The Complete Works: Short Stories, Novels, Plays, Poetry, Memoirs and more. Guy de Maupassant
excursion on the frontier of Morocco to the great oasis of Figuig, where no European has penetrated, and which is the cause of the present conflict. Will that suit you?”
“Admirably!” exclaimed Daddy Walter. “And the title?”
“From Tunis to Tangiers.”
“Splendid!”
Du Roy went off to search the files of the Vie Francaise for his first article, “The Recollections of a Chasseur d’Afrique,” which, rebaptized, touched up, and modified, would do admirably, since it dealt with colonial policy, the Algerian population, and an excursion in the province of Oran. In three-quarters of an hour it was rewritten, touched up, and brought to date, with a flavor of realism, and praises of the new Cabinet. The manager, having read the article, said: “It is capital, capital, capital! You are an invaluable fellow. I congratulate you.”
And Du Roy went home to dinner delighted with his day’s work, despite the check at the Church of the Trinity, for he felt the battle won. His wife was anxiously waiting for him. She exclaimed, as soon as she saw him: “Do you know that Laroche-Mathieu is Minister for Foreign Affairs?”
“Yes; I have just written an article on Algeria, in connection with it.”
“What?”
“You know, the first we wrote together, ‘The Recollections of a Chasseur d’Afrique,’ revised and corrected for the occasion.”
She smiled, saying: “Ah, that is very good!” Then, after a few moments’ reflection, she continued: “I was thinking — that continuation you were to have written then, and that you — put off. We might set to work on it now. It would make a nice series, and very appropriate to the situation.”
He replied, sitting down to table: “Exactly, and there is nothing in the way of it now that cuckold of a Forestier is dead.”
She said quietly, in a dry and hurt tone: “That joke is more than out of place, and I beg of you to put an end to it. It has lasted too long already.”
He was about to make an ironical answer, when a telegram was brought him, containing these words: “I had lost my senses. Forgive me, and come at four o’clock tomorrow to the Parc Monceau.”
He understood, and with heart suddenly filled with joy, he said to his wife, as he slipped the message into his pocket: “I will not do so any more, darling; it was stupid, I admit.”
And he began his dinner. While eating he kept repeating to himself the words: “I had lost my senses. Forgive me, and come at four o’clock tomorrow to the Parc Monceau.” So she was yielding. That meant: “I surrender, I am yours when you like and where you like.” He began to laugh, and Madeleine asked: “What is it?”
“Nothing,” he answered; “I was thinking of a priest I met just now, and who had a very comical mug.”
Du Roy arrived to the time at the appointed place next day. On the benches of the park were seated citizens overcome by heat, and careless nurses, who seemed to be dreaming while their children were rolling on the gravel of the paths. He found Madame Walter in the little antique ruins from which a spring flows. She was walking round the little circle of columns with an uneasy and unhappy air. As soon as he had greeted her, she exclaimed: “What a number of people there are in the garden.”
He seized the opportunity: “It is true; will you come somewhere else?”
“But where?”
“No matter where; in a cab, for instance. You can draw down the blind on your side, and you will be quite invisible.”
“Yes, I prefer that; here I am dying with fear.”
“Well, come and meet me in five minutes at the gate opening onto the outer boulevard. I will have a cab.”
And he darted off.
As soon as she had rejoined him, and had carefully drawn down the blind on her side, she asked: “Where have you told the driver to take us?”
George replied: “Do not trouble yourself, he knows what to do.”
He had given the man his address in the Rue de Constantinople.
She resumed: “You cannot imagine what I suffer on account of you, how I am tortured and tormented. Yesterday, in the church, I was cruel, but I wanted to flee from you at any cost. I was so afraid to find myself alone with you. Have you forgiven me?”
He squeezed her hands: “Yes, yes, what would I not forgive you, loving you as I do?”
She looked at him with a supplicating air: “Listen, you must promise to respect me — not to — not to — otherwise I cannot see you again.”
He did not reply at once; he wore under his moustache that keen smile that disturbed women. He ended by murmuring: “I am your slave.”
Then she began to tell him how she had perceived that she was in love with him on learning that he was going to marry Madeleine Forestier. She gave details, little details of dates and the like. Suddenly she paused. The cab had stopped. Du Roy opened the door.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Get out and come into this house,” he replied. “We shall be more at ease there.”
“But where are we?”
“At my rooms,” and here we will leave them to their tête-à-tête.
French
XIII
Autumn had come. The Du Roys had passed the whole of the summer in Paris, carrying on a vigorous campaign in the Vie Francaise during the short vacation of the deputies.
Although it was only the beginning of October, the Chambers were about to resume their sittings, for matters as regarded Morocco were becoming threatening. No one at the bottom believed in an expedition against Tangiers, although on the day of the prorogation of the Chamber, a deputy of the Right, Count de Lambert-Serrazin, in a witty speech, applauded even by the Center had offered to stake his moustache, after the example of a celebrated Viceroy of the Indies, against the whiskers of the President of the Council, that the new Cabinet could not help imitating the old one, and sending an army to Tangiers, as a pendant to that of Tunis, out of love of symmetry, as one puts two vases on a fireplace.
He had added: “Africa is indeed, a fireplace for France, gentleman — a fireplace which consumes our best wood; a fireplace with a strong draught, which is lit with bank notes. You have had the artistic fancy of ornamenting the left-hand corner with a Tunisian knickknack which had cost you dear. You will see that Monsieur Marrot will want to imitate his predecessor, and ornament the right-hand corner with one from Morocco.”
This speech, which became famous, served as a peg for Du Roy for a half a score of articles upon the Algerian colony — indeed, for the entire series broken short off after his début on the paper. He had energetically supported the notion of a military expedition, although convinced that it would not take place. He had struck the chord of patriotism, and bombarded Spain with the entire arsenal of contemptuous arguments which we make use of against nations whose interests are contrary to our own. The Vie Francaise had gained considerable importance through its own connection with the party in office. It published political intelligence in advance of the most important papers, and hinted discreetly the intentions of its friends the Ministry, so that all the papers of Paris and the provinces took their news from it. It was quoted and feared, and people began to respect it. It was no longer the suspicious organ of a knot of political jugglers, but the acknowledged one of the Cabinet. Laroche-Mathieu was the soul of the paper, and Du Roy his mouthpiece. Daddy Walter, a silent member and a crafty manager, knowing when to keep in the background, was busying himself