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_ After changing his five-franc piece Georges Duroy left the
restaurant. He twisted his mustache in military style and cast a
rapid, sweeping glance upon the diners, among whom were three
saleswomen, an untidy music-teacher of uncertain age, and two women
with their husbands.
When he reached the sidewalk, he paused to consider what route he
should take. It was the twenty-eighth of June and he had only three
francs in his pocket to last him the remainder of the month. That
meant two dinners and no lunches, or two lunches and no dinners,
according to choice. As he pondered upon this unpleasant state of
affairs, he sauntered down Rue Notre Dame de Lorette, preserving his
military air and carriage, and rudely jostled the people upon the
streets in order to clear a path for himself. He appeared to be
hostile to the passers-by, and even to the houses, the entire city.
Tall, well-built, fair, with blue eyes, a curled mustache, hair
naturally wavy and parted in the middle, he recalled the hero of the
popular romances.
It was one of those sultry, Parisian evenings when not a breath of
air is stirring; the sewers exhaled poisonous gases and the
restaurants the disagreeable odors of cooking and of kindred smells.
Porters in their shirt-sleeves, astride their chairs, smoked their
pipes at the carriage gates, and pedestrians strolled leisurely
along, hats in hand.
When Georges Duroy reached the boulevard he halted again, undecided
as to which road to choose. Finally he turned toward the Madeleine
and followed the tide of people.
The large, well-patronized cafes tempted Duroy, but were he to drink
only two glasses of beer in an evening, farewell to the meager
supper the following night! Yet he said to himself: "I will take a
glass at the Americain. By Jove, I am thirsty."
He glanced at men seated at the tables, men who could afford to
slake their thirst, and he scowled at them. "Rascals!" he muttered.
If he could have caught one of them at a corner in the dark he would
have choked him without a scruple! He recalled the two years spent
in Africa, and the manner in which he had extorted money from the
Arabs. A smile hovered about his lips at the recollection of an
escapade which had cost three men their lives, a foray which had
given his two comrades and himself seventy fowls, two sheep, money,
and something to laugh about for six months. The culprits were never
found; indeed, they were not sought for, the Arab being looked upon
as the soldier's prey.
But in Paris it was different; there one could not commit such deeds
with impunity. He regretted that he had not remained where he was;
but he had hoped to improve his condition--and for that reason he
was in Paris!
He passed the Vaudeville and stopped at the Cafe Americain, debating
as to whether he should take that "glass." Before deciding, he
glanced at a clock; it was a quarter past nine. He knew that when
the beer was placed in front of him, he would drink it; and then
what would he do at eleven o'clock? So he walked on, intending to go
as far as the Madeleine and return.
When he reached the Place de l'Opera, a tall, young man passed him,
whose face he fancied was familiar. He followed him, repeating:
"Where the deuce have I seen that fellow?"
For a time he racked his brain in vain; then suddenly he saw the
same man, but not so corpulent and more youthful, attired in the
uniform of a Hussar. He exclaimed: "Wait, Forestier!" and hastening
up to him, laid his hand upon the man's shoulder. The latter turned,
looked at him, and said: "What do you want, sir?"
Duroy began to laugh: "Don't you remember me?"
"No."
"Not remember Georges Duroy of the Sixth Hussars."
Forestier extended both hands.
"Ah, my dear fellow, how are you?"
"Very well. And how are you?"
"Oh, I am not very well. I cough six months out of the twelve as a
result of bronchitis contracted at Bougival, about the time of my
return to Paris four years ago."
"But you look well."
Forestier, taking his former comrade's arm, told him of his malady,
of the consultations, the opinions and the advice of the doctors and
of the difficulty of following their advice in his position. They
ordered him to spend the winter in the south, but how could he? He
was married and was a journalist in a responsible editorial
position.
"I manage the political department on 'La Vie Francaise'; I report
the doings of the Senate for 'Le Salut,' and from time to time I
write for 'La Planete.' That is what I am doing."
Duroy, in surprise, glanced at him. He was very much changed.
Formerly Forestier had been thin, giddy, noisy, and always in good
spirits. But three years of life in Paris had made another man of
him; now he was stout and serious, and his hair was gray on his
temples although he could not number more than twenty-seven years.
Forestier asked: "Where are you going?"
Duroy replied: "Nowhere in particular."
"Very well, will you accompany me to the 'Vie Francaise' where I
have some proofs to correct; and afterward take a drink with me?"
"Yes, gladly."
They walked along arm-in-arm with that familiarity which exists
between schoolmates and brother-officers.
"What are you doing in Paris?" asked Forestier, Duroy shrugged his
shoulders.
"Dying of hunger, simply. When my time was up, I came hither to make
my fortune, or rather to live in Paris--and for six months I have
been employed in a railroad office at fifteen hundred francs a
year."
Forestier murmured: "That is not very much."
