Bel Ami
Henri Rene Guy De Maupassant

Part 1 out of 4

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After changing his five-franc piece Georges Duroy left the
restaurant. He twisted his mustache in military style and cast a
rapid, sweeping glance upon the diners, among whom were three
saleswomen, an untidy music-teacher of uncertain age, and two women
with their husbands.

When he reached the sidewalk, he paused to consider what route he
should take. It was the twenty-eighth of June and he had only three
francs in his pocket to last him the remainder of the month. That
meant two dinners and no lunches, or two lunches and no dinners,
according to choice. As he pondered upon this unpleasant state of
affairs, he sauntered down Rue Notre Dame de Lorette, preserving his
military air and carriage, and rudely jostled the people upon the
streets in order to clear a path for himself. He appeared to be
hostile to the passers-by, and even to the houses, the entire city.

Tall, well-built, fair, with blue eyes, a curled mustache, hair
naturally wavy and parted in the middle, he recalled the hero of the
popular romances.

It was one of those sultry, Parisian evenings when not a breath of
air is stirring; the sewers exhaled poisonous gases and the
restaurants the disagreeable odors of cooking and of kindred smells.
Porters in their shirt-sleeves, astride their chairs, smoked their
pipes at the carriage gates, and pedestrians strolled leisurely
along, hats in hand.

When Georges Duroy reached the boulevard he halted again, undecided
as to which road to choose. Finally he turned toward the Madeleine
and followed the tide of people.

The large, well-patronized cafes tempted Duroy, but were he to drink
only two glasses of beer in an evening, farewell to the meager
supper the following night! Yet he said to himself: "I will take a
glass at the Americain. By Jove, I am thirsty."

He glanced at men seated at the tables, men who could afford to
slake their thirst, and he scowled at them. "Rascals!" he muttered.
If he could have caught one of them at a corner in the dark he would
have choked him without a scruple! He recalled the two years spent
in Africa, and the manner in which he had extorted money from the
Arabs. A smile hovered about his lips at the recollection of an
escapade which had cost three men their lives, a foray which had
given his two comrades and himself seventy fowls, two sheep, money,
and something to laugh about for six months. The culprits were never
found; indeed, they were not sought for, the Arab being looked upon
as the soldier's prey.

But in Paris it was different; there one could not commit such deeds
with impunity. He regretted that he had not remained where he was;
but he had hoped to improve his condition--and for that reason he
was in Paris!

He passed the Vaudeville and stopped at the Cafe Americain, debating
as to whether he should take that "glass." Before deciding, he
glanced at a clock; it was a quarter past nine. He knew that when
the beer was placed in front of him, he would drink it; and then
what would he do at eleven o'clock? So he walked on, intending to go
as far as the Madeleine and return.

When he reached the Place de l'Opera, a tall, young man passed him,
whose face he fancied was familiar. He followed him, repeating:
"Where the deuce have I seen that fellow?"

For a time he racked his brain in vain; then suddenly he saw the
same man, but not so corpulent and more youthful, attired in the
uniform of a Hussar. He exclaimed: "Wait, Forestier!" and hastening
up to him, laid his hand upon the man's shoulder. The latter turned,
looked at him, and said: "What do you want, sir?"

Duroy began to laugh: "Don't you remember me?"


"Not remember Georges Duroy of the Sixth Hussars."

Forestier extended both hands.

"Ah, my dear fellow, how are you?"

"Very well. And how are you?"

"Oh, I am not very well. I cough six months out of the twelve as a
result of bronchitis contracted at Bougival, about the time of my
return to Paris four years ago."

"But you look well."

Forestier, taking his former comrade's arm, told him of his malady,
of the consultations, the opinions and the advice of the doctors and
of the difficulty of following their advice in his position. They
ordered him to spend the winter in the south, but how could he? He
was married and was a journalist in a responsible editorial

"I manage the political department on 'La Vie Francaise'; I report
the doings of the Senate for 'Le Salut,' and from time to time I
write for 'La Planete.' That is what I am doing."

Duroy, in surprise, glanced at him. He was very much changed.
Formerly Forestier had been thin, giddy, noisy, and always in good
spirits. But three years of life in Paris had made another man of
him; now he was stout and serious, and his hair was gray on his
temples although he could not number more than twenty-seven years.

Forestier asked: "Where are you going?"

Duroy replied: "Nowhere in particular."

"Very well, will you accompany me to the 'Vie Francaise' where I
have some proofs to correct; and afterward take a drink with me?"

"Yes, gladly."

They walked along arm-in-arm with that familiarity which exists
between schoolmates and brother-officers.

"What are you doing in Paris?" asked Forestier, Duroy shrugged his

"Dying of hunger, simply. When my time was up, I came hither to make
my fortune, or rather to live in Paris--and for six months I have
been employed in a railroad office at fifteen hundred francs a

Forestier murmured: "That is not very much."

"But what can I do?" answered Duroy. "I am alone, I know no one, I
have no recommendations. The spirit is not lacking, but the means

His companion looked at him from head to foot like a practical man
who is examining a subject; then he said, in a tone of conviction:
"You see, my dear fellow, all depends on assurance, here. A shrewd,
observing man can sometimes become a minister. You must obtrude
yourself and yet not ask anything. But how is it you have not found
anything better than a clerkship at the station?"

Duroy replied: "I hunted everywhere and found nothing else. But I
know where I can get three thousand francs at least--as riding-
master at the Pellerin school."

Forestier stopped him: "Don't do it, for you can earn ten thousand
francs. You will ruin your prospects at once. In your office at
least no one knows you; you can leave it if you wish to at any time.
But when you are once a riding-master all will be over. You might as
well be a butler in a house to which all Paris comes to dine. When
you have given riding lessons to men of the world or to their sons,
they will no longer consider you their equal."

He paused, reflected several seconds and then asked:

"Are you a bachelor?"

"Yes, though I have been smitten several times."

"That makes no difference. If Cicero and Tiberius were mentioned
would you know who they were?"


"Good, no one knows any more except about a score of fools. It is
not difficult to pass for being learned. The secret is not to betray
your ignorance. Just maneuver, avoid the quicksands and obstacles,
and the rest can be found in a dictionary."

He spoke like one who understood human nature, and he smiled as the
crowd passed them by. Suddenly he began to cough and stopped to
allow the paroxysm to spend itself; then he said in a discouraged

"Isn't it tiresome not to be able to get rid of this bronchitis? And
here is midsummer! This winter I shall go to Mentone. Health before

They reached the Boulevarde Poissoniere; behind a large glass door
an open paper was affixed; three people were reading it. Above the
door was printed the legend, "La Vie Francaise."

Forestier pushed open the door and said: "Come in." Duroy entered;
they ascended the stairs, passed through an antechamber in which two
clerks greeted their comrade, and then entered a kind of waiting-

"Sit down," said Forestier, "I shall be back in five minutes," and
he disappeared.

Duroy remained where he was; from time to time men passed him by,
entering by one door and going out by another before he had time to
glance at them.

Now they were young men, very young, with a busy air, holding sheets
of paper in their hands; now compositors, their shirts spotted with
ink--carefully carrying what were evidently fresh proofs.
Occasionally a gentleman entered, fashionably dressed, some reporter
bringing news.

