BEL-AMI: THE HISTORY OF A SCOUNDREL. Guy de MaupassantЧитать онлайн книгу.
Walter asked me to write, and I could not get on with it — I tore up all my attempts. I am not accustomed to this kind of work, and I came to ask Forestier to help me this once— “
She interrupted him, laughing heartily. “And he told you to come and see me? That is a nice thing.”
“Yes, madame. He said that you will get me out of my difficulty better than himself, but I did not dare, I did not wish to — you understand.”
She rose, saying: “It will be delightful to work in collaboration with you like that. I am charmed at the notion. Come, sit down in my place, for they know my handwriting at the office. And we will knock you off an article; oh, but a good one.”
He sat down, took a pen, spread a sheet of paper before him, and waited.
Madame Forestier, standing by, watched him make these preparations, then took a cigarette from the mantelshelf, and lit it.
“I cannot work without smoking,” said she. “Come, what are you going to say?”
He lifted his head towards her with astonishment.
“But that is just what I don’t know, since it is that I came to see you about.”
She replied: “Oh, I will put it in order for you. I will make the sauce, but then I want the materials of the dish.”
He remained embarrassed before her. At length he said, hesitatingly: “I should like to relate my journey, then, from the beginning.”
Then she sat down before him on the other side of the table, and looking him in the eyes:
“Well, tell it me first; for myself alone, you understand, slowly and without forgetting anything, and I will select what is to be used of it.”
But as he did not know where to commence, she began to question him as a priest would have done in the confessional, putting precise questions which recalled to him forgotten details, people encountered and faces merely caught sight of.
When she had made him speak thus for about a quarter of an hour, she suddenly interrupted him with: “Now we will begin. In the first place, we will imagine that you are narrating your impressions to a friend, which will allow you to write a lot of tomfoolery, to make remarks of all kinds, to be natural and funny if we can. Begin:
“‘My Dear Henry, — You want to know what Algeria is like, and you shall. I will send you, having nothing else to do in a little cabin of dried mud which serves me as a habitation, a kind of journal of my life, day by day, and hour by hour. It will be a little lively at times, more is the pity, but you are not obliged to show it to your lady friends.’”
She paused to relight her cigarette, which had gone out, and the faint creaking of the quill on the paper stopped, too.
“Let us continue,” said she.
“Algeria is a great French country on the frontiers of the great unknown countries called the Desert, the Sahara, central Africa, etc., etc.
“Algiers is the door, the pretty white door of this strange continent.
“But it is first necessary to get to it, which is not a rosy job for everyone. I am, you know, an excellent horseman, since I break in the colonel’s horses; but a man may be a very good rider and a very bad sailor. That is my case.
“You remember Surgeon-Major Simbretras, whom we used to call Old Ipecacuanha, and how, when we thought ourselves ripe for a twenty-four hours’ stay in the infirmary, that blessed sojourning place, we used to go up before him.
“How he used to sit in his chair, with his fat legs in his red trousers, wide apart, his hands on his knees, and his elbows stuck, rolling his great eyes and gnawing his white moustache.
“You remember his favorite mode of treatment: ‘This man’s stomach is out of order. Give him a dose of emetic number three, according to my prescription, and then twelve hours off duty, and he will be all right.’
“It was a sovereign remedy that emetic — sovereign and irresistible. One swallowed it because one had to. Then when one had undergone the effects of Old Ipecacuanha’s prescription, one enjoyed twelve well-earned hours’ rest.
“Well, my dear fellow, to reach Africa, it is necessary to undergo for forty hours the effects of another kind of irresistible emetic, according to the prescription of the Compagnie Transatlantique.”
She rubbed her hands, delighted with the idea.
She got up and walked about, after having lit another cigarette, and dictated as she puffed out little whiffs of smoke, which, issuing at first through a little round hole in the midst of her compressed lips, slowly evaporated, leaving in the air faint gray lines, a kind of transparent mist, like a spider’s web. Sometimes with her open hand she would brush these light traces aside; at others she would cut them asunder with her forefinger, and then watch with serious attention the two halves of the almost impenetrable vapor slowly disappear.
Duroy, with his eyes, followed all her gestures, her attitudes, the movements of her form and features — busied with this vague pastime which did not preoccupy her thoughts.
She now imagined the incidents of the journey, sketched traveling companions invented by herself, and a love affair with the wife of a captain of infantry on her way to join her husband.
Then, sitting down again, she questioned Duroy on the topography of Algeria, of which she was absolutely ignorant. In ten minutes she knew as much about it as he did, and she dictated a little chapter of political and colonial geography to coach the reader up in such matters and prepare him to understand the serious questions which were to be brought forward in the following articles. She continued by a trip into the provinces of Oran, a fantastic trip, in which it was, above all, a question of women, Moorish, Jewish, and Spanish.
“That is what interests most,” she said.
She wound up by a sojourn at Saïda, at the foot of the great tablelands; and by a pretty little intrigue between the sub-officer, George Duroy, and a Spanish work-girl employed at the alfa factory at Ain el Hadjar. She described their rendezvous at night amidst the bare, stony hills, with jackals, hyenas, and Arab dogs yelling, barking and howling among the rocks.
And she gleefully uttered the words: “To be continued.” Then rising, she added: “That is how one writes an article, my dear sir. Sign it, if you please.”
He hesitated.
“But sign it, I tell you.”
Then he began to laugh, and wrote at the bottom of the page, “George Duroy.”
She went on smoking as she walked up and down; and he still kept looking at her, unable to find anything to say to thank her, happy to be with her, filled with gratitude, and with the sensual pleasure of this newborn intimacy. It seemed to him that everything surrounding him was part of her, everything down to the walls covered with books. The chairs, the furniture, the air in which the perfume of tobacco was floating, had something special, nice, sweet, and charming, which emanated from her.
Suddenly she asked: “What do you think of my friend, Madame de Marelle?”
He was surprised, and answered: “I think — I think — her very charming.”
“Is it not so?”
“Yes, certainly.”
He longed to add: “But not so much as yourself,” but dared not.
She resumed: “And if you only knew how funny, original, and intelligent she is. She is a Bohemian — a true Bohemian. That is why her husband scarcely cares for her. He only sees her defects, and does not appreciate her good qualities.”
Duroy felt stupefied at learning that Madame de Marelle was married, and yet it was only natural that she should be.
He said: “Oh, she is married, then! And what is her husband?”
Madame Forestier gently shrugged her shoulders, and raised