He added, for Duroy’s benefit: ‘Watch the way Saint-Potin goes about it, he’s an excellent reporter, try to learn how to get everything out of someone in five minutes.’
Then he solemnly started writing again, with the obvious intention of establishing a clear distance, of putting his former friend and new colleague well and truly in his place.
The moment they were through the door, Saint-Potin began to laugh, and said to Duroy: ‘What a fraud! He’s trying to put one over on us. Anyone would think he takes us for his readers.’
They walked down towards the boulevard, and the reporter asked: ‘How about a drink?’
‘Yes, good idea. It’s very hot.’
They went into a cafe and ordered cold drinks. Saint-Potin began to talk. He talked about everybody and about the paper with an abundance of surprising detail.
‘The boss? A real Jew! And you know, the Jews, you’ll never change ’em. What a race!’ And he quoted some astonishing examples of avarice, of that avarice peculiar to the sons of Israel, savings of ten centimes, haggling worthy of a cook, shamefully small discounts asked for and obtained, all their money-lending, pawn-broking approach.
‘And yet, at the same time, he’s a good chap who doesn’t believe in anything and swindles everybody. His paper, which is semi-official, Catholic, liberal, republican, Orléanist,* one-size-fits-all, and has something for everyone, was only founded to further his dealings on the stock market and all his various other enterprