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The Du Roys had been back in Paris a couple of days, and the journalist had taken up his old work pending the moment when he should definitely assume Forestier’s duties, and give himself wholly up to politics. He was going home that evening to his predecessor’s abode to dinner, with a light heart and a keen desire to embrace his wife, whose physical attractions and imperceptible domination exercised a powerful impulse over him. Passing by a florist’s at the bottom of the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette, he was struck by the notion of buying a bouquet for Madeleine, and chose a large bunch of half-open roses, a very bundle of perfumed buds.

At each story of his new staircase he eyed himself complacently in the mirrors, the sight of which continually recalled to him his first visit to the house. He rang the bell, having forgotten his key, and the same manservant, whom he had also kept on by his wife’s advice, opened the door.

“Has your mistress come home?” asked George.

“Yes, sir.”

But on passing through the diningroom he was greatly surprised to find the table laid for three, and the hangings of the drawingroom door being looped up, saw Madeleine arranging in a vase on the mantelpiece a bunch of roses exactly similar to his own. He was vexed and displeased; it was as though he had been robbed of his idea, his mark of attention, and all the pleasure he anticipated from it.

“You have invited some one to dinner, then?” he inquired, as he entered the room.

She answered without turning round, and while continuing to arrange the flowers: “Yes, and no. It is my old friend, the Count de Vaudrec, who has been accustomed to dine here every Monday, and who has come as usual.”

George murmured: “Ah! very good.”

He remained standing behind her, bouquet in hand, with a longing to hide it or throw it away. He said, however: “I have brought you some roses.”

She turned round suddenly, smiling, and exclaimed: “Ah! how nice of you to have thought of that.”

And she held out her arms and lips to him with an outburst of joy so real that he felt consoled. She took the flowers, smelt them, and with the liveliness of a delighted child, placed them in the vase that remained empty opposite the other. Then she murmured, as she viewed the result: “How glad I am. My mantelpiece is furnished now.” She added almost immediately, in a tone of conviction: “You know Vaudrec is awfully nice; you will be friends with him at once.”

A ring announced the Count. He entered quietly, and quite at his ease, as though at home. After having gallantly kissed the young wife’s fingers, he turned to the husband and cordially held out his hand, saying: “How goes it, my dear Du Roy?”

It was no longer his former stiff and starched bearing, but an affable one, showing that the situation was no longer the same. The journalist, surprised, strove to make himself agreeable in response to these advances. It might have been believed within five minutes that they had known and loved one another for ten years past.

Then Madeleine, whose face was radiant, said: “I will leave you together, I must give a look to my dinner.” And she went out, followed by a glance from both men. When she returned she found them talking theatricals apropos of a new piece, and so thoroughly of the same opinion that a species of rapid friendship awoke in their eyes at the discovery of this absolute identity of ideas.

The dinner was delightful, so intimate and cordial, and the Count stayed on quite late, so comfortable did he feel in this nice little new household.

As soon as he had left Madeleine said to her husband: “Is he not perfect? He gains in every way by being known. He is a true friend — safe, devoted, faithful. Ah, without him— “

She did not finish the sentence, and George replied: “Yes, I find him very agreeable. I think that we shall get on very well together.”

She resumed: “You do not know, but we have some work to do together before going to bed. I had not time to speak to you about it before dinner, because Vaudrec came in at once. I have had some important news, news from Morocco. It was Laroche-Mathieu, the deputy, the future minister, who brought it to me. We must work up an important article, a sensational one. I have the facts and figures. We will set to work at once. Bring the lamp.”

He took it, and they passed into the study. The same books were ranged in the bookcase, which now bore on its summit the three vases bought at the Golfe Juan by Forestier on the eve of his death. Under the table the dead man’s mat awaited the feet of Du Roy, who, on sitting down, took up an ivory penholder slightly gnawed at the end by the other’s teeth. Madeleine leant against the mantelpiece, and having lit a cigarette related her news, and then explained her notions and the plan of the article she meditated. He listened attentively, scribbling notes as he did so, and when she had finished, raised objections, took up the question again, enlarged its bearing, and sketched in turn, not the plan of an article, but of a campaign against the existing Ministry. This attack would be its commencement. His wife had left off smoking, so strongly was her interest aroused, so vast was the vision that opened before her as she followed out George’s train of thought.

She murmured, from time to time: “Yes, yes; that is very good. That is capital. That is very clever.”