"But what can I do?" answered Duroy. "I am alone, I know no one, I
have no recommendations. The spirit is not lacking, but the means
are."
His companion looked at him from head to foot like a practical man
who is examining a subject; then he said, in a tone of conviction:
"You see, my dear fellow, all depends on assurance, here. A shrewd,
observing man can sometimes become a minister. You must obtrude
yourself and yet not ask anything. But how is it you have not found
anything better than a clerkship at the station?"
Duroy replied: "I hunted everywhere and found nothing else. But I
know where I can get three thousand francs at least--as riding-
master at the Pellerin school."
Forestier stopped him: "Don't do it, for you can earn ten thousand
francs. You will ruin your prospects at once. In your office at
least no one knows you; you can leave it if you wish to at any time.
But when you are once a riding-master all will be over. You might as
well be a butler in a house to which all Paris comes to dine. When
you have given riding lessons to men of the world or to their sons,
they will no longer consider you their equal."
He paused, reflected several seconds and then asked:
"Are you a bachelor?"
"Yes, though I have been smitten several times."
"That makes no difference. If Cicero and Tiberius were mentioned
would you know who they were?"
"Yes."
"Good, no one knows any more except about a score of fools. It is
not difficult to pass for being learned. The secret is not to betray
your ignorance. Just maneuver, avoid the quicksands and obstacles,
and the rest can be found in a dictionary."
He spoke like one who understood human nature, and he smiled as the
crowd passed them by. Suddenly he began to cough and stopped to
allow the paroxysm to spend itself; then he said in a discouraged
tone:
"Isn't it tiresome not to be able to get rid of this bronchitis? And
here is midsummer! This winter I shall go to Mentone. Health before
everything."
They reached the Boulevarde Poissoniere; behind a large glass door
an open paper was affixed; three people were reading it. Above the
door was printed the legend, "La Vie Francaise."
Forestier pushed open the door and said: "Come in." Duroy entered;
they ascended the stairs, passed through an antechamber in which two
clerks greeted their comrade, and then entered a kind of waiting-
room.
"Sit down," said Forestier, "I shall be back in five minutes," and
he disappeared.
Duroy remained where he was; from time to time men passed him by,
entering by one door and going out by another before he had time to
glance at them.
Now they were young men, very young, with a busy air, holding sheets
of paper in their hands; now compositors, their shirts spotted with
ink--carefully carrying what were evidently fresh proofs.
Occasionally a gentleman entered, fashionably dressed, some reporter
bringing news.
Forestier reappeared arm-in-arm with a tall, thin man of thirty or
forty, dressed in a black coat, with a white cravat, a dark
complexion, and an insolent, self-satisfied air. Forestier said to
him: "Adieu, my dear sir," and the other pressed his hand with: "Au
revoir, my friend." Then he descended the stairs whistling, his cane
under his arm.
Duroy asked his name.
"That is Jacques Rival, the celebrated writer and duelist. He came
to correct his proofs. Garin, Montel and he are the best witty and
realistic writers we have in Paris. He earns thirty thousand francs
a year for two articles a week."
As they went downstairs, they met a stout, little man with long
hair, who was ascending the stairs whistling. Forestier bowed low.
"Norbert de Varenne," said he, "the poet, the author of 'Les Soleils
Morts,'--a very expensive man. Every poem he gives us costs three
hundred francs and the longest has not two hundred lines. But let us
go into the Napolitain, I am getting thirsty."
When they were seated at a table, Forestier ordered two glasses of
beer. He emptied his at a single draught, while Duroy sipped his
beer slowly as if it were something rare and precious. Suddenly his
companion asked, "Why don't you try journalism?"
Duroy looked at him in surprise and said: "Because I have never
written anything."
"Bah, we all have to make a beginning. I could employ you myself by
sending you to obtain information. At first you would only get two
hundred and fifty francs a month but your cab fare would be paid.
Shall I speak to the manager?"
"If you will."
"Well, then come and dine with me to-morrow; I will only ask five or
six to meet you; the manager, M. Walter, his wife, with Jacques
Rival, and Norbert de Varenne whom you have just seen, and also a
friend of Mme. Forestier, Will you come?"
Duroy hesitated, blushing and perplexed. Finally he, murmured: "I
have no suitable clothes."
Forestier was amazed. "You have no dress suit? Egad, that is
indispensable. In Paris, it is better to have no bed than no
clothes." Then, fumbling in his vest-pocket, he drew from it two
louis, placed them before his companion, and said kindly: "You can
repay me when it is convenient. Buy yourself what you need and pay
an installment on it. And come and dine with us at half past seven,
at 17 Rue Fontaine."
In confusion Duroy picked up the money and stammered: "You are very
kind--I am much obliged--be sure I shall not forget."