Forestier reappeared arm-in-arm with a tall, thin man of thirty or
forty, dressed in a black coat, with a white cravat, a dark
complexion, and an insolent, self-satisfied air. Forestier said to
him: "Adieu, my dear sir," and the other pressed his hand with: "Au
revoir, my friend." Then he descended the stairs whistling, his cane
under his arm.

Duroy asked his name.

"That is Jacques Rival, the celebrated writer and duelist. He came
to correct his proofs. Garin, Montel and he are the best witty and
realistic writers we have in Paris. He earns thirty thousand francs
a year for two articles a week."

As they went downstairs, they met a stout, little man with long
hair, who was ascending the stairs whistling. Forestier bowed low.

"Norbert de Varenne," said he, "the poet, the author of 'Les Soleils
Morts,'--a very expensive man. Every poem he gives us costs three
hundred francs and the longest has not two hundred lines. But let us
go into the Napolitain, I am getting thirsty."

When they were seated at a table, Forestier ordered two glasses of
beer. He emptied his at a single draught, while Duroy sipped his
beer slowly as if it were something rare and precious. Suddenly his
companion asked, "Why don't you try journalism?"

Duroy looked at him in surprise and said: "Because I have never
written anything."

"Bah, we all have to make a beginning. I could employ you myself by
sending you to obtain information. At first you would only get two
hundred and fifty francs a month but your cab fare would be paid.
Shall I speak to the manager?"

"If you will."

"Well, then come and dine with me to-morrow; I will only ask five or
six to meet you; the manager, M. Walter, his wife, with Jacques
Rival, and Norbert de Varenne whom you have just seen, and also a
friend of Mme. Forestier, Will you come?"

Duroy hesitated, blushing and perplexed. Finally he, murmured: "I
have no suitable clothes."

Forestier was amazed. "You have no dress suit? Egad, that is
indispensable. In Paris, it is better to have no bed than no
clothes." Then, fumbling in his vest-pocket, he drew from it two
louis, placed them before his companion, and said kindly: "You can
repay me when it is convenient. Buy yourself what you need and pay
an installment on it. And come and dine with us at half past seven,
at 17 Rue Fontaine."

In confusion Duroy picked up the money and stammered: "You are very
kind--I am much obliged--be sure I shall not forget."

Forestier interrupted him: "That's all right, take another glass of
beer. Waiter, two more glasses!" When he had paid the score, the
journalist asked: "Would you like a stroll for an hour?"


They turned toward the Madeleine. "What shall we do?" asked
Forestier. "They say that in Paris an idler can always find
amusement, but it is not true. A turn in the Bois is only enjoyable
if you have a lady with you, and that is a rare occurrence. The cafe
concerts may divert my tailor and his wife, but they do not interest
me. So what can we do? Nothing! There ought to be a summer garden
here, open at night, where a man could listen to good music while
drinking beneath the trees. It would be a pleasant lounging place.
You could walk in alleys bright with electric light and seat
yourself where you pleased to hear the music. It would be charming.
Where would you like to go?"

Duroy did not know what to reply; finally he said: "I have never
been to the Folies Bergeres. I should like to go there."

His companion exclaimed: "The Folies Bergeres! Very well!"

They turned and walked toward the Faubourg Montmartre. The
brilliantly illuminated building loomed up before them. Forestier
entered, Duroy stopped him. "We forgot to pass through the gate."

The other replied in a consequential tone: "I never pay," and
approached the box-office.

"Have you a good box?"

"Certainly, M. Forestier."

He took the ticket handed him, pushed open the door, and they were
within the hall. A cloud of tobacco smoke almost hid the stage and
the opposite side of the theater. In the spacious foyer which led to
the circular promenade, brilliantly dressed women mingled with
black-coated men.

Forestier forced his way rapidly through the throng and accosted an

"Box 17?"

"This way, sir."

The friends were shown into a tiny box, hung and carpeted in red,
with four chairs upholstered in the same color. They seated
themselves. To their right and left were similar boxes. On the stage
three men were performing on trapezes. But Duroy paid no heed to
them, his eyes finding more to interest them in the grand promenade.
Forestier remarked upon the motley appearance of the throng, but
Duroy did not listen to him. A woman, leaning her arms upon the edge
of her loge, was staring at him. She was a tall, voluptuous
brunette, her face whitened with enamel, her black eyes penciled,
and her lips painted. With a movement of her head, she summoned a
friend who was passing, a blonde with auburn hair, likewise inclined
to embonpoint, and said to her in a whisper intended to be heard;
"There is a nice fellow!"

Forestier heard it, and said to Duroy with a smile: "You are lucky,
my dear boy. My congratulations!"

The ci-devant soldier blushed and mechanically fingered the two
pieces of gold in his pocket.

The curtain fell--the orchestra played a valse--and Duroy said:

"Shall we walk around the gallery?"

"If you like."

Soon they were carried along in the current of promenaders. Duroy
drank in with delight the air, vitiated as it was by tobacco and
cheap perfume, but Forestier perspired, panted, and coughed.

"Let us go into the garden," he said. Turning to the left, they
entered a kind of covered garden in which two large fountains were
playing. Under the yews, men and women sat at tables drinking.

"Another glass of beer?" asked Forestier.


They took their seats and watched the promenaders. Occasionally a
woman would stop and ask with a coarse smile: "What have you to
offer, sir?"

Forestier's invariable answer was: "A glass of water from the
fountain." And the woman would mutter, "Go along," and walk away.

At last the brunette reappeared, arm-in-arm with the blonde. They
made a handsome couple. The former smiled on perceiving Duroy, and
taking a chair she calmly seated herself in front of him, and said
in a clear voice: "Waiter, two glasses."

In astonishment, Forestier exclaimed: "You are not at all bashful!"

She replied: "Your friend has bewitched me; he is such a fine
fellow. I believe he has turned my head."

Duroy said nothing.

The waiter brought the beer, which the women swallowed rapidly; then
they rose, and the brunette, nodding her head and tapping Duroy's
arm with her fan, said to him: "Thank you, my dear! However, you are
not very talkative."

As they disappeared, Forestier laughed and said: "Tell, me, old man,
did you know that you had a charm for the weaker sex? You must be

Without replying, Duroy smiled. His friend asked: "Shall you remain
any longer? I am going; I have had enough."

Georges murmured: "Yes, I will stay a little longer: it is not

Forestier arose: "Very well, then, good-bye until to-morrow. Do not
forget: 17 Rue Fontaine at seven thirty."

"I shall not forget. Thank you."

The friends shook hands and the journalist left Duroy to his own

Forestier once out of sight, Duroy felt free, and again he joyously
touched the gold pieces in his pocket; then rising, he mingled with
the crowd.

He soon discovered the blonde and the brunette. He went toward them,
but when near them dared not address them.

The brunette called out to him: "Have you found your tongue?"

He stammered: "Zounds!" too bashful to say another word. A pause
ensued, during which the brunette took his arm and together they
left the hall.



"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

"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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"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

"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

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

"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.



