III
When George Duroy found himself in the street he hesitated as to what heshould do. He wanted to run, to dream, to walk about thinking of thefuture as he breathed the soft night air, but the thought of the seriesof articles asked for by Daddy Walter haunted him, and he decided to gohome at once and set to work.
He walked along quickly, reached the outer boulevards, and followedtheir line as far as the Rue Boursault, where he dwelt. The house, sixstories high, was inhabited by a score of small households,trades-people or workmen, and he experienced a sickening sensation ofdisgust, a longing to leave the place and live like well-to-do people ina clean dwelling, as he ascended the stairs, lighting himself with waxmatches on his way up the dirty steps, littered with bits of paper,cigarette ends, and scraps of kitchen refuse. A stagnant stench ofcooking, cesspools and humanity, a close smell of dirt and old walls,which no rush of air could have driven out of the building, filled itfrom top to bottom.
The young fellow's room, on the fifth floor, looked into a kind ofabyss, the huge cutting of the Western Railway just above the outlet bythe tunnel of the Batignolles station. Duroy opened his window andleaned against the rusty iron cross-bar.
Below him, at the bottom of the dark hole, three motionless red lightsresembled the eyes of huge wild animals, and further on a glimpse couldbe caught of others, and others again still further. Every momentwhistles, prolonged or brief, pierced the silence of the night, somenear at hand, others scarcely discernible, coming from a distance fromthe direction of Asnieres. Their modulations were akin to those of thehuman voice. One of them came nearer and nearer, with its plaintiveappeal growing louder and louder every moment, and soon a big yellowlight appeared advancing with a loud noise, and Duroy watched thestring of railway carriages swallowed up by the tunnel.
Then he said to himself: "Come, let's go to work."
He placed his light upon the table, but at the moment of commencing hefound that he had only a quire of letter paper in the place. More thepity, but he would make use of it by opening out each sheet to its fullextent. He dipped his pen in ink, and wrote at the head of the page, inhis best hand, "Recollections of a Chasseur d'Afrique."
Then he tried to frame the opening sentence. He remained with his headon his hands and his eyes fixed on the white sheet spread out beforehim. What should he say? He could no longer recall anything of what hehad been relating a little while back; not an anecdote, not a fact,nothing.
All at once the thought struck him: "I must begin with my departure."
And he wrote: "It was in 1874, about the middle of May, when France, inher exhaustion, was reposing after the catastrophe of the terribleyear."
He stopped short, not knowing how to lead up to what should follow--hisembarkation, his voyage, his first impressions.
After ten minutes' reflection, he resolved to put off the introductoryslip till to-morrow, and to set to work at once to describe Algiers.
And he traced on his paper the words: "Algiers is a white city," withoutbeing able to state anything further. He recalled in his mind the prettywhite city flowing down in a cascade of flat-roofed dwellings from thesummit of its hills to the sea, but he could no longer find a word toexpress what he had seen and felt.
After a violent effort, he added: "It is partly inhabited by Arabs."
Then he threw down his pen and rose from his chair.
On his little iron bedstead, hollowed in the center by the pressure ofhis body, he saw his everyday garments cast down there, empty, worn,limp, ugly as the clothing at the morgue. On a straw-bottomed chair histall hat, his only one, brim uppermost, seemed to be awaiting an alms.
The wall paper, gray with blue bouquets, showed as many stains asflowers, old suspicious-looking stains, the origin of which could not bedefined; crushed insects or drops of oil; finger tips smeared withpomatum or soapy water scattered while washing. It smacked of shabby,genteel poverty, the poverty of a Paris lodging-house. Anger rose withinhim at the wretchedness of his mode of living. He said to himself thathe must get out of it at once; that he must finish with this irksomeexistence the very next day.
A frantic desire of working having suddenly seized on him again, he satdown once more at the table, and began anew to seek for phrases todescribe the strange and charming physiognomy of Algiers, that ante-room
of vast and mysterious Africa; the Africa of wandering Arabs and unknowntribes of negroes; that unexplored Africa of which we are sometimesshown in public gardens the improbable-looking animals seemingly made tofigure in fairy tales; the ostriches, those exaggerated fowls; thegazelles, those divine goats; the surprising and grotesque giraffes; thegrave-looking camels, the monstrous hippopotomi, the shapelessrhinosceri, and the gorillas, those frightful-looking brothers ofmankind.