And when he had finished speaking in turn, she said: “Now let us write.”

But he always found it hard to make a start, and with difficulty sought his expressions. Then she came gently, and, leaning over his shoulder, began to whisper sentences in his ear. From time to time she would hesitate, and ask: “Is that what you want to say?”

He answered: “Yes, exactly.”

She had piercing shafts, the poisoned shafts of a woman, to wound the head of the Cabinet, and she blended jests about his face with others respecting his policy in a curious fashion, that made one laugh, and, at the same time, impressed one by their truth of observation.

Du Roy from time to time added a few lines which widened and strengthened the range of attack. He understood, too, the art of perfidious insinuation, which he had learned in sharpening up his “Echoes”; and when a fact put forward as certain by Madeleine appeared doubtful or compromising, he excelled in allowing it to be divined and in impressing it upon the mind more strongly than if he had affirmed it. When their article was finished, George read it aloud. They both thought it excellent, and smiled, delighted and surprised, as if they had just mutually revealed themselves to one another. They gazed into the depths of one another’s eyes with yearnings of love and admiration, and they embraced one another with an ardor communicated from their minds to their bodies.

Du Roy took up the lamp again. “And now to bye-bye,” said he, with a kindling glance.

She replied: “Go first, sir, since you light the way.”

He went first, and she followed him into their bedroom, tickling his neck to make him go quicker, for he could not stand that.

The article appeared with the signature of George Duroy de Cantel, and caused a great sensation. There was an excitement about it in the Chamber. Daddy Walter congratulated the author, and entrusted him with the political editorship of the Vie Francaise. The “Echoes” fell again to Boisrenard.

Then there began in the paper a violent and cleverly conducted campaign against the Ministry. The attack, now ironical, now serious, now jesting, and now virulent, but always skillful and based on facts, was delivered with a certitude and continuity which astonished everyone. Other papers continually cited the Vie Francaise, taking whole passages from it, and those in office asked themselves whether they could not gag this unknown and inveterate foe with the gift of a prefecture.

Du Roy became a political celebrity. He felt his influence increasing by the pressure of hands and the lifting of hats. His wife, too, filled him with stupefaction and admiration by the ingenuity of her mind, the value of her information, and the number of her acquaintances. Continually he would find in his drawingroom, on returning home, a senator, a deputy, a magistrate, a general, who treated Madeleine as an old friend, with serious familiarity. Where had she met all these people? In society, so she said. But how had she been able to gain their confidence and their affection? He could not understand it.

“She would make a terrible diplomatist,” he thought.

She often came in late at meal times, out of breath, flushed, quivering, and before even taking off her veil would say: “I have something good to-day. Fancy, the Minister of Justice has just appointed two magistrates who formed a part of the mixed commission. We will give him a dose he will not forget in a hurry.”

And they would give the minister a dose, and another the next day, and a third the day after. The deputy, Laroche-Mathieu, who dined at the Rue Fontaine every Tuesday, after the Count de Vaudrec, who began the week, would shake the hands of husband and wife with demonstrations of extreme joy. He never ceased repeating: “By Jove, what a campaign! If we don’t succeed after all?”

He hoped, indeed, to succeed in getting hold of the portfolio of foreign affairs, which he had had in view for a long time.

He was one of those many-faced politicians, without strong convictions, without great abilities, without boldness, and without any depth of knowledge, a provincial barrister, a local dandy, preserving a cunning balance between all parties, a species of Republican Jesuit and Liberal mushroom of uncertain character, such as spring up by hundreds on the popular dunghill of universal suffrage. His village machiavelism caused him to be reckoned able among his colleagues, among all the adventurers and abortions who are made deputies. He was sufficiently well-dressed, correct, familiar, and amiable to succeed. He had his successes in society, in the mixed, perturbed, and somewhat rough society of the high functionaries of the day. It was said everywhere of him: “Laroche will be a minister,” and he believed more firmly than anyone else that he would be. He was one of the chief shareholders in Daddy Walter’s paper, and his colleague and partner in many financial schemes.

Du Roy backed him up with confidence and with vague hopes as to the future. He was, besides, only continuing the work begun by Forestier, to whom Laroche-Mathieu had promised the Cross of the Legion of Honor when the day of triumph should come. The decoration would adorn the breast of Madeleine’s second husband, that was all. Nothing was changed in the main.