When Georges Duroy reached the street, he hesitated as to what he
should do. He felt inclined to stroll along, dreaming of the future
and inhaling the soft night air; but the thought of the series of
articles ordered by M. Walter occurred to him, and he decided to
return home at once and begin work. He walked rapidly along until he
came to Rue Boursault. The tenement in which he lived was occupied
by twenty families--families of workingmen--and as he mounted the
staircase he experienced a sensation of disgust and a desire to live
as wealthy men do. Duroy's room was on the fifth floor. He entered
it, opened his window, and looked out: the view was anything but

He turned away, thinking: "This won't do. I must go to work." So he
placed his light upon the table and began to write. He dipped his
pen into the ink and wrote at the head of his paper in a bold hand:
"Souvenirs of a Soldier in Africa." Then he cast about for the first
phrase. He rested his head upon his hand and stared at the blank
sheet before him. What should he say? Suddenly he thought: "I must
begin with my departure," and he wrote: "In 1874, about the
fifteenth of May, when exhausted France was recruiting after the
catastrophe of the terrible years--" Here he stopped short, not
knowing how to introduce his subject. After a few minutes'
reflection, he decided to lay aside that page until the following
day, and to write a description of Algiers. He began: "Algiers is a
very clean city--" but he could not continue. After an effort he
added: "It is inhabited partly by Arabs." Then he threw his pen upon
the table and arose. He glanced around his miserable room; mentally
he rebelled against his poverty and resolved to leave the next day.

Suddenly the desire to work came on him, and he tried to begin the
article again; he had vague ideas of what he wanted to say, but he
could not express his thoughts in words. Convinced of his inability
he arose once more, his blood coursing rapidly through his veins. He
turned to the window just as the train was coming out of the tunnel,
and his thoughts reverted to his parents. He saw their tiny home on
the heights overlooking Rouen and the valley of the Seine. His
father and mother kept an inn, La Belle-Vue, at which the citizens
of the faubourgs took their lunches on Sundays. They had wished to
make a "gentleman" of their son and had sent him to college. His
studies completed, he had entered the army with the intention of
becoming an officer, a colonel, or a general. But becoming disgusted
with military life, he determined to try his fortune in Paris. When
his time of service had expired, he went thither, with what results
we have seen. He awoke from his reflections as the locomotive
whistled shrilly, closed his window, and began to disrobe,
muttering: "Bah, I shall be able to work better to-morrow morning.
My brain is not clear to-night. I have drunk a little too much. I
can't work well under such circumstances." He extinguished his light
and fell asleep.

He awoke early, and, rising, opened his window to inhale the fresh
air. In a few moments he seated himself at his table, dipped his pen
in the ink, rested his head upon his hand and thought--but in vain!
However, he was not discouraged, but in thought reassured himself:
"Bah, I am not accustomed to it! It is a profession that must be
learned like all professions. Some one must help me the first time.
I'll go to Forestier. He'll start my article for me in ten minutes."

When he reached the street, Duroy decided that it was rather early
to present himself at his friend's house, so he strolled along under
the trees on one of the boulevards for a time. On arriving at
Forestier's door, he found his friend going out.

"You here--at this hour! Can I do anything for you?"

Duroy stammered in confusion: "I--I--cannot write that article on
Algeria that M. Walter wants. It is not very surprising, seeing that
I have never written anything. It requires practice. I could write
very rapidly, I am sure, if I could make a beginning. I have the
ideas but I cannot express them." He paused and hesitated.

Forestier smiled maliciously: "I understand that."

Duroy continued: "Yes, anyone is liable to have that trouble at the
beginning; and, well--I have come to ask you to help me. In ten
minutes you can set me right. You can give me a lesson in style;
without you I can do nothing."

The other smiled gaily. He patted his companion's arm and said to
him: "Go to my wife; she will help you better than I can. I have
trained her for that work. I have not time this morning or I would
do it willingly."

But Duroy hesitated: "At this hour I cannot inquire for her."

"Oh, yes, you can; she has risen. You will find her in my study."

"I will go, but I shall tell her you sent me!"

Forestier walked away, and Duroy slowly ascended the stairs,
wondering what he should say and what kind of a reception he would

The servant who opened the door said: "Monsieur has gone out."

Duroy replied: "Ask Mme. Forestier if she will see me, and tell her
that M. Forestier, whom I met on the street, sent me."

The lackey soon returned and ushered Duroy into Madame's presence.
She was seated at a table and extended her hand to him.

"So soon?" said she. It was not a reproach, but a simple question.

He stammered: "I did not want to come up, Madame, but your husband,
whom I met below, insisted--I dare scarcely tell you my errand--I
worked late last night and early this morning, to write the article
on Algeria which M. Walter wants--and I did not succeed--I destroyed
all my attempts--I am not accustomed to the work--and I came to ask
Forestier to assist me--his once."

She interrupted with a laugh: "And he sent you to me?"

"Yes, Madame. He said you could help me better than he--but--I dared
not--I did not like to."

She rose.

"It will be delightful to work together that way. I am charmed with
your idea. Wait, take my chair, for they know my handwriting on the
paper--we will write a successful article."

She took a cigarette from the mantelpiece and lighted it. "I cannot
work without smoking," she said; "what are you going to say?"

He looked at her in astonishment. "I do not know; I came here to
find that out."

She replied: "I will manage it all right. I will make the sauce but
I must have the dish." She questioned him in detail and finally

"Now, we will begin. First of all we will suppose that you are
addressing a friend, which will allow us scope for remarks of all
kinds. Begin this way: 'My dear Henry, you wish to know something
about Algeria; you shall.'"

Then followed a brilliantly worded description of Algeria and of the
port of Algiers, an excursion to the province of Oran, a visit to
Saida, and an adventure with a pretty Spanish maid employed in a

When the article was concluded, he could find no words of thanks; he
was happy to be near her, grateful for and delighted with their
growing intimacy. It seemed to him that everything about him was a
part of her, even to the books upon the shelves. The chairs, the
furniture, the air--all were permeated with that delightful
fragrance peculiar to her.

She asked bluntly: "What do you think of my friend Mme. de Marelle?"

"I think her very fascinating," he said; and he would have liked to
add: "But not as much so as you." He had not the courage to do so.

She continued: "If you only knew how comical, original, and
intelligent she is! She is a true Bohemian. It is for that reason
that her husband no longer loves her. He only sees her defects and
none of her good qualities."

Duroy was surprised to hear that Mme. de Marelle was married.

"What," he asked, "is she married? What does her husband do?"

Mme. Forestier shrugged her shoulders. "Oh, he is superintendent of
a railroad. He is in Paris a week out of each month. His wife calls
it 'Holy Week.' or 'The week of duty.' When you get better
acquainted with her, you will see how witty she is! Come here and
see her some day."

As she spoke, the door opened noiselessly, and a gentleman entered
unannounced. He halted on seeing a man. For a moment Mme. Forestier
seemed confused; then she said in a natural voice, though her cheeks
were tinged with a blush:

"Come in, my dear sir; allow me to present to you an old comrade of
Charles, M. Georges Duroy, a future journalist." Then in a different
tone, she said: "Our best and dearest friend, Count de Vaudrec."

The two men bowed, gazed into one another's eyes, and then Duroy
took his leave. Neither tried to detain him.

On reaching the street he felt sad and uncomfortable. Count de
Vaudrec's face was constantly before him. It seemed to him that the
man was displeased at finding him tete-a-tete with Mme. Forestier,
though why he should be, he could not divine.

