1885
BEL-AMI
by Guy de Maupassant
Electronically Enhanced Text (c) Copyright 1996, World Library(R)
PART ONE
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1
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When the cashier had given him the change from his five-franc piece,
George Duroy left the restaurant.
As he carried himself well, both naturally and from having been a
noncommissioned officer, he straightened up, twirled his mustache with
a soldier's familiar gesture, and threw upon the lingering diners a
rapid and sweeping glance- one of those young men's glances that
take in everything, like a casting net.
The women had looked up at him- three little working girls, a
middle-aged music teacher, disheveled, untidy, and wearing a dusty hat
and a dress that wasn't on straight, and two housewives dining with
their husbands- all regular customers at this cheap eating-place.
When he got outside, he stood still for a moment, wondering what
he was going to do. It was the 28th of June, and he had just three
francs forty centimes in his pocket to carry him to the end of the
month. This meant choosing between two dinners without lunch and two
lunches without dinner. He reflected that since midday meals cost
twenty-two sous apiece, as against thirty sous for dinner, he would,
if he ate only the lunches, be one franc twenty centimes to the
good, enough for two snacks of bread and sausage and two glasses of
beer on the boulevards. The latter was his greatest extravagance and
his chief pleasure at night. So he set off down the Rue
Notre-Dame-de-Lorette.
He walked as in the days when he had worn a hussar's uniform, his
chest thrown out and his legs slightly apart, as if he had just
dismounted from his horse; and he pushed his way through the crowded
street, roughly shouldering people aside in order to keep a straight
path. He wore his somewhat shabby hat on one side, and brought his
heels smartly down on the pavement. He always seemed to be defying
somebody or something, the passersby, the houses, the whole city, with
the swagger of a dashing military man turned civilian.
Although wearing a sixty-franc suit, he was not without a certain
somewhat loud elegance. Tall, well-built, with dark, faintly reddish
hair, a curled-up mustache that seemed to hover like foam over his
lip, bright blue eyes with small pupils, and hair curling naturally
and parted in the middle, he bore a strong resemblance to the
scoundrel of popular novels.
It was one of those summer evenings in Paris when there seems to
be no air stirring. The city, hot as an oven, seemed to swelter in the
stifling night. The sewers exhaled a poisonous breath through their
granite mouths, and through their basement windows the kitchens filled
the street with the stench of dishwater and rancid sauces.
The concierges in their shirt sleeves sat astride straw-bottomed
chairs in the gateways of the houses, smoking their pipes, and the
pedestrians walked with flagging steps, bare-headed, their hats in
their hands.
When George Duroy reached the boulevards he paused again,
undecided as to what he should do. He now thought of going on to the
Champs-Elysees and the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne to get a little
fresh air under the trees; but another wish assailed him, a desire for
a love affair.
How would it come about? He did not know, but he had been on the
lookout for three months, night and day. Occasionally, thanks to his
good looks and gallant appearance, he gleaned a few crumbs of love
here and there, but he was always hoping for something more and
better.
With empty pockets and hot blood, he was aroused by the touch of
prostitutes who murmured at street corners: "Coming to my place,
dearie?" but he dared not follow them, being unable to pay; and
besides, he was waiting for something else, for less vulgar kisses.
He liked, however, the places which such women frequented- their
dance halls, their cafes, and their streets. He liked to rub shoulders
with them, speak to them, tease them, inhale their strong perfumes,
feel himself near them. At least they were women, women made for love.
He did not despise them with the innate contempt of a well-born man.
He turned toward the Madeleine, following the stream of people
that flowed along overcome by the heat. The big cafes, filled with
customers, spilled out over the pavement, the imbibing clientele
spotlighted under the harsh glare of their lit-up windows. In front of
them, on little tables, square or round, were glasses holding drinks
of every shade, red, yellow, green, brown, and inside the decanters
glittered the large transparent cylinders of ice cooling the bright,
clear water. Duroy had slackened his pace, and a longing to drink
parched his throat.
A burning thirst, a summer evening's thirst assailed him, and he
imagined the delightful sensation of cool drinks flowing down his
throat. But even if he took only two glasses of beer in the evening,
farewell to tomorrow's slender supper, and he was only too well
acquainted with the hungry hours at the end of the month.
He said to himself: "I must hold out till ten o'clock, and then I'll
have my beer at the American Bar. Damn it, how thirsty I am,
though." And he scanned the men seated at the tables drinking, all
these men who could quench their thirst as much as they pleased. He
went on, passing in front of the cafes with a carefree swaggering air,
and guessing at a glance from their dress and expression how much
money each customer probably had on him. Anger against these men
quietly sitting there rose up within him. If their pockets were
rummaged, gold, silver, and coppers would be found in them. On an
average each one must have at least forty francs. There were certainly
a hundred to a cafe: a hundred times forty francs makes four
thousand francs. He murmured: "Swine!" as he walked nonchalantly
past them. If he could get hold of one of them at a nice dark corner
he would twist his neck without scruple, as he used to do with the
peasants' fowls on maneuvers.
He recalled his two years in Africa and the way he used to pillage
the Arabs when stationed at little outposts in the south. A bright,
cruel smile flitted across his lips at the recollection of an escapade
which had cost the lives of three men of the Ouled-Alane tribe, and
had furnished him and his comrades with twenty hens, a couple of
sheep, some gold, and food for laughter for six months.
The culprits had never been found; in fact they had hardly been
sought, the Arab being looked upon as a kind of natural prey of the
soldier.
In Paris it was different. One could not indulge in amiable
plundering, sword at one's side and revolver in hand, far from civil
authority. He felt in his heart all the instincts of a noncom let
loose in a conquered country. He certainly missed his two years in the
desert. What a pity he had not stayed there! But he had hoped for
something better on returning home. And now- ah! now he was really
in a fix!
He clicked his tongue as if to verify the parched state of his
palate.
The crowd moved past him slowly, worn out by the heat, and he kept
thinking: "What swine! all these idiots have money in their
pockets." He pushed against people and softly whistled a lively
tune. Gentlemen whom he thus elbowed turned around with a growl, and
women murmured: "What a brute!"
He passed the Vaudeville Theater and stopped in front of the
American Bar, wondering whether he should not take his beer, so
greatly did his thirst torture him. Before making up his mind, he
glanced at the illuminated clocks in the middle of the street. It
was a quarter past nine. He knew himself: as soon as the glassful of
beer was before him he would gulp it down. What would he do then until
eleven o'clock?
He moved on. "I will go as far as the Madeleine," he said, "and walk
back slowly."
As he reached the corner of the Place de l'Opera, he passed a
stout young fellow, whose face he vaguely recollected having seen
somewhere. He began to follow him, turning over his recollections
and repeating to himself half-aloud: "Where the deuce do I know that
fellow from?"
He searched his brain without being able to recollect, and then
all at once, by a strange phenomenon of memory, the same man
appeared to him thinner, younger, and clad in a hussar uniform. He
exclaimed aloud: "Hello, Forestier!" and stepping up he tapped the
other on the shoulder. The latter turned round and looked at him,
and then said, "What is it, sir?"
Duroy broke into a laugh. "Don't you know me?" he said.
"No."
"George Duroy, of the 6th Hussars."
Forestier held out his hands, exclaiming: "Well, old fellow! How are
you?"
"Very well, and you?"
"Oh, not too good! Just fancy, I have a chest that feels like pulp
now. I cough six months out of twelve, through a cold I caught at
Bougival the year of my return to Paris, four years ago."
And Forestier, taking his old comrade's arm, spoke to him of his
illness, related the consultations, opinions, and advice of the
doctors, and the difficulty of following their advice in his position.
He was told to spend the winter in the South, but how could he? He was
married, and a journalist in a good position.
"I am political editor of the Vie Francaise. I write up the
proceedings in the Senate for the Salut, and from time to time
literary criticisms for the Planete. You see, I have made my way."
Duroy looked at him with surprise. He was greatly changed,
matured. He had now the manner, bearing, and dress of a man in a
good position and sure of himself, and the stomach of a man who
dines well. Formerly he had been thin, slight, supple, heedless,
brawling, noisy, and always ready for a spree. In three years Paris
had turned him into someone quite different, stout and serious, and
with some white hairs about his temples, though he was not more than
twenty-seven.
Forestier asked: "Where are you going?"
Duroy answered: "Nowhere; I am just taking a stroll before turning
in."
"Well, will you come with me to the Vie Francaise, where I have some
proofs to correct, and then we will have a beer together?"
"All right."
They began to walk on, arm in arm, with that easy familiarity
existing between schoolfellows and men in the same regiment.
"What are you doing in Paris?" asked Forestier.
Duroy shrugged his shoulders. "Simply starving. As soon as I
finished my military service I came here- to make a fortune, or rather
for the sake of living in Paris; and for six months I have been a
clerk in the offices of the Northern Railway at fifteen hundred francs
a year, nothing more."
Forestier murmured: "Hang it, that's not much!"
"I should think not. But how can I get out of it? I am alone; I
don't know anyone; I can get no one to recommend me. It is not good
will that is lacking, but means."
His comrade scanned him from head to foot, like a practical man
examining a subject, and then said, in a tone of conviction: "You see,
my boy, everything depends upon assurance here. A clever fellow can
more easily become a Cabinet minister than a department head. One must
impose one's self on people; not ask things of them. But how the deuce
is it that you could not get hold of anything better than a clerk's
job on the Northern Railway?"
Duroy replied: "I looked about everywhere, but could not find
anything. But I have something in view just now; I have been offered a
riding-master's place at Pellerin's riding school. There I shall get
three thousand francs at the lowest."