He vaguely felt ideas occurring to him; he might perhaps have utteredthem, but he could not put them into writing. And his impotenceexasperated him, he got up again, his hands damp with perspiration, andhis temples throbbing.
His eyes falling on his washing bill, brought up that evening by theconcierge, he was suddenly seized with wild despair. All his joyvanishing in a twinkling, with his confidence in himself and his faithin the future. It was all up; he could not do anything, he would neverbe anybody; he felt played out, incapable, good for nothing, damned.
And he went and leaned out of the window again, just as a train issuedfrom the tunnel with a loud and violent noise. It was going away, afaroff, across the fields and plains towards the sea. And the recollectionof his parents stirred in Duroy's breast. It would pass near them, thattrain, within a few leagues of their house. He saw it again, the littlehouse at the entrance to the village of Canteleu, on the summit of theslope overlooking Rouen and the immense valley of the Seine.
His father and mother kept a little inn, a place where the tradesfolk ofthe suburbs of Rouen came out to lunch on Sunday at the sign of theBelle Vue. They had wanted to make a gentleman of their son, and hadsent him to college. Having finished his studies, and been plowed forhis bachelor's degree, he had entered on his military service with theintention of becoming an officer, a colonel, a general. But, disgustedwith military life long before the completion of his five years' termof service, he had dreamed of making a fortune at Paris.
He came there at the expiration of his term of service, despite theentreaties of his father and mother, whose visions having evaporated,wanted now to have him at home with them. In his turn he hoped toachieve a future; he foresaw a triumph by means as yet vaguely definedin his mind, but which he felt sure he could scheme out and further.
He had had some successful love affairs in the regiment, some easyconquests, and even some adventures in a better class of society, havingseduced a tax collector's daughter, who wanted to leave her home for hissake, and a lawyer's wife, who had tried to drown herself in despair atbeing abandoned.
His comrades used to say of him: "He is a sharp fellow, a deep one toget out of a scrape, a chap who knows which side his bread is buttered,"and he had promised himself to act up to this character.
His conscience, Norman by birth, worn by the daily dealings of garrisonlife, rendered elastic by the examples of pillaging in Africa, illicitcommissions, shaky dodges; spurred, too, by the notions of honor currentin the army, military bravadoes, patriotic sentiments, the fine-soundingtales current among sub-officers, and the vain glory of the professionof arms, had become a kind of box of tricks in which something ofeverything was to be found.
But the wish to succeed reigned sovereign in it.
He had, without noticing it, began to dream again as he did everyevening. He pictured to himself some splendid love adventure whichshould bring about all at once the realization of his hopes. He marriedthe daughter of some banker or nobleman met with in the street, andcaptivated at the first glance.
The shrill whistle of a locomotive which, issuing from the tunnel like abig rabbit bolting out of its hole, and tearing at full speed along therails towards the machine shed where it was to take its rest,
awoke himfrom his dream.
Then, repossessed by the vague and joyful hope which ever haunted hismind, he wafted a kiss into the night, a kiss of love addressed to thevision of the woman he was awaiting, a kiss of desire addressed to thefortune he coveted. Then he closed his window and began to undress,murmuring:
"I shall feel in a better mood for it to-morrow. My thoughts are notclear to-night. Perhaps, too, I have had just a little too much todrink. One can't work well under those circumstances."
He got into bed, blew out his light, and went off to sleep almostimmediately.
He awoke early, as one awakes on mornings of hope and trouble, andjumping out of bed, opened his window to drink a cup of fresh air, as hephrased it.
The houses of the Rue de Rome opposite, on the other side of the broadrailway cutting, glittering in the rays of the rising sun, seemed to bepainted with white light. Afar off on the right a glimpse was caught ofthe slopes of Argenteuil, the hills of Sannois, and the windmills ofOrgemont through a light bluish mist; like a floating and transparentveil cast onto the horizon.
Duroy remained for some minutes gazing at the distant country side, andhe murmured: "It would be devilish nice out there a day like this." Thenhe bethought himself that he must set to work, and that at once, andalso send his concierge's lad, at a cost of ten sous, to the office tosay that he was ill.