To while away the time until three o'clock, he lunched at Duval's,
and then lounged along the boulevard. When the clock chimed the hour
of his appointment, he climbed the stairs leading to the office of
"La Vie Francaise."

Duroy asked: "Is M. Walter in?"

"M. Walter is engaged," was the reply. "Will you please take a

Duroy waited twenty minutes, then he turned to the clerk and said:
"M. Walter had an appointment with me at three o'clock. At any rate,
see if my friend M. Forestier is here."

He was conducted along a corridor and ushered into a large room in
which four men were writing at a table. Forestier was standing
before the fireplace, smoking a cigarette. After listening to
Duroy's story he said:

"Come with me; I will take you to M. Walter, or else you might
remain here until seven o'clock."

They entered the manager's room. Norbert de Varenne was writing an
article, seated in an easychair; Jacques Rival, stretched upon a
divan, was smoking a cigar. The room had the peculiar odor familiar
to all journalists. When they approached M. Walter, Forestier said:
"Here is my friend Duroy."

The manager looked keenly at the young man and asked:

"Have you brought my article?"

Duroy drew the sheets of manuscript from his pocket.

"Here they are, Monsieur."

The manager seemed delighted and said with a smile: "Very good. You
are a man of your word. Need I look over it, Forestier?"

But Forestier hastened to reply: "It is not necessary, M. Walter; I
helped him in order to initiate him into the profession. It is very
good." Then bending toward him, he whispered: "You know you promised
to engage Duroy to replace Marambot. Will you allow me to retain him
on the same terms?"


Taking his friend's arm, the journalist drew him away, while M.
Walter returned to the game of ecarte he had been engaged in when
they entered. Forestier and Duroy returned to the room in which
Georges had found his friend. The latter said to his new reporter:

"You must come here every day at three o'clock, and I will tell you
what places to go to. First of all, I shall give you a letter of
introduction to the chief of the police, who will in turn introduce
you to one of his employees. You can arrange with him for all
important news, official and semiofficial. For details you can apply
to Saint-Potin, who is posted; you will see him to-morrow. Above
all, you must learn to make your way everywhere in spite of closed
doors. You will receive two hundred francs a months, two sous a line
for original matter, and two sous a line for articles you are
ordered to write on different subjects."

"What shall I do to-day?" asked Duroy.

"I have no work for you to-day; you can go if you wish to."

"And our--our article?"

"Oh, do not worry about it; I will correct the proofs. Do the rest
to-morrow and come here at three o'clock as you did to-day."

And after shaking hands, Duroy descended the staircase with a light



Georges Duroy did not sleep well, so anxious was he to see his
article in print. He rose at daybreak, and was on the street long
before the newsboys. When he secured a paper and saw his name at the
end of a column in large letters, he became very much excited. He
felt inclined to enact the part of a newsboy and cry out to the
hurrying throng: "Buy this! it contains an article by me!" He
strolled along to a cafe and seated himself in order to read the
article through; that done he decided to go to the railroad office,
draw his salary, and hand in his resignation.

With great pomposity he informed the chief clerk that he was on the
staff of "La Vie Francaise," and by that means was avenged for many
petty insults which had been offered him. He then had some cards
written with his new calling beneath his name, made several
purchases, and repaired to the office of "La Vie Francaise."
Forestier received him loftily as one would an inferior.

"Ah, here you are! Very well; I have several things for you to do.
Just wait ten minutes till I finish this work." He continued

At the other end of the table sat a short, pale man, very stout and
bald. Forestier asked him, when his letter was completed, "Saint-
Potin, at what time shall you interview those people?"

"At four o'clock."

"Take Duroy, who is here, with you and initiate him into the

"Very well."

Then turning to his friend, Forestier added: "Have you brought the
other paper on Algeria? The article this morning was very

Duroy stammered: "No, I thought I should have time this afternoon. I
had so much to do--I could not."

The other shrugged his shoulders. "If you are not more careful, you
will spoil your future. M. Walter counted on your copy. I will tell
him it will be ready to-morrow. If you think you will be paid for
doing nothing, you are mistaken." After a pause, he added: "You
should strike while the iron is hot."

Saint-Potin rose: "I am ready," said he.

Forestier turned around in his chair and said, to Duroy: "Listen.
The Chinese general Li-Theng-Fao, stopping at the Continental, and
Rajah Taposahib Ramaderao Pali, stopping at Hotel Bishop, have been
in Paris two days. You must interview them." Addressing Saint-Potin,
he said: "Do not forget the principal points I indicated to you. Ask
the general and the rajah their opinions on the dealings of England
in the extreme East, their ideas of their system of colonization and
government, their hopes relative to the intervention of Europe and
of France in particular." To Duroy he said: "Observe what Saint-
Potin says; he is an excellent reporter, and try to learn how to
draw out a man in five minutes." Then he resumed his work.

The two men walked down the boulevard together, while Saint-Potin
gave Duroy a sketch of all the officials connected with the paper,
sparing no one in his criticism. When he mentioned Forestier, he
said: "As for him, he was fortunate in marrying his wife."

Duroy asked: "What about his wife?"

Saint-Potin rubbed his hands. "Oh, she is beloved by an old fellow
named Vaudrec--he dotes upon her."

Duroy felt as if he would like to box Saint-Potin's ears. To change
the subject he said: "It seems to me that it is late, and we have
two noble lords to call upon!"

Saint-Potin laughed: "You are very innocent! Do you think that I am
going to interview that Chinese and that Indian? As if I did not
know better than they do what they should think to please the
readers of 'La Vie Francaise'! I have interviewed five hundred
Chinese, Prussians, Hindoos, Chilians, and Japanese. They all say
the same thing. I need only copy my article on the last comer, word
for word, changing the heading, names, titles, and ages: in that
there must be no error, or I shall be hauled over the coals by the
'Figaro' or 'Gaulois.' But on that subject the porter of the hotels
will post me in five minutes. We will smoke our cigars and stroll in
that direction. Total--one hundred sous for cabfare. That is the
way, my dear fellow."

When they arrived at the Madeleine, Saint-Potin said to his
companion: "If you have anything to do, I do not need you."

Duroy shook hands with him and walked away. The thought of the
article he had to write that evening haunted him. Mentally he
collected the material as he wended his way to the cafe at which he
dined. Then he returned home and seated himself at his table to
work. Before his eyes was the sheet of blank paper, but all the
material he had amassed had escaped him. After trying for an hour,
and after filling five pages with sentences which had no connection
one with the other, he said: "I am not yet familiar with the work. I
must take another lesson."

At ten o'clock the following morning he rang the bell, at his
friend's house. The servant who opened the door, said: "Monsieur is

Duroy had not expected to find Forestier at home. However he said:
"Tell him it is M. Duroy on important business."

In the course of five minutes he was ushered into the room in which
he had spent so happy a morning. In the place Mme. Forestier had
occupied, her husband was seated writing, while Mme. Forestier stood
by the mantelpiece and dictated to him, a cigarette between her

Duroy paused upon the threshold and murmured: "I beg your pardon, I
am interrupting you."

His friend growled angrily: "What do you want again? Make haste; we
are busy."

Georges stammered: "It is nothing."

