



Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net









                                BEL AMI

                     The Works of Guy de Maupassant

                               VOLUME VI


NATIONAL LIBRARY COMPANY
NEW YORK

COPYRIGHT, 1909, BY
BIGELOW, SMITH & CO.




BEL AMI

(A LADIES' MAN)




I


When the cashier had given him the change out of his five francpiece,
George Duroy left the restaurant.

As he had a good carriage, both naturally and from his military
training, he drew himself up, twirled his moustache, and threw upon the
lingering customers a rapid and sweeping glance--one of those glances
which take in everything within their range like a casting net.

The women looked up at him in turn--three little work-girls, a
middle-aged music mistress, disheveled, untidy, and wearing a bonnet
always dusty and a dress always awry; and two shopkeepers' wives dining
with their husbands--all regular customers at this slap-bang
establishment.

When he was on the pavement outside, he stood still for a moment, asking
himself what he should do. It was the 28th of June, and he had just
three francs forty centimes in his pocket to carry him to the end of the
month. This meant the option of two dinners without lunch or two lunches
without dinner. He reflected that as the earlier repasts cost twenty
sous apiece, and the latter thirty, he would, if he were content with
the lunches, be one franc twenty centimes to the good, which would
further represent two snacks of bread and sausage and two bocks of beer
on the boulevards. This latter item was his greatest extravagance and
his chief pleasure of a night; and he began to descend the Rue
Notre-Dame de Lorette.

He walked as in the days when he had worn a hussar uniform, his chest
thrown out and his legs slightly apart, as if he had just left the
saddle, pushing his way through the crowded street, and shouldering folk
to avoid having to step aside. He wore his somewhat shabby hat on one
side, and brought his heels smartly down on the pavement. He seemed ever
ready to defy somebody or something, the passers-by, the houses, the
whole city, retaining all the swagger of a dashing cavalry-man in civil
life.

Although wearing a sixty-franc suit, he was not devoid of a certain
somewhat loud elegance. Tall, well-built, fair, with a curly moustache
twisted up at the ends, bright blue eyes with small pupils, and
reddish-brown hair curling naturally and parted in the middle, he bore a
strong resemblance to the dare-devil of popular romances.

It was one of those summer evenings on which air seems to be lacking in
Paris. The city, hot as an oven, seemed to swelter in the stifling
night. The sewers breathed out their poisonous breath through their
granite mouths, and the underground kitchens gave forth to the street
through their windows the stench of dishwater and stale sauces.

The doorkeepers in their shirtsleeves sat astride straw-bottomed chairs
within the carriage entrances to the houses, smoking their pipes, and
the pedestrians walked with flagging steps, head bare, and hat in hand.


When George Duroy reached the boulevards he paused again, undecided as
to what he should do. He now thought of going on to the Champs Elysees
and the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne to seek a little fresh air under the
trees, but another wish also assailed him, a desire for a love affair.

What shape would it take? He did not know, but he had been awaiting it
for three months, night and day. Occasionally, thanks to his good looks
and gallant bearing, he gleaned a few crumbs of love here and there, but
he was always hoping for something further and better.

With empty pockets and hot blood, he kindled at the contact of the
prowlers who murmur at street corners: "Will you come home with me,
dear?" but he dared not follow them, not being able to pay them, and,
besides, he was awaiting something else, less venally vulgar kisses.

He liked, however, the localities in which women of the town
swarm--their balls, their cafes, and their streets. He liked to rub
shoulders with them, speak to them, chaff them, inhale their strong
perfumes, feel himself near them. They were women at any rate, women
made for love. He did not despise them with the innate contempt of a
well-born man.

He turned towards the Madeleine, following the flux of the crowd which
flowed along overcome by the heat. The chief cafes, filled with
customers, were overflowing on to the pavement, and displayed their
drinking public under the dazzling glare of their lit-up facias. In
front of them, on little tables, square or round, were glasses holding
fluids of every shade, red, yellow, green, brown, and inside the
decanters glittered the large transparent cylinders of ice, serving to
cool the bright, clear water. Duroy had slackened his pace, a longing to
drink parched his throat.


A hot thirst, a summer evening's thirst assailed him, and he fancied the
delightful sensation of cool drinks flowing across his palate. But if he
only drank two bocks of beer in the evening, farewell to the slender
supper of the morrow, and he was only too well acquainted with the hours
of short commons at the end of the month.

