He would have accepted no matter what, but this falsehood exasperated
him. The truths she had told him to his face had caused thrills of anger
to run through him, but this lie respecting the young girl who was going
to be his wife, awakened in the palm of his hand a furious longing to
strike her.
He repeated: "Be quiet--have a care--be quiet," and shook her as we
shake a branch to make the fruit fall.
She yelled, with her hair coming down, her mouth wide open, her eyes
aglow: "You slept with her!"
He let her go, and gave her such a smack on the face that she fell down
beside the wall. But she turned towards him, and raising herself on her
hands, once more shouted: "You slept with her!"
He rushed at her, and, holding her down, struck her as though striking a
man. She left off shouting, and began to moan beneath his blows. She no
longer stirred, but hid her face against the bottom of the wall and
uttered plaintive cries. He left off beating her and rose up. Then he
walked about the room a little to recover his coolness, and, an idea
occurring to him, went into the bedroom, filled the basin with cold
water, and dipped his head into it. Then he washed his hands and came
back to see what she was doing, carefully wiping his fingers. She had
not budged. She was still lying on the ground quietly weeping.
"Shall you have done grizzling soon?"
She did not answer. He stood in the middle of the room, feeling somewhat
awkward and ashamed in the presence of the form stretched out before
him. All at once he formed a resolution, and took his hat from the
mantel-shelf, saying: "Good-night. Give the key to the doorkeeper when
you leave. I shan't wait for your convenience."
He went out, closed the door, went to the doorkeeper's, and said:
"Madame is still there. She will be leaving in a few minutes. Tell the
landlord that I give notice to leave at the end of September. It is the
15th of August, so I am within the limits."
And he walked hastily away, for he had some pressing calls to make
touching the purchase of the last wedding gifts.
The wedding was fixed for the 20th of October after the meeting of the
Chambers. It was to take place at the Church of the Madeleine. There had
been a great deal of gossip about it without anyone knowing the exact
truth. Different tales were in circulation. It was whispered that an
elopement had taken place, but no one was certain about anything.
According to the servants, Madame Walter, who would no longer speak to
her future son-in-law, had poisoned herself out of rage the very evening
the match was decided on, after having taken her daughter off to a
convent at midnight. She had been brought back almost dead. Certainly,
she would never get over it. She had now the appearance of an old woman;
her hair had become quite gray, and she had gone in for religion, taking
the Sacrament every Sunday.
At the beginning of September the _Vie Francaise_ announced that the
Baron Du Roy de Cantel had become chief editor, Monsieur Walter
retaining the title of manager. A battalion of well-known writers,
reporters, political editors, art and theatrical critics, detached from
old important papers by dint of monetary influence, were taken on. The
old journalists, the serious and respectable ones, no longer shrugged
their shoulders when speaking of the _Vie Francaise_. Rapid and complete
success had wiped out the contempt of serious writers for the beginnings
of this paper.
The marriage of its chief editor was what is styled a Parisian event,
George Du Roy and the Walters having excited a great deal of curiosity
for some time past. All the people who are written about in the papers
promised themselves to be there.
The event took place on a bright autumn day.
At eight in the morning the sight of the staff of the Madeleine
stretching a broad red carpet down the lofty flight of steps overlooking
the Rue Royale caused passers-by to pause, and announced to the people
of Paris that an important ceremony was about to take place. The clerks
on the way to their offices, the work-girls, the shopmen, paused,
looked, and vaguely speculated about the rich folk who spent so much
money over getting spliced. Towards ten o'clock idlers began to halt.
They would remain for a few minutes, hoping that perhaps it would begin
at once, and then moved away. At eleven squads of police arrived and set
to work almost at once to make the crowd move on, groups forming every
moment. The first guests soon made their appearance--those who wanted to
be well placed for seeing everything. They took the chairs bordering the
main aisles. By degrees came others, ladies in rustling silks, and
serious-looking gentlemen, almost all bald, walking with well-bred air,
and graver than usual in this locality.
The church slowly filled. A flood of sunlight entered by the huge
doorway lit up the front row of guests. In the choir, which looked
somewhat gloomy, the altar, laden with tapers, shed a yellow light, pale
and humble in face of that of the main entrance. People recognized one
another, beckoned to one another, and gathered in groups. The men of
letters, less respectful than the men in society, chatted in low tones
and looked at the ladies.
Norbert de Varenne, who was looking out for an acquaintance, perceived
Jacques Rival near the center of the rows of chair, and joined him.
"Well," said he, "the race is for the cunning."
The other, who was not envious, replied: "So much the better for him.
His career is safe." And they began to point out the people they
recognized.
"Do you know what became of his wife?" asked Rival.
