"Good evening, Madeleine." They kissed one another, and then the child
offered her forehead, with the assurance of a grown-up person, saying:
"Good evening, cousin."
Madame Forestier kissed her, and then introduced them, saying: "Monsieur
George Duroy, an old friend of Charles; Madame de Marelle, my friend,
and in some degree my relation." She added: "You know we have no
ceremonious affectation here. You quite understand, eh?"
The young man bowed.
The door opened again, and a short, stout gentleman appeared, having on
his arm a tall, handsome woman, much younger than himself, and of
distinguished appearance and grave bearing. They were Monsieur Walter, a
Jew from the South of France, deputy, financier, capitalist, and manager
of the _Vie Francaise_, and his wife, the daughter of Monsieur
Basile-Ravalau, the banker.
Then came, one immediately after the other, Jacques Rival, very
elegantly got up, and Norbert de Varenne, whose coat collar shone
somewhat from the friction of the long locks falling on his shoulders
and scattering over them a few specks of white scurf. His badly-tied
cravat looked as if it had already done duty. He advanced with the air
and graces of an old beau, and taking Madame Forestier's hand, printed a
kiss on her wrist. As he bent forward his long hair spread like water
over her bare arm.
Forestier entered in his turn, offering excuses for being late. He had
been detained at the office of the paper by the Morel affair. Monsieur
Morel, a Radical deputy, had just addressed a question to the Ministry
respecting a vote of credit for the colonization of Algeria.
The servant announced: "Dinner is served, Madame," and they passed into
the dining-room.
Duroy found himself seated between Madame de Marelle and her daughter.
He again felt ill at ease, being afraid of making some mistake in the
conventional handling of forks, spoons, and glasses. There were four of
these, one of a faint blue tint. What could be meant to be drunk out of
that?
Nothing was said while the soup was being consumed, and then Norbert de
Varenne asked: "Have you read the Gauthier case? What a funny business
it is."
After a discussion on this case of adultery, complicated with
blackmailing, followed. They did not speak of it as the events recorded
in newspapers are spoken of in private families, but as a disease is
spoken of among doctors, or vegetables among market gardeners. They were
neither shocked nor astonished at the facts, but sought out their hidden
and secret motives with professional curiosity, and an utter
indifference for the crime itself. They sought to clearly explain the
origin of certain acts, to determine all the cerebral phenomena which
had given birth to the drama, the scientific result due to an especial
condition of mind. The women, too, were interested in this
investigation. And other recent events were examined, commented upon,
turned so as to show every side of them, and weighed correctly, with the
practical glance, and from the especial standpoint of dealers in news,
and vendors of the drama of life at so much a line, just as articles
destined for sale are examined, turned over, and weighed by tradesmen.
Then it was a question of a duel, and Jacques Rival spoke. This was his
business; no one else could handle it.
Duroy dared not put in a word. He glanced from time to time at his
neighbor, whose full bosom captivated him. A diamond, suspended by a
thread of gold, dangled from her ear like a drop of water that had
rolled down it. From time to time she made an observation which always
brought a smile to her hearers' lips. She had a quaint, pleasant wit,
that of an experienced tomboy who views things with indifference and
judges them with frivolous and benevolent skepticism.
Duroy sought in vain for some compliment to pay her, and, not finding
one, occupied himself with her daughter, filling her glass, holding her
plate, and helping her. The child, graver than her mother, thanked him
in a serious tone and with a slight bow, saying: "You are very good,
sir," and listened to her elders with an air of reflection.
The dinner was very good, and everyone was enraptured. Monsieur Walter
ate like an ogre, hardly spoke, and glanced obliquely under his glasses
at the dishes offered to him. Norbert de Varenne kept him company, and
from time to time let drops of gravy fall on his shirt front. Forestier,
silent and serious, watched everything, exchanging glances of
intelligence with his wife, like confederates engaged together on a
difficult task which is going on swimmingly.
Faces grew red, and voices rose, as from time to time the man-servant
murmured in the guests' ears: "Corton or Chateau-Laroze."
Duroy had found the Corton to his liking, and let his glass be filled
every time. A delicious liveliness stole over him, a warm cheerfulness,
that mounted from the stomach to the head, flowed through his limbs and
penetrated him throughout. He felt himself wrapped in perfect comfort of
life and thought, body and soul.
A longing to speak assailed him, to bring himself into notice, to be
appreciated like these men, whose slightest words were relished.
But the conversation, which had been going on unchecked, linking ideas
one to another, jumping from one topic to another at a chance word, a
mere trifle, and skimming over a thousand matters, turned again on the
great question put by Monsieur Morel in the Chamber respecting the
colonization of Algeria.
Monsieur Walter, between two courses, made a few jests, for his wit was
skeptical and broad. Forestier recited his next day's leader. Jacques
Rival insisted on a military government with land grants to all officers
after thirty years of colonial service.
"By this plan," he said, "you will create an energetic class of
colonists, who will have already learned to love and understand the
country, and will be acquainted with its language, and with all those
grave local questions against which new-comers invariably run their
heads."
Norbert de Varenne interrupted him with: "Yes; they will be acquainted
with everything except agriculture. They will speak Arabic, but they
will be ignorant how beet-root is planted out and wheat sown. They will
be good at fencing, but very shaky as regards manures. On the contrary,
this new land should be thrown entirely open to everyone. Intelligent
men will achieve a position there; the others will go under. It is the
social law."
A brief silence followed, and the listeners smiled at one another.
George Duroy opened his mouth, and said, feeling as much surprised at
the sound of his own voice as if he had never heard himself speak: "What
is most lacking there is good land. The really fertile estates cost as
much as in France, and are bought up as investments by rich Parisians.
The real colonists, the poor fellows who leave home for lack of bread,
are forced into the desert, where nothing will grow for want of water."
Everyone looked at him, and he felt himself blushing.