He said to himself: "I must hold out till ten o'clock, and then I'll
have my bock at the American cafe. Confound it, how thirsty I am
though." And he scanned the men seated at the tables drinking, all the
people who could quench their thirst as much as they pleased. He went
on, passing in front of the cafes with a sprightly swaggering air, and
guessing at a glance from their dress and bearing how much money each
customer ought to have about him. Wrath against these men quietly
sitting there rose up within him. If their pockets were rummaged, gold,
silver, and coppers would be found in them. On an average each one must
have at least two louis. There were certainly a hundred to a cafe, a
hundred times two louis is four thousand francs. He murmured "the
swine," as he walked gracefully past them. If he could have had hold of
one of them at a nice dark corner he would have twisted his neck without
scruple, as he used to do the country-folk's fowls on field-days.

And he recalled his two years in Africa and the way in which he used to
pillage the Arabs when stationed at little out-posts in the south. A
bright and cruel smile flitted across his lips at the recollection of an
escapade which had cost the lives of three men of the Ouled-Alane
tribe, and had furnished him and his comrades with a score of fowls, a
couple of sheep, some gold, and food for laughter for six months.

The culprits had never been found, and, what is more, they had hardly
been looked for, the Arab being looked upon as somewhat in the light of
the natural prey of the soldier.

In Paris it was another thing. One could not plunder prettily, sword by
side and revolver in hand, far from civil authority. He felt in his
heart all the instincts of a sub-officer let loose in a conquered
country. He certainly regretted his two years in the desert. What a pity
he had not stopped there. But, then, he had hoped something better in
returning home. And now--ah! yes, it was very nice now, was it not?

He clicked his tongue as if to verify the parched state of his palate.

The crowd swept past him slowly, and he kept thinking. "Set of hogs--all
these idiots have money in their waistcoat pockets." He pushed against
people and softly whistled a lively tune. Gentlemen whom he thus elbowed
turned grumbling, and women murmured: "What a brute!"

He passed the Vaudeville Theater and stopped before the American cafe,
asking himself whether he should not take his bock, so greatly did
thirst torture him. Before making up his mind, he glanced at the
illuminated clock. It was a quarter past nine. He knew himself that as
soon as the glassful of beer was before him he would gulp it down. What
would he do then up to eleven o'clock?

He passed on. "I will go as far as the Madeleine," he said, "and walk
back slowly."

As he reached the corner of the Palace de l'Opera, he passed a stout
young fellow, whose face he vaguely recollected having seen somewhere.
He began to follow him, turning over his recollections and repeating to
himself half-aloud: "Where the deuce did I know that joker?"

He searched without being able to recollect, and then all at once, by a
strange phenomenon of memory, the same man appeared to him thinner,
younger, and clad in a hussar uniform. He exclaimed aloud: "What,
Forestier!" and stepping out he tapped the other on the shoulder. The
promenader turned round and looked at him, and then said: "What is it,
sir?"

Duroy broke into a laugh. "Don't you know me?" said he.

"No."

"George Duroy, of the 6th Hussars."

Forestier held out his hands, exclaiming: "What, old fellow! How are
you?"

"Very well, and you?"

"Oh, not very brilliant! Just fancy, I have a chest in brown paper now.
I cough six months out of twelve, through a cold I caught at Bougival
the year of my return to Paris, four years ago."

And Forestier, taking his old comrade's arm, spoke to him of his
illness, related the consultations, opinions, and advice of the doctors,
and the difficulty of following this advice in his position. He was told
to spend the winter in the South, but how could he? He was married, and
a journalist in a good position.

"I am political editor of the _Vie Francaise_. I write the proceedings
in the Senate for the _Salut_, and from time to time literary criticisms
for the _Planete_. That is so. I have made my way."

Duroy looked at him with surprise. He was greatly changed, matured. He
had now the manner, bearing, and dress of a man in a good position and
sure of himself, and the stomach of a man who dines well. Formerly he
had been thin, slight, supple, heedless, brawling, noisy, and always
ready for a spree. In three years Paris had turned him into someone
quite different, stout and serious, and with some white hairs about his
temples, though he was not more than twenty-seven.

Forestier asked: "Where are you going?"

Duroy answered: "Nowhere; I am just taking a stroll before turning in."

"Well, will you come with me to the _Vie Francaise_, where I have some
proofs to correct, and then we will take a bock together?"

"All right."

They began to walk on, arm-in-arm, with that easy familiarity existing
between school-fellows and men in the same regiment.

"What are you doing in Paris?" asked Forestier.

Duroy shrugged his shoulders. "Simply starving. As soon as I finished my
term of service I came here--to make a fortune, or rather for the sake
of living in Paris; and for six months I have been a clerk in the
offices of the Northern Railway at fifteen hundred francs a year,
nothing more."

Forestier murmured: "Hang it, that's not much!"

"I should think not. But how can I get out of it? I am alone; I don't
know anyone; I can get no one to recommend me. It is not goodwill that
is lacking, but means."

