Georges Duroy resumed his old habits. Installed in the cozy apartments on Rue de Constantinople, his relations with Mme. de Marelle became quite conjugal.

Mme. Forestier had not returned; she lingered at Cannes. He, however, received a letter from her announcing her return about the middle of April, but containing not a word as to their parting. He waited. He was resolved to employ every means to marry her if she seemed to hesitate; he had faith in his good fortune, in that power of attraction which he felt within him — a power so irresistible that all women yielded to it.

At length a short note admonished him that the decisive moment had arrived.

“I am in Paris. Come to see me.”

“Madeleine Forestier.”

Nothing more. He received it at nine o’clock. At three o’clock of the same day he called at her house. She extended both hands to him with a sweet smile, and they gazed into each other’s eyes for several seconds, then she murmured:

“How kind of you to come!”

He replied: “I should have come, whensoever you bade me.”

They sat down; she inquired about the Walters, his associates, and the newspaper.

“I miss that very much,” said she. “I had become a journalist in spirit. I like the profession.” She paused. He fancied he saw in her smile, in her voice, in her words, a kind of invitation, and although he had resolved not to hasten matters, he stammered:

“Well — why — why do you not resume — that profession — under — the name of Duroy?”

She became suddenly serious, and placing her hand on his arm, she said: “Do not let us speak of that yet.”

Divining that she would accept him, he fell upon his knees, and passionately kissed her hands, saying:

“Thank you — thank you — how I love you.”

She rose, she was very pale. Duroy kissed her brow. When she had disengaged herself from his embrace, she said gravely: “Listen, my friend, I have not yet fully decided; but my answer may be ‘yes.’ You must wait patiently, however, until I disclose the secret to you.”

He promised and left her, his heart overflowing with joy. He worked steadily, spent little, tried to save some money that he might not be without a sou at the time of his marriage, and became as miserly as he had once been prodigal. Summer glided by; then autumn, and no one suspected the tie existing between Duroy and Mme. Forestier, for they seldom met in public.

One evening Madeleine said to him: “You have not yet told Mme. de Marelle our plans?”

“No, my dear; as you wished them kept secret, I have not mentioned them to a soul.”

“Very well; there is plenty of time. I will tell the Walters.”

She turned away her head and continued: “If you wish, we can be married the beginning of May.”

“I obey you in all things joyfully.”

“The tenth of May, which falls on Saturday, would please me, for it is my birthday.”

“Very well, the tenth of May.”

“Your parents live near Rouen, do they not?”

“Yes, near Rouen, at Canteleu.”

“I am very anxious to see them!”

He hesitated, perplexed: “But — they are —” Then he added more firmly: “My dear, they are plain, country people, innkeepers, who strained every nerve to give me an education. I am not ashamed of them, but their — simplicity — their rusticity might annoy you.”

She smiled sweetly. “No, I will love them very much. We will visit them; I wish to. I, too, am the child of humble parents — but I lost mine — I have no one in the world”— she held out her hand to him — “but you.”

He was affected, conquered as he had never been by any woman.

“I have been thinking of something,” said she, “but it is difficult to explain.”

He asked: “What is it?”

“It is this: I am like all women. I have my — my weaknesses. I should like to bear a noble name. Can you not on the occasion of our marriage change your name somewhat?” She blushed as if she had proposed something indelicate.

He replied simply: “I have often thought of it, but it does not seem easy to me.”

“Why not?”

He laughed. “Because I am afraid I should be ridiculed.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Not at all — not at all. Everyone does it, and no one laughs. Separate your name in this way: Du Roy. It sounds very well.”

He replied: “No, that will not do; it is too common a proceeding. I have thought of assuming the name of my native place, first as a literary pseudonym and then as my surname in conjunction with Duroy, which might later on, as you proposed, be separated.”

She asked: “Is your native place Canteleu?”

“Yes.”

“I do not like the termination. Could we not modify it?”

She took a pen and wrote down the names in order to study them. Suddenly she cried: “Now I have it,” and held toward him a sheet of paper on which was written: “Mme. Duroy de Cantel.”

Gravely he replied: “Yes, it is very nice.”

She was delighted, and repeated: “Duroy de Cantel. Mme. Duroy de Cantel. It is excellent, excellent!”

Then she added with an air of conviction: “You will see how easily it will be accepted by everyone! After to-morrow, sign your articles ‘D. de Cantel,’ and your ‘Echoes’ simply ‘Duroy.’ That is done on the press every day and no one will be surprised to see you take a nom de plume. What is your father’s name?”

“Alexandre.”

She murmured “Alexandre!” two or three times in succession; then she wrote upon a blank sheet:

“M. and Mme. Alexandre du Roy de Cantel announce the marriage of their son, M. Georges du Roy de Cantel with Mme. Forestier.”