But Forestier persisted: "Come, we are losing time; you did not
force your way into the house for the pleasure of bidding us good

Duroy, in confusion, replied: "No, it is this: I cannot complete my
article, and you were--so--so kind the last time that I hoped--that
I dared to come--"

Forestier interrupted with: "So you think I will do your work and
that you have only to take the money. Well, that is fine!" His wife
smoked on without interfering.

Duroy hesitated: "Excuse me. I believed--I--thought--" Then, in a
clear voice, he said: "I beg a thousand pardons, Madame, and thank
you very much for the charming article you wrote for me yesterday."
Then he bowed, and said to Charles: "I will be at the office at
three o'clock."

He returned home saying to himself: "Very well, I will write it
alone and they shall see." Scarcely had he entered than he began to
write, anger spurring him on. In an hour he had finished an article,
which was a chaos of absurd matter, and took it boldly to the
office. Duroy handed Forestier his manuscript. "Here is the rest of

"Very well, I will hand it to the manager. That will do."

When Duroy and Saint-Potin, who had some political information to
look up, were in the hall, the latter asked: "Have you been to the
cashier's room?"

"No, why?"

"Why? To get your pay? You should always get your salary a month in
advance. One cannot tell what might happen. I will introduce you to
the cashier."

Duroy drew his two hundred francs together with twenty-eight francs
for his article of the preceding day, which, in addition to what
remained to him of his salary from the railroad office, left him
three hundred and forty francs. He had never had so much, and he
thought himself rich for an indefinite time. Saint-Potin took him to
the offices of four or five rival papers, hoping that the news he
had been commissioned to obtain had been already received by them
and that he could obtain it by means of his diplomacy.

When evening came, Duroy, who had nothing more to do, turned toward
the Folies-Bergeres, and walking up to the office, he said: "My name
is Georges Duroy. I am on the staff of 'La Vie Francaise.' I was
here the other night with M. Forestier, who promised to get me a
pass. I do not know if he remembered it."

The register was consulted, but his name was not inscribed upon it.
However, the cashier, a very affable man, said to him: "Come in, M.
Duroy, and speak to the manager yourself; he will see that
everything is all right."

He entered and almost at once came upon Rachel, the woman he had
seen there before. She approached him: "Good evening, my dear; are
you well?"

"Very well; how are you?"

"I am not ill. I have dreamed of you twice since the other night."

Duroy smiled. "What does that mean?"

"That means that I like you"; she raised her eyes to the young man's
face, took his arm and leaning upon it, said: "Let us drink a glass
of wine and then take a walk. I should like to go to the opera like
this, with you, to show you off."

* * * * * * *

At daybreak he again sallied forth to obtain a "Vie Francaise." He
opened the paper feverishly; his article was not there. On entering
the office several hours later, he said to M. Walter: "I was very
much surprised this morning not to see my second article on

The manager raised his head and said sharply: "I gave it to your
friend, Forestier, and asked him to read it; he was dissatisfied
with it; it will have to be done over."

Without a word, Duroy left the room, and entering his friend's
office, brusquely asked: "Why did not my article appear this

The journalist, who was smoking a cigar, said calmly: "The manager
did not consider it good, and bade me return it to you to be
revised. There it is." Duroy revised it several times, only to have
it rejected. He said nothing more of his "souvenirs," but gave his
whole attention to reporting. He became acquainted behind the scenes
at the theaters, and in the halls and corridors of the chamber of
deputies; he knew all the cabinet ministers, generals, police
agents, princes, ambassadors, men of the world, Greeks, cabmen,
waiters at cafes, and many others. In short he soon became a
remarkable reporter, of great value to the paper, so M. Walter said.
But as he only received ten centimes a line in addition to his fixed
salary of two hundred francs and as his expenses were large, he
never had a sou. When he saw certain of his associates with their
pockets full of money, he wondered what secret means they employed
in order to obtain it. He determined to penetrate that mystery, to
enter into the association, to obtrude himself upon his comrades,
and make them share with him. Often at evening, as he watched the
trains pass his window, he dreamed of the conduct he might pursue.



Two months elapsed. It was September. The fortune which Duroy had
hoped to make so rapidly seemed to him slow in coming. Above all he
was dissatisfied with the mediocrity of his position; he was
appreciated, but was treated according to his rank. Forestier
himself no longer invited him to dinner, and treated him as an
inferior. Often he had thought of making Mme. Forestier a visit, but
the remembrance of their last meeting restrained him. Mme. de
Marelle had invited him to call, saying: "I am always at home about
three o'clock." So one afternoon, when he had nothing to do, he
proceeded toward her house. She lived on Rue Verneuil, on the fourth
floor. A maid answered his summons, and said: "Yes, Madame is at
home, but I do not know whether she has risen." She conducted Duroy
into the drawing-room, which was large, poorly furnished, and
somewhat untidy. The shabby, threadbare chairs were ranged along the
walls according to the servant's fancy, for there was not a trace
visible of the care of a woman who loves her home. Duroy took a seat
and waited some time. Then a door opened and Mme. de Marelle entered
hastily, clad in a Japanese dressing-gown. She exclaimed:

"How kind of you to come to see me. I was positive you had forgotten
me." She held out her hand to him with a gesture of delight; and
Duroy, quite at his ease in that shabby apartment, kissed it as he
had seen Norbert de Varenne do.

Examining him from head to foot, she cried: "How you have changed!
Well; tell me the news."

They began to chat at once as if they were old acquaintances, and in
five minutes an intimacy, a mutual understanding, was established
between those two beings alike in character and kind. Suddenly the
young woman said in surprise: "It is astonishing how I feel with
you. It seems to me as if I had known you ten years. We shall
undoubtedly become good friends; would that please you?"

He replied: "Certainly," with a smile more expressive than words. He
thought her very bewitching in her pretty gown. When near Mme.
Forestier, whose impassive, gracious smile attracted yet held at a
distance, and seemed to say: "I like you, yet take care," he felt a
desire to cast himself at her feet, or to kiss the hem of her
garment. When near Mme. de Marelle, he felt a more passionate

A gentle rap came at the door through which Mme. de Marelle had
entered, and she cried: "You may come in, my darling."

The child entered, advanced to Duroy and offered him her hand. The
astonished mother murmured: "That is a conquest." The young man,
having kissed the child, seated her by his side, and with a serious
air questioned her as to what she had done since they last met. She
replied in a flute-like voice and with the manner of a woman. The
clock struck three; the journalist rose.

"Come often," said Mme. de Marelle; "it has been a pleasant
causerie. I shall always be glad to welcome you. Why do I never meet
you at the Forestiers?"

"For no particular reason. I am very busy. I hope, however, that we
shall meet there one of these days."

In the course of a few days he paid another visit to the
enchantress. The maid ushered him into the drawing-room and Laurine
soon entered; she offered him not her hand but her forehead, and
said: "Mamma wishes me to ask you to wait for her about fifteen
minutes, for she is not dressed. I will keep you company."

Duroy, who was amused at the child's ceremonious manner, replied:
"Indeed, Mademoiselle, I shall be enchanted to spend a quarter of an
hour with you." When the mother entered they were in the midst of an
exciting game, and Mme. de Marelle paused in amazement, crying:
"Laurine playing? You are a sorcerer, sir!" He placed the child,
whom he had caught in his arms, upon the floor, kissed the lady's
hand, and they seated themselves, the child between them. They tried
to converse, but Laurine, usually so silent, monopolized the
conversation, and her mother was compelled to send her to her room.