His comrade scanned him from head to foot, like a practical man
examining a subject, and then said, in a tone of conviction: "You see,
my boy, everything depends upon assurance here. A clever fellow can more
easily become a minister than an under-secretary. One must obtrude one's
self on people; not ask things of them. But how the deuce is it that you
could not get hold of anything better than a clerk's berth on the
Northern Railway?"

Duroy replied: "I looked about everywhere, but could not find anything.
But I have something in view just now; I have been offered a
riding-master's place at Pellerin's. There I shall get three thousand
francs at the lowest."

Forestier stopped short. "Don't do that; it is stupid, when you ought to
be earning ten thousand francs. You would nip your future in the bud. In
your office, at any rate, you are hidden; no one knows you; you can
emerge from it if you are strong enough to make your way. But once a
riding-master, and it is all over. It is as if you were head-waiter at a
place where all Paris goes to dine. When once you have given riding
lessons to people in society or to their children, they will never be
able to look upon you as an equal."

He remained silent for a few moments, evidently reflecting, and then
asked:

"Have you a bachelor's degree?"

"No; I failed to pass twice."

"That is no matter, as long as you studied for it. If anyone mentions
Cicero or Tiberius, you know pretty well what they are talking about?"

"Yes; pretty well."

"Good; no one knows any more, with the exception of a score of idiots
who have taken the trouble. It is not difficult to pass for being well
informed; the great thing is not to be caught in some blunder. You can
maneuver, avoid the difficulty, turn the obstacle, and floor others by
means of a dictionary. Men are all as stupid as geese and ignorant as
donkeys."

He spoke like a self-possessed blade who knows what life is, and smiled
as he watched the crowd go by. But all at once he began to cough, and
stopped again until the fit was over, adding, in a tone of
discouragement: "Isn't it aggravating not to be able to get rid of this
cough? And we are in the middle of summer. Oh! this winter I shall go
and get cured at Mentone. Health before everything."

They halted on the Boulevard Poissoniere before a large glass door, on
the inner side of which an open newspaper was pasted. Three passers-by
had stopped and were reading it.

Above the door, stretched in large letters of flame, outlined by gas
jets, the inscription _La Vie Francaise_. The pedestrians passing into
the light shed by these three dazzling words suddenly appeared as
visible as in broad daylight, then disappeared again into darkness.

Forestier pushed the door open, saying, "Come in." Duroy entered,
ascended an ornate yet dirty staircase, visible from the street, passed
through an ante-room where two messengers bowed to his companion, and
reached a kind of waiting-room, shabby and dusty, upholstered in dirty
green Utrecht velvet, covered with spots and stains, and worn in places
as if mice had been gnawing it.

"Sit down," said Forestier. "I will be back in five minutes."

And he disappeared through one of the three doors opening into the room.

A strange, special, indescribable odor, the odor of a newspaper office,
floated in the air of the room. Duroy remained motionless, slightly
intimidated, above all surprised. From time to time folk passed
hurriedly before him, coming in at one door and going out at another
before he had time to look at them.

They were now young lads, with an appearance of haste, holding in their
hand a sheet of paper which fluttered from the hurry of their progress;
now compositors, whose white blouses, spotted with ink, revealed a clean
shirt collar and cloth trousers like those of men of fashion, and who
carefully carried strips of printed paper, fresh proofs damp from the
press. Sometimes a gentleman entered rather too elegantly attired, his
waist too tightly pinched by his frock-coat, his leg too well set off by
the cut of his trousers, his foot squeezed into a shoe too pointed at
the toe, some fashionable reporter bringing in the echoes of the

evening.

Others, too, arrived, serious, important-looking men, wearing tall hats
with flat brims, as if this shape distinguished them from the rest of
mankind.

Forestier reappeared holding the arm of a tall, thin fellow, between
thirty and forty years of age, in evening dress, very dark, with his
moustache ends stiffened in sharp points, and an insolent and
self-satisfied bearing.

Forestier said to him: "Good night, dear master."

The other shook hands with him, saying: "Good night, my dear fellow,"
and went downstairs whistling, with his cane under his arm.

Duroy asked: "Who is that?"

"Jacques Rival, you know, the celebrated descriptive writer, the
duellist. He has just been correcting his proofs. Garin, Montel, and he
are the three best descriptive writers, for facts and points, we have in
Paris. He gets thirty thousand francs a year here for two articles a
week."

As they were leaving they met a short, stout man, with long hair and
untidy appearance, who was puffing as he came up the stairs.

Forestier bowed low to him. "Norbert de Varenne," said he, "the poet;
the author of '_Les Soleils Morts_'; another who gets long prices. Every
tale he writes for us costs three hundred francs, and the longest do not
run to two hundred lines. But let us turn into the Neapolitan _cafe_, I
am beginning to choke with thirst."

