Bel Ami

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, Valréali; then some guests of Walter's, the Prince de Guerche, the Duke and the Duchess de Ferraciné, 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."

He replied, gayly: "Soon, madame."

She passed on. Other people were pushing forward. The crowd flowed by like a stream. At length it grew thinner. The last guests took leave.

George took Susan's arm in his to pass through the church again. It was full of people, for everyone had regained their seats in order to see them pass together. They went by slowly, with calm steps and uplifted heads, their eyes fixed on the wide sunlit space of the open door. He felt little quiverings run all over his skin those cold shivers caused by over-powering happiness. He saw no one. His thoughts were solely for himself. When he gained the threshold he saw the crowd collected – a dense, agitated crowd, gathered there on his account – on account of George Du Roy. The people of Paris were gazing at and envying him. Then, raising his eyes, he could see afar off, beyond the Palace de la Concorde, the Chamber of Deputies, and it seemed to him that he was going to make but one jump from the portico of the Madeleine to that of the Palais Bourbon.

He slowly descended the long flight of steps between two ranks of spectators. But he did not see them; his thoughts had now flown backwards, and before his eyes, dazzled by the brilliant sun, now floated the image of Madame de Marelle, re-adjusting before the glass the little curls on her temples, always disarranged when she rose.