The poet smiled. "Yes, and no. She is living in a very retired style, I
am told, in the Montmartre district. But--there is a but--I have noticed
for some time past in the _Plume_ some political articles terribly like
those of Forestier and Du Roy. They are by Jean Le Dal, a handsome,
intelligent young fellow, of the same breed as our friend George, and
who has made the acquaintance of his late wife. From whence I conclude
that she had, and always will have, a fancy for beginners. She is,
besides, rich. Vaudrec and Laroche-Mathieu were not assiduous visitors
at the house for nothing."
Rival observed: "She is not bad looking, Madeleine. Very clever and very
sharp. She must be charming on terms of intimacy. But, tell me, how is
it that Du Roy comes to be married in church after a divorce?"
Norbert replied: "He is married in church because, in the eyes of the
Church, he was not married before."
"How so?"
"Our friend, Pretty-boy, from indifference or economy, thought the
registrar sufficient when marrying Madeleine Forestier. He therefore
dispensed with the ecclesiastical benediction, which constituted in the
eyes of Holy Mother Church a simple state of concubinage. Consequently
he comes before her to-day as a bachelor, and she lends him all her pomp
and ceremony, which will cost Daddy Walter a pretty penny."
The murmur of the augmented throng swelled beneath the vaulted room.
Voices could be heard speaking almost out loud. People pointed out to
one another celebrities who attitudinized, pleased to be seen, and
carefully maintained the bearing adopted by them towards the public
accustomed to exhibit themselves thus at all such gatherings, of which
they were, it seemed to them, the indispensable ornaments.
Rival resumed: "Tell me, my dear fellow, you who go so often to the
governor's, is it true that Du Roy and Madame Walter no longer speak to
one another?"
"Never. She did not want to give him the girl. But he had a hold, it
seems, on the father through skeletons in the house--skeletons connected
with the Morocco business. He threatened the old man with frightful
revelations. Walter recollected the example he made of Laroche-Mathieu,
and gave in at once. But the mother, obstinate like all women, swore
that she would never again speak a word to her son-in-law. She looks
like a statue, a statue of Vengeance, and he is very uneasy at it,
although he puts a good face on the matter, for he knows how to control
himself, that fellow does."
Fellow-journalists came up and shook hands with them. Bits of political
conversation could be caught. Vague as the sound of a distant sea, the
noise of the crowd massed in front of the church entered the doorway
with the sunlight, and rose up beneath the roof, above the more discreet
murmur of the choicer public gathered within it.
All at once the beadle struck the pavement thrice with the butt of his
halberd. Every one turned round with a prolonged rustling of skirts and
a moving of chairs. The bride appeared on her father's arm in the
bright light of the doorway.
She had still the air of a doll, a charming white doll crowned with
orange flowers. She stood for a few moments on the threshold, then, when
she made her first step up the aisle, the organ gave forth a powerful
note, announcing the entrance of the bride in loud metallic tones. She
advanced with bent head, but not timidly; vaguely moved, pretty,
charming, a miniature bride. The women smiled and murmured as they
watched her pass. The men muttered: "Exquisite! Adorable!" Monsieur
Walter walked with exaggerated dignity, somewhat pale, and with his
spectacles straight on his nose. Behind them four bridesmaids, all four
dressed in pink, and all four pretty, formed the court of this gem of a
queen. The groomsmen, carefully chosen to match, stepped as though
trained by a ballet master. Madame Walter followed them, giving her arm
to the father of her other son-in-law, the Marquis de Latour-Yvelin,
aged seventy-two. She did not walk, she dragged herself along, ready to
faint at each forward movement. It could be felt that her feet stuck to
the flagstones, that her legs refused to advance, and that her heart was
beating within her breast like an animal bounding to escape. She had
grown thin. Her white hair made her face appear still more blanched and
her cheeks hollower. She looked straight before her in order not to see
any one--in order not to recall, perhaps, that which was torturing her.
Then George Du Roy appeared with an old lady unknown. He, too, kept his
head up without turning aside his eyes, fixed and stern under his
slightly bent brows. His moustache seemed to bristle on his lip. He was
set down as a very good-looking fellow. He had a proud bearing, a good
figure, and a straight leg. He wore his clothes well, the little red
ribbon of the Legion of Honor showing like a drop of blood on his dress
coat.
Then came the relations, Rose with the Senator Rissolin. She had been
married six weeks. The Count de Latour-Yvelin accompanied by the
Viscountess de Percemur. Finally, there was a strange procession of the
friends and allies of Du Roy, whom he introduced to his new family;
people known in the Parisian world, who became at once the intimates,
and, if need be, the distant cousins of rich parvenus; gentlemen ruined,
blemished; married, in some cases, which is worse. There were Monsieur
de Belvigne, the Marquis de Banjolin, the Count and Countess de Ravenel,
Prince Kravalow, the Chevalier, Valreali; then some guests of Walter's,
the Prince de Guerche, the Duke and the Duchess de Ferracine, the
beautiful Marchioness des Dunes. Some of Madame Walter's relatives
preserved a well-to-do, countrified appearance amidst the throng.
