The Complete Works: Short Stories, Novels, Plays, Poetry, Memoirs and more. Guy de Maupassant
this evening; we will have a spree — a regular spree.”
Forestier, who did not seem to have heard, said: “Would you mind the window being closed? My chest has been rather queer the last few days.”
“No, not at all.”
He pushed too the sash left open, and returned to his place with a reassured and tranquil countenance. His wife said nothing. Seemingly lost in thought, and with her eyes lowered towards the table, she smiled at the glasses with that vague smile which seemed always to promise and never to grant.
The Ostend oysters were brought in, tiny and plump like little ears enclosed in shells, and melting between the tongue and the palate like salt bonbons. Then, after the soup, was served a trout as rose-tinted as a young girl, and the guests began to talk.
They spoke at first of a current scandal; the story of a lady of position, surprised by one of her husband’s friends supping in a private room with a foreign prince. Forestier laughed a great deal at the adventure; the two ladies declared that the indiscreet gossip was nothing less than a blackguard and a coward. Duroy was of their opinion, and loudly proclaimed that it is the duty of a man in these matters, whether he be actor, confidant, or simple spectator, to be silent as the grave. He added: “How full life would be of pleasant things if we could reckon upon the absolute discretion of one another. That which often, almost always, checks women is the fear of the secret being revealed. Come, is it not true?” he continued. “How many are there who would yield to a sudden desire, the caprice of an hour, a passing fancy, did they not fear to pay for a short-lived and fleeting pleasure by an irremediable scandal and painful tears?”
He spoke with catching conviction, as though pleading a cause, his own cause, as though he had said: “It is not with me that one would have to dread such dangers. Try me and see.”
They both looked at him approvingly, holding that he spoke rightly and justly, confessing by their friendly silence that their flexible morality as Parisians would not have held out long before the certainty of secrecy. And Forestier, leaning back in his place on the divan, one leg bent under him, and his napkin thrust into his waistcoat, suddenly said with the satisfied laugh of a skeptic: “The deuce! yes, they would all go in for it if they were certain of silence. Poor husbands!”
And they began to talk of love. Without admitting it to be eternal, Duroy understood it as lasting, creating a bond, a tender friendship, a confidence. The union of the senses was only a seal to the union of hearts. But he was angry at the outrageous jealousies, melodramatic scenes, and unpleasantness which almost always accompany ruptures.
When he ceased speaking, Madame de Marelle replied: “Yes, it is the only pleasant thing in life, and we often spoil it by preposterous unreasonableness.”
Madame Forestier, who was toying with her knife, added: “Yes — yes — it is pleasant to be loved.”
And she seemed to be carrying her dream further, to be thinking things that she dared not give words to.
As the first entreé was slow in coming, they sipped from time to time a mouthful of champagne, and nibbled bits of crust. And the idea of love, entering into them, slowly intoxicated their souls, as the bright wine, rolling drop by drop down their throats, fired their blood and perturbed their minds.
The waiter brought in some lamb cutlets, delicate and tender, upon a thick bed of asparagus tips.
“Ah! this is good,” exclaimed Forestier; and they ate slowly, savoring the delicate meat and vegetables as smooth as cream.
Duroy resumed: “For my part, when I love a woman everything else in the world disappears.” He said this in a tone of conviction.
Madame Forestier murmured, with her let-me-alone air:
“There is no happiness comparable to that of the first hand-clasp, when the one asks, ‘Do you love me?’ and the other replies, ‘Yes.’”
Madame de Marelle, who had just tossed a fresh glass of champagne off at a draught, said gayly, as she put down her glass: “For my part, I am not so Platonic.”
And all began to smile with kindling eyes at these words.
Forestier, stretched out in his seat on the divan, opened his arms, rested them on the cushions, and said in a serious tone: “This frankness does you honor, and proves that you are a practical woman. But may one ask you what is the opinion of Monsieur de Marelle?”
She shrugged her shoulders slightly, with infinite and prolonged disdain; and then in a decided tone remarked: “Monsieur de Marelle has no opinions on this point. He only has — abstentions.”
And the conversation, descending from the elevated theories, concerning love, strayed into the flowery garden of polished blackguardism. It was the moment of clever double meanings; veils raised by words, as petticoats are lifted by the wind; tricks of language; clever disguised audacities; sentences which reveal nude images in covered phrases; which cause the vision of all that may not be said to flit rapidly before the eye and the mind, and allow the well-bred people the enjoyment of a kind of subtle and mysterious love, a species of impure mental contact, due to the simultaneous evocation of secret, shameful, and longed-for pleasures. The roast, consisting of partridges flanked by quails, had been served; then a dish of green peas, and then a terrine of foie gras, accompanied by a curly-leaved salad, filling a salad bowl as though with green foam. They had partaken of all these things without tasting them, without knowing, solely taken up by what they were talking of, plunged as it were in a bath of love.
The two ladies were now going it strongly in their remarks. Madame de Marelle, with a native audacity which resembled a direct provocation, and Madame Forestier with a charming reserve, a modesty in her tone, voice, smile, and bearing that underlined while seeming to soften the bold remarks falling from her lips. Forestier, leaning quite back on the cushions, laughed, drank and ate without leaving off, and sometimes threw in a word so risque or so crude that the ladies, somewhat shocked by its appearance, and for appearance sake, put on a little air of embarrassment that lasted two or three seconds. When he had given vent to something a little too coarse, he added: “You are going ahead nicely, my children. If you go on like that you will end by making fools of yourselves.”
Dessert came, and then coffee; and the liquors poured a yet warmer dose of commotion into the excited minds.
As she had announced on sitting down to table, Madame de Marelle was intoxicated, and acknowledged it in the lively and graceful rabble of a woman emphasizing, in order to amuse her guests, a very real commencement of drunkenness.
Madame Forestier was silent now, perhaps out of prudence, and Duroy, feeling himself too much excited not to be in danger of compromising himself, maintained a prudent reserve.
Cigarettes were lit, and all at once Forestier began to cough. It was a terrible fit, that seemed to tear his chest, and with red face and forehead damp with perspiration, he choked behind his napkin. When the fit was over he growled angrily: “These feeds are very bad for me; they are ridiculous.” All his good humor had vanished before his terror of the illness that haunted his thoughts. “Let us go home,” said he.
Madame de Marelle rang for the waiter, and asked for the bill. It was brought almost immediately. She tried to read it, but the figures danced before her eyes, and she passed it to Duroy, saying: “Here, pay for me; I can’t see, I am too tipsy.”
And at the same time she threw him her purse. The bill amounted to one hundred and thirty francs. Duroy checked it, and then handed over two notes and received back the change, saying in a low tone: “What shall I give the waiter?”
“What you like; I do not know.”
He put five francs on the salver, and handed back the purse, saying: “Shall I see you to your door?”
“Certainly. I am incapable of finding my way home.”
They shook hands with the Forestiers, and Duroy found himself alone with Madame de Marelle in a cab. He felt her close to him, so close, in this dark box,