He sat down at his table, dipped his pen in the ink, leaned his foreheadon his hand, and sought for ideas. All in vain, nothing came.
He was not discouraged, however. He thought, "Bah! I am not accustomedto it. It is a trade to be learned like all other trades. I must havesome help the first time. I will go and find Forestier, who will give mea start for my article in ten minutes."
And he dressed himself.
When he got into the street he came to the conclusion that it was stilltoo early to present himself at the residence of his friend, who must bea late sleeper. He therefore walked slowly along beneath the trees ofthe outer boulevards. It was not yet nine o'clock when he reached theParc Monceau, fresh from its morning watering. Sitting down upon a benchhe began to dream again. A well-dressed young man was walking up anddown at a short distance, awaiting a woman, no doubt. Yes, she appeared,close veiled and quick stepping, and taking his arm, after a brief claspof the hand, they walked away together.
A riotous need of love broke out in Duroy's heart, a need of amours atonce distinguished and delicate. He rose and resumed his journey,thinking of Forestier. What luck the fellow had!
He reached the door at the moment his friend was coming out of it. "Youhere at this time of day. What do you want of me?"
Duroy, taken aback at meeting him thus, just as he was starting off,stammered: "You see, you see, I can't manage to write my article; youknow the article Monsieur Walter asked me to write on Algeria. It isnot very surprising, considering that I have never written anything.Practice is needed for that, as for everything else. I shall get used toit very quickly, I am sure, but I do not know how to set aboutbeginning. I have plenty of ideas, but I cannot manage to express them."
He stopped, hesitatingly, and Forestier smiled somewhat slyly, saying:"I know what it is."
Duroy went on: "Yes, it must happen to everyone at the beginning. Well,I came, I came to ask you for a lift. In ten minutes you can give me astart, you can show me how to shape it. It will be a good lesson instyle you will give me, and really without you I do not see how I canget on with it."
Forestier still smiled, and tapping his old comrade on the arm, said:"Go in and see my wife; she will settle your business quite as well as Icould. I have trained her for that kind of work. I, myself, have nottime this morning, or I would willingly have done it for you."
Duroy suddenly abashed, hesitated, feeling afraid.
"But I cannot call on her at this time of the day."
"Oh, yes; she is up. You will find her in my study arranging some notesfor me."
Duroy refused to go upstairs, saying: "No, I can't think of such athing."
Forestier took him by the shoulders, twisted him round on his heels, andpushing him towards the staircase, said: "Go along, you great donkey,when I tell you to. You are not going to oblige me to go up theseflights of stairs again to introduce you and explain the fix you arein."
Then Duroy made up his mind. "Thanks, then, I will go up," he said. "Ishall tell her that you forced me, positively forced me to come and seeher."
"All right. She won't scratch your eyes out. Above all, do not forgetour appointment for three o'clock."
"Oh! don't be afraid about that."
Forestier hastened off, and Duroy began to ascend the stairs slowly,step by step, thinking over what he should say, and feeling uneasy as tohis probable reception.
The man servant, wearing a blue apron, and holding a broom in his hand,opened the door to him.
"Master is not at home," he said, without waiting to be spoken to.
Duroy persisted.
"Ask Madame Forestier," said he, "whether she will receive me, and tellher that I have come from her husband, whom I met in the street."
Then he waited while the man went away, returned, and opening the dooron the right, said: "Madame will see you, sir."
She was seated in an office armchair in a small room, the walls of whichwere wholly hidden by books carefully ranged on shelves of black wood.The bindings, of various tints, red, yellow, green, violet, and blue,gave some color and liveliness to those monotonous lines of volumes.
She turned round, still smiling. She was wrapped in a white dressinggown, trimmed with lace, and as she held out her hand, displayed herbare arm in its wide sleeve.
"Already?" said she, and then added: "That is not meant for a reproach,but a simple question."
"Oh, madame, I did not want to come up, but your husband, whom I met atthe bottom of the house, obliged me to. I am so confused that I dare nottell you what brings me."
She pointed to a chair, saying: "Sit down and tell me about it."
