The young fellow’s room, on the fifth floor, looked into a kind of abyss, the huge cutting of the Western Railway just above the outlet by the tunnel of the Batignolles station. Duroy opened his window and leaned against the rusty iron cross-bar.
Below him, at the bottom of the dark hole, three motionless red lights resembled the eyes of huge wild animals, and further on a glimpse could be caught of others, and others again still further. Every moment whistles, prolonged or brief, pierced the silence of the night, some near at hand, others scarcely discernible, coming from a distance from the direction of Asnières. Their modulations were akin to those of the human voice. One of them came nearer and nearer, with its plaintive appeal growing louder and louder every moment, and soon a big yellow light appeared advancing with a loud noise, and Duroy watched the string 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 he found that he had only a quire of letter paper in the place. More the pity, but he would make use of it by opening out each sheet to its full extent. He dipped his pen in ink, and wrote at the head of the page, in his best hand, “Recollections of a Chasseur d’Afrique.”
Then he tried to frame the opening sentence. He remained with his head on his hands and his eyes fixed on the white sheet spread out before him. What should he say? He could no longer recall anything of what he had 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, in her exhaustion, was reposing after the catastrophe of the terrible year.”
He stopped short, not knowing how to lead up to what should follow—his embarkation, his voyage, his first impressions.
After ten minutes’ reflection, he resolved to put off the introductory slip till tomorrow, and to set to work at once to describe Algiers.
And he traced on his paper the words: “Algiers is a white city,” without being able to state anything further. He recalled in his mind the pretty white city flowing down in a cascade of flat-roofed dwellings from the summit of its hills to the sea, but he could no longer find a word to express 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 of his body, he saw his everyday garments cast down there, empty, worn, limp, ugly as the clothing at the morgue. On a straw-bottomed chair his tall hat, his only one, brim uppermost, seemed to be awaiting an alms.
The wall paper, gray with blue bouquets, showed as many stains as flowers, old suspicious-looking stains, the origin of which could not be defined; crushed insects or drops of oil; finger tips smeared with pomatum or soapy water scattered while washing. It smacked of shabby, genteel poverty, the poverty of a Paris lodging-house. Anger rose within him at the wretchedness of his mode of living. He said to himself that he must get out of it at once; that he must finish with this irksome existence the very next day.
A frantic desire of working having suddenly seized on him again, he sat down once more at the table, and began anew to seek for phrases to describe the strange and charming physiognomy of Algiers, that ante-room of vast and mysterious Africa; the Africa of wandering Arabs and unknown tribes of negroes; that unexplored Africa of which we are sometimes shown in public gardens the improbable-looking animals seemingly made to figure in fairy tales; the ostriches, those exaggerated fowls; the gazelles, those divine goats; the surprising and grotesque giraffes; the grave-looking camels, the monstrous hippopotomi, the shapeless rhinosceri, and the gorillas, those frightful-looking brothers of mankind.
He vaguely felt ideas occurring to him; he might perhaps have uttered them, but he could not put them into writing. And his impotence exasperated him, he got up again, his hands damp with perspiration, and his temples throbbing.
His eyes falling on his washing bill, brought up that evening by the concierge, he was suddenly seized with wild despair. All his joy vanishing in a twinkling, with his confidence in himself and his faith in the future. It was all up; he could not do anything, he would never be anybody; he felt played out, incapable, good for nothing, damned.
And he went and leaned out of the window again, just as a train issued from the tunnel with a loud and violent noise. It was going away, afar off, across the fields and plains towards the sea. And the recollection of his parents stirred in Duroy’s breast. It would pass near them, that train, within a few leagues of their house. He saw it again, the little house at the entrance to the village of Canteleu, on the summit of the slope overlooking Rouen and the immense valley of the Seine.
His father and mother kept a little inn, a place where the tradesfolk of the suburbs of Rouen came out to lunch on Sunday at the sign of the Belle Vue. They had wanted to make a gentleman of their son, and had sent him to college. Having finished his studies, and been plowed for his bachelor’s degree, he had entered on his military service with the intention of becoming an officer, a colonel, a general. But, disgusted with military life long before the completion of his five years’ term of service, he had dreamed of making a fortune at Paris.
He came there at the expiration of his term of service, despite the entreaties of his father and mother, whose visions having evaporated, wanted now to have him at home with them. In his turn he hoped to achieve a future; he foresaw a triumph by means as yet vaguely defined in his mind, but which he felt sure he could scheme out and further.
He had had some successful love affairs in the regiment, some easy conquests, and even some adventures in a better class of society, having seduced a tax collector’s daughter, who wanted to leave her home for his sake, and a lawyer’s wife, who had tried to drown herself in despair at being abandoned.
His comrades used to say of him: “He is a sharp fellow, a deep one to get 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 garrison life, rendered elastic by the examples of pillaging in Africa, illicit commissions, shaky dodges; spurred, too, by the notions of honor current in the army, military bravadoes, patriotic sentiments, the fine-sounding tales current among sub-officers, and the vain glory of the profession of arms, had become a kind of box of tricks in which something of everything 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 every evening. He pictured to himself some splendid love adventure which should bring about all at once the realization of his hopes. He married the daughter of some banker or nobleman met with in the street, and captivated at the first glance.
The shrill whistle of a locomotive which, issuing from the tunnel like a big rabbit bolting out of its hole, and tearing at full speed along the rails towards the machine shed where it was to take its rest, awoke him from his dream.