It was seen so well that nothing was changed that Du Roy’s comrades organized a joke against him, at which he was beginning to grow angry. They no longer called him anything but Forestier. As soon as he entered the office some one would call out: “I say, Forestier.”

He would pretend not to hear, and would look for the letters in his pigeon-holes. The voice would resume in louder tones, “Hi! Forestier.” Some stifled laughs would be heard, and as Du Roy was entering the manager’s room, the comrade who had called out would stop him, saying: “Oh, I beg your pardon, it is you I want to speak to. It is stupid, but I am always mixing you up with poor Charles. It is because your articles are so infernally like his. Everyone is taken in by them.”

Du Roy would not answer, but he was inwardly furious, and a sullen wrath sprang up in him against the dead man. Daddy Walter himself had declared, when astonishment was expressed at the flagrant similarity in style and inspiration between the leaders of the new political editor and his predecessor: “Yes, it is Forestier, but a fuller, stronger, more manly Forestier.”

Another time Du Roy, opening by chance the cupboard in which the cup and balls were kept, had found all those of his predecessor with crape round the handles, and his own, the one he had made use of when he practiced under the direction of Saint-Potin, ornamented with a pink ribbon. All had been arranged on the same shelf according to size, and a card like those in museums bore the inscription: “The Forestier-Du Roy (late Forestier and Co.) Collection.” He quietly closed the cupboard, saying, in tones loud enough to be heard: “There are fools and envious people everywhere.”

But he was wounded in his pride, wounded in his vanity, that touchy pride and vanity of the writer, which produce the nervous susceptibility ever on the alert, equally in the reporter and the genial poet. The word “Forestier” made his ears tingle. He dreaded to hear it, and felt himself redden when he did so. This name was to him a biting jest, more than a jest, almost an insult. It said to him: “It is your wife who does your work, as she did that of the other. You would be nothing without her.”

He admitted that Forestier would have been no one without Madeleine; but as to himself, come now!

Then, at home, the haunting impression continued. It was the whole place now that recalled the dead man to him, the whole of the furniture, the whole of the knicknacks, everything he laid hands on. He had scarcely thought of this at the outset, but the joke devised by his comrades had caused a kind of mental wound, which a number of trifles, unnoticed up to the present, now served to envenom. He could not take up anything without at once fancying he saw the hand of Charles upon it. He only looked at it and made use of things the latter had made use of formerly; things that he had purchased, liked, and enjoyed. And George began even to grow irritated at the thought of the bygone relations between his friend and his wife. He was sometimes astonished at this revolt of his heart, which he did not understand, and said to himself, “How the deuce is it? I am not jealous of Madeleine’s friends. I am never uneasy about what she is up to. She goes in and out as she chooses, and yet the recollection of that brute of a Charles puts me in a rage.” He added, “At the bottom, he was only an idiot, and it is that, no doubt, that wounds me. I am vexed that Madeleine could have married such a fool.” And he kept continually repeating, “How is it that she could have stomached such a donkey for a single moment?”

His rancor was daily increased by a thousand insignificant details, which stung him like pin pricks, by the incessant reminders of the other arising out of a word from Madeleine, from the manservant, from the waiting-maid.

One evening Du Roy, who liked sweet dishes, said, “How is it we never have sweets at dinner?”

His wife replied, cheerfully, “That is quite true. I never think about them. It is all through Charles, who hated— “

He cut her short in a fit of impatience he was unable to control, exclaiming, “Hang it all! I am sick of Charles. It is always Charles here and Charles there, Charles liked this and Charles liked that. Since Charles is dead, for goodness sake leave him in peace.”

Madeleine looked at her husband in amazement, without being able to understand his sudden anger. Then, as she was sharp, she guessed what was going on within him; this slow working of posthumous jealousy, swollen every moment by all that recalled the other. She thought it puerile, may be, but was flattered by it, and did not reply.

He was vexed with himself at this irritation, which he had not been able to conceal. As they were writing after dinner an article for the next day, his feet got entangled in the foot mat. He kicked it aside, and said with a laugh:

“Charles was always chilly about the feet, I suppose?”

She replied, also laughing: “Oh! he lived in mortal fear of catching cold; his chest was very weak.”

Du Roy replied grimly: “He has given us a proof of that.” Then kissing his wife’s hand, he added gallantly: “Luckily for me.”

But on going to bed, still haunted by the same idea, he asked: “Did Charles wear nightcaps for fear of the draughts?”

