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.