His duel had given Duroy a position among the leader-writers of the _Vie
Francaise_, but as he had great difficulty in finding ideas, he made a
specialty of declamatory articles on the decadence of morality, the
lowering of the standard of character, the weakening of the patriotic
fiber and the anemia of French honor. He had discovered the word anemia,
and was very proud of it. And when Madame de Marelle, filled with that
skeptical, mocking, and incredulous spirit characteristic of the
Parisian, laughed at his tirades, which she demolished with an epigram,
he replied with a smile: "Bah! this sort of thing will give me a good
reputation later on."
He now resided in the Rue de Constantinople, whither he had shifted his
portmanteau, his hair-brush, his razor, and his soap, which was what his
moving amounted to. Twice or thrice a week she would call before he was
up, undress in a twinkling, and slip into bed, shivering from the cold
prevailing out of doors. As a set off, Duroy dined every Thursday at her
residence, and paid court to her husband by talking agriculture with
him. As he was himself fond of everything relating to the cultivation of
the soil, they sometimes both grew so interested in the subject of their
conversation that they quite forgot the wife dozing on the sofa. Laurine
would also go to sleep, now on the knee of her father and now on that of
Pretty-boy. And when the journalist had left, Monsieur de Marelle never
failed to assert, in that doctrinal tone in which he said the least
thing: "That young fellow is really very pleasant company, he has a
well-informed mind."
February was drawing to a close. One began to smell the violets in the
street, as one passed the barrows of the flower-sellers of a morning.
Duroy was living beneath a sky without a cloud.
One night, on returning home, he found a letter that had been slipped
under his door. He glanced at the post-mark, and read "Cannes." Having
opened it, he read:
"Villa Jolie, Cannes.
"DEAR SIR AND FRIEND,--You told me, did you not, that I could
reckon upon you for anything? Well, I have a very painful
service to ask of you; it is to come and help me, so that I may
not be left alone during the last moments of Charles, who is
dying. He may not last out the week, as the doctor has
forewarned me, although he has not yet taken to his bed. I have
no longer strength nor courage to witness this hourly death,
and I think with terror of those last moments which are drawing
near. I can only ask such a service of you, as my husband has
no relatives. You were his comrade; he opened the door of the
paper to you. Come, I beg of you; I have no one else to ask.
"Believe me, your very sincere friend,
"MADELEINE FORESTIER."
A strange feeling filled George's heart, a sense of freedom and of a
space opening before him, and he murmured: "To be sure, I'll go. Poor
Charles! What are we, after all?"
The governor, to whom he read the letter, grumblingly granted
permission, repeating: "But be back soon, you are indispensable to us."
George left for Cannes next day by the seven o'clock express, after
letting the Marelles know of his departure by a telegram. He arrived the
following evening about four o'clock. A commissionaire guided him to the
Villa Jolie, built half-way up the slope of the pine forest clothed
with white houses, which extends from Cannes to the Golfe Juan. The
house--small, low, and in the Italian style--was built beside the road
which winds zig-zag fashion up through the trees, revealing a succession
of charming views at every turning it makes.
The man servant opened the door, and exclaimed: "Oh! Sir, madame is
expecting you most impatiently."
"How is your master?" inquired Duroy.
"Not at all well, sir. He cannot last much longer."
The drawing-room, into which George was shown, was hung with pink and
blue chintz. The tall and wide windows overlooked the town and the sea.
Duroy muttered: "By Jove, this is nice and swell for a country house.
Where the deuce do they get the money from?"
The rustle of a dress made him turn round. Madame Forestier held out
both hands to him. "How good of you to come, how good of you to come,"
said she.
And suddenly she kissed him on the cheek. Then they looked at
one another. She was somewhat paler and thinner, but still
fresh-complexioned, and perhaps still prettier for her additional
delicacy. She murmured: "He is dreadful, do you know; he knows that he
is doomed, and he leads me a fearful life. But where is your
portmanteau?"
"I have left it at the station, not knowing what hotel you would like me
to stop at in order to be near you."
She hesitated a moment, and then said: "You must stay here. Besides,
your room is all ready. He might die at any moment, and if it were to
happen during the night I should be alone. I will send for your
luggage."