When they were alone, Mme. de Marelle lowered her voice and said: "I
have a great project. It is this: As I dine every week at the
Foresters', I return it from time to time by inviting them to a
restaurant. I do not like to have company at home; I am not so
situated that I can have any. I know nothing about housekeeping or
cooking. I prefer a life free from care; therefore I invite them to
the cafe occasionally; but it is not lively when we are only three.
I am telling you this in order to explain such an informal
gathering. I should like you to be present at our Saturdays at the
Cafe Riche at seven-thirty. Do you know the house?"

Duroy accepted gladly. He left her in a transport of delight and
impatiently awaited the day of the dinner. He was the first to
arrive at the place appointed and was shown into a small private
room, in which the table was laid for four; that table looked very
inviting with its colored glasses, silver, and candelabra.

Duroy seated himself upon a low bench. Forestier entered and shook
hands with him with a cordiality he never evinced at the office.

"The two ladies will come together," said he. "These dinners are
truly delightful."

Very soon the door opened and Mesdames Forestier and De Marelle
appeared, heavily veiled, surrounded by the charming mystery
necessary to a rendezvous in a place so public. As Duroy greeted the
former, she took him to task for not having been to see her; then
she added with a smile: "Ah, you prefer Mme. de Marelle; the time
passes more pleasantly with her."

When the waiter handed the wine-list to Forestier, Mme. de Marelle
exclaimed: "Bring the gentle-men whatever they want; as for us, we
want nothing but champagne."

Forestier, who seemed not to have heard her, asked: "Do you object
to my closing the window? My cough has troubled me for several

"Not at all."

His wife did not speak. The various courses were duly served and
then the guests began to chat. They discussed a scandal which was
being circulated about a society belle. Forestier was very much
amused by it. Duroy said with a smile: "How many would abandon
themselves to a caprice, a dream of love, if they did not fear that
they would pay for a brief happiness with tears and an irremediable

Both women glanced at him approvingly. Forestier cried with a
sceptical laugh: "The poor husbands!" Then they talked of love.
Duroy said: "When I love a woman, everything else in the world is

Mme. Forestier murmured:, "There is no happiness comparable to that
first clasp of the hand, when one asks: 'Do you love me?' and the
other replies: 'Yes, I love you.'" Mme. de Marelle cried gaily as
she drank a glass of champagne: "I am less Platonic."

Forestier, lying upon the couch, said in serious tone: "That
frankness does you honor and proves you to be a practical woman. But
might one ask, what is M. de Marelle's opinion?"

She shrugged her shoulders disdainfully and said: "M. de Marelle has
no opinion on that subject."

The conversation grew slow. Mme. de Marelle seemed to offer
provocation by her remarks, while Mme. Forestier's charming reserve,
the modesty in her voice, in her smile, all seemed to extenuate the
bold sallies which issued from her lips. The dessert came and then
followed the coffee. The hostess and her guests lighted cigarettes,
but Forestier suddenly began to cough. When the attack was over, he
growled angrily: "These parties are not good for me; they are
stupid. Let us go home."

Mme. de Marelle summoned the waiter and asked for her bill. She
tried to read it, but the figures danced before her eyes; she handed
the paper to Duroy.

"Here, pay it for me; I cannot see." At the same time, she put her
purse in his hand.

The total was one hundred and thirty francs. Duroy glanced at the
bill and when it was settled, whispered: "How much shall I give the

"Whatever you like; I do not know."

He laid five francs upon the plate and handed the purse to its
owner, saying: "Shall I escort you home?"

"Certainly; I am unable to find the house."

They shook hands with the Forestiers and were soon rolling along in
a cab side by side. Duroy could think of nothing to say; he felt
impelled to clasp her in his arms. "If I should dare, what would she
do?" thought he. The recollection of their conversation at dinner
emboldened, but the fear of scandal restrained him. Mme. de Marelle
reclined silently in her corner. He would have thought her asleep,
had he not seen her eyes glisten whenever a ray of light penetrated
the dark recesses of the carriage. Of what was she thinking?
Suddenly she moved her foot, nervously, impatiently. That movement
caused him to tremble, and turning quickly, he cast himself upon
her, seeking her lips with his. She uttered a cry, attempted to
repulse him and then yielded to his caresses as if she had not the
strength to resist.

The carriage stopped at her door, but she did not rise; she did not
move, stunned by what had just taken place. Fearing that the cabman
would mistrust something, Duroy alighted from the cab first and
offered his hand to the young woman. Finally she got out, but in
silence. Georges rang the bell, and when the door was opened, he
asked timidly: "When shall I see you again?"

She whispered so low that he could barely hear her: "Come and lunch
with me to-morrow." With those words she disappeared.

Duroy gave the cabman a five-franc piece, and turned away with a
triumphant, joyful air. He had at last conquered a married woman! A
woman of the world! A Parisian! How easy it had been!

He was somewhat nervous the following day as he ascended Mme. de
Marelle's staircase. How would she receive him? Suppose she forbade
him to enter her house? If she had told--but no, she could not tell
anything without telling the whole truth! He was master of the

The little maid-servant opened the door. She was as pleasant as
usual. Duroy felt reassured and asked: "Is Madame well?"

"Yes, sir; as well as she always is," was the reply, and he was
ushered into the salon. He walked to the mantelpiece to see what
kind of an appearance he presented: he was readjusting his cravat
when he saw in the mirror the young woman standing on the threshold
looking at him. He pretended not to have seen her, and for several
moments they gazed at one another in the mirror. Then he turned. She
had not moved; she seemed to be waiting. He rushed toward her
crying: "How I love you!" He clasped her to his breast. He thought:
"It is easier than I thought it would be. All is well." He looked at
her with a smile, without uttering a word, trying to put into his
glance a wealth of love. She too smiled and murmured: "We are alone.
I sent Laurine to lunch with a friend."

He sighed, and kissing her wrists said: "Thanks; I adore you." She
took his arm as if he had been her husband, and led him to a couch,
upon which they seated themselves side by side. Duroy stammered,
incoherently: "You do not care for me."

She laid her hand upon his lips. "Be silent!"

"How I love you!" said he.

She repeated: "Be silent!"

They could hear the servant laying the table in the dining-room. He
rose: "I cannot sit so near you. I shall lose my head."

The door opened: "Madame is served!"

He offered her his arm gravely. They lunched without knowing what
they were eating. The servant came and went without seeming to
notice anything. When the meal was finished, they returned to the
drawing-room and resumed their seats on the couch side by side.
Gradually he drew nearer her and tried to embrace her.

"Be careful, some one might come in."

He whispered: "When can I see you alone to tell you how I love you?"

She leaned toward him and said softly: "I will pay you a visit one
of these days."

He colored. "My rooms--are--are--very modest."

She smiled: "That makes no difference. I shall come to see you and
not your rooms."

He urged her to tell him when she would come. She fixed a day in the
following week, while he besought her with glowing eyes to hasten
the day. She was amused to see him implore so ardently and yielded a
day at a time. He repeated: "To-morrow, say--to-morrow." Finally she
consented. "Yes, to-morrow at five o'clock."

