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138 pages

English

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Bel Ami was the second published novel by French writer Guy de Maupassant. The novel's hero, journalist Georges Duroy, rises from his humble beginnings to become one of the most powerful men in Paris. He works his way to the top by carefully choosing and manipulating powerful and wealthy mistresses.

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 juin 2009
Nombre de lectures	24
EAN13	9781775415831
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0164€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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BEL AMI
THE HISTORY OF A SCOUNDREL
* * *
GUY DE MAUPASSANT

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Bel Ami The History of a Scoundrel First published in 1885.
ISBN 978-1-775415-83-1
© 2009 THE FLOATING PRESS.
While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike.
Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Chapter I - Poverty Chapter II - Madame Forestier Chapter III - First Attempts Chapter IV - Duroy Learns Something Chapter V - The First Intrigue Chapter VI - A Step Upward Chapter VII - A Duel with an End Chapter VIII - Death and a Proposal Chapter IX - Marriage Chapter X - Jealousy Chapter XI - Madame Walter Takes a Hand Chapter XII - A Meeting and the Result Chapter XIII - Madame De Marelle Chapter XIV - The Will Chapter XV - Suzanne Chapter XVI - Divorce Chapter XVII - The Final Plot Chapter XVIII - Attainment
Chapter I - Poverty
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After changing his five-franc piece Georges Duroy left therestaurant. He twisted his mustache in military style and cast arapid, sweeping glance upon the diners, among whom were threesaleswomen, an untidy music-teacher of uncertain age, and two womenwith their husbands.
When he reached the sidewalk, he paused to consider what route heshould take. It was the twenty-eighth of June and he had only threefrancs in his pocket to last him the remainder of the month. Thatmeant two dinners and no lunches, or two lunches and no dinners,according to choice. As he pondered upon this unpleasant state ofaffairs, he sauntered down Rue Notre Dame de Lorette, preserving hismilitary air and carriage, and rudely jostled the people upon thestreets in order to clear a path for himself. He appeared to behostile to the passers-by, and even to the houses, the entire city.
Tall, well-built, fair, with blue eyes, a curled mustache, hairnaturally wavy and parted in the middle, he recalled the hero of thepopular romances.
It was one of those sultry, Parisian evenings when not a breath ofair is stirring; the sewers exhaled poisonous gases and therestaurants the disagreeable odors of cooking and of kindred smells.Porters in their shirt-sleeves, astride their chairs, smoked theirpipes at the carriage gates, and pedestrians strolled leisurelyalong, hats in hand.
When Georges Duroy reached the boulevard he halted again, undecidedas to which road to choose. Finally he turned toward the Madeleineand followed the tide of people.
The large, well-patronized cafes tempted Duroy, but were he to drinkonly two glasses of beer in an evening, farewell to the meagersupper the following night! Yet he said to himself: "I will take aglass at the Americain. By Jove, I am thirsty."
He glanced at men seated at the tables, men who could afford toslake their thirst, and he scowled at them. "Rascals!" he muttered.If he could have caught one of them at a corner in the dark he wouldhave choked him without a scruple! He recalled the two years spentin Africa, and the manner in which he had extorted money from theArabs. A smile hovered about his lips at the recollection of anescapade which had cost three men their lives, a foray which hadgiven his two comrades and himself seventy fowls, two sheep, money,and something to laugh about for six months. The culprits were neverfound; indeed, they were not sought for, the Arab being looked uponas the soldier's prey.
But in Paris it was different; there one could not commit such deedswith impunity. He regretted that he had not remained where he was;but he had hoped to improve his condition—and for that reason hewas in Paris!
He passed the Vaudeville and stopped at the Cafe Americain, debatingas to whether he should take that "glass." Before deciding, heglanced at a clock; it was a quarter past nine. He knew that whenthe beer was placed in front of him, he would drink it; and thenwhat would he do at eleven o'clock? So he walked on, intending to goas far as the Madeleine and return.
When he reached the Place de l'Opera, a tall, young man passed him,whose face he fancied was familiar. He followed him, repeating:"Where the deuce have I seen that fellow?"
For a time he racked his brain in vain; then suddenly he saw thesame man, but not so corpulent and more youthful, attired in theuniform of a Hussar. He exclaimed: "Wait, Forestier!" and hasteningup to him, laid his hand upon the man's shoulder. The latter turned,looked at him, and said: "What do you want, sir?"