She entered into the joke, and replied: “No; only a silk handkerchief tied round his head.”

George shrugged his shoulders, and observed, with contempt, “What a baby.”

From that time forward Charles became for him an object of continual conversation. He dragged him in on all possible occasions, speaking of him as “Poor Charles,” with an air of infinite pity. When he returned home from the office, where he had been accosted twice or thrice as Forestier, he avenged himself by bitter railleries against the dead man in his tomb. He recalled his defects, his absurdities, his littleness, enumerating them with enjoyment, developing and augmenting them as though he had wished to combat the influence of a dreaded rival over the heart of his wife. He would say, “I say, Made, do you remember the day when that duffer Forestier tried to prove to us that stout men were stronger than spare ones?”

Then he sought to learn a number of private and secret details respecting the departed, which his wife, ill at ease, refused to tell him. But he obstinately persisted, saying, “Come, now, tell me all about it. He must have been very comical at such a time?”

She murmured, “Oh! do leave him alone.”

But he went on, “No, but tell me now, he must have been a duffer to sleep with?” And he always wound up with, “What a donkey he was.”

One evening, towards the end of June, as he was smoking a cigarette at the window, the fineness of the evening inspired him with a wish for a drive, and he said, “Made, shall we go as far as the Bois de Boulogne?”

“Certainly.”

They took an open carriage and drove up the Champs Elysées, and then along the main avenue of the Bois de Boulogne. It was a breezeless night, one of those stifling nights when the overheated air of Paris fills the chest like the breath of a furnace. A host of carriages bore along beneath the trees a whole population of lovers. They came one behind the other in an unbroken line. George and Madeleine amused themselves with watching all these couples, the woman in summer toilet and the man darkly outlined beside her. It was a huge flood of lovers towards the Bois, beneath the starry and heated sky. No sound was heard save the dull rumble of wheels. They kept passing by, two by two in each vehicle, leaning back on the seat, silent, clasped one against the other, lost in dreams of desire, quivering with the anticipation of coming caresses. The warm shadow seemed full of kisses. A sense of spreading lust rendered the air heavier and more suffocating. All the couples, intoxicated with the same idea, the same ardor, shed a fever about them.

George and Madeleine felt the contagion. They clasped hands without a word, oppressed by the heaviness of the atmosphere and the emotion that assailed them. As they reached the turning which follows the line of the fortification, they kissed one another, and she stammered somewhat confusedly, “We are as great babies as on the way to Rouen.”

The great flood of vehicles divided at the entrance of the wood. On the road to the lake, which the young couple were following, they were now thinner, but the dark shadow of the trees, the air freshened by the leaves and by the dampness arising from the streamlets that could be heard flowing beneath them, and the coolness of the vast nocturnal vault bedecked with stars, gave to the kisses of the perambulating pairs a more penetrating charm.

George murmured, “Dear little Made,” as he pressed her to him.

“Do you remember the forest close to your home, how gloomy it was?” said she. “It seemed to me that it was full of horrible creatures, and that there was no end to it, while here it is delightful. One feels caresses in the breeze, and I know that Sevres lies on the other side of the wood.”

He replied, “Oh! in the forest at home there was nothing but deer, foxes, and wild boars, and here and there the hut of a forester.”

This word, akin to the dead man’s name, issuing from his mouth, surprised him just as if some one had shouted it out to him from the depths of a thicket, and he became suddenly silent, assailed anew by the strange and persistent uneasiness, and gnawing, invincible, jealous irritation that had been spoiling his existence for some time past. After a minute or so, he asked: “Did you ever come here like this of an evening with Charles?”

“Yes, often,” she answered.

And all of a sudden he was seized with a wish to return home, a nervous desire that gripped him at the heart. But the image of Forestier had returned to his mind and possessed and laid hold of him. He could no longer speak or think of anything else and said in a spiteful tone, “I say, Made?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Did you ever cuckold poor Charles?”

She murmured disdainfully, “How stupid you are with your stock joke.”

But he would not abandon the idea.

“Come, Made, dear, be frank and acknowledge it. You cuckolded him, eh? Come, admit that you cuckolded him?”

She was silent, shocked as all women are by this expression.

He went on obstinately, “Hang it all, if ever anyone had the head for a cuckold it was he. Oh! yes. It would please me to know that he was one. What a fine head for horns.” He felt that she was smiling at some recollection, perhaps, and persisted, saying, “Come out with it. What does it matter? It would be very comical to admit that you had deceived him, to me.”