He drew a deep breath; then they chatted together as calmly as if
they had known one another for twenty years. A ring caused them to
start; they separated. She murmured: "It is Laurine."

The child entered, paused in surprise, then ran toward Duroy
clapping her hands, delighted to see him, and crying: "Ah, 'Bel-

Mme. de Marelle laughed. "Bel-Ami! Laurine has christened you. It is
a pretty name. I shall call you Bel-Ami, too!"

He took the child upon his knee. At twenty minutes of three he rose
to go to the office; at the half-open door he whispered: "To-morrow,
five o'clock." The young woman replied: "Yes," with a smile and

After he had finished his journalistic work, he tried to render his
apartments more fit to receive his expected visitor. He was well
satisfied with the results of his efforts and retired, lulled to
rest by the whistling of the trains. Early the next morning he
bought a cake and a bottle of Madeira. He spread the collation on
his dressing-table which was covered with a napkin. Then he waited.
She came at a quarter past five and exclaimed as she entered: "Why,
it is nice here. But there were a great many people on the stairs."

He took her in his arms and kissed her hair. An hour and a half
later he escorted her to a cab-stand on the Rue de Rome. When she
was seated in the cab, he whispered: "Tuesday, at the same hour."

She repeated his words, and as it was night, she kissed him. Then as
the cabman started up his horse, she cried:" Adieu, Bel-Ami!" and
the old coupe rumbled off.

For three weeks Duroy received Mme. de Marelle every two or three
days, sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the evening.

As he was awaiting her one afternoon, a noise on the staircase drew
him to his door. A child screamed. A man's angry voice cried: "What
is the brat howling about?"

A woman's voice replied: "Nicolas has been tripped up on the
landing-place by the journalist's sweetheart."

Duroy retreated, for he heard the rustling of skirts. Soon there was
a knock at his door, which he opened, and Mme. de Marelle rushed in,
crying: "Did you hear?" Georges feigned ignorance of the matter.

"No; what?"

"How they insulted me?"


"Those miserable people below."

"Why, no; what is it? Tell me."

She sobbed and could not speak. He was forced to place her upon his
bed and to lay a damp cloth upon her temples. When she grew calmer,
anger succeeded her agitation. She wanted Duroy to go downstairs at
once, to fight them, to kill them.

He replied: "They are working-people. Just think, it would be
necessary to go to court where you would be recognized; one must not
compromise oneself with such people."

She said: "What shall we do? I cannot come here again."

He replied: "That is very simple. I will move."

She murmured: "Yes, but that will take some time."

Suddenly she said: "Listen to me, I have found a means; do not worry
about it. I will send you a 'little blue' to-morrow morning." She
called a telegram a "little blue."

She smiled with delight at her plans, which she would not reveal.
She was, however, very much affected as she descended the staircase
and leaned with all her strength upon her lover's arm. They met no

He was still in bed the following morning when the promised telegram
was handed him. Duroy opened it and read:

"Come at five o'clock to Rue de Constantinople, No. 127. Ask
for the room rented by Mme. Duroy. CLO."

At five o'clock precisely he entered a large furnished house and
asked the janitor: "Has Mme. Duroy hired a room here?"

"Yes, sir."

"Will you show me to it, if you please?"

The man, accustomed no doubt to situations in which it was necessary
to be prudent, looked him straight in the eyes; then selecting a
key, he asked: "Are you M. Duroy?"


He opened a small suite, comprising two rooms on the ground floor.

Duroy thought uneasily: "This will cost a fortune. I shall have to
run into debt. She has done a very foolish thing."

The door opened and Clotilde rushed in. She was enchanted. "Is it
not fine? There are no stairs to climb; it is on the ground floor!
One could come and go through the window without the porter seeing

He embraced her nervously, not daring to ask the question that
hovered upon his lips. She had placed a large package on the stand
in the center of the room. Opening it she took out a tablet of soap,
a bottle of Lubin's extract, a sponge, a box of hairpins, a button-
hook, and curling-tongs. Then she amused herself by finding places
in which to put them.

She talked incessantly as she opened the drawers: "I must bring some
linen in order to have a change. We shall each have a key, besides
the one at the lodge, in case we should forget ours. I rented the
apartments for three months--in your name, of course, for I could
not give mine."

Then he asked: "Will you tell me when to pay?"

She replied simply: "It is paid, my dear."

He made a pretense of being angry: "I cannot permit that."

She laid her hand upon his shoulder and said in a supplicatory tone:
"Georges, it will give me pleasure to have the nest mine. Say that
you do not care, dear Georges," and he yielded. When she had left
him, he murmured: "She is kind-hearted, anyway."

Several days later he received a telegram which read:

"My husband is coming home this evening. We shall therefore not
meet for a week. What a bore, my dearest!"


Duroy was startled; he had not realized the fact that Mme. de
Marelle was married. He impatiently awaited her husband's departure.
One morning he received the following telegram:

"Five o'clock.--CLO."

When they met, she rushed into his arms, kissed him passionately,
and asked: "After a while will you take me to dine?"

"Certainly, my darling, wherever you wish to go."

"I should like to go to some restaurant frequented by the working-

They repaired to a wine merchant's where meals were also served.
Clotilde's entrance caused a sensation on account of the elegance of
her dress. They partook of a ragout of mutton and left that place to
enter a ball-room in which she pressed more closely to his side. In
fifteen minutes her curiosity was satisfied and he conducted her
home. Then followed a series of visits to all sorts of places of
amusement. Duroy soon began to tire of those expeditions, for he had
exhausted all his resources and all means of obtaining money. In
addition to that he owed Forestier a hundred francs, Jacques Rival
three hundred, and he was hampered with innumerable petty debts
ranging from twenty francs to one hundred sous.

On the fourteenth of December, he was left without a sou in his
pocket. As he had often done before, he did not lunch, and spent the
afternoon working at the office. At four o'clock he received a
telegram from Mme. de Marelle, saying: "Shall we dine together and
afterward have a frolic?"

He replied at once: "Impossible to dine," then he added: "But I will
expect you at our apartments at nine o'clock." Having sent a boy
with the note in order to save the money for a telegram, he tried to
think of some way by which he could obtain his evening meal. He
waited until all of his associates had gone and when he was alone,
he rang for the porter, put his hand in his pocket and said:
"Foucart, I have left my purse at home and I have to dine at the
Luxembourg. Lend me fifty sous to pay for my cab."

The man handed him three francs and asked:

"Is that enough?"

"Yes, thank you." Taking the coins, Duroy rushed down the staircase
and dined at a cookshop.

At nine o'clock, Mme. de Marelle, whom he awaited in the tiny salon,
arrived. She wished to take a walk and he objected. His opposition
irritated her.

"I shall go alone, then. Adieu!"

Seeing that the situation was becoming grave, he seized her hands
and kissed them, saying:

"Pardon me, darling; I am nervous and out of sorts this evening. I
have been annoyed by business matters."

Somewhat appeased but still, vexed, she replied:

"That does not concern me; I will not be the butt for your ill

He clasped her in his arms and murmured his apologies. Still she
persisted in her desire to go out.

"I beseech you, remain here by the fire with me. Say yes."

"No," she replied, "I will not yield to your caprices."