She examined her writing, and, charmed with the effect, exclaimed: “With a little method one can succeed in anything.”

When Georges reached the street resolved to call himself, henceforth, “Du Roy,” or even “Du Roy de Cantel,” it seemed to him that he was of more importance. He swaggered more boldly, held his head more erect and walked as he thought gentlemen should. He felt a desire to inform the passers-by, “My name is Du Roy de Cantel.”

Scarcely had he entered his apartments when the thought of Mme. de Marelle rendered him uneasy, and he wrote to her immediately, appointing a meeting for the following day.

“It will be hard,” thought he. “There will be a quarrel surely.”

The next morning he received a telegram from Madame, informing him that she would be with him at one o’clock. He awaited her impatiently, determined to confess at once and afterward to argue with her, to tell her that he could not remain a bachelor indefinitely, and that, as M. de Marelle persisted in living, he had been compelled to choose some one else as a legal companion. When the bell rang, his heart gave a bound.

Mme. de Marelle entered and cast herself into his arms, saying: “Good afternoon, Bel-Ami.” Perceiving that his embrace was colder than usual, she glanced up at him and asked: “What ails you?”

“Take a seat,” said he. “We must talk seriously.”

She seated herself without removing her hat, and waited. He cast down his eyes; he was preparing to commence.

Finally he said slowly: “My dear friend, you see that I am very much perplexed, very sad, and very much embarrassed by what I have to confess to you. I love you; I love you with all my heart, and the fear of giving you pain grieves me more than what I have to tell you.”

She turned pale, trembled, and asked: “What is it? Tell me quickly.”

He said sadly but resolutely: “I am going to be married.”

She sighed like one about to lose consciousness; then she gasped, but did not speak.

He continued: “You cannot imagine how much I suffered before taking that resolution. But I have neither position nor money. I am alone in Paris, I must have near me some one who can counsel, comfort, and support me. What I need is an associate, an ally, and I have found one!” He paused, hoping that she would reply, expecting an outburst of furious rage, reproaches, and insults. She pressed her hand to her heart and breathed with difficulty. He took the hand resting on the arm of the chair, but she drew it away and murmured as if stupefied: “Oh, my God!”

He fell upon his knees before her, without, however, venturing to touch her, more moved by her silence than he would have been by her anger.

“Clo, my little Clo, you understand my position. Oh, if I could have married you, what happiness it would have afforded me! But you were married! What could I do? Just think of it! I must make my way in the world and I can never do so as long as I have no domestic ties. If you knew. There are days when I should like to kill your husband.” He spoke in a low, seductive voice. He saw two tears gather in Mme. de Marelle’s eyes and trickle slowly down her cheeks. He whispered: “Do not weep, Clo, do not weep, I beseech you. You break my heart.”

She made an effort to appear dignified and haughty, and asked, though somewhat unsteadily: “Who is it?”

For a moment he hesitated before he replied: “Madeleine Forestier!”

Mme. de Marelle started; her tears continued to flow. She rose. Duroy saw that she was going to leave him without a word of reproach or pardon, and he felt humbled, humiliated. He seized her gown and implored:

“Do not leave me thus.”

She looked at him with that despairing, tearful glance so charming and so touching, which expresses all the misery pent-up in a woman’s heart, and stammered: “I have nothing — to say; I can do nothing. You — you are right; you have made a good choice.”

And disengaging herself she left the room.

With a sigh of relief at escaping so easily, he repaired to Mme. Forestier’s, who asked him: “Have you told Mme. de Marelle?”

He replied calmly: “Yes.”

“Did it affect her?”

“Not at all. On the contrary, she thought it an excellent plan.”

The news was soon noised abroad. Some were surprised, others pretended to have foreseen it, and others again smiled, inferring that they were not at all astonished. The young man, who signed his articles, “D. de Cantel,” his “Echoes,” “Duroy,” and his political sketches, “Du Roy,” spent the best part of his time with his betrothed, who had decided that the date fixed for the wedding should be kept secret, that the ceremony should be celebrated in the presence of witnesses only, that they should leave the same evening for Rouen, and that the day following they should visit the journalist’s aged parents and spend several days with them. Duroy had tried to persuade Madeleine to abandon that project, but not succeeding in his efforts he was finally compelled to submit.

The tenth of May arrived. Thinking a religious ceremony unnecessary, as they had issued no invitations, the couple were married at a magistrate’s and took the six o’clock train for Normandy.

As the train glided along, Duroy seated in front of his wife, took her hand, kissed it, and said: “When we return we will dine at Chatou sometimes.”

She murmured: “We shall have a great many things to do!” in a tone which seemed to say: “We must sacrifice pleasure to duty.”

He retained her hand wondering anxiously how he could manage to caress her. He pressed her hand slightly, but she did not respond to the pressure.

He said: “It seems strange that you should be my wife.”

She appear............