Duroy began to laugh: "Don't you remember me?"
"No."
"Not remember Georges Duroy of the Sixth Hussars."
Forestier extended both hands.
"Ah, my dear fellow, how are you?"
"Very well. And how are you?"
"Oh, I am not very well. I cough six months out of the twelve as aresult of bronchitis contracted at Bougival, about the time of myreturn to Paris four years ago."
"But you look well."
Forestier, taking his former comrade's arm, told him of his malady,of the consultations, the opinions and the advice of the doctors andof the difficulty of following their advice in his position. Theyordered him to spend the winter in the south, but how could he? Hewas married and was a journalist in a responsible editorialposition.
"I manage the political department on 'La Vie Francaise'; I reportthe doings of the Senate for 'Le Salut,' and from time to time Iwrite for 'La Planete.' That is what I am doing."
Duroy, in surprise, glanced at him. He was very much changed.Formerly Forestier had been thin, giddy, noisy, and always in goodspirits. But three years of life in Paris had made another man ofhim; now he was stout and serious, and his hair was gray on histemples although he could not number more than twenty-seven years.
Forestier asked: "Where are you going?"
Duroy replied: "Nowhere in particular."
"Very well, will you accompany me to the 'Vie Francaise' where Ihave some proofs to correct; and afterward take a drink with me?"
"Yes, gladly."
They walked along arm-in-arm with that familiarity which existsbetween schoolmates and brother-officers.
"What are you doing in Paris?" asked Forestier, Duroy shrugged hisshoulders.
"Dying of hunger, simply. When my time was up, I came hither to makemy fortune, or rather to live in Paris—and for six months I havebeen employed in a railroad office at fifteen hundred francs ayear."
Forestier murmured: "That is not very much."
"But what can I do?" answered Duroy. "I am alone, I know no one, Ihave no recommendations. The spirit is not lacking, but the meansare."
His companion looked at him from head to foot like a practical manwho is examining a subject; then he said, in a tone of conviction:"You see, my dear fellow, all depends on assurance, here. A shrewd,observing man can sometimes become a minister. You must obtrudeyourself and yet not ask anything. But how is it you have not foundanything better than a clerkship at the station?"
Duroy replied: "I hunted everywhere and found nothing else. But Iknow where I can get three thousand francs at least—as riding-master at the Pellerin school."
Forestier stopped him: "Don't do it, for you can earn ten thousandfrancs. You will ruin your prospects at once. In your office atleast no one knows you; you can leave it if you wish to at any time.But when you are once a riding-master all will be over. You might aswell be a butler in a house to which all Paris comes to dine. Whenyou have given riding lessons to men of the world or to their sons,they will no longer consider you their equal."
He paused, reflected several seconds and then asked:
"Are you a bachelor?"
"Yes, though I have been smitten several times."
"That makes no difference. If Cicero and Tiberius were mentionedwould you know who they were?"
"Yes."
"Good, no one knows any more except about a score of fools. It isnot difficult to pass for being learned. The secret is not to betrayyour ignorance. Just maneuver, avoid the quicksands and obstacles,and the rest can be found in a dictionary."
He spoke like one who understood human nature, and he smiled as thecrowd passed them by. Suddenly he began to cough and stopped toallow the paroxysm to spend itself; then he said in a discouragedtone:
"Isn't it tiresome not to be able to get rid of this bronchitis? Andhere is midsummer! This winter I shall go to Mentone. Health beforeeverything."
They reached the Boulevarde Poissoniere; behind a large glass dooran open paper was affixed; three people were reading it. Above thedoor was printed the legend, "La Vie Francaise."
Forestier pushed open the door and said: "Come in." Duroy entered;they ascended the stairs, passed through an antechamber in which twoclerks greeted their comrade, and then entered a kind of waiting-room.
"Sit down," said Forestier, "I shall be back in five minutes," andhe disappeared.
Duroy remained where he was; from time to time men passed him by,entering by one door and going out by another before he had time toglance at them.
Now they were young men, very young, with a busy air, holding sheetsof paper in their hands; now compositors, their shirts spotted withink—carefully carrying what were evidently fresh proofs.Occasionally a gentleman entered, fashionably dressed, some reporterbringing news.
Forestier reappeared arm-in-arm with a tall, thin man of thirty orforty, dressed in a black coat, with a white cravat, a darkcomplexion, and an insolent, self-satisfied air. Forestier said tohim: "Adieu, my dear sir," and the other pressed his hand with: "Aurevoir, my friend." Then he descended the stairs whistling, his caneunder his arm.
Duroy asked his name.
"That is Jacques Rival, the celebrated writer and duelist. He cameto correct his proofs. Garin, Montel a