Forestier interrupted him: "That's all right, take another glass of
beer. Waiter, two more glasses!" When he had paid the score, the
journalist asked: "Would you like a stroll for an hour?"
"Certainly."
They turned toward the Madeleine. "What shall we do?" asked
Forestier. "They say that in Paris an idler can always find
amusement, but it is not true. A turn in the Bois is only enjoyable
if you have a lady with you, and that is a rare occurrence. The cafe
concerts may divert my tailor and his wife, but they do not interest
me. So what can we do? Nothing! There ought to be a summer garden
here, open at night, where a man could listen to good music while
drinking beneath the trees. It would be a pleasant lounging place.
You could walk in alleys bright with electric light and seat
yourself where you pleased to hear the music. It would be charming.
Where would you like to go?"
Duroy did not know what to reply; finally he said: "I have never
been to the Folies Bergeres. I should like to go there."
His companion exclaimed: "The Folies Bergeres! Very well!"
They turned and walked toward the Faubourg Montmartre. The
brilliantly illuminated building loomed up before them. Forestier
entered, Duroy stopped him. "We forgot to pass through the gate."
The other replied in a consequential tone: "I never pay," and
approached the box-office.
"Have you a good box?"
"Certainly, M. Forestier."
He took the ticket handed him, pushed open the door, and they were
within the hall. A cloud of tobacco smoke almost hid the stage and
the opposite side of the theater. In the spacious foyer which led to
the circular promenade, brilliantly dressed women mingled with
black-coated men.
Forestier forced his way rapidly through the throng and accosted an
usher.
"Box 17?"
"This way, sir."
The friends were shown into a tiny box, hung and carpeted in red,
with four chairs upholstered in the same color. They seated
themselves. To their right and left were similar boxes. On the stage
three men were performing on trapezes. But Duroy paid no heed to
them, his eyes finding more to interest them in the grand promenade.
Forestier remarked upon the motley appearance of the throng, but
Duroy did not listen to him. A woman, leaning her arms upon the edge
of her loge, was staring at him. She was a tall, voluptuous
brunette, her face whitened with enamel, her black eyes penciled,
and her lips painted. With a movement of her head, she summoned a
friend who was passing, a blonde with auburn hair, likewise inclined
to embonpoint, and said to her in a whisper intended to be heard;
"There is a nice fellow!"
Forestier heard it, and said to Duroy with a smile: "You are lucky,
my dear boy. My congratulations!"
The ci-devant soldier blushed and mechanically fingered the two
pieces of gold in his pocket.
The curtain fell--the orchestra played a valse--and Duroy said:
"Shall we walk around the gallery?"
"If you like."
Soon they were carried along in the current of promenaders. Duroy
drank in with delight the air, vitiated as it was by tobacco and
cheap perfume, but Forestier perspired, panted, and coughed.
"Let us go into the garden," he said. Turning to the left, they
entered a kind of covered garden in which two large fountains were
playing. Under the yews, men and women sat at tables drinking.
"Another glass of beer?" asked Forestier.
"Gladly."
They took their seats and watched the promenaders. Occasionally a
woman would stop and ask with a coarse smile: "What have you to
offer, sir?"
Forestier's invariable answer was: "A glass of water from the
fountain." And the woman would mutter, "Go along," and walk away.
At last the brunette reappeared, arm-in-arm with the blonde. They
made a handsome couple. The former smiled on perceiving Duroy, and
taking a chair she calmly seated herself in front of him, and said
in a clear voice: "Waiter, two glasses."
In astonishment, Forestier exclaimed: "You are not at all bashful!"
She replied: "Your friend has bewitched me; he is such a fine
fellow. I believe he has turned my head."
Duroy said nothing.
The waiter brought the beer, which the women swallowed rapidly; then
they rose, and the brunette, nodding her head and tapping Duroy's
arm with her fan, said to him: "Thank you, my dear! However, you are
not very talkative."
As they disappeared, Forestier laughed and said: "Tell, me, old man,
did you know that you had a charm for the weaker sex? You must be
careful."
Without replying, Duroy smiled. His friend asked: "Shall you remain
any longer? I am going; I have had enough."
Georges murmured: "Yes, I will stay a little longer: it is not
late."
Forestier arose: "Very well, then, good-bye until to-morrow. Do not
forget: 17 Rue Fontaine at seven thirty."
"I shall not forget. Thank you."
The friends shook hands and the journalist left Duroy to his own
devices.
Forestier once out of sight, Duroy felt free, and again he joyously
touched the gold pieces in his pocket; then rising, he mingled with
the crowd.
He soon discovered the blonde and the brunette. He went toward them,
but when near them dared not address them.
The brunette called out to him: "Have you found your tongue?"
He stammered: "Zounds!" too bashful to say another word. A pause
ensued, during which the brunette took his arm and together they
left the hall. _
Read next: CHAPTER II. MADAME FORESTIER
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