She was twirling a goose-quill between her fingers, and in front of herwas a half-written page, interrupted by the young fellow's arrival. Sheseemed quite at home at this work table, as much at her ease as if inher drawing-room, engaged on everyday tasks. A faint perfume emanatedfrom her dressing gown, the fresh perfume of a recent toilet. Duroysought to divine, fancied he could trace, the outline of her plump,youthful figure through the soft material enveloping it.
She went on, as he did not reply: "Well, come tell me what is it."
He murmured, hesitatingly: "Well, you see--but I really dare not--I wasworking last night very late and quite early this morning on the articleupon Algeria, upon which Monsieur Walter asked me to write, and I couldnot get on with it--I tore up all my attempts. I am not accustomed tothis kind of work, and I came to ask Forestier to help me this once--"
She interrupted him, laughing heartily. "And he told you to come and seeme? That is a nice thing."
"Yes, madame. He said that you will get me out of my difficulty betterthan himself, but I did not dare, I did not wish to--you understand."
She rose, saying: "It will be delightful to work in collaboration withyou like that. I am charmed at the notion. Come, sit down in my place,for they know my hand-writing at the office. And we will knock you offan article; oh, but a good one."
He sat down, took a pen, spread a sheet of paper before him, and waited.
Madame Forestier, standing by, watched him make these preparations, thentook a cigarette from the mantel-shelf, and lit it.
"I cannot work without smoking," said she. "Come, what are you going tosay?"
He lifted his head towards her with astonishment.
"But that is just what I don't know, since it is that I came to see youabout."
She replied: "Oh, I will put it in order for you. I will make the sauce,but then I want the materials of the dish."
He remained embarrassed before her. At length he said, hesitatingly: "Ishould like to relate my journey, then, from the beginning."
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Then she sat down before him on the other side of the table, and lookinghim in the eyes:
"Well, tell it me first; for myself alone, you understand, slowly andwithout forgetting anything, and I will select what is to be used ofit."
But as he did not know where to commence, she began to question him as apriest would have done in the confessional, putting precise questionswhich recalled to him forgotten details, people encountered and facesmerely caught sight of.
When she had made him speak thus for about a quarter of an hour, shesuddenly interrupted him with: "Now we will begin. In the first place,we will imagine that you are narrating your impressions to a friend,which will allow you to write a lot of tom-foolery, to make remarks ofall kinds, to be natural and funny if we can. Begin:
"'My Dear Henry,--You want to know what Algeria is like, and you shall.I will send you, having nothing else to do in a little cabin of driedmud which serves me as a habitation, a kind of journal of my life, dayby day, and hour by hour. It will be a little lively at times, more isthe pity, but you are not obliged to show it to your lady friends.'"
She paused to re-light her cigarette, which had gone out, and the faintcreaking of the quill on the paper stopped, too.
"Let us continue," said she.
"Algeria is a great French country on the frontiers of the great unknowncountries called the Desert, the Sahara, central Africa, etc., etc.
"Algiers is the door, the pretty white door of this strange continent.
"But it is first necessary to get to it, which is not a rosy job foreveryone. I am, you know, an excellent horseman, since I break in thecolonel's horses; but a man may be a very good rider and a very badsailor. That is my case.
"You remember Surgeon-Major Simbretras, whom we used to call OldIpecacuanha, and how, when we thought ourselves ripe for a twenty-fourhours' stay in the infirmary, that blessed sojourning place, we used togo up before him.
"How he used to sit in his chair, with his fat legs in his red trousers,wide apart, his hands on his knees, and his elbows stuck, rolling hisgreat eyes and gnawing his white moustache.
"You remember his favorite mode of treatment: 'This man's stomach isout of order. Give him a dose of emetic number three, according to myprescription, and then twelve hours off duty, and he will be all right.'
"It was a sovereign remedy that emetic--sovereign and irresistible. Oneswallowed it because one had to. Then when one had undergone the effectsof Old Ipecacuanha's prescription, one enjoyed twelve well-earned hours'rest.
"Well, my dear fellow, to reach Africa, it is necessary to undergo forforty hours the effects of another kind of irresistible emetic,according to the prescription of the Compagnie Transatlantique."
She rubbed her hands, delighted with the idea.
