He had nothing further to do until three o’clock, and it was not yet noon. He had six francs fifty left in his pocket: so he went for lunch to a Duval restaurant.* Then, after wandering about on the boulevard, he climbed up that showy staircase at La Vie française just as three o’clock was striking.
The messengers sat waiting on a bench with arms crossed, while behind a kind of small professorial rostrum a clerk was sorting the mail that had just arrived. The setting was perfect for impressing visitors. Everyone looked decorous and personable, dignified and smart, as befitted the foyer of an important paper.
Duroy asked: ‘M. Walter, please?’
The clerk replied: ‘The editor is in conference. Kindly take a seat, Monsieur.’ And he indicated the waiting-room, which was already full of people.
There were serious, important-looking men, wearing decorations, and slovenly men with well-hidden shirts and coats buttoned to the neck, the fronts of which were stained in patterns like the indentations of continents and oceans on geographical maps. Among these people were three women. One of them was pretty, smiling, overdressed, and had the look of a tart; her neighbour, with a tragic, wrinkled, mask-like face, was also dressed elaborately, though austerely, and had something shabby and false about her, typical of former actresses, a kind of bogus, musty youthfulness, like an erotic perfume that has turned sour. The third woman, wearing mourning, was sitting in a corner, and looked like a widow in distress. Duroy supposed that she had come to ask for charity.
But no one was being shown in, and more than twenty minutes had passed.
Then Duroy had an idea, and went back to find the clerk: ‘M. Walter told me to come at three,’ he said. ‘In any case, go and see if my friend M. Forestier is here.’
This time he was shown into a long corridor leading into a big room where four men sat round a broad green table, writing.
Forestier was standing in front of the fireplace, smoking a cigarette and playing cup-and-ball.* He was very skilful at this game, catching the huge yellow boxwood ball on the little wooden spike every time. He was counting: ‘Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five…’ Duroy said: ‘Twenty-six.’ And, without interrupting the regular movement of his arm, his friend looked up. ‘Ah, here you are! Yesterday I caught it fifty-seven times in a row. The only person here who’s better than me is Saint-Potin. Have you seen the boss? There’s nothing so funny as watching that old half-wit Norbert playing cup-and-ball. He opens his mouth as if he’s going to swallow the thing.’
One of the sub-editors turned his head in his direction: ‘I say, Forestier, I know of one for sale, a splendid one in West Indian hardwood; it’s said to have belonged to the Queen of Spain. They’re asking sixty francs for it. That’s not a lot.’
Forestier enquired: ‘Where is it?’ And, as he had missed his thirty-seventh shot, he opened a cupboard in which Duroy caught sight of about twenty superb cups-and-balls, arranged and numbered like a collection of curios. Then, having put his instrument in its usual place, he said again: ‘Where is this gem?’
The journalist replied: ‘A ticket-seller for the Vaudeville has it. I’ll bring it to you tomorrow, if you like.’
‘Yes, all right. If it’s really beautiful, I’ll take it; you can never have too many cups-and-balls.’ Then, turning to Duroy: ‘Come with me, I’m going to take you in to see the boss, otherwise you could still be cooling your heels here at seven tonight.’
Again they passed through the waiting-room, where the same people still sat in the same order. The moment Forestier appeared, the young woman and the old actress sprang to their feet and came up to him. One after the other, he led them over to the window recess, and although they were careful to speak quietly, Duroy noticed that he addressed both of them familiarly. Then, after pushing open a couple of padded doors, they went into the Director’s office.
The conference, which had been going on for an hour, consisted of a game of écarté* with some of those gentlemen in flat hats whom Duroy had noticed the previous evening.
M. Walter was holding his cards and playing with concentrated attention and cautious gestures, while his opponent was putting down, picking up, and handling the light painted cards with the ease, skill, and grace of an experienced player. Norbert de Varenne was writing an article, sitting in the Director’s chair, and Jacques Rival lay stretched out full length on a divan, smoking a cigar with his eyes closed.
The room was stuffy, smelling of leather furniture and stale tobacco and printer’s ink; it had that special smell of newspaper offices familiar to every journalist.
On the table of dark wood inlaid with brass lay an incredible pile of papers: letters, cards, newspapers, magazines, tradesmen’s invoices, printed matter of every sort.
Forestier shook the hands of the punters who were standing behind the players, and watched the game in complete silence; then, as soon as M. Walter had won, he made the introduction. ‘Here’s my friend Duroy.’
The Director gave the young man a rapid glance over the top of his glasses, then enquired: ‘Have you brought my article? That would fit in very well today, along with the Morel debate.’
Duroy pulled the sheets of paper, folded in four, from his pocket: ‘Here you are, Monsieur.’
The Director, delighted, smiled: ‘Very good, very good. You’re a man of your word. You’ll have to take a look at this for me, Forestier?’
But Forestier hurriedly replied: ‘No need, M. Walter, I wrote the story with him to show him the ropes. It’s very good.’
And Walter, who now was picking up a hand dealt by a tall, thin man, a left-of-centre deputy, said casually: ‘That’s fine, then.’
Forestier did not let him begin his new game, but murmured, bending down close to his ear: ‘You know that you promised me to take on Duroy, in Marambot’s place. Would you like me to engage him on the same terms?’
‘Yes, certainly.’
And, taking his friend by the arm, the journalist led him away as M. Walter resumed his game.
Norbert de Varenne had not looked up, he appeared not to have seen or recognized Duroy. Jacques Rival, on the other hand, had shaken his hand with the open, deliberate warmth of a good friend whom you can count on in a tight corner.
They re-crossed the waiting-room and, as everyone looked up, Forestier said to the youngest of the women, loud enough to be heard by the other people waiting: ‘The Director will see you very shortly. He’s in conference at the moment, with two members of the Budget Commission.’*
Then he walked rapidly on, his manner hurried and self-important, as if he were just about to draft a dispatch of the gravest significance.
Once they were back in the newsroom, Forestier promptly picked up his cup-and-ball once more, and, beginning to play again, said to Duroy, interrupting his sentences to keep score: ‘So. You’ll come here at three every day, and I’ll tell you what errands there are and what people you must see, either during the day or in the evening or in the morning–one–I’ll begin by giving you a letter of introduction to the Police Chief at Division One of Police Headquarters–two–who’ll put you in touch with one of his staff. And you’ll make arrangements with him to get all the important news–three–from headquarters, I mean of course official or semi-official news. For the details, you must ask Saint-Potin, who knows what’s what–four–you’ll be seeing him shortly, or else tomorrow. What you’ll have to get used to, above all, is pumping the people I’ll send you to see–five–and pushing your way in everywhere, regardless of closed doors–six. For that you’ll be paid two hundred francs a month basic, plus two sous per line for any interesting news items you come up with–seven–plus two sous per line, also, for the articles that you’ll be commissioned to write on various topics–eight.’
After that, he concentrated solely on his game, still counting slowly: ‘nine–ten–eleven–twelve–thirteen.’ He missed the fourteenth, and swore: ‘Damn and blast that thirteen; the bastard always brings me bad luck. I’ll die on the thirtee
nth, for sure.’
One of the sub-editors, having finished what he was doing, also took a cup-and-ball from the cupboard; he was a very small man who looked like a child, although he was thirty-five; then several other journalists who had come in, went in turn to collect their own toy. Soon there were six of them, standing side by side with their backs to the wall, tossing into the air, with identical, regular movements, the balls which, depending on the wood from which they were made, were red, yellow, or black. A competition was set up, so the two sub-editors who were still working came over to judge it.
Forestier won by eleven points. Then the tiny child-like man, who had lost, rang for a messenger and ordered: ‘Nine beers.’ And, while they waited for the drinks, they started playing again.
Duroy drank a glass of beer with his new colleagues, then asked his friend: ‘What is there for me to do?’ The other replied: ‘I’ve nothing for you today. You can go if you like.’
‘And… our… our article… will it go in tonight?’
‘Yes, but don’t worry about it, I’ll correct the proofs. Do the next instalment for tomorrow, and be here at three, same as today.’