He insisted: "I have a reason, a serious reason--"

"If you will not go with me, I shall go alone. Adieu!"

She disengaged herself from his embrace and fled to the door. He
followed her:

"Listen Clo, my little Clo, listen to me--"

She shook her head, evaded his caresses and tried to escape from his
encircling arms.

"I have a reason--"

Looking him in the face, she said: "You lie! What is it?"

He colored, and in order to avoid a rupture, confessed in accents of
despair: "I have no money!"

She would not believe him until he had turned all his pockets inside
out, to prove his words. Then she fell upon his breast: "Oh, my poor
darling! Had I known! How did it happen?"

He invented a touching story to this effect: That his father was in
straitened circumstances, that he had given him not only his
savings, but had run himself into debt.

"I shall have to starve for the next six months."

"Shall I lend you some?" she whispered.

He replied with dignity: "You are very kind, dearest; but do not
mention that again; it wounds me."

She murmured: "You will never know how much I love you." On taking
leave of him, she asked: "Shall we meet again the day after to-


"At the same time?"

"Yes, my darling."

They parted.

When Duroy opened his bedroom door and fumbled in his vest pocket
for a match, he was amazed to find in it a piece of money--a twenty-
franc piece! At first he wondered by what miracle it had got there;
suddenly it occurred to him that Mme. de Marelle had given him alms!
Angry and humiliated, he determined to return it when next they met.
The next morning it was late when he awoke; he tried to overcome his
hunger. He went out and as he passed the restaurants he could
scarcely resist their temptations. At noon he said: "Bah, I shall
lunch upon Clotilde's twenty francs; that will not hinder me from
returning the money to-morrow."

He ate his lunch, for which he paid two francs fifty, and on
entering the office of "La Vie Francaise" he repaid the porter the
three francs he had borrowed from him. He worked until seven
o'clock, then he dined, and he continued to draw upon the twenty
francs until only four francs twenty remained. He decided to say to
Mme. de Marelle upon her arrival:

"I found the twenty-franc piece you slipped into my pocket. I will
not return the money to-day, but I will repay you when we next

When Madame came, he dared not broach the delicate subject. They
spent the evening together and appointed their next meeting for
Wednesday of the following week, for Mme. de Marelle had a number of
engagements. Duroy continued to accept money from Clotilde and
quieted his conscience by assuring himself: "I will give it back in
a lump. It is nothing but borrowed money anyway." So he kept account
of all that he received in order to pay it back some day.

One evening, Mme. de Marelle said to him: "Would you believe that I
have never been to the Folies-Bergeres; will you take me there?"

He hesitated, fearing a meeting with Rachel. Then he thought: "Bah,
I am not married after all. If she should see me, she would take in
the situation and not accost me. Moreover, we would have a box."

When they entered the hall, it was crowded; with difficulty they
made their way to their seats. Mme. de Marelle did not look at the
stage; she was interested in watching the women who were
promenading, and she felt an irresistible desire to touch them, to
see of what those beings were made. Suddenly she said:

"There is a large brunette who stares at us all the time. I think
every minute she will speak to us. Have you seen her?"

He replied: "No, you are mistaken."

He told an untruth, for he had noticed the woman, who was no other
than Rachel, with anger in her eyes and violent words upon her lips.

Duroy had passed her when he and Mme. de Marelle entered and she had
said to him: "Good evening," in a low voice and with a wink which
said "I understand." But he had not replied; for fear of being seen
by his sweetheart he passed her coldly, disdainfully. The woman, her
jealousy aroused, followed the couple and said in a louder key:
"Good evening, Georges." He paid no heed to her. Then she was
determined to be recognized and she remained near their box,
awaiting a favorable moment. When she saw that she was observed by
Mme. de Marelle, she touched Duroy's shoulder with the tip of her
finger, and said:

"Good evening. How are you?"

But Georges did not turn his head.

She continued: "Have you grown deaf since Thursday?"

Still he did not reply. She laughed angrily and cried:

"Are you dumb, too? Perhaps Madame has your tongue?"

With a furious glance, Duroy then exclaimed:

"How dare you accost me? Go along or I will have you arrested."

With flaming eyes, she cried: "Ah, is that so! Because you are with
another is no reason that you cannot recognize me. If you had made
the least sign of recognition when you passed me, I would not have
molested you. You did not even say good evening to me when you met

During that tirade Mme. de Marelle in affright opened the door of
the box and fled through the crowd seeking an exit. Duroy rushed
after her. Rachel, seeing him disappear, cried: "Stop her! she has
stolen my lover!"

Two men seized the fugitive by the shoulder, but Duroy, who had
caught up with her, bade them desist, and together he and Clotilde
reached the street.

They entered a cab. The cabman asked: "Where shall I drive to?"
Duroy replied: "Where you will!"

Clotilde sobbed hysterically. Duroy did not know what to say or do.
At length he stammered:

"Listen Clo--my dearest Clo, let me explain. It is not my fault. I
knew that woman--long ago--"

She raised her head and with the fury of a betrayed woman, she cried
disconnectedly: "Ah, you miserable fellow--what a rascal you are! Is
it possible? What disgrace, oh, my God! You gave her my money--did
you not? I gave him the money--for that woman--oh, the wretch!"

For several moments she seemed to be vainly seeking an epithet more
forcible. Suddenly leaning forward she grasped the cabman's sleeve.
"Stop!" she cried, and opening the door, she alighted. Georges was
about to follow her but she commanded: "I forbid you to follow me,"
in a voice so loud that the passers-by crowded around her, and Duroy
dared not stir for fear of a scandal.

She drew out her purse, and taking two francs fifty from it, she
handed it to the cabman, saying aloud: "Here is the money for your
hour. Take that rascal to Rue Boursault at Batignolles!"

The crowd applauded; one man said: "Bravo, little one!" and the cab
moved on, followed by the jeers of the bystanders.



The next morning Georges Duroy arose, dressed himself, and
determined to have money; he sought Forestier. His friend received
him in his study.

"What made you rise so early?" he asked.

"A very serious matter. I have a debt of honor."

"A gaming debt?"

He hesitated, then repeated: "A gaming debt."

"Is it large?"

"Five hundred francs." He only needed two hundred and eighty.

Forestier asked sceptically: "To whom do you owe that amount?"

Duroy did not reply at once. "To--to--a--M. de Carleville."

"Ah, where does he live?"


Forestier laughed. "I know the gentleman! If you want twenty francs
you can have them, but no more."

Duroy took the gold-piece, called upon more friends, and by five
o'clock had collected eighty francs. As he required two hundred
more, he kept what he had begged and muttered: "I shall not worry
about it. I will pay it when I can."

For two weeks he lived economically, but at the end of that time,
the good resolutions he had formed vanished, and one evening he
returned to the Folies Bergeres in search of Rachel; but the woman
was implacable and heaped coarse insults upon him, until he felt his
cheeks tingle and he left the hall.

Forestier, out of health and feeble, made Duroy's existence at the
office insupportable. The latter did not reply to his rude remarks,
but determined to be avenged. He called upon Mme. Forestier. He
found her reclining upon a couch, reading. She held out her hand
without rising and said: "Good morning, Bel-Ami!"

"Why do you call me by that name?"

She replied with a smile: "I saw Mme. de Marelle last week and I
know what they have christened you at her house."


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