Forestier stopped short. "Don't do that; it is stupid, when you
ought to be earning ten thousand francs. You would nip your future
in the bud. In your office, at any rate, you are hidden; no one
knows you; you can emerge from it if you are strong enough to make
your way. But once a riding-master, and it is all over. It is as if
you were headwaiter at a place where all Paris goes to dine. When once
you have given riding lessons to people in society or to their
children, they will never be able to look upon you as an equal."
He remained silent for a few moments, evidently reflecting, and then
asked:
"Have you a bachelor's degree?"
"No; I failed twice."
"That is no matter, as long as you studied for it. If anyone
mentions Cicero or Tiberius, you know pretty well what they are
talking about?"
"Yes; pretty well."
"Good; no one knows any more, with the exception of a few idiots who
remain in a rut. It is not difficult to pass for being well
informed; the great thing is not to be caught in some blunder. You can
maneuver, avoid the difficulty, turn the obstacle, and floor others by
means of a dictionary. Men are all as stupid as geese and ignorant
as donkeys."
He spoke like a self-possessed fellow who knows what life is, and
smiled as he watched the crowd go by. But all at once he began to
cough, and stopped again until the fit was over, adding, in a tone
of discouragement: "Isn't it aggravating not to be able to get rid
of this cough? And we are in the middle of summer. Oh! this winter I
shall go and get cured at Mentone. Health before everything."
They halted on the Boulevard Poissonniere before a large glass door,
on the inner side of which an open newspaper was pasted. Three
passersby had stopped and were reading it.
Above the door, stretched in large letters of flame, outlined by gas
jets, the inscription LA VIE FRANCAISE. The pedestrians passing into
the light shed by these three dazzling words suddenly appeared as
visible as in broad daylight, then disappeared again into darkness.
Forestier pushed the door open, saying, "Come in." Duroy entered,
ascended an ornate yet dirty staircase, visible from the street,
passed through an anteroom where two messengers bowed to his
companion, and reached a kind of waiting room, shabby and dusty,
upholstered in dirty green imitation velvet, covered with spots and
stains, and worn in places as if mice had been gnawing it.
"Sit down, said Forestier. "I will be back in five minutes."
And he disappeared through one of the three doors opening into the
room.
A strange, special, indescribable smell, the smell of a newspaper
office, floated in the air of the room. Duroy remained motionless,
slightly intimidated, above all surprised. From time to time men
passed hurriedly before him, coming in at one door and going out at
another before he had time to look at them.
Sometimes they were young lads, with an appearance of haste, holding
in their hand a sheet of paper which fluttered from the hurry of their
movements; sometimes compositors, whose white blouses, spotted with
ink, revealed a clean shirt collar and cloth trousers like those of
men of fashion, and who carefully carried strips of printed paper,
fresh proofs damp from the press. Sometimes a gentleman entered rather
too elegantly attired, his waist too tightly pinched by his frock
coat, his leg too well set off by the cut of his trousers, his foot
squeezed into a shoe too pointed at the toe, some society reporter
bringing in the gossip of the evening.
Others, too, arrived, serious, important-looking men, wearing tall
hats with flat brims, as if this shape distinguished them from the
rest of mankind.
Forestier reappeared holding the arm of a tall, thin fellow, between
thirty and forty years of age, in evening dress, very dark, with his
mustache ends stiffened in sharp points, and an insolent and
self-satisfied bearing.
Forestier said to him: "Good night, dear master."
The other shook hands with him, saying: "Good night, my dear
fellow," and went downstairs whistling, with his cane under his arm.
Duroy asked: "Who is that?"
"Jacques Rival, you know, the celebrated columnist, the duellist. He
has just been correcting his proofs. Garin, Montel, and he are the
three best columnists, for facts and witty ideas, we have in Paris. He
gets thirty thousand francs a year here for two articles a week."
As they were leaving they met a short, stout man, with long hair and
untidy appearance, who was puffing as he came up the stairs.
Forestier bowed low to him. "Norbert de Varenne," said he, "the
poet; the author of Les Soleils Morts; another who gets high prices.
Every story he writes for us costs three hundred francs, and the
longest do not run to two hundred lines. But let's turn into the
Neapolitan cafe; I am beginning to choke with thirst."
As soon as they were seated at a table in the cafe, Forestier called
for two bocks, and drank off his own at a single draught, while
Duroy sipped his beer in slow mouthfuls, tasting it and relishing it
like something rare and precious.
His companion was silent, and seemed to be reflecting. Suddenly he
exclaimed:
"Why don't you try journalism?"
The other looked at him in surprise, and then said: "But, you
know, I have never written anything."
"Bah! everyone must begin. I could give you a job to hunt up
information for me- to make calls and inquiries. You would have to
start with two hundred and fifty francs a month and your cab fare.
Shall I speak to the publisher about it?"
"Certainly!"
"Very well, then, come and dine with me tomorrow. I shall only
have five or six people- the boss, Monsieur Walter, and his wife,
Jacques Rival, and Norbert de Varenne, whom you have just seen, and
a lady, a friend of my wife. Is it settled?"
Duroy hesitated, blushing and perplexed. At length he murmured: "You
see... I have no clothes."
Forestier was astounded. "You have no dress clothes? Hang it all,
they are indispensable. In Paris one is better off without a bed
than without a dress suit."
Then, suddenly feeling in his waistcoat pocket, he drew out some
gold, took two louis, placed them in front of his old comrade, and
said in a cordial and familiar tone: "You will pay me back when you
can. Hire or arrange to pay by installments for the clothes you
want, whichever you like, but come and dine with me tomorrow,
half-past seven, number seventeen Rue Fontaine."
Duroy, confused, picked up the money, stammering: "You are too good;
I am very much obliged to you; you may be sure I shall not forget."
The other interrupted him. "All right. Another bock, eh? Waiter, two
bocks."
Then, when they had drunk them, the journalist said: "Will you
stroll about a bit for an hour?"
"Certainly."
And they set out again in the direction of the Madeleine.
"What shall we do?" said Forestier. "They say that in Paris an idler
can always find something to amuse him, but it is not true. I, when
I want to lounge about of an evening, never know where to go. A
drive round the Bois de Boulogne is only amusing with a woman, and one
has not always one to hand; the cafe concerts may please my druggist
and his wife, but not me. Then what is there to do? Nothing. There
ought to be a summer garden like the Parc Monceau, open at night,
where one would hear very good music while sipping cool drinks under
the trees. It should not be a pleasure resort, but a lounging place,
with a high price for entrance in order to attract the fine ladies.
One ought to be able to stroll along well-graveled walks lit up by
electric light, and to sit down when one wished to hear the music near
or at a distance. We had something of the sort formerly at Musard's,
but with a smack of the low-class dance hall, and too much dance
music, not enough space, not enough shade, not enough gloom. It should
have a very fine garden and a very extensive one. It would be
delightful. Where shall we go?"
Duroy, rather perplexed, did not know what to say; at length he made
up his mind. "I have never been to the Folies-Bergere. I shouldn't
mind taking a look around there," he said.
"The Folies-Bergere," exclaimed his companion, "the deuce; we
shall roast there as in an oven. But, very well, then, it is always
amusing."
And they turned on their heels to make their way to the Rue du
Faubourg Montmartre.
The lit-up front of the establishment threw a bright light into
the four streets which met in front of it. A string of cabs were
waiting for the close of the performance.
Forestier was walking in when Duroy checked him.
"You are passing the box-office," said he.
"I never pay," was the reply, in a tone of importance.
When he approached the attendants they bowed, and one of them held
out his hand. The journalist asked: "Have you a good box?"
"Certainly, Monsieur Forestier."
He took the pass held out to him, pushed the padded door with its
leather borders, and they found themselves in the auditorium.
Tobacco smoke like a faint mist slightly veiled the stage and the
far side of the theater. Rising incessantly in thin white spirals from
the cigars and pipes, this light fog ascended to the ceiling, and
there, accumulating, formed under the dome above the crowded gallery a
cloudy sky.
In the broad corridor leading to the circular promenade- thronged
with gaily dressed prostitutes and men in dark suits- a group of women
were awaiting newcomers in front of one of the bars, at which sat
enthroned three painted and faded vendors of love and liquor.
The tall mirrors behind them reflected their backs and the faces
of passersby.
Forestier pushed his way through the groups, advancing quickly
with the air of a man entitled to consideration.
He went up to an usher. "Box seventeen," said he.
"This way, sir."
And they were shut up in a little open box draped with red, and
holding four chairs of the same color, so near to one another that one
could scarcely slip between them. The two friends sat down. To the
right, as to the left, following a long curved line, the two ends of
which joined the proscenium, a row of similar boxes held people seated
in like fashion, with only their heads and chests visible.
On the stage, three young fellows in tights, one tall, one of middle
size, and one small, were executing feats in turn upon a trapeze.
The tall one advanced first with short, quick steps, smiling and
waving his hand as though wafting a kiss.
The muscles of his arms and legs stood out under his tights. He
expanded his chest to hide the effect of his too prominent stomach,
and his face resembled that of a barber's assistant, for a careful
part divided his locks equally on the center of the skull. He gained
the trapeze by a graceful bound, and, hanging by the hands, whirled
round it like a wheel at full speed, or, with stiff arms and
straightened body, held himself out horizontally in space, supported
entirely by his wrists.
Then he jumped down, saluted the audience again with a smile
amidst the applause of the stalls, and went and leaned against the
scenery, showing off the muscles of his legs at every step.
The second, shorter and more squarely built, advanced in turn, and
went through the same performance, which the third also recommenced
amidst most marked expressions of approval from the public.
But Duroy scarcely noticed the performance, and, with head
averted, kept his eyes on the promenade behind him, full of men and
prostitutes.
