She went on: "In order that it may seem more natural I will ask the
Forestiers, though I really do not like entertaining people at home."
Until Monday Duroy scarcely thought any more about the interview, but on
mounting the stairs at Madame de Marelle's he felt strangely uneasy, not
that it was so repugnant to him to take her husband's hand, to drink his
wine, and eat his bread, but because he felt afraid of something without
knowing what. He was shown into the drawing-room and waited as usual.
Soon the door of the inner room opened, and he saw a tall, white-bearded
man, wearing the ribbon of the Legion of Honor, grave and correct, who
advanced towards him with punctilious politeness, saying: "My wife has
often spoken to me of you, sir, and I am delighted to make your
acquaintance."
Duroy stepped forward, seeking to impart to his face a look of
expressive cordiality, and grasped his host's hand with exaggerated
energy. Then, having sat down, he could find nothing to say.
Monsieur de Marelle placed a log upon the fire, and inquired: "Have you
been long engaged in journalism?"
"Only a few months."
"Ah! you have got on quickly?"
"Yes, fairly so," and he began to chat at random, without thinking very
much about what he was saying, talking of all the trifles customary
among men who do not know one another. He was growing seasoned now, and
thought the situation a very amusing one. He looked at Monsieur de
Marelle's serious and respectable face, with a temptation to laugh, as
he thought: "I have cuckolded you, old fellow, I have cuckolded you." A
vicious, inward satisfaction stole over him--the satisfaction of a thief
who has been successful, and is not even suspected--a delicious, roguish
joy. He suddenly longed to be the friend of this man, to win his
confidence, to get him to relate the secrets of his life.
Madame de Marelle came in suddenly, and having taken them in with a
smiling and impenetrable glance, went toward Duroy, who dared not, in
the presence of her husband, kiss her hand as he always did. She was
calm, and light-hearted as a person accustomed to everything, finding
this meeting simple and natural in her frank and native trickery.
Laurine appeared, and went and held up her forehead to George more
quietly than usual, her father's presence intimidating her. Her mother
said to her: "Well, you don't call him Pretty-boy to-day." And the child
blushed as if a serious indiscretion had been committed, a thing that
ought not to have been mentioned, revealed, an intimate and, so to say,
guilty secret of her heart laid bare.
When the Forestiers arrived, all were alarmed at the condition of
Charles. He had grown frightfully thin and pale within a week, and
coughed incessantly. He stated, besides, that he was leaving for Cannes
on the following Thursday, by the doctor's imperative orders. They left
early, and Duroy said, shaking his head: "I think he is very bad. He
will never make old bones."
Madame de Marelle said, calmly: "Oh! he is done for. There is a man who
was lucky in finding the wife he did."