home?"

He glanced at her from his corner and thought: "She is pretty; so much

the better. Tit for tat, my comrade. But if they begin again to annoy

me with you, it will get somewhat hot at the North Pole!"

Then he replied: "Certainly, my darling," and before she had time to

think he kissed her. It seemed to Madeleine that her husband's lips

were icy. However he smiled as usual and gave her his hand to assist

her to alight at the cafe.