Said Forestier to him: "Look at the stalls; nothing but middle-class
folk with their wives and children, well-meaning fools who come to see
the show. In the boxes, men about town, some artists, some girls, good
second-raters; and behind us, the strangest mixture in Paris. Who
are these men? Watch them. There is something of everything, of
every profession, and every caste; but black-guardism predominates.
There are clerks of all kinds- bankers' clerks, government clerks,
store clerks, reporters, pimps, officers in plain clothes, swells in
evening dress, who have dined out, and have dropped in here on their
way from the Opera to the Theatre des Italiens; and then again, too,
quite a crowd of suspicious characters who defy analysis. As to the
women, only one type, the kind who sups at the American Bar, the
one- or two-louis girl who is on the lookout for foreigners at five
louis and lets her regular customers know when she is disengaged. We
have known them for the last six years; we see them every evening, all
year round, in the same places, except when they are making a hygienic
sojourn at Saint-Lazare or at Lourcine hospital."
Duroy no longer heard him. One of these women was leaning against
their box and looking at him. She was a stout brunette, her skin
whitened with face cream, her black eyes lengthened at the corners
with pencil and shaded by enormous and artificial eyebrows. Her too
exuberant bosom stretched the dark silk of her dress almost to
bursting; and her painted lips, red as a fresh wound, gave her an
aspect bestial, ardent, unnatural, but which nevertheless aroused
desire.
She beckoned, with a nod, one of her friends who was passing, a fair
girl with red hair, stout like herself, and said to her, in a voice
loud enough to be heard: "There's a good-looking fellow; if he would
like to have me for ten louis I wouldn't say No."
Forestier turned and tapped Duroy on the knee, with a smile. "That's
meant for you; you're a success, my dear fellow. I congratulate you."
The ex-noncom blushed, and mechanically fingered the two pieces of
gold in his waistcoat pocket.
The curtain had dropped, and the orchestra was now playing a waltz.
Duroy said: "Suppose we take a turn round the promenade."
"Just as you like."
They left their box, and were at once swept away by the throng of
promenaders. Pushed, pressed, squeezed, shaken, they went on, having
before their eyes a crowd of hats. The girls, in pairs, passed
amidst this crowd of men, traversing it with facility, gliding between
elbows, chests, and backs as if quite at home, perfectly at their
ease, like fish in water, amidst this masculine flood.
Duroy, charmed, let himself be swept along, drinking in with
intoxication the air vitiated by tobacco, the odor of humanity, and
the perfumes of the hussies. But Forestier sweated, puffed, and
coughed.
"Let us go into the garden," said he.
And turning to the left, they entered a kind of covered garden,
cooled by two large and ugly fountains. Men and women were drinking at
zinc tables placed beneath evergreen trees growing in boxes.
"Another bock, eh?" said Forestier.
"With pleasure."
They sat down and watched the passing throng.
From time to time a woman would stop and ask, with stereotyped
smile: "Are you going to stand me anything?"
And as Forestier answered: "A glass of water from the fountain," she
would turn away, muttering: "Go on, you louse."
But the stout brunette who had been leaning, just before, against
the box occupied by the two comrades, reappeared, walking proudly
arm in arm with the stout blonde. They were really a fine pair of
women, well matched.
She smiled on perceiving Duroy, as though their eyes had already
told secrets, and, taking a chair, sat down quietly in front of him,
and making her friend sit down, too, gave the order in a clear
voice: "Waiter, two grenadines!"
Forestier, rather surprised, said: "You certainly make yourself at
home."
She replied: "It is your friend that captivates me. He is really a
handsome fellow. I believe that I could make a fool of myself for
his sake."
Duroy, intimidated, could find nothing to say. He twisted his
curly mustache, smiling in a silly fashion. The waiter brought the
drinks, which the women drank off at a draught; then they rose, and
the brunette, with a friendly nod of the head and a tap on the arm
with her fan, said to Duroy: "Thanks, dear. You are not very
talkative."
And they went off swaying their trains.
Forestier laughed. "I say, old fellow, you are very successful
with the women. You should keep an eye on that. It can take you a long
way." He was silent for a moment, and then continued in the dreamy
tone of men who think aloud: "It's through them that you get there
fastest."
And as Duroy still smiled without replying, he asked: "Are you going
to stay any longer? I have had enough of it. I am going home."
The other murmured: "Yes, I shall stay a little longer. It is not
late."
Forestier rose. "Well, good night, then. Till tomorrow. Don't
forget. Seventeen Rue Fontaine, at half-past seven."
"That is settled. Till tomorrow. Thanks."
They shook hands, and the journalist walked away.
As soon as he had disappeared Duroy felt himself free, and again
he joyfully felt the two pieces of gold in his pocket; then rising, he
began to traverse the crowd, which he followed with his eyes.
He soon caught sight of the two women, the blonde and the
brunette, who were still making their way, with their proud bearing of
beggars, through the throng of men.
He went straight up to them, and when he was quite close he no
longer dared to say anything.
The brunette said: "Have you found your tongue again?"
He stammered "Lord!" without being able to say anything else.
The three stood together, checking the movement of the promenade,
the current of which swept round them.
All at once she asked: "Will you come home with me?"
And he, quivering with desire, answered roughly: "Yes, but I have
only a louis in my pocket."
She smiled indifferently. "It is all the same to me," and took his
arm in token of possession.
As they went out he thought that with the other louis he could
easily hire a suit of dress clothes for the next evening.
2
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"Monsieur Forestier, if you please?"
"Third floor, the door on the left," the concierge had replied, in a
voice the amiable tone of which betokened a certain consideration
for the tenant; and George Duroy ascended the stairs.
He felt somewhat abashed, awkward, and ill at ease. He was wearing a
dress suit for the first time in his life, and was uneasy about the
general effect of his attire. He felt it was altogether defective,
from his boots, which were not of patent leather, though neat, for
he was naturally smart about his footgear, to his shirt, which he
had bought that very morning for four francs fifty centimes at the
Magasin du Louvre, and the starched front of which was already
rumpled. His everyday shirts were all more or less damaged, so that he
had not been able to make use of even the least worn of them.
His trousers, rather too loose, set off his leg badly, seeming to
flap about the calf with that creased appearance which second-hand
clothes present. The coat alone did not look bad, being by chance
almost a perfect fit.
He was slowly ascending the stairs with beating heart and anxious
mind, tortured above all by the fear of appearing ridiculous, when
suddenly he saw in front of him a gentleman in full dress looking at
him. They were so close to one another that Duroy took a step back and
then remained stupefied; it was himself, reflected by a tall mirror on
the first-floor landing. A thrill of pleasure shot through him to find
himself so much more presentable than he had imagined.
Only having a small shaving-glass in his room, he had not been
able to see himself all at once, and as he had only an imperfect
glimpse of the various items of his improvised dress, he had
mentally exaggerated its imperfections, and felt terrified at the idea
of appearing grotesque.
But on suddenly coming upon his reflection in the mirror, he had not
even recognized himself; he had taken himself for someone else, for
a gentleman whom at the first glance he had thought very well
dressed and fashionable-looking. And now, looking at himself
carefully, he recognized that really the general effect was
satisfactory.
He studied himself as actors do when learning their parts. He
smiled, held out his hand, made gestures, expressed sentiments of
astonishment, pleasure, and approbation, and essayed smiles and
glances, with a view of displaying his gallantry toward the ladies,
and making them understand that they were admired and desired.
A door opened somewhere. He was afraid of being caught, and
hurried upstairs, filled with the fear of having been seen grimacing
thus by one of his friend's guests.
On reaching the second story he noticed another mirror, and
slackened his pace to view himself in it as he went by. His bearing
seemed to him really elegant. He walked well. And now he was filled
with an unbounded confidence in himself. Certainly he would be
successful with such an appearance, with his wish to succeed, his
native resolution, and his independence of mind. He wanted to run
and jump, as he ascended the last flight of stairs. He stopped in
front of the third mirror, twirled his mustache as he had a trick of
doing, took off his hat to run his fingers through his hair, and
muttered half-aloud as he often did: "A mirror is an excellent
invention." Then raising his hand to the bell handle, he rang.
The door opened almost at once, and he found himself face to face
with a manservant in evening dress, serious, clean-shaven, and so
perfect in his get-up that Duroy became uneasy again without
understanding the reason of his vague emotion, due, perhaps, to an
unwitting comparison of the cut of their respective garments. The
manservant, who had patent-leather shoes, asked, as he took the
overcoat which Duroy had carried on his arm, to avoid exposing the
stains on it: "Whom shall I announce?"
And he announced the name through a door with a looped-back
draping leading into a drawing room.
But Duroy, suddenly losing his assurance, felt himself breathless
and paralyzed by terror. He was about to take his first step in the
world he had looked forward to and longed for. He advanced,
nevertheless. A fair young woman, quite alone, was standing awaiting
him in a large room, well lit up and full of plants as a greenhouse.
He stopped short, quite disconcerted. Who was this lady who was
smiling at him? Then he remembered that Forestier was married, and the
thought that this pretty and elegant blonde must be his friend's
wife completed his alarm.
He stammered: "Madame, I am-"
She held out her hand, saying: "I know, sir; Charles has told me
of your meeting last evening, and I am very pleased that he had the
idea of asking you to dine with us today."
He blushed up to his ears, not knowing what to say, and felt himself
examined from head to foot, reckoned up, and judged.
He longed to excuse himself, to invent some pretext for explaining
the deficiencies of his get-up, but he could not think of one, and did
not dare touch on this difficult subject.
He sat down on an armchair she pointed out to him, and as he felt
the soft and springy velvet-covered seat yield beneath his weight,
as he felt himself, as it were, supported and clasped by the padded
back and arms, it seemed to him that he was entering upon a new and
enchanting life, that he was taking possession of something
delightful, that he was becoming somebody, that he was saved; and he
looked at Madame Forestier, whose eyes had not left him.
