The Complete Works: Short Stories, Novels, Plays, Poetry, Memoirs and more. Guy de MaupassantЧитать онлайн книгу.
Forestier suggested a stroll in the garden to Duroy, and they began to walk slowly round the little lawn, inhaling with pleasure the balmy air, laden with the scent of pine and eucalyptus. Suddenly she began to speak, without turning her head towards him, as he had done during the night upstairs. She uttered her words slowly, in a low and serious voice.
“Look here, my dear friend, I have deeply reflected already on what you proposed to me, and I do not want you to go away without an answer. Besides, I am neither going to say yes nor no. We will wait, we will see, we will know one another better. Reflect, too, on your side. Do not give way to impulse. But if I speak to you of this before even poor Charles is lowered into the tomb, it is because it is necessary, after what you have said to me, that you should thoroughly understand what sort of woman I am, in order that you may no longer cherish the wish you expressed to me, in case you are not of a — of a — disposition to comprehend and bear with me. Understand me well. Marriage for me is not a charm, but a partnership. I mean to be free, perfectly free as to my ways, my acts, my going and coming. I could neither tolerate supervision, nor jealousy, nor arguments as to my behavior. I should undertake, be it understood, never to compromise the name of the man who takes me as his wife, never to render him hateful and ridiculous. But this man must also undertake to see in me an equal, an ally, and not an inferior or an obedient and submissive wife. My notions, I know, are not those of every one, but I shall not change them. There you are. I will also add, do not answer me; it would be useless and unsuitable. We shall see one another again, and shall perhaps speak of all this again later on. Now, go for a stroll. I shall return to watch beside him. Till this evening.”
He printed a long kiss on her hand, and went away without uttering a word. That evening they only saw one another at dinnertime. Then they retired to their rooms, both exhausted with fatigue.
Charles Forestier was buried the next day, without any funeral display, in the cemetery at Cannes. George Duroy wished to take the Paris express, which passed through the town at halfpast one.
Madame Forestier drove with him to the station. They walked quietly up and down the platform pending the time for his departure, speaking of trivial matters.
The train rolled into the station. The journalist took his seat, and then got out again to have a few more moments’ conversation with her, suddenly seized as he was with sadness and a strong regret at leaving her, as though he were about to lose her for ever.
A porter shouted, “Take your seats for Marseilles, Lyons, and Paris.” Duroy got in and leant out of the window to say a few more words. The engine whistled, and the train began to move slowly on.
The young fellow, leaning out of the carriage, watched the woman standing still on the platform and following him with her eyes. Suddenly, as he was about to lose sight of her, he put his hand to his mouth and threw a kiss towards her. She returned it with a discreet and hesitating gesture.
French
IX
George Duroy had returned to all his old habits.
Installed at present in the little ground-floor suite of rooms in the Rue de Constantinople, he lived soberly, like a man preparing a new existence for himself.
Madame Forestier had not yet returned. She was lingering at Cannes. He received a letter from her merely announcing her return about the middle of April, without a word of allusion to their farewell. He was waiting, his mind was thoroughly made up now to employ every means in order to marry her, if she seemed to hesitate. But he had faith in his luck, confidence in that power of seduction which he felt within him, a vague and irresistible power which all women felt the influence of.
A short note informed him that the decisive hour was about to strike: “I am in Paris. Come and see me. — Madeleine Forestier.”
Nothing more. He received it by the nine o’clock post. He arrived at her residence at three on the same day. She held out both hands to him smiling with her pleasant smile, and they looked into one another’s eyes for a few seconds. Then she said: “How good you were to come to me there under those terrible circumstances.”
“I should have done anything you told me to,” he replied.
And they sat down. She asked the news, inquired about the Walters, about all the staff, about the paper. She had often thought about the paper.
“I miss that a great deal,” she said, “really a very great deal. I had become at heart a journalist. What would you, I love the profession?”
Then she paused. He thought he understood, he thought he divined in her smile, in the tone of her voice, in her words themselves a kind of invitation, and although he had promised to himself not to precipitate matters, he stammered out: “Well, then — why — why should you not resume — this occupation — under — under the name of Duroy?”
She suddenly became serious again, and placing her hand on his arm, murmured: “Do not let us speak of that yet a while.”
But he divined that she accepted, and falling at her knees began to passionately kiss her hands, repeating: “Thanks, thanks; oh, how I love you!”
She rose. He did so, too, and noted that she was very pale. Then he understood that he had pleased her, for a long time past, perhaps, and as they found themselves face to face, he clasped her to him and printed a long, tender, and decorous kiss on her forehead. When she had freed herself, slipping through his arms, she said in a serious tone: “Listen, I have not yet made up my mind to anything. However, it may be — yes. But you must promise me the most absolute secrecy till I give you leave to speak.”
He swore this, and left, his heart overflowing with joy.
He was from that time forward very discreet as regards the visits he paid her, and did not ask for any more definite consent on her part, for she had a way of speaking of the future, of saying “by-and-by,” and of shaping plans in which these two lives were blended, which answered him better and more delicately than a formal acceptation.
Duroy worked hard and spent little, trying to save money so as not to be without a penny at the date fixed for his marriage, and becoming as close as he had been prodigal. The summer went by, and then the autumn, without anyone suspecting anything, for they met very little, and only in the most natural way in the world.
One evening, Madeleine, looking him straight in the eyes said: “You have not yet announced our intentions to Madame de Marelle?”
“No, dear, having promised you to be secret, I have not opened my mouth to a living soul.”
“Well, it is about time to tell her. I will undertake to inform the Walters. You will do so this week, will you not?”
He blushed as he said: “Yes, tomorrow.”
She had turned away her eyes in order not to notice his confusion, and said: “If you like we will be married in the beginning of May. That will be a very good time.”
“I obey you in all things with joy.”
“The tenth of May, which is a Saturday, will suit me very nicely, for it is my birthday.”
“Very well, the tenth of May.”
“Your parents live near Rouen, do they not? You have told me so, at least.”
“Yes, near Rouen, at Canteleu.”
“What are they?”
“They are — they are small annuitants.”
“Ah! I should very much like to know them.”
He hesitated, greatly perplexed, and said: “But, you see, they are— “ Then making up his mind, like a really clever man, he went on: “My dear,