She got up and walked about, after having lit another cigarette, anddictated as she puffed out little whiffs of smoke, which, issuing atfirst through a little round hole in the midst of her compressed lips,slowly evaporated, leaving in the air faint gray lines, a kind oftransparent mist, like a spider's web. Sometimes with her open hand shewould brush these light traces aside; at others she would cut themasunder with her forefinger, and then watch with serious attention thetwo halves of the almost impenetrable vapor slowly disappear.
Duroy, with his eyes, followed all her gestures, her attitudes, themovements of her form and features--busied with this vague pastime whichdid not preoccupy her thoughts.
She now imagined the incidents of the journey, sketched travelingcompanions invented by herself, and a love affair with the wife of acaptain of infantry on her way to join her husband.
Then, sitting down again, she questioned Duroy on the topography ofAlgeria, of which she was absolutely ignorant. In ten minutes she knewas much about it as he did, and she dictated a little chapter ofpolitical and colonial geography to coach the reader up in such mattersand prepare him to understand the serious questions which were to bebrought forward in the following articles. She continued by a trip intothe provinces of Oran, a fantastic trip, in which it was, above all, aquestion of women, Moorish, Jewish, and Spanish.
"That is what interests most," she said.
She wound up by a sojourn at Saida, at the foot of the great tablelands;and by a pretty little intrigue between the sub-officer, George Duroy,and a Spanish work-girl employed at the _alfa_ factory at Ain el Hadjar.She described their rendezvous at night amidst the bare, stony hills,with jackals, hyenas, and Arab dogs yelling, barking and howling amongthe rocks.
And she gleefully uttered the words: "To be continued." Then rising, sheadded: "That is how one writes an article, my dear sir. Sign it, if youplease."
He hesitated.
"But sign it, I tell you."
Then he began to laugh, and wrote at the bottom of the page, "GeorgeDuroy."
She went on smoking as she walked up and down; and he still kept lookingat her, unable to find anything to say to thank her, happy to be withher, filled with gratitude, and with the sensual pleasure of thisnew-born intimacy. It seemed to him that everything surrounding him waspart of her, everything down to the walls covered with books. Thechairs, the furniture, the air in which the perfume of tobacco wasfloating, had something special, nice, sweet, and charming, whichemanated from her.
Suddenly she asked: "What do you think of my friend, Madame de Marelle?"
He was surprised, and answered: "I think--I think--her very charming."
"Is it not so?"
"Yes, certainly."
He longed to add: "But not so much as yourself," but dared not.
She resumed: "And if you only knew how funny, original, and intelligentshe is. She is a Bohemian--a true Bohemian. That is why her husbandscarcely cares for her. He only sees her defects, and does notappreciate her good qualities."
Duroy felt stupefied at learning that Madame de Marelle was married, andyet it was only natural that she should be.
He said: "Oh, she is married, then! And what is her husband?"
Madame Forestier gently shrugged her shoulders, and raised her eyebrows,with a gesture of incomprehensible meaning.
"Oh! he is an inspector on the Northern Railway. He spends eight daysout of the month in Paris. What his wife calls 'obligatory service,' or'weekly duty,' or 'holy week.' When you know her better you will see hownice and bright she is. Go and call on her one of these days."
Duroy no longer thought of leaving. It seemed to him that he was goingto stop for ever; that he was at home.
But the door opened noiselessly, and a tall gentleman entered withoutbeing announced. He stopped short on seeing a stranger. Madame Forestierseemed troubled for a moment; then she said in natural tones, though aslight rosy flush had risen to her cheeks:
"Come in, my dear sir. I must introduce one of Charles' old friends,Monsieur George Duroy, a future journalist." Then in another tone, sheadded: "Our best and most intimate friend, the Count de Vaudrec."
The two men bowed, looking each other in the eyes, and Duroy at oncetook his leave.
There was no attempt to detain him. He stammered a few thanks, graspedthe outstretched hand of Madame Forestier, bowed again to the new-comer,who preserved the cold, grave air of a man of position, and went outquite disturbed, as if he had made a fool of himself.
On finding himself once more in the street, he felt sad and uneasy,haunted by the vague idea of some hidden vexation. He walked on, askinghimself whence came this sudden melancholy. He could not tell, but thestern face of the Count de Vaudrec, already somewhat aged, with grayhair, and the calmly insolent look of a very wealthy man, constantlyrecurred to his recollection. He noted that the arrival of this unknown,breaking off a charming _tete-a-tete_, had produced in him that chilly,despairing sensation that a word overheard, a trifle noticed, the leastthing suffices sometimes to bring about. It seemed to him, too, thatthis man, without his being able to guess why, had been displeased atfinding him there.