The organ was still playing, pouring forth through the immense building
the sonorous and rhythmic accents of its glittering throats, which cry
aloud unto heaven the joy or grief of mankind. The great doors were
closed, and all at once it became as gloomy as if the sun had just been
turned out.
Now, George was kneeling beside his wife in the choir, before the lit-up
altar. The new Bishop of Tangiers, crozier in hand and miter on head,
made his appearance from the vestry to join them together in the Eternal
name. He put the customary questions, exchanged the rings, uttered the
words that bind like chains, and addressed the newly-wedded couple a
Christian allocution. He was a tall, stout man, one of those handsome
prelates to whom a rounded belly lends dignity.
The sound of sobs caused several people to look round. Madame Walter was
weeping, with her face buried in her hands. She had to give way. What
could she have done else? But since the day when she had driven from her
room her daughter on her return home, refusing to embrace her; since the
day when she had said, in a low voice, to Du Roy, who had greeted her
ceremoniously on again making his appearance: "You are the vilest
creature I know of; never speak to me again, for I shall not answer
you," she had been suffering intolerable and unappeasable tortures. She
hated Susan with a keen hatred, made up of exasperated passion and
heartrending jealousy, the strange jealousy of a mother and
mistress--unacknowledgable, ferocious, burning like a new wound. And now
a bishop was marrying them--her lover and her daughter--in a church, in
presence of two thousand people, and before her. And she could say
nothing. She could not hinder it. She could not cry out: "But that man
belongs to me; he is my lover. This union you are blessing is infamous!"
Some ladies, touched at the sight, murmured: "How deeply the poor mother
feels it!"
The bishop was declaiming: "You are among the fortunate ones of this
world, among the wealthiest and most respected. You, sir, whom your
talent raises above others; you who write, who teach, who advise, who
guide the people, you who have a noble mission to fulfill, a noble
example to set."
Du Roy listened, intoxicated with pride. A prelate of the Roman Catholic
Church was speaking thus to him. And he felt behind him a crowd, an
illustrious crowd, gathered on his account. It seemed to him that some
power impelled and lifted him up. He was becoming one of the masters of
the world--he, the son of two poor peasants at Canteleu. He saw them all
at once in their humble wayside inn, at the summit of the slope
overlooking the broad valley of Rouen, his father and mother, serving
the country-folk of the district with drink, He had sent them five
thousand francs on inheriting from the Count de Vaudrec. He would now
send them fifty thousand, and they would buy a little estate. They would
be satisfied and happy.
The bishop had finished his harangue. A priest, clad in a golden stole,
ascended the steps of the altar, and the organ began anew to celebrate
the glory of the newly-wedded couple. Now it gave forth long, loud
notes, swelling like waves, so sonorous and powerful that it seemed as
though they must lift and break through the roof to spend abroad into
the sky. Their vibrating sound filled the church, causing body and
spirit to thrill. Then all at once they grew calmer, and delicate notes
floated through the air, little graceful, twittering notes, fluttering
like birds; and suddenly again this coquettish music waxed once more, in
turn becoming terrible in its strength and fullness, as if a grain of
sand had transformed itself into a world. Then human voices rose, and
were wafted over the bowed heads--Vauri and Landeck, of the Opera, were
singing. The incense shed abroad a delicate odor, and the Divine
Sacrifice was accomplished on the altar, to consecrate the triumph of
the Baron George Du Roy!
Pretty-boy, on his knees beside Susan, had bowed his head. He felt at
that moment almost a believer, almost religious; full of gratitude
towards the divinity who had thus favored him, who treated him with such
consideration. And without exactly knowing to whom he was addressing
himself, he thanked him for his success.
When the ceremony was concluded he rose up, and giving his wife his arm,
he passed into the vestry. Then began the interminable defiling past of
the visitors. George, with wild joy, believed himself a king whom a
nation had come to acclaim. He shook hands, stammered unmeaning remarks,
bowed, and replied: "You are very good to say so."
All at once he caught sight of Madame de Marelle, and the recollection
of all the kisses that he had given her, and that she had returned; the
recollection of all their caresses, of her pretty ways, of the sound of
her voice, of the taste of her lips, caused the desire to have her once
more for his own to shoot through his veins. She was so pretty and
elegant, with her boyish air and bright eyes. George thought to himself:
"What a charming mistress, all the same."
She drew near, somewhat timid, somewhat uneasy, and held out her hand.
He took it in his, and retained it. Then he felt the discreet appeal of
a woman's fingers, the soft pressure that forgives and takes possession
again. And for his own part, he squeezed it, that little hand, as though
to say: "I still love you; I am yours."
Their eyes met, smiling, bright, full of love. She murmured in her
pleasant voice: "I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you again soon,
sir."