She was attired in a dress of pale blue cashmere, which set off
the outline of her slender waist and full bust. Her arms and neck
issued from a cloud of white lace, with which the bodice and short
sleeves were trimmed, and her fair hair, dressed high, left a fringe
of tiny curls at the nape of her neck.
Duroy recovered his assurance beneath her glance, which reminded
him, without his knowing why, of that of the girl he had met the night
before at the Folies-Bergere. She had gray eyes, of a bluish gray,
which imparted to them a strange expression; a thin nose, full lips, a
rather fleshy chin, and irregular but inviting features, full of
archness and charm. It was one of those faces, every trait of which
reveals a special grace, and seems to have its meaning- every movement
to say or to hide something. After a brief silence she asked: "Have
you been long in Paris?"
He replied slowly, recovering his self-possession: "A few months
only, Madame. I have a position in one of the railway companies, but
Forestier holds out the hope that I may, thanks to him, enter
journalism."
She smiled more plainly and kindly, and murmured, lowering her
voice: "Yes, I know."
The bell had rung again. The servant announced "Madame de Marelle."
This was a little brunette, who entered briskly, and seemed to be
outlined- modeled, as it were- from head to foot in a dark dress
made quite plainly. A red rose placed in her black hair caught the eye
at once, and seemed to stamp her physiognomy, accentuate her
character, and strike the sharp and lively note needed.
A little girl in a short frock followed her.
Madame Forestier darted forward, exclaiming: "Good evening,
Clotilde."
"Good evening, Madeleine." They kissed one another, and then the
child offered her forehead, with the assurance of a grown-up person,
saying: "Good evening, cousin."
Madame Forestier kissed her, and then introduced them: "Monsieur
George Duroy, an old friend of Charles; Madame de Marelle, my
friend, and in some degree my relation." She added: "You know we don't
stand on ceremony here. You quite understand, eh?"
The young man bowed.
The door opened again, and a short, stout gentleman appeared, having
on his arm a tall, handsome woman, much younger than himself, and of
distinguished appearance and grave bearing. They were Monsieur Walter,
a Jew from the South of France, deputy, financier, capitalist, and
publisher of the Vie Francaise, and his wife, the daughter of Monsieur
Basile-Ravalau, the banker.
Then came, one immediately after the other, Jacques Rival, very
elegantly got up, and Norbert de Varenne, whose coat collar shone
somewhat from the friction of the long locks falling on his
shoulders and scattering over them a few specks of white dandruff. His
badly tied cravat looked as if it had already done duty. He advanced
with the air and graces of an old beau, and taking Madame
Forestier's hand, printed a kiss on her wrist. As he bent forward
his long hair spread like water over her bare arm.
Forestier entered in his turn, offering excuses for being late. He
had been detained at the office of the paper by the Morel affair.
Monsieur Morel, a Radical deputy, had just addressed a question to the
Ministry regarding a vote of credit for the colonization of Algeria.
The servant announced: "Dinner is served, Madame, and they passed
into the dining room.
Duroy found himself seated between Madame de Marelle and her
daughter. He again felt ill at ease, being afraid of making some
mistake in the conventional handling of forks, spoons, and glasses.
There were four of these, one of a faint blue tint. What could be
meant to be drunk out of that?
Nothing was said while the soup was being consumed, and then Norbert
de Varenne asked: "Have you read the Gauthier case? What a funny
business it is!"
A discussion on this case of adultery, complicated with blackmail,
followed. They did not speak of it as the events recorded in
newspapers are spoken of in private families, but as a disease is
spoken of among doctors, or vegetables among market gardeners. They
were neither shocked nor astonished at the facts, but sought out their
hidden and secret motives with professional curiosity, and an utter
indifference toward the crime itself. They sought to explain clearly
the origin of certain acts, to determine all the cerebral phenomena
which had given birth to the drama, the scientific result due to a
special state of mind. The women, too, were interested in this
investigation. And other recent events were examined, commented
upon, turned so as to show every side of them, and weighed with the
practical glance, and from the special standpoint, of dealers in news,
of vendors of the drama of life at so much a line, just as articles
destined for sale are examined, turned over, and weighed by tradesmen.
Then it was a question of a duel, and Jacques Rival spoke. This
was his business; no one else could handle it.
Duroy dared not put in a word. He glanced from time to time at his
neighbor, whose full bosom captivated him. A diamond, suspended by a
thread of gold, dangled from her ear like a drop of water that had
rolled down it. From time to time she made an observation which always
brought a smile to her hearers' lips. She had a quaint, pleasant,
unexpected wit, that of an experienced girl, who views things with
indifference and judges them with frivolous and benevolent skepticism.
Duroy sought in vain for some compliment to pay her, and, not
finding one, occupied himself with her daughter, filling her glass,
holding her plate, and helping her. The child, graver than her mother,
thanked him in a serious tone and with a slight bow, saying: "You
are very kind, sir," and listened to her elders with an air of
reflection.
The dinner was very good, and everyone was enraptured. Monsieur
Walter ate like an ogre, hardly spoke, and glanced obliquely under his
glasses at the dishes offered to him. Norbert de Varenne kept him
company, and from time to time let drops of gravy fall on his shirt
front. Forestier, silent and serious, watched everything, exchanging
knowing glances with his wife, like confederates engaged together on a
difficult task which is going on swimmingly.
Faces grew red, and voices rose, as from time to time the manservant
murmured in the guests' ears: "Corton or Chateau-Laroze?"
Duroy had found the Corton to his liking, and let his glass be
filled every time. A delicious liveliness stole over him, a warm
cheerfulness, that mounted from the stomach to the head, flowed
through his limbs and penetrated him throughout. He felt himself
wrapped in perfect comfort of life and thought, body and soul.
A longing to speak assailed him, to attract attention to himself, to
be appreciated like these men, whose slightest words were relished.
But the conversation, which had been going on unchecked, linking
ideas one to another, jumping from one topic to another at a chance
word, a mere trifle, and skimming over a thousand matters, turned
again on the question put by Monsieur Morel in the Chamber regarding
the colonization of Algeria.
Monsieur Walter, between two courses, made a few jests, for his
wit was skeptical and broad. Forestier recited his next day's article.
Jacques Rival insisted on a military government with land grants to
all officers after thirty years of colonial service.
"By this plan," he said, "you will create an energetic class of
colonists, who will have already learned to love and understand the
country, and will be acquainted with its language, and with all
those grave local questions against which newcomers invariably run
their heads."
Norbert de Varenne interrupted him with: "Yes; they will be
acquainted with everything except agriculture. They will speak Arabic,
but they will be ignorant how beet-root is planted out and wheat sown.
They will be good at fencing, but very shaky as regards manures. On
the contrary, this new land should be thrown entirely open to
everyone. Intelligent men will achieve a position there; the others
will go under. That is the social law."
A brief silence followed, and the listeners smiled at one another.
George Duroy opened his mouth, and said, feeling as much surprised
at the sound of his own voice as if he had never heard himself
speak: "What is most lacking there is good land. The really fertile
estates cost as much as in France, and are bought up as investments by
rich Parisians. The real colonists, the poor fellows who leave home
for lack of bread, are forced into the desert, where nothing will grow
for want of water."
Everyone looked at him, and he felt himself blushing.
Monsieur Walter asked: "Do you know Algeria, sir?"
George replied: "Yes, sir; I was there nearly two years and a
half, and I was quartered in all three provinces."
Suddenly unmindful of the Morel question, Norbert de Varenne
interrogated him respecting a detail of manners and customs of which
he had been informed by an officer. It was with respect to the Mzab,
that strange little Arab republic sprung up in the midst of the
Sahara, in the driest part of that burning region.
Duroy had twice visited the Mzab, and he narrated some of the
customs of this singular country, where drops of water are as precious
as gold; where every inhabitant is bound to discharge all public
duties; and where commercial honesty is carried further than among
civilized nations.
He spoke with a certain raciness excited by the wine and the
desire to please, and told regimental yarns, incidents of Arab life
and military adventure. He even hit on some telling phrases to
depict those bare and yellow lands, eternally laid waste by the
devouring fire of the sun.
All the women had their eyes turned upon him, and Madame Walter
said, in her low voice: "You could make a charming series of
articles out of your recollections."
Then Walter looked at the young fellow over the glasses of his
spectacles, as was his custom when he wanted to see anyone's face
distinctly. He looked at the dishes underneath them.
Forestier seized the opportunity. "My dear sir, I had already spoken
to you about Monsieur George Duroy, asking you to let me have him as
my assistant in covering political news. Since Marambot left us, I
have no one to send to collect urgent and confidential information,
and the paper suffers from it."
Old Walter became serious, and pushed his spectacles upon his
forehead, in order to look Duroy well in the face. Then he said: "It
is true that Monsieur Duroy has evidently an original turn of thought.
If he will come and have a chat with us tomorrow at three o'clock,
we will settle the matter." Then, after a short silence, turning right
around toward George, he added: "But write us a colorful little series
of articles on Algeria at once. Relate your experiences, and mix up
the colonization question with them as you did just now. They are
facts, genuine facts, and I am sure they will greatly please our
readers. But be quick. I must have the first article tomorrow or the
day after, while the subject is being discussed in the Chamber, in
order to catch the public."
Madame Walter added, with that serious grace which characterized
everything she did, and which lent an air of favor to her words:
"And you have a charming title, 'Recollections of a Chasseur
d'Afrique.' Is it not so, Monsieur Norbert?"
The old poet, who had won renown late in life, feared and hated
newcomers. He replied dryly: "Yes, excellent, provided that the
keynote be followed, for that is the great difficulty; the exact note,
what in music is called the pitch."