He had nothing more to do till three o'clock, and it was not yet noon.He had still six f
rancs fifty centimes in his pocket, and he went andlunched at a Bouillon Duval. Then he prowled about the boulevard, andas three o'clock struck, ascended the staircase, in itself anadvertisement, of the _Vie Francaise_.
The messengers-in-waiting were seated with folded arms on a bench, whileat a kind of desk a doorkeeper was sorting the correspondence that hadjust arrived. The entire get-up of the place, intended to impressvisitors, was perfect. Everyone had the appearance, bearing, dignity,and smartness suitable to the ante-room of a large newspaper.
"Monsieur Walter, if you please?" inquired Duroy.
"The manager is engaged, sir," replied the doorkeeper. "Will you take aseat, sir?" and he indicated the waiting-room, already full of people.
There were men grave, important-looking, and decorated; and men withoutvisible linen, whose frock-coats, buttoned up to the chin, bore upon thebreast stains recalling the outlines of continents and seas ongeographical maps. There were three women among them. One of them waspretty, smiling, and decked out, and had the air of a gay woman; herneighbor, with a wrinkled, tragic countenance, decked out also, but inmore severe fashion, had about her something worn and artificial whichold actresses generally have; a kind of false youth, like a scent ofstale love. The third woman, in mourning, sat in a corner, with the airof a desolate widow. Duroy thought that she had come to ask for charity.
However, no one was ushered into the room beyond, and more than twentyminutes had elapsed.
Duroy was seized with an idea, and going back to the doorkeeper, said:"Monsieur Walter made an appointment for me to call on him here at threeo'clock. At all events, see whether my friend, Monsieur Forestier, ishere."
He was at once ushered along a lengthy passage, which brought him to alarge room where four gentlemen were writing at a large green-coveredtable.
Forestier standing before the fireplace was smoking a cigarette andplaying at cup and ball. He was very clever at this, and kept spikingthe huge ball of yellow boxwood on the wooden point. He was counting"Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five."
"Twenty-six," said Duroy.
His friend raised his eyes without interrupting the regular movement ofhis arm, saying: "Oh! here you are, then. Yesterday I landed the ballfifty-seven times right off. There is only Saint-Potin who can beat meat it among those here. Have you seen the governor? There is nothingfunnier than to see that old tubby Norbert playing at cup and ball. Heopens his mouth as if he was going to swallow the ball every time."
One of the others turned round towards him, saying: "I say, Forestier, Iknow of one for sale, a beauty in West Indian wood; it is said to havebelonged to the Queen of Spain. They want sixty francs for it. Notdear."
Forestier asked: "Where does it hang out?"
And as he had missed his thirty-seventh shot, he opened a cupboard inwhich Duroy saw a score of magnificent cups and balls, arranged andnumbered like a collection of art objects. Then having put back the onehe had been using in its usual place, he repeated: "Where does this gemhang out?"
The journalist replied: "At a box-office keeper's of the Vaudeville. Iwill bring it you to-morrow, if you like."
"All right. If it is really a good one I will take it; one can neverhave too many." Then turning to Duroy he added: "Come with me. I willtake you in to see the governor; otherwise you might be getting mouldyhere till seven in the evening."
They re-crossed the waiting-room, in which the same people were waitingin the same order. As soon as Forestier appeared the young woman and theold actress, rising quickly, came up to him. He took them aside oneafter the other into the bay of the window, and although they took careto talk in low tones, Duroy noticed that they were on familiar terms.
Then, having passed through two padded doors, they entered the manager'sroom. The conference which had been going on for an hour or so wasnothing more than a game at ecarte with some of the gentlemen with theflat brimmed hats whom Duroy had noticed the night before.
Monsieur Walter dealt and played with concentrated attention and craftymovements, while his adversary threw down, picked up, and handled thelight bits of colored pasteboard with the swiftness, skill, and grace ofa practiced player. Norbert de Varenne, seated in the managerialarmchair, was writing an article. Jacques Rival, stretched at fulllength on a couch, was smoking a cigar with his eyes closed.