And Duroy, after shaking all the hands without even knowing the names of their owners, walked blithely down the handsome staircase, his heart full of jubilation.
CHAPTER 4
Georges Duroy slept badly, he was so excited at the prospect of seeing his article in print. He got up with the dawn, and was loitering in the street long before the time when newsboys race from kiosk to kiosk delivering the papers.
Knowing that La Vie française would appear at the Gare Saint-Lazare before it reached his own district, he went to the station. As it was still too early, he wandered about on the pavement. He watched the vendor arrive and open her glass-sided kiosk, then he caught sight of a man carrying on his head a huge pile of folded newspapers. Dashing over, he saw Le Figaro, the Gil Bias, Le Gaulois, L’Événement, and two or three other morning papers, but not La Vie française.
Suddenly he was filled with alarm: suppose the ‘Recollections of an African Cavalryman’ had been held over till the next day, or perhaps, at the last moment, old Walter hadn’t liked it?
Returning again to the kiosk, he realized that the paper was already on sale, although he had not seen it delivered. Flinging down his three sous, he hurriedly unfolded it, and skimmed the titles on the front page. Nothing. His heart began to pound as he opened out the paper and, filled with intense excitement, read at the bottom of a column, in large letters, ‘Georges Duroy.’ It was in! What a thrill!
He walked off unthinkingly, the paper in his hand, his hat at an angle, longing to stop the passers-by and tell them: ‘This is the paper to buy–this one here. There’s an article of mine in it.’ He would have liked to shout at the top of his voice, the way those paper-sellers on the boulevards do, in the evening: ‘Read La Vie française, read Georges Duroy’s article “Recollections of an African Cavalryman!”’ And he suddenly felt an urge to read the article himself, to read it in a public place, in a café where people would see him. So he looked for somewhere that was already busy. He had to walk for a long time. Eventually he sat down in front of a sort of wine-merchant’s where several customers were already seated, and ordered a rum, just as he might have ordered an absinthe, without giving a thought to the time of day. Then he called: ‘Waiter, give me La Vie française.”
A man in a white apron hurried over: ‘We haven’t got it, Monsieur, we only take Le Rappel, Le Siècle, La Lanterne and Le Petit Parisien.’
His voice angry and indignant, Duroy retorted: ‘What sort of a place is this! Well, go and buy me a copy.’ The waiter hurried off and came back with it. Duroy began, to read his article, saying loudly several times: ‘Very good! Very good!’ to attract his neighbours’ attention and make them long to know what was in the paper. Then, as he went out, he left it behind on the table. Noticing this, the proprietor called him back: ‘Monsieur, Monsieur, you’ve forgotten your paper!’
And Duroy replied: ‘You can have it, I’ve read it. By the way, there’s something very interesting in it today.’
He did not specify what, but as he walked off he saw someone sitting nearby pick up La Vie française from the table where he had left it.
‘What shall I do now?’ he wondered. Deciding to go to his office to collect his wages and hand in his resignation, he tingled with pleasurable anticipation at the thought of the expression on the faces of his boss and his fellow workers. The idea of his boss’s bewilderment, in particular, filled him with delight.
He walked slowly, so as not to arrive before nine-thirty, since the cashier’s desk did not open until ten. His office was a large, gloomy room where the gas had to be kept lit almost all day long in winter. It overlooked a narrow courtyard, and faced onto other offices. Eight clerks worked in it, as well as a deputy chief clerk, hidden behind a screen.
First, Duroy went to collect his one hundred and eighteen francs, twenty-five centimes, which were in a yellow envelope in the pay clerk’s drawer; next, he walked triumphantly into the vast office where he had, in the past, spent so many days.
As soon as he came in, the deputy chief clerk, M. Potel, called to him: ‘Ah, it’s you, M. Duroy. The boss has asked for you several times. You know that he doesn’t permit anyone to be off sick two days running without a doctor’s certificate.’
Duroy, standing in the middle of the room for maximum effect, replied in carrying tones: ‘Really! I don’t give a damn!’