Madame Forestier cast on Duroy a smiling and protective glance,
the glance of a connoisseur, which seemed to say: "Yes, you will get
on." Madame de Marelle had turned toward him several times, and the
diamond in her ear quivered incessantly as though the drop of water
was about to fall.
The little girl remained quiet and serious, her head bent over her
plate.
But the servant passed round the table, filling the blue glasses
with Johannisberger wine, and Forestier proposed a toast, drinking
with a bow to Monsieur Walter: "Prosperity to the Vie Francaise."
Everyone bowed toward the proprietor, who smiled, and Duroy,
intoxicated with success, emptied his glass at a gulp. He would have
emptied a whole barrel after the same fashion; it seemed to him that
he could have eaten an ox or strangled a lion. He felt a superhuman
strength in his limbs, unconquerable resolution and unbounded hope
in his mind. He was now at home among these people; he had just
taken his position, won his place. His glance rested on their faces
with a new-born assurance, and he ventured for the first time to
address his neighbor: "You have the prettiest earrings I have ever
seen, Madame."
She turned toward him with a smile. "It was an idea of my own to
have the diamonds hung like that, just at the end of a thread. They
really look like dewdrops, do they not?"
He murmured, ashamed of his own daring, and afraid of making a
fool of himself:
"It is charming; but the ear, too, helps to set it off."
She thanked him with a look, one of those woman's looks that go
straight to the heart. And as he turned his head he again met Madame
Forestier's eyes, always kindly, but now he thought sparkling with a
livelier mirth, an archness, an encouragement.
All the men were now talking at once with gesticulations and
raised voices. They were discussing the great project of a subway
system. The subject was not exhausted till dessert was finished,
everyone having a great deal to say about the slowness of the
methods of communication in Paris, the inconvenience of the tramway,
the delays of omnibus traveling, and the rudeness of cabmen.
Then they left the dining room to take coffee. Duroy, in jest,
offered his arm to the little girl. She gravely thanked him, and
rose on tiptoe in order to rest her hand on it.
On returning to the drawing room he again experienced the
sensation of entering a greenhouse. In each of the four corners of the
room tall palms unfolded their elegantly shaped leaves, rising to
the ceiling, and there spreading fountain-wise.
On each side of the fireplace were india-rubber plants like round
columns, with their dark green leaves tapering one above the other;
and on the piano two unknown shrubs covered with flowers, those of one
all crimson and those of the other all white, had the appearance of
artificial plants, looking too beautiful to be real.
The air was cool, and laden with a soft, vague perfume that could
scarcely be defined. The young fellow, now more himself, considered
the room more attentively. It was not large; nothing attracted
attention with the exception of the shrubs; no bright color struck
one, but one felt at one's ease in it; one felt soothed and refreshed,
and, as it were, caressed by one's surroundings. The walls were
covered with an old-fashioned material of faded violet, spotted with
little flowers in yellow silk about the size of flies. Hangings of
grayish-blue cloth, embroidered here and there with crimson poppies,
draped the doorways, and the chairs of all shapes and sizes, scattered
about the room, lounging chairs, easy chairs, ottomans, and stools,
were upholstered in Louis XVI silk or Utrecht velvet, with a crimson
pattern on a cream-colored background.
"Do you take coffee, Monsieur Duroy?" and Madame Forestier held
out a cup toward him with that smile which never left her lips.
"Thank you, Madame." He took the cup, and as he bent forward to take
a lump of sugar from the sugar bowl carried by the little girl, Madame
Forestier said to him in a low voice: "Pay attention to Madame
Walter."
Then she drew back before he had time to answer a word.
He first drank off his coffee, which he was afraid of dropping
onto the carpet; then, his mind more at ease, he sought for some
excuse to approach the wife of his new employer, and begin a
conversation. All at once he noticed that she was holding an empty cup
in her hand, and as she was at some distance from a table, did not
know where to put it. He darted forward with, "Allow me, Madame?"
"Thank you, sir."
He took away the cup and then returned.
"If you knew, Madame," he began, "the happy hours the Vie
Francaise helped me to pass when I was away in the desert. It is
really the only paper that is readable outside of France, for it is
more literary, wittier, and less monotonous than the others. There
is something of everything in it."
She smiled with amiable indifference, and answered seriously:
"Monsieur Walter has had a great deal of trouble creating a type
of newspaper that answers the needs of the day."
And they began to chat. He had an easy flow of commonplace
conversation, a charm in his voice and look, and an irresistible
seductiveness about his mustache. It curled coquettishly about his
lips, reddish brown, with a paler tint about the ends. They chatted
about Paris, its suburbs, the banks of the Seine, watering places,
summer amusements, all the current topics on which one can chat
indefinitely without wearying oneself.
Then as Monsieur Norbert de Varenne approached with a liqueur
glass in his hand, Duroy discreetly withdrew.
Madame de Marelle, who had been speaking with Madame Forestier,
summoned him.
"Well, sir," she said, abruptly, "so you want to try your hand at
journalism?"
He spoke vaguely of his prospects, and there recommenced with her
the conversation he had just had with Madame Walter, but as he was now
a better master of his subject, he showed his superiority in it,
repeating as his own the things he had just heard. And he
continually looked his companion in the eyes, as though to give deep
meaning to what he was saying.
She, in her turn, related anecdotes with the easy flow of spirits of
a woman who knows she is witty, and is always seeking to appear so,
and becoming familiar, she laid her hand from time to time on his arm,
and lowered her voice to make trifling remarks which thus assumed a
character of intimacy. He was inwardly excited by her contact. He
would have liked to have shown his devotion for her on the spot, to
have defended her, shown her what he was worth, and his delay in his
replies to her showed the preoccupation of his mind.
But suddenly, without any reason, Madame de Marelle called,
"Laurine!" and the little girl came.
"Sit down here, child; you will catch cold near the window."
Duroy was seized with a wild longing to kiss the child. It was as
though some part of the kiss would reach the mother.
He asked in a gallant, and at the same time fatherly, tone: "Will
you allow me to kiss you, Mademoiselle?"
The child looked up at him in surprise.
"Answer, my dear," said Madame de Marelle, laughingly.
"Yes, sir, this time; but don't count on it always."
Duroy, sitting down, lifted Laurine onto his knees and brushed the
fine curly hair above her forehead with his lips.
Her mother was surprised. "What! she has not run away; it is
astounding. Usually she will only let ladies kiss her. You are
irresistible, Monsieur Duroy."
He blushed without answering, and gently jogged the little girl on
his knee.
Madame Forestier drew near, and exclaimed, with astonishment: "What,
Laurine tamed! What a miracle!"
Jacques Rival also came up, cigar in mouth, and Duroy rose to take
leave, afraid of spoiling by some unlucky remark the work done, his
task of conquest begun.
He bowed, softly pressed the little outstretched hands of the women,
and then heartily shook those of the men. He noted that the hand of
Jacques Rival, warm and dry, answered cordially to his grip; that of
Norbert de Varenne, damp and cold, slipped through his fingers; that
of old Walter, cold and flabby, was without expression or energy;
and that of Forestier was plump and moist. His friend said to him in a
low tone, "Tomorrow, at three o'clock; do not forget."
"Oh! no; don't be afraid of that."
When he found himself once more on the stairs he felt a longing to
run down them, so great was his joy, and he darted forward, going down
two steps at a time, but suddenly he caught sight in a large mirror on
the second-floor landing of a gentleman in a hurry, who was
advancing briskly to meet him, and he stopped short, ashamed, as if he
had been caught tripping. Then he looked at himself in the glass for
some time, astonished at being really such a handsome fellow, smiled
complacently, and taking leave of his reflection, bowed low to it as
one bows to a personage of importance.
3
-
When George Duroy found himself in the street he hesitated as to
what he should do. He wanted to run, to dream, to wander about
thinking of the future as he breathed the soft night air, but the
thought of the series of articles asked for by old Walter haunted him,
and he decided to go home at once and set to work.
He walked along quickly, reached the outer boulevards, and
followed them as far as the Rue Boursault, where he dwelt. The
house, six stories high, was inhabited by a score of small households,
tradespeople or workmen, and he experienced a sickening sensation of
disgust, a longing to leave the place and live like well-to-do
people in a clean dwelling with rugs, as he ascended the stairs,
lighting himself with wax matches on his way up the dirty steps,
littered with bits of paper, cigarette ends, and scraps of kitchen
refuse. A stagnant stench of cooking, cesspools, and humanity, a close
smell of dirt and old walls, which no rush of air could have driven
out of the building, filled it from top to bottom.
The young fellow's room, on the fifth floor, looked into a kind of
abyss, the huge passage of the Western Railway just beyond the
tunnel exit near 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 farther on a
glimpse could be caught of others, and others again still farther.
Every moment whistles, prolonged or brief, pierced the silence of
the night, some near at hand, others scarcely discernible, coming from
a distance in the direction of Asnieres. 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 block of letter paper in the
place. Well, too bad, 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 foreword till tomorrow, and to set to work at once to
describe Algiers.
And he traced on his paper the words: "Algiers is a completely 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
cane-bottomed chair his tall hat, his only one, brim uppermost, seemed
to be awaiting alms.
The wallpaper, gray with blue flowers, 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 hair ointment 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 squalid existence the very next day.
A frantic desire to work 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
anteroom of vast and mysterious Africa; the Africa of wandering
Arabs and unknown tribes of Negroes; that unexplored, inviting
Africa of which we are sometimes shown in zoos the
improbable-looking animals seemingly made to figure in fairy tales:
ostriches, those exaggerated fowls; gazelles, those divine goats;
surprising and grotesque giraffes; grave-looking camels, monstrous
hippopotami, shapeless rhinoceri, and 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 laundry 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.