The room smelled close, with that blended odor of leather-coveredfurniture, stale tobacco, and printing-ink peculiar to editors' roomsand familiar to all journalists. Upon the black wood table, inlaid withbrass, lay an incredible pile of papers, letters, cards, newspapers,magazines, bills, and printed matter of every description.
Forestier shook hands with the punters standing behind the card players,and without saying a word watched the progress of the game; then, assoon as Daddy Walter had won, he said: "Here is my friend, Duroy."
The manager glanced sharply at the young fellow over the glasses of hisspectacles, and said:
"Have you brought my article? It would go very well to-day with theMorel debate."
Duroy took the sheets of paper folded in four from his pocket, saying:"Here it is sir."
The manager seemed pleased, and remarked, with a smile: "Very good, verygood. You are a man of your word. You must look through this for me,Forestier."
But Forestier hastened to reply: "It is not worth while, MonsieurWalter. I did it with him to give him a lesson in the tricks of thetrade. It is very well done."
And the manager, who was gathering up the cards dealt by a tall, thingentleman, a deputy belonging to the Left Center, remarked withindifference: "All right, then."
Forestier, however, did not let him begin the new game, but stooping,murmured in his ear: "You know you promised me to take on Duroy toreplace Marambot. Shall I engage him on the same terms?"
"Yes, certainly."
Taking his friend's arm, the journalist led him away, while MonsieurWalter resumed the game.
Norbert de Varenne had not lifted his head; he did not appear to haveseen or recognized Duroy. Jacques Rival, on the contrary, had taken hishand with the marked and demonstrative energy of a comrade who may bereckoned upon in the case of any little difficulty.
They passed through the waiting-room again, and as everyone looked atthem, Forestier said to the youngest of the women, in a tone loud enoughto be heard by the rest: "The manager will see you directly. He is justnow engaged with two members of the Budget Committee."
Then he passed swiftly on, with an air of hurry and importance, asthough about to draft at once an article of the utmost weight.
As soon as they were back in the reporters' room Forestier at once tookup his cup and ball, and as he began to play with it again, said toDuroy, breaking his sentences in order to count: "You will come hereevery day at three o'clock, and I will tell you the places you are to goto, either during the day or in the evening, or the next morning--one--Iwill give you, first of all, a letter of introduction to the head of theFirst Department of the Prefecture of Police--two--who will put you incommunication with one of his clerks. You will settle with him about allthe important information--three--from the Prefecture, official andquasi-official information, you know. In all matters of detail you willapply to Saint-Potin, who is up in the work--four--You can see himby-and-by, or to-morrow. You must, above all, cultivate the knack ofdragging information out of men I send you to see--five--and to get ineverywhere, in spite of closed doors--six--You will have for this asalary of two hundred francs a month, with two sous a line for theparagraphs you glean--seven--and two sous a line for all articleswritten by you to order on different subjects--eight."
Then he gave himself up entirely to his occupation, and went on slowlycounting: "Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen." He missed thefourteenth, and swore, "Damn that thirteen, it always brings me badluck. I shall die on the thirteenth of some month, I am certain."
One of his colleagues who had finished his work also took a cup and ballfrom the cupboard. He was a little man, who looked like a boy, althoughhe was
really five-and-thirty. Several other journalists having come in,went one after the other and got out the toy belonging to each of them.Soon there were six standing side by side, with their backs to the wall,swinging into the air, with even and regular motion, the balls of red,yellow, and black, according to the wood they were made of. And a matchhaving begun, the two who were still working got up to act as umpires.Forestier won by eleven points. Then the little man, with the juvenileaspect, who had lost, rang for the messenger, and gave the order, "Ninebocks." And they began to play again pending the arrival of theserefreshments.
Duroy drank a glass of beer with his new comrades, and then said to hisfriend: "What am I to do now?"
"I have nothing for you to-day. You can go if you want to."
"And our--our--article, will it go in to-night?"
"Yes, but do not bother yourself about it; I will correct the proofs.Write the continuation for to-morrow, and come here at three o'clock,the same as to-day."
Duroy having shaken hands with everyone, without even knowing theirnames, went down the magnificent staircase with a light heart and highspirits.
Bel Ami (A Ladies' Man) Page 3