Amid the general stupefaction, the head of a bewildered M. Potel appeared over the screen which shut him in like a box. He was subject to rheumatism, and barricaded himself behind it for fear of draughts. He had simply pierced two holes in the paper in order to keep an eye on his staff.
You could have heard a pin drop. Finally, the deputy chief clerk asked hesitantly: ‘What did you say?’
‘I said that I didn’t give a damn. I’ve only come today to hand in my resignation. I’ve joined the editorial staff of La Vie française at five hundred francs a month, plus so much per line. In fact, my first article is in this morning’s paper.’
He had promised himself to spin out the pleasure of his announcement, but could not resist the temptation to blurt everything out at once. In any case, the effect was perfect. Not a soul stirred.
Then Duroy announced: ‘I’ll go and tell M. Perthuis, then I’ll come back and say goodbye.’
He went in search of the boss, who exclaimed on seeing him: ‘Ah! There you are. You know I won’t have…’
His employee interrupted him: ‘There’s no point in bellowing like that…’
M. Perthuis, a big man with a beet-red face, was speechless with astonishment.
Duroy went on: ‘I’ve had enough of this dump of yours. I’ve started in journalism this morning, with a very nice salary. Good day to you.’
He then left the room. He had had his revenge.
He did go and shake hands with his former colleagues, who scarcely dared address a word to him, for fear of compromising themselves, because, as the door had been left open, they had overheard his exchange with the boss.
He found himself out in the street again, with his pay in his pocket. He treated himself to a tasty lunch at a good, moderately priced restaurant he knew; then, having bought La Vie française and again left it on his table at the restaurant, he went into several shops to buy small things, purely for the pleasure of having them delivered to his place and saying his name: Georges Duroy, adding: ‘I’m a subeditor at La Vie française.’ Then he gave the street and the number, being careful to stipulate: ‘Leave it with the concierge.’
As he still had plenty of time, he stopped at an engraver’s who made visiting cards on the spot, under the gaze of passers-by, and had a hundred printed there and then, showing his name and, below his name, his new position.
Then he went along to the paper.
Forestier greeted him condescendingly, as one greets an inferior: ‘Ah, here you a
re, good. I’ve a number of things for you to do. Wait, I’ll be about ten minutes. I’ve got this to finish first.’
And he went on with a letter he had started. At the other end of the large table, a very pale little man, very fat and bloated, his hairless skull white and shiny, sat writing, his nose right down on the paper because of his extreme myopia.
Forestier asked him: ‘Tell me, Saint-Potin, what time are you going to interview those fellows?’
‘At four.’
‘Take young Duroy here with you, and show him the tricks of the trade.’
‘Right.’
Then, turning to his friend, Forestier added: ‘Did you bring the next piece on Algeria? This morning’s opener was a great success.’
Disconcerted, Duroy stammered: ‘No… I thought I’d have time during the afternoon… I had so much to do, and I couldn’t…’
Forestier gave an exasperated shrug: ‘If you can’t be more dependable than that, you’ll wreck your chances here. Old Walter was relying on getting your copy. I’ll tell him he’ll have it tomorrow. If you think you’re going to be paid for doing nothing, you’re wrong.’
Then, after a silence, he added: ‘Damn it, you have to strike while the iron is hot!’
Saint-Potin stood up: ‘I’m ready,’ he said.
Forestier leant back in his chair and, assuming an almost pontifical pose to give his instructions, turned towards Duroy: ‘Well now. For the past couple of days we’ve had the Chinese General Li-Theng-Fao staying at the Continental, and the Rajah Taposahib Ramaderao Pali at the Hotel Bristol.* You’re going to interview them.’
Then, turning to Saint-Potin: ‘Don’t forget the main points I mentioned. Ask the General and the Rajah what they think about England’s dealings in the Far East, what they think of her system of colonization and colonial domination, and what their hopes are of European, and particularly French, intervention in their affairs.’
He fell silent, then added, speaking to no one in particular: ‘Our readers will find it extremely interesting to learn, at the same time, about the views held in China and in India on these topics, which are of such vital concern to the public at present.’