He turned 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,
far off, across the fields and plains toward the sea. And the
recollection of his parents stirred in Duroy's breast. It would pass
near them, that train, within a few miles 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 failed to get 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 in 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
successfully develop.
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 clever
chap who knows on which side his bread is buttered," and he had
promised himself to act up to this character.
His Norman conscience, worn by the daily dealings of garrison
life, rendered elastic by the examples of pillaging in Africa, illicit
commissions, shady dodges; spurred, too, by the notions of honor
current in the army, military bravado, patriotic sentiments, the
fine-sounding tales current among noncoms, and the vainglory 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, begun 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
would marry the daughter of some banker or nobleman he had met 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 toward 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:
"Oh well, 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 or anxiety, and
jumping out of bed, opened his window to drink a good cup of fresh
air, as he phrased it.
The houses of the Rue de Rome opposite, on the other side of the
broad railway line, glittering in the rays of the 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 countryside,
and he murmured: "It would be devilish nice out there on a day like
this." Then he bethought himself that he must set to work, and 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 got dressed.
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. So he 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 welled up 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'm sure, but I don't know how to set
about beginning. I have plenty of ideas, but I can't 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 to ask you to give me a hand. 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 don't
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 no 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 toward the staircase, said: "Go along, you idiot, 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 I don't worry 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 manservant, 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
downstairs, 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 worktable, as much at her
ease as if in her drawing room, engaged on everyday tasks. A faint
perfume emanated from her dressing gown, a fresh early-morning
perfume. 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 it is."
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 about Algeria, the one 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 was nice of him."
"Yes, madame. He said that you could 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 handwriting at the office. And we will turn
out an article for you; and 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 toward her with astonishment.
"But that is just what I don't know, since that's what I came to see
you about."
She replied: "Oh, I will put it in order for you. I will make the
sauce, but you must furnish the ingredients."
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 to 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 imagine that you are narrating your impressions to a friend,
which will allow you to write a lot of tomfoolery, 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. Having nothing else to do in a little cabin of dried mud
which serves me as a habitation, I will send you a kind of journal
of my life, day by day, and hour by hour. It will be a little lively
at times, but no matter, you are not obliged to show it to your lady
friends.'"
She paused to relight her cigarette, which had gone out, and the
faint scratching 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 an easy 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 Simbretas, whom we used to call Old
Ipecac? When we thought ourselves ripe for a twenty-four hours' stay
in the infirmary, that blessed sojourning place, we would pay him a
visit. He would be sitting in his chair, with his fat legs in his
red trousers, wide apart, his hands on his knees, and his elbows stuck
out, rolling his great popeyes and gnawing his white mustache.
"'You remember his favorite mode of treatment: "This man's stomach
is out of order. Give him a dose of emetic number three, according
to my prescription, and then twelve hours off duty, and he will be all
right."
"'It was a sovereign remedy, that emetic- sovereign and
irresistible. One swallowed it because one had to. Then when one had
undergone the effects of Old Ipecac's prescription, one enjoyed twelve
well-earned hours' rest.
"'Well, my dear fellow, to reach Africa, it is necessary to
undergo for forty 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, and
dictated as she puffed out little whiffs of smoke, which, issuing at
first through a little round hole in the midst of her compressed lips,
slowly evaporated, leaving in the air faint gray lines, a kind of
transparent mist, like a spider's web. Sometimes with her open hand
she would brush these light traces aside; at other times she would cut
them asunder with her forefinger, and then watch with serious
attention the two halves of the almost impenetrable vapor slowly
disappear.
Duroy, with his eyes raised, followed all her gestures, her
attitudes, the movements of her form and features- busied with this
vague pastime which did not preoccupy her thoughts.
She now imagined the incidents of the journey, sketched traveling
companions invented by herself, and a love affair with the wife of
an infantry captain on her way to join her husband.
Then, sitting down again, she questioned Duroy on the topography
of Algeria, of which she was absolutely ignorant. In ten minutes she
knew as much about it as he did, and she dictated a little chapter
of political and colonial geography to give the reader some background
in such matters and prepare him to understand the serious questions
which were to be brought out in the following articles. She
continued with a trip into the province of Oran, an imaginary trip, in
which it was, above all, a question of women, Moorish, Jewish, and
Spanish.
"That is what interests people most," she said.
She wound up with a sojourn at Saida, at the foot of the great
tablelands; and with a nice little intrigue between the noncom, George
Duroy, and a Spanish working-girl employed at the esparto-grass
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 among the rocks.
And she gleefully uttered the words: "To be continued tomorrow."
Then rising, she added: "That is how one writes an article, my dear
sir. Sign it, if you please."
He hesitated.
"But sign it, I tell you."
Then he began to laugh, and wrote at the bottom of the page, "George
Duroy."
She went on smoking as she walked up and down; and he still kept
looking at her, unable to find anything to say to thank her, happy
to be with her, filled with gratitude, and with the sensual pleasure
of this newborn intimacy. It seemed to him that everything surrounding
him was part of her, everything- even the walls covered with books.
The chairs, the furniture, the air in which the perfume of tobacco was
floating, had something special, nice, sweet, and charming, which
emanated 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."
"Isn't she?"
"Yes, certainly."
He longed to add: "But not as attractive as yourself," but dared
not.
She resumed: "And if you only knew how funny, original, and
intelligent she is. She is a bohemian- a real bohemian. That is why
her husband isn't very fond of her. He only sees her defects, and does
not appreciate her good qualities."
Duroy felt stupefied at learning that Madame de Marelle was married,
and yet 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's an inspector on the Northern Railway. He spends eight days
out 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 how charming 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
going to stay forever, that he was at home.
But the door opened noiselessly, and a tall gentleman entered
without being announced. He stopped short on seeing a stranger. Madame
Forestier seemed troubled for a moment; then she said in natural
tones, though a slight rosy flush had risen to her cheeks:
"Come in, my dear sir. I must introduce one of Charles's old
friends, Monsieur George Duroy, a future journalist." Then in
another tone, she added: "Our best and most intimate friend, the Count
de Vaudrec."
The two men bowed, looking each other in the eyes, and Duroy at once
took his leave.
There was no attempt to detain him. He stammered a few thanks,
grasped the outstretched hand of Madame Forestier, bowed again to
the newcomer, who preserved the cold, grave air of a man-about-town,
and went out quite 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, asking himself whence came this sudden melancholy. He could not
tell, but the stern face of the Count de Vaudrec, already somewhat
aged, with gray hair, and the calmly insolent look of a very wealthy
man, constantly recurred to his mind. 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 overhead, a trifle
noticed, the least thing suffices sometimes to bring about. It
seemed to him, too, that this man, without his being able to guess
why, had been displeased at finding him there.
He had nothing more to do till three o'clock, and it was not yet
noon. He still had six francs fifty centimes in his pocket, so he
lunched at Duval's restaurant. Then he prowled about the boulevard,
and as three o'clock struck, ascended the staircase, in itself an
advertisement, of the Vie Francaise.
The messengers-in-waiting were seated with folded arms on a bench,
while at a kind of desk a doorkeeper was sorting the correspondence
that had just arrived. The entire get-up of the place, intended to
impress visitors, was perfect. Everyone had the appearance, bearing,
dignity, and smartness suitable to the anteroom of a large newspaper.
"Monsieur Walter, if you please?" inquired Duroy.
"Monsieur Walter is engaged, sir," replied the doorkeeper. "Will you
take a seat, sir?" and he indicated the waiting room, already full
of people.
There were men grave, important-looking, and decorated; and shabby
men without visible linen, whose frock coats, buttoned up to the chin,
bore upon the breast stains recalling the outlines of continents and
seas on geographical maps. There were three women among them. One of
them, pretty, smiling, and heavily made up, looked like a
prostitute; her neighbor, with a wrinkled, tragic countenance, made up
also, but in more severe fashion, had about her something worn and
artificial which old actresses generally have- a kind of false
youth, like a scent of stale love. The third woman, in mourning, sat
in a corner, with the air of an unhappy widow. Duroy thought that
she had come to ask for charity.
However, no one was ushered into the room beyond, and more than
twenty minutes 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 three o'clock. In any case, see whether my friend, Monsieur
Forestier, is here."
He was at once ushered along a lengthy passage, which brought him to
a large room where four gentlemen were writing at a large
green-covered table.
Forestier standing before the fireplace was smoking a cigarette
and playing at cup and ball. He was very clever at this, and kept
spiking the 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
of his arm, saying: "Oh! here you are, then. Yesterday I landed the
ball fifty-seven times right off. Saint-Potin is the only one who
can beat me at it here. Have you seen the boss? There is nothing
funnier than to see that old fool Norbert playing at cup and ball.
He opens his mouth as if he was going to swallow the ball every time."
One of the others turned round toward him, saying: "I say,
Forestier, I know of one for sale, a beauty in West Indian wood; it is
said to have belonged to the Queen of Spain. They want sixty francs
for it. That's not dear."
Forestier asked again: "Where does it live?"
And as he had missed his thirty-seventh shot, he opened a cupboard
in which Duroy saw a score of magnificent cups and balls, arranged and
numbered like a collection of art objects. Then having put back the
one he had been using in its usual place, he repeated: "Where does
this gem live?"
The journalist replied: "At a ticket-office of the Vaudeville. I
will bring it to you tomorrow, if you like."
"All right. If it is really a good one I will take it; one can never
have too many." Then turning to Duroy he added: "Come with me. I
will take you in to see the boss; otherwise you might be getting moldy
here till seven in the evening."