He was indeed quivering with hope and desire that Charles, the hateful Charles, the detested dead, had borne this shameful ridicule. And yet — yet — another emotion, less definite. “My dear little Made, tell me, I beg of you. He deserved it. You would have been wrong not to have given him a pair of horns. Come, Made, confess.”

She now, no doubt, found this persistence amusing, for she was laughing a series of short, jerky laughs.

He had put his lips close to his wife’s ear and whispered: “Come, come, confess.”

She jerked herself away, and said, abruptly: “You are crazy. As if one answered such questions.”

She said this in so singular a tone that a cold shiver ran through her husband’s veins, and he remained dumbfounded, scared, almost breathless, as though from some mental shock.

The carriage was now passing along the lake, on which the sky seemed to have scattered its stars. Two swans, vaguely outlined, were swimming slowly, scarcely visible in the shadow. George called out to the driver: “Turn back!” and the carriage returned, meeting the others going at a walk, with their lanterns gleaming like eyes in the night.

What a strange manner in which she had said it. Was it a confession? Du Roy kept asking himself. And the almost certainty that she had deceived her first husband now drove him wild with rage. He longed to beat her, to strangle her, to tear her hair out. Oh, if she had only replied: “But darling, if I had deceived him, it would have been with yourself,” how he would have kissed, clasped, worshiped her.

He sat still, his arms crossed, his eyes turned skyward, his mind too agitated to think as yet. He only felt within him the rancor fermenting and the anger swelling which lurk at the heart of all mankind in presence of the caprices of feminine desire. He felt for the first time that vague anguish of the husband who suspects. He was jealous at last, jealous on behalf of the dead, jealous on Forestier’s account, jealous in a strange and poignant fashion, into which there suddenly entered a hatred of Madeleine. Since she had deceived the other, how could he have confidence in her himself? Then by degrees his mind became calmer, and bearing up against his pain, he thought: “All women are prostitutes. We must make use of them, and not give them anything of ourselves.” The bitterness in his heart rose to his lips in words of contempt and disgust. He repeated to himself: “The victory in this world is to the strong. One must be strong. One must be above all prejudices.”

The carriage was going faster. It repassed the fortifications. Du Roy saw before him a reddish light in the sky like the glow of an immense forge, and heard a vast, confused, continuous rumor, made up of countless different sounds, the breath of Paris panting this summer night like an exhausted giant.

George reflected: “I should be very stupid to fret about it. Everyone for himself. Fortune favors the bold. Egotism is everything. Egotism as regards ambition and fortune is better than egotism as regards woman and love.”

The Arc de Triomphe appeared at the entrance to the city on its two tall supports like a species of shapeless giant ready to start off and march down the broad avenue open before him. George and Madeleine found themselves once more in the stream of carriages bearing homeward and bedwards the same silent and interlaced couples. It seemed that the whole of humanity was passing by intoxicated with joy, pleasure, and happiness. The young wife, who had divined something of what was passing through her husband’s mind, said, in her soft voice: “What are you thinking of, dear? You have not said a word for the last half hour.”

He answered, sneeringly: “I was thinking of all these fools cuddling one another, and saying to myself that there is something else to do in life.”

She murmured: “Yes, but it is nice sometimes.”

“It is nice — when one has nothing better to do.”

George’s thoughts were still hard at it, stripping life of its poesy in a kind of spiteful anger. “I should be very foolish to trouble myself, to deprive myself of anything whatever, to worry as I have done for some time past.” Forestier’s image crossed his mind without causing any irritation. It seemed to him that they had just been reconciled, that they had become friends again. He wanted to cry out: “Good evening, old fellow.”

Madeleine, to whom this silence was irksome, said: “Suppose we have an ice at Tortoni’s before we go in.”

He glanced at her sideways. Her fine profile was lit up by the bright light from the row of gas jets of a café. He thought, “She is pretty. Well, so much the better. Jack is as good as his master, my dear. But if ever they catch me worrying again about you, it will be hot at the North Pole.” Then he replied aloud: “Certainly, my dear,” and in order that she should not guess anything, he kissed her.

It seemed to the young wife that her husband’s lips were frozen. He smiled, however, with his wonted smile, as he gave her his hand to alight in front of the café.