Then, repossessed by the vague and joyful hope which ever haunted his mind, he wafted a kiss into the night, a kiss of love addressed to the vision of the woman he was awaiting, a kiss of desire addressed to the fortune he coveted. Then he closed his window and began to undress, murmuring:
“I shall feel in a better mood for it tomorrow. My thoughts are not clear tonight. Perhaps, too, I have had just a little too much to drink. One can’t work well under those circumstances.”
He got into bed, blew out his light, and went off to sleep almost immediately.
He awoke early, as one awakes on mornings of hope and trouble, and jumping out of bed, opened his window to drink a cup of fresh air, as he phrased it.
The houses of the Rue de Rome opposite, on the other side of the broad railway cutting, glittering in the rays of th
e rising sun, seemed to be painted with white light. Afar off on the right a glimpse was caught of the slopes of Argenteuil, the hills of Sannois, and the windmills of Orgemont through a light bluish mist; like a floating and transparent veil cast onto the horizon.
Duroy remained for some minutes gazing at the distant country side, and he murmured: “It would be devilish nice out there a day like this.” Then he bethought himself that he must set to work, and that at once, and also send his concierge’s lad, at a cost of ten sous, to the office to say that he was ill.
He sat down at his table, dipped his pen in the ink, leaned his forehead on his hand, and sought for ideas. All in vain, nothing came.
He was not discouraged, however. He thought, “Bah! I am not accustomed to it. It is a trade to be learned like all other trades. I must have some help the first time. I will go and find Forestier, who will give me a 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 still too early to present himself at the residence of his friend, who must be a late sleeper. He therefore walked slowly along beneath the trees of the outer boulevards. It was not yet nine o’clock when he reached the Parc Monceau, fresh from its morning watering. Sitting down upon a bench he began to dream again. A well-dressed young man was walking up and down at a short distance, awaiting a woman, no doubt. Yes, she appeared, close veiled and quick stepping, and taking his arm, after a brief clasp of the hand, they walked away together.
A riotous need of love broke out in Duroy’s heart, a need of amours at once 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. “You here 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; you know the article Monsieur Walter asked me to write on Algeria. It is not very surprising, considering that I have never written anything. Practice is needed for that, as for everything else. I shall get used to it very quickly, I am sure, but I do not know how to set about beginning. 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 a start, you can show me how to shape it. It will be a good lesson in style you will give me, and really without you I do not see how I can get 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 I could. I have trained her for that kind of work. I, myself, have not time 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 notes for me.”
Duroy refused to go upstairs, saying: “No, I can’t think of such a thing.”
Forestier took him by the shoulders, twisted him round on his heels, and pushing 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 these flights of stairs again to introduce you and explain the fix you are in.”
Then Duroy made up his mind. “Thanks, then, I will go up,” he said. “I shall tell her that you forced me, positively forced me to come and see her.”
“All right. She won’t scratch your eyes out. Above all, do not forget our 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 to his 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 tell her 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 door on the right, said: “Madame will see you, sir.”
She was seated in an office armchair in a small room, the walls of which were 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 dressing gown, trimmed with lace, and as she held out her hand, displayed her bare 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 at the bottom of the house, obliged me to. I am so confused that I dare not tell 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 her was a half-written page, interrupted by the young fellow’s arrival. She seemed quite at home at this work table, as much at her ease as if in her drawing-room, engaged on everyday tasks. A faint perfume emanated from her dressing gown, the fresh perfume of a recent toilet. Duroy sought 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 was working last night very late and quite early this morning on the article upon Algeria, upon which Monsieur Walter asked me to write, and I could not get on with it—I tore up all my attempts. I am not accustomed to this 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 see me? That is a nice thing.”
“Yes, madame. He said that you will get me out of my difficulty better than himself, but I did not dare, I did not wish to—you understand.”
She rose, saying: “It will be delightful to work in collaboration with you 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 off an 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, then took a cigarette from the mantel-shelf, and lit it.
“I cannot work without smoking,” said she. “Come, what are you going to say?”
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 you about.”
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: “I should like to relate my journey, then, from the beginning.”
Then she sat down before him on the other side of the table, and looking him in the eyes:
“Well, tell it me first; for myself alone, you understand, slowly and without forgetting anything, and I will select what is to be used of it.”
But as he did not know where to commence, she began to question him as a priest would have done in the confessional, putting precise questions which recalled to him forgotten details, people encountered and faces merely caught sight of.
When she had made him speak thus for about a quarter of an hour, she suddenly interrupted him with: “Now we will begin. In the first place, we will imagin
e that you are narrating your impressions to a friend, which will allow you to write a lot of tom-foolery, to make remarks of all 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 dried mud which serves me as a habitation, a kind of journal of my life, day by day, and hour by hour. It will be a little lively at times, more is the 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 faint creaking 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 unknown countries 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 for everyone. I am, you know, an excellent horseman, since I break in the colonel’s horses; but a man may be a very good rider and a very bad sailor. That is my case.
“You remember Surgeon-Major Simbretras, whom we used to call Old Ipecacuanha, and how, when we thought ourselves ripe for a twenty-four hours’ stay in the infirmary, that blessed sojourning place, we used to go 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 his great eyes and gnawing his white moustache.
The Guy De Maupassant Megapack: 144 Novels and Short Stories Page 151