They recrossed the waiting room, in which the same people were
waiting in the same order. As soon as Forestier appeared the young
woman and the old actress, rising quickly, came up to him. He took
them aside one after the other into the bay of the window, and
although they took care to talk in low tones, Duroy noticed that
they were on familiar terms.
Then, having passed through two padded doors, they entered the
publisher's office. The conference which had been going on for an hour
or so was nothing more than a game of ecarte with some of the
gentlemen with the flat-brimmed hats whom Duroy had noticed the
night before.
Monsieur Walter dealt and played with concentrated attention and
crafty movements, while his adversary threw down, picked up, and
handled the light bits of colored pasteboard with the swiftness,
skill, and grace of a practiced player. Norbert de Varenne, seated
in the managerial armchair, was writing an article. Jacques Rival,
stretched at full length on a couch, was smoking a cigar with his eyes
closed.
The room smelled close, with that blended odor of leather-covered
furniture, stale tobacco, and printing-ink peculiar to editors'
rooms and familiar to all journalists. Upon the black wood table,
inlaid with brass, lay an incredible pile of papers, letters, cards,
newspapers, magazines, bills, and printed matter of every description.
Forestier shook hands with the bettors standing behind the card
players, and without saying a word watched the progress of the game;
then, as soon as old Walter had won, he said: "Here is my friend,
Duroy."
The publisher glanced sharply at the young fellow over the glasses
of his spectacles, and said:
"Have you brought my article? It would go very well today with the
Morel debate."
Duroy took the sheets of paper folded in four from his pocket,
saying: "Here it is sir."
The publisher seemed pleased, and remarked, with a smile: "Very
good, very good. 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, Monsieur
Walter. I did it with him to give him a lesson in the tricks of the
trade. It is very well done."
And the publisher, who was gathering up the cards dealt by a tall,
thin gentleman, a deputy belonging to the Left Center, remarked with
indifference: "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 to replace Marambot. Shall I engage him on the same terms?"
"Yes, certainly."
Taking his friend's arm, the journalist led him away, while Monsieur
Walter resumed the game.
Norbert de Varenne had not lifted his head; he did not appear to
have seen or recognized Duroy. Jacques Rival, on the contrary, had
taken his hand with the marked and demonstrative energy of a comrade
who may be reckoned upon in the case of any little difficulty.
They passed through the waiting room again, and as everyone looked
at them, Forestier said to the youngest of the women, in a tone loud
enough to be heard by the rest: "Monsieur Walter will see you
directly. He is just now in conference with two members of the
Budget Committee."
Then he passed swiftly on, with an air of hurry and importance, as
though about to draft at once an article of the utmost weight.
As soon as they were back in the reporters' room Forestier at once
took up his cup and ball, and as he began to play with it again,
said to Duroy, interrupting his sentences in order to count his shots:
"You will come here every day at three o'clock, and I will tell you
the places you are to go to, either during the day or in the
evening, or the next morning- One- I will give you, first of all, a
letter of introduction to the head of the First Department of the
Prefecture of Police- two- who will put you in communication with
one of his clerks. You will settle with him about all the important
news- three- from the Prefecture, official and quasi-official news,
you know. In all matters of detail you will apply to Saint-Potin,
who is up in the work- four- you can see him by-and-by, or tomorrow.
You must, above all, cultivate the knack of dragging information out
of men I send you to see- five- and to get in everywhere, in spite
of closed doors- six. You will get a salary of two hundred francs a
month, plus two sous a line for the interesting items you glean-
seven- and two sous a line for all articles written by you to order on
different subjects- eight."
Then he gave himself up entirely to his game, and went on slowly
counting: "Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen." He missed the
fourteenth, and swore, "Damn that thirteen, it always brings me bad
luck. 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 ball from the cupboard. He was a little man who looked like a boy,
although he was really thirty-five. Several other journalists, as they
came in, went one after the other to get 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 match having begun, the two who were still working
got up to act as umpires. Forestier won by eleven points. Then the
little man, with the juvenile aspect, who had lost, rang for the
messenger, and gave the order, "Nine beers." And they began to play
again pending the arrival of these refreshments.
Duroy drank a glass of beer with his new comrades, and then said
to his friend: "What am I to do now?"
"I have nothing for you today. You can go if you want to."
"And our- our- article, will it go in tonight?"
"Yes, but do not bother yourself about it; I will correct the
proofs. Write the continuation for tomorrow, and come here at three
o'clock, the same as today."
Duroy having shaken hands with everyone, without even knowing
their names, went down the magnificent staircase with a light heart
and high spirits.
4
-
George Duroy slept badly, so excited was he by the wish to see his
article in print. He was up as soon as it was daylight, and was
prowling about the streets long before the hour at which the porters
from the newspaper offices run with their papers from kiosk to
kiosk. He went on to the Saint-Lazare station, knowing that the Vie
Francaise would be delivered there before it reached his own district.
As he was still too early, he wandered up and down on the footpath.
He witnessed the arrival of the newspaper vendor who opened her
kiosk, and then saw a man bearing on his head a pile of papers. He
rushed forward. There were the Figaro, the Gil Blas, the Gaulois,
the Evenement, and two or three morning journals, but the Vie
Francaise was not among them. Fear seized him. Suppose the
"Recollections of a Chasseur d'Afrique" had been kept over for the
next day, or that by chance they had not at the last moment seemed
suitable to old Walter.
Turning back to the kiosk, he saw that the paper was on sale without
his having seen it brought there. He darted forward, unfolded it,
after having thrown down the three sous, and ran through the headlines
of the articles on the first page. Nothing. His heart began to beat,
and he experienced strong emotion on reading at the foot of a column
in large letters, "George Duroy." It was in; what happiness!
He began to walk along unconsciously, the paper in his hand and
his hat on one side of his head, with a longing to stop the
passersby in order to say to them: "Buy this, buy this, there is an
article by me in it." He would have liked to have bellowed with all
the power of his lungs, like some vendors of papers at night on the
boulevards, "Read the Vie Francaise; read George Duroy's article,
'Recollections of a Chasseur d'Afrique.'" And suddenly he felt a
wish to read this article himself, read it in a public place, a
cafe, in sight of all. He looked about for some establishment
already filled with customers. He had to walk in search of one for
some time. He sat down at last in front of a kind of wineshop, where
several customers were already installed, and asked for a glass of
rum, as he would have asked for a glass of absinthe, without
thinking of the time. Then he cried: "Waiter, bring me the Vie
Francaise."
A man in a white apron stepped up, saying: "We have not got it, sir;
we only get the Rappel, the Siecle, the Lanterne, and the Petit
Parisien."
"What a place!" exclaimed Duroy, in a tone of anger and disgust.
"Here, go and buy it for me."
The waiter hastened to do so, and brought back the paper. Duroy
began to read his article, and several times said aloud: "Very good,
very well put," to attract the attention of his neighbors, and inspire
them with the wish to know what there was in this sheet. Then, on
going away, he left it on the table. The owner of the place,
noticing this, called him back, saying: "Sir, sir, you are
forgetting your paper."
And Duroy replied: "Keep it, I have finished with it. As a matter of
fact, there is a very interesting article in it this morning."
He did not indicate the article, but he noticed as he went away
one of his neighbors take the Vie Francaise up from the table on which
he had left it.
He thought: "What shall I do now?" And he decided to go to his
office, take his month's salary, and tender his resignation. He felt a
thrill of anticipatory pleasure at the thought of the faces that would
be pulled by his boss and his colleagues. The notion of the boss's
bewilderment above all charmed him.
He walked slowly, so as not to get there too early, the cashier's
office not opening before ten o'clock.
His office was a large, gloomy room, in which gas had to be kept
burning almost all day long in winter. It looked into a narrow
courtyard, with other offices on the farther side of it. There were
eight clerks there, besides the boss's assistant hidden behind a
screen in one corner.
Duroy first went to get the hundred and eighteen francs
twenty-five centimes enclosed in a yellow envelope, and placed in
the drawer of the clerk entrusted with such payments, and then, with a
conquering air, entered the large room in which he had already spent
so many days.
As soon as he came in the boss's assistant, Monsieur Potel, called
out to him: "Ah! it is you, Monsieur Duroy? The boss has already asked
for you several times. You know that he will not allow anyone to plead
illness two days running without a doctor's certificate."
Duroy, who was standing in the middle of the room preparing his
sensational effect, replied in a loud voice: "I don't give a damn
whether he does or not."
There was a movement of stupefaction among the clerks, and
Monsieur Potel's features showed affrightedly over the screen which
shut him up as in a box. He barricaded himself behind it for fear of
draughts, for he was rheumatic, but had pierced a couple of holes
through the paper to keep an eye on his staff. A pin might have been
heard to fall. At length the assistant said, hesitatingly: "What did
you say?"
"I said that I don't give a damn about it. I have only called
today to tender my resignation. I am engaged on the staff of the Vie
Francaise at five hundred francs a month, and extra pay for all I
write. Indeed, I made my debut this morning."
He had promised himself to spin out his enjoyment, but had not
been able to resist the temptation of letting it all out at once.
The effect, too, was overwhelming. No one stirred.
Duroy went on: "I will go and inform Monsieur Perthuis, and then
come and wish you goodbye."
And he went out in search of the boss, who exclaimed, on seeing him:
"Ah, here you are. You know that I won't have-"
His late employee cut him short with: "It's not worth while
yelling like that."
Monsieur Perthuis, a stout man, as red as a turkey cock, was
choked with bewilderment.
Duroy continued: "I have had enough of this joint. I made my debut
this morning in journalism, where I am assured of a very good
position. I have the honor to bid you good-day." And he went out. He
was avenged.
As he promised, he went and shook hands with his old colleagues, who
scarcely dared to speak to him, for fear of compromising themselves,
for they had overheard his conversation with the chief, the door
having remained open.
