Bel Ami

---

A beer.

Barman. One more, one more.

- Now?

- Now, upstairs.

Forestier!

- Charles Forestier!

- Yes.

Georges Duroy.

The 6th Hussars. Algeria, '85.

Yes, Georges Duroy.

Yes.

You look terrible.

Let me buy you a drink.

When did you last have a proper meal?

Excuse me.

Champagne!

So, what have you been doing

all these years?

I only just got out.

I'm hoping for better luck in Paris.

You couldn't have come at a better time.

Paris is filthy with money.

Rotten with it.

If you can't succeed here

you might as well lie down and die.

Yes!

Even the whores are getting rich.

And me, ex-soldier,

living on the Boulevard Haussmann,

Political Editor of La Vie Francaise.

We're going to be the newspaper

that brings down the government.

I'm working as a clerk

at the railway office.

I don't have your connections, Charles.

I have to make money somehow.

And we can't go on

a looting spree any more.

We're not in the desert.

Why don't you come

to dinner tomorrow night?

Come and meet my wife.

Well, the thing is, uh,

I don't have any evening clothes.

Well, here.

Buy some, hire some.

Come at 7:
30, yes?

- Er, yes.

- Good.

Georges Duroy!

What name shall I give?

Georges Duroy.

Monsieur Georges Duroy.

I am Madeleine Forestier.

You're married to Charles?

Of course.

Charles has told me all about you.

- Madame Francois de Marelle.

- Madeleine!

Clotilde.

You look lovely.

I'm Clotilde.

You can call me Clotilde.

Madame Pierre Rousset.

He's frail.

The gout's gone to his kidneys.

He'll become a member of

the Academy for the rest of his life.

And so everyone will be satisfied.

You're awful.

It's this knife, Duroy.

What?

He's not used to eating like this.

I believe you've only just returned

from your posting in North Africa.

You were in Algeria?

Yes.

Charles and I were first there

together, five... Five years ago?

Five years.

He was a little thinner then.

Where were you garrisoned?

I was garrisoned at the frontier.

The very edge of the Sahara.

I once heard a very foolish story

about the desert.

It may well be a myth,

but I find it rather romantic.

I was told that the sands sing? Hmm?

Oh, it's true.

It's an effect of the wind on the dunes.

It makes a kind of music.

Oh. And what does it sound like?

It sounds very sad and mournful.

At least, it does to a lonely soldier.

You? But how could you be lonely?

And there, where the women are divine.

The women are ravishing,

and yet I was still homesick.

Hmm.

Sandstorms and mangy dogs,

that's what I remember.

You could run something

extraordinary about this.

Mmm? I think it would be timely.

Timely? Why?

- Don't you read the newspapers?

- No.

The government

are trying to take Morocco.

Yes. For the good of

the Moroccan people, of course.

- But surely nobody wants a war.

- That won't stop them.

No. But we will.

Think of it.

An eyewitness view.

A handsome young soldier

on the frontier.

Homesick and alone.

His adventures,

his insights.

The Diary of a Cavalry Officer.

Hmm?

What do you think, dearest?

- What fish are we having?

- Oh!

Oh, yes. Let's change the subject.

I can't bear politics.

Men talking about men

fighting with men about men.

It bores me stupid.

What does interest you?

Well...

I like enjoying myself.

What do you enjoy?

Well, I don't know.

Everything.

All right, you.

Diary of a Cavalry Officer.

I want the first article in the morning.

You realise he's never written a word?

I'll help him get started.

We'll write it as a letter to a friend.

"Dear...

"Henri.

"I'm sorry I haven't

written for so long.

"It is almost a month

"since I first set foot

in this glorious land.

"I do not know that the heat will

agree with you, dear friend,

"but I know you would share

my enthusiasm for the people. "

"if only I could convey to you

the true wonder of the souk.

"The scent of cinnamon and saffron,

heavy on the warm air.

"She was wearing a simple dress

and a shawl against the sun,

"the colour of pomegranate blossom.

"She needed no other ornament.

"The simple perfection of her face,

the beauty of her smile,

"I cannot describe.

"All I know is that with one look,

"and one look alone,

"I was hers. "

I like being a journalist.

I hope you don't think I'm going to

write all your articles for you.

No.

I would never presume. I...

I meant something quite different.

I know what you meant.

Let's be clear.

I have no interest

in being your mistress.

There's nothing more boring to me

than an infatuated youth.

I know perfectly well that

love for you is an appetite.

It makes idiots of you all.

Look at me, please.

I will never be your mistress.

Do you understand?

- Yes.

- Good.

Then we can be friends.

Real friends.

And I can give you some advice.

The most important people in Paris

are not the men.

The most important people in Paris

are their wives.

Call on Madame Rousset.

She likes you.

Madame Rousset likes me?

Not like that.

Never like that.

No.

Her husband values her opinion

above all others.

One good word from her

is worth ten years of grovelling to him.

But you may very much enjoy

a visit to my friend, Clotilde.

She is such wonderful company

and her husband is very often away.

If there is ever any way

I can repay your kindness.

May I present Georges Duroy.

We're helping him get on his feet.

This is the Comte de Vaudrec.

The Comte is our

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