As soon as they were seated at a table in the _cafe_, Forestier called
for two bocks, and drank off his own at a single draught, while Duroy
sipped his beer in slow mouthfuls, tasting it and relishing it like
something rare and precious.

His companion was silent, and seemed to be reflecting. Suddenly he
exclaimed: "Why don't you try journalism?"

The other looked at him in surprise, and then said: "But, you know, I
have never written anything."

"Bah! everyone must begin. I could give you a job to hunt up information
for me--to make calls and inquiries. You would have to start with two
hundred and fifty francs a month and your cab hire. Shall I speak to the
manager about it?"

"Certainly!"

"Very well, then, come and dine with me to-morrow. I shall only have
five or six people--the governor, Monsieur Walter and his wife, Jacques
Rival, and Norbert de Varenne, whom you have just seen, and a lady, a
friend of my wife. Is it settled?"

Duroy hesitated, blushing and perplexed. At length he murmured: "You
see, I have no clothes."

Forestier was astounded. "You have no dress clothes? Hang it all, they
are indispensable, though. In Paris one would be better off without a
bed than without a dress suit."

Then, suddenly feeling in his waistcoat pocket, he drew out some gold,
took two louis, placed them in front of his old comrade, and said in a
cordial and familiar tone: "You will pay me back when you can. Hire or
arrange to pay by installments for the clothes you want, whichever you
like, but come and dine with me to-morrow, half-past seven, number
seventeen Rue Fontaine."

Duroy, confused, picked up the money, stammering: "You are too good; I
am very much obliged to you; you may be sure I shall not forget."

The other interrupted him. "All right. Another bock, eh? Waiter, two
bocks."

Then, when they had drunk them, the journalist said: "Will you stroll
about a bit for an hour?"

"Certainly."

And they set out again in the direction of the Madeleine.

"What shall we, do?" said Forestier. "They say that in Paris a lounger
can always find something to amuse him, but it is not true. I, when I
want to lounge about of an evening, never know where to go. A drive
round the Bois de Boulogne is only amusing with a woman, and one has not
always one to hand; the _cafe_ concerts may please my chemist and his
wife, but not me. Then what is there to do? Nothing. There ought to be a
summer garden like the Parc Monceau, open at night, where one would hear
very good music while sipping cool drinks under the trees. It should not
be a pleasure resort, but a lounging place, with a high price for
entrance in order to attract the fine ladies. One ought to be able to
stroll along well-graveled walks lit up by electric light, and to sit
down when one wished to hear the music near or at a distance. We had
about the sort of thing formerly at Musard's, but with a smack of the
low-class dancing-room, and too much dance music, not enough space, not
enough shade, not enough gloom. It would want a very fine garden and a
very extensive one. It would be delightful. Where shall we go?"

Duroy, rather perplexed, did not know what to say; at length he made up
his mind. "I have never been in the Folies Bergere. I should not mind
taking a look round there," he said.

"The Folies Bergere," exclaimed his companion, "the deuce; we shall
roast there as in an oven. But, very well, then, it is always funny
there."

And they turned on their heels to make their way to the Rue du Faubourg
Montmartre.

The lit-up front of the establishment threw a bright light into the four
streets which met in front of it. A string of cabs were waiting for the
close of the performance.

Forestier was walking in when Duroy checked him.

"You are passing the pay-box," said he.

"I never pay," was the reply, in a tone of importance.

When he approached the check-takers they bowed, and one of them held out
his hand. The journalist asked: "Have you a good box?"

"Certainly, Monsieur Forestier."

He took the ticket held out to him, pushed the padded door with its
leather borders, and they found themselves in the auditorium.

Tobacco smoke slightly veiled like a faint mist the stage and the
further side of the theater. Rising incessantly in thin white spirals
from the cigars and pipes, this light fog ascended to the ceiling, and
there, accumulating, formed under the dome above the crowded gallery a
cloudy sky.

In the broad corridor leading to the circular promenade a group of women
were awaiting new-comers in front of one of the bars, at which sat
enthroned three painted and faded vendors of love and liquor.

The tall mirrors behind them reflected their backs and the faces of
passers-by.

Forestier pushed his way through the groups, advancing quickly with the
air of a man entitled to consideration.

He went up to a box-keeper. "Box seventeen," said he.

"This way, sir."

And they were shut up in a little open box draped with red, and holding
four chairs of the same color, so near to one another that one could
scarcely slip between them. The two friends sat down. To the right, as
to the left, following a long curved line, the two ends of which joined
the proscenium, a row of similar cribs held people seated in like
fashion, with only their heads and chests visible.

On the stage, three young fellows in fleshings, one tall, one of middle
size, and one small, were executing feats in turn