He found himself in the street again, with his salary in his pocket.
He stood himself a substantial breakfast at a good but cheap
restaurant he was acquainted with, and having again purchased the
Vie Francaise, and left it on the table, went into several shops,
where he bought some trifles, solely for the sake of ordering them
to be sent home, and giving his name: "George Duroy," with the
addition, I am the editor of the Vie Francaise."
Then he gave the name of the street and the number, taking care to
add: "Leave it with the concierge."
As he had still some time to spare he went into the shop of a
lithographer, who printed visiting cards at a moment's notice before
the eyes of passersby, and had a hundred, bearing his new occupation
under his name, run off while he waited.
Then he went to the office of the paper.
Forestier received him loftily, as one receives a subordinate.
"Ah! here you are. Good. I have several things for you to attend to.
Just wait ten minutes. I will just finish what I am about."
And he went on with a letter he was writing.
At the other end of the large table a fat, bald little man, with a
very pale, puffy face, and a white and shining head, was writing, with
his nose on the paper owing to extreme shortsightedness. Forestier
said to him: "I say, Saint-Potin, when are you going to interview
those people?"
"At four o'clock."
"Will you take young Duroy here with you, and initiate him into
the secrets of the profession?"
"All right."
Then turning to his friend, Forestier added: "Have you brought the
continuation of the Algerian article? The opening this morning was
very successful."
Duroy, taken aback, stammered: "No. I thought I would have time this
afternoon. I had lots of things to do. I was not able."
The other shrugged his shoulders with a dissatisfied air. "If you
are not more exact than that you will spoil your future. Old Walter
was counting on your copy. I will tell him it will be ready
tomorrow. If you think you are to be paid for doing nothing you are
mistaken."
Then, after a short silence, he added: "One must strike while the
iron is hot, damn it."
Saint-Potin rose, saying: "I am ready."
Then Forestier, leaning back in his chair, assumed a serious
attitude in order to give his instructions, and turning to Duroy,
said: "This is what it is. Within the last two days the Chinese
General, Li Theng Fao, has arrived at the Hotel Continental, and the
Rajah Taposahib Ramaderao Pali at the Hotel Bristol. You will go and
interview them." Turning to Saint-Potin, he continued: "Don't forget
the main points I told you about. Ask the General and the Rajah
their opinion about the action of England in the East, their ideas
about her system of colonization and domination, and their hopes
regarding the intervention of Europe, and especially of France." He
was silent for a moment, and then added in a theatrical aside: "It
will be most interesting to our readers to learn at the same time what
is thought in China and India upon these matters which so forcibly
occupy public attention at this moment." He continued, for the benefit
of Duroy: "Watch how Saint-Potin sets to work; he is a first-class
reporter; and try to learn the trick of pumping a man in five
minutes."
Then he gravely resumed his writing, with the evident intention of
defining their relative positions, and putting his old comrade and
present colleague in his proper place.
As soon as they had crossed the threshold Saint-Potin began to
laugh, and said to Duroy: "There's a faker for you. He tried to fool
even us. One would really think he took us for his readers."
They reached the boulevard, and the reporter observed: "Will you
have a drink?"
"Certainly. It is awfully hot."
They turned into a cafe and ordered cool drinks. Saint-Potin began
to talk. He talked about the paper and everyone connected with it with
an abundance of astonishing details.
"The boss? A regular Jew! And you know, nothing can alter a Jew.
What a breed!" And he instanced some astounding traits of
avariciousness peculiar to the children of Israel, economies of ten
centimes, petty bargaining, shameful reductions asked for and
obtained, all the ways of a usurer and pawnbroker.
"And yet with all this, a good fellow who believes in nothing and
cheats everyone. His paper, which is quasi-official, Catholic,
Liberal, Republican, Orleanist- pay your money and take your choice-
was only started to help him in his speculations on the Stock
Exchange, and bolster up his other schemes. At that game he is very
clever, and nets millions through companies without four sous of
genuine capital."
He went on, addressing Duroy as "My dear fellow."
"And he says things worthy of Balzac, the old shark. Imagine, the
other day I was in his room with that old tub Norbert, and that Don
Quixote Rival, when Montelin, our business manager, came in with his
morocco briefcase, that briefcase that everyone in Paris knows,
under his arm. Walter raised his head and asked: 'What news?' Montelin
answered simply: 'I have just paid the sixteen thousand francs we owed
the papermaker.' The boss gave a jump, an astonishing jump. 'What do
you mean?' said he. 'I have just paid Monsieur Privas,' replied
Montelin. 'But you are mad.' 'Why?' 'Why- why- why-' He took off his
spectacles and wiped them. Then he smiled with that queer smile that
flits across his fat cheeks whenever he is going to say something deep
or smart, and went on in a mocking and derisive tone, 'Why? Because we
could have obtained a reduction of from four to five thousand francs.'
Montelin replied, in astonishment: 'But, sir, all the accounts were
correct, checked by me and passed by yourself.' Then the boss, quite
serious again, observed: 'What a fool you are. Don't you know,
Monsieur Montelin, that one should always let one's debts mount up, in
order to offer a settlement?'
And Saint-Potin added, with a knowing shake of his head, "Eh!
isn't that worthy of Balzac?"
Duroy had not read Balzac, but he replied, "By Jove! yes."
Then the reporter spoke of Madame Walter, an old goose; of Norbert
de Varenne, an old failure; of Rival, a copy of Fervacques. Next he
came to Forestier. "As for him, he has been lucky in marrying his
wife, that is all."
Duroy asked: "What is his wife, really?"
Saint-Potin rubbed his hands. "Oh! a deep one, a smart woman. She
was the mistress of an old rake named Vaudrec, the Count de Vaudrec,
who gave her a dowry and married her off."
Duroy suddenly felt a cold shiver run through him, a tingling of the
nerves, a longing to smack this babbler on the face. But he merely
interrupted him by asking:
"And your name is Saint-Potin?"
The other replied, simply enough:
"No! my name is Thomas. On the paper they have nicknamed me
Saint-Potin."
Duroy, as he paid for the drinks, observed: "But it seems to me that
time is getting on, and that we have two noble foreigners to call on."
Saint-Potin began to laugh. "You are still green. So you fancy I
am going to ask the Chinese and the Hindu what they think of
England? As if I did not know better than themselves what they ought
to think in order to please the readers of the Vie Francaise. I have
already interviewed five hundred of these Chinese, Persians, Hindus,
Chileans, Japanese, and others. They all reply the same, according
to me. I have only to take my article on the last comer and copy it
word for word. What has to be changed, though, is their appearance,
their name, their title, their age, and their suite. Oh! on that point
it does not do to make a mistake, for I should be caught up sharp by
the Figaro or the Gaulois. But on these matters the hall porters at
the Hotel Bristol and the Hotel Continental will put me right in
five minutes. We will smoke a cigar as we walk there. Five francs
cab hire to charge to the paper. That is how one sets about it, my
dear fellow, when one is practically inclined."
"It must be worth something to be a reporter under these
circumstances," said Duroy.
The journalist replied mysteriously: "Yes, but nothing pays so
well as news briefs, on account of the veiled advertisements in them."
They had got up and were passing down the boulevards toward the
Madeleine. Saint-Potin suddenly observed to his companion: "You know
if you have anything else to do, I don't really need you."
Duroy shook hands and left him. The notion of the article to be
written that evening worried him, and he began to think. He stored his
mind with ideas, reflections, opinions, and anecdotes as he walked
along, and went as far as the end of the Avenue des Champs-Elysees,
where only a few strollers were to be seen, the heat having caused
Paris to be evacuated.
Having dined at a wineshop near the Arc de Triomphe, he walked
slowly home along the outer boulevards and sat down at his table to
work. But as soon as he had the sheet of blank paper before his
eyes, all the materials that he had accumulated fled from his mind
as though his brain had evaporated. He tried to seize on fragments
of his recollections and to retain them, but they escaped him as
fast as he laid hold of them, or else they rushed on him altogether
pell-mell, and he did not know how to clothe and present them, nor
which one to begin with.
After an hour of attempts and five sheets of paper darkened by
opening phrases that had no continuation, he said to himself: "I am
not yet well enough up in the business. I must have another lesson."
And all at once the prospect of another morning's work with Madame
Forestier, the hope of another long and intimate tete-a-tete so
cordial and so pleasant, made him quiver with desire. He went to bed
in a hurry, almost afraid now of setting to work again and
succeeding all at once.
He did not get up the next day till somewhat late, putting off and
tasting in advance the pleasure of this visit.
It was past ten when he rang his friend's bell.
The manservant replied: "Master is engaged at his work."
Duroy had not thought that the husband might be at home. He
insisted, however, saying: "Tell him that I have called on a matter
requiring immediate attention."
After waiting five minutes he was shown into the study in which he
had passed such a pleasant morning. In the chair he had occupied
Forestier was now seated writing, in a dressing gown and slippers
and with a little English smoking-cap on his head, while his wife in
the same white dressing gown leaned against the mantelpiece and
dictated, cigarette in mouth.
Duroy, halting on the threshold, murmured: "I really beg your
pardon; I am afraid I am disturbing you."
His friend, turning his face toward him- an angry face, too-
growled: "What is it you want now? Be quick; we are pressed for time."
The intruder, taken back, stammered: "It is nothing; I beg your
pardon."
But Forestier, growing angry, exclaimed: "Come, hang it all, don't
waste time about it; you have not forced your way in just for the sake
of wishing us good morning, I suppose?"
Then Duroy, greatly perturbed, made up his mind. "No- you see- the
fact is- I can't quite manage my article- and you were- so- so kind
last time- that I hoped- that I ventured to come-"
Forestier cut him short. "You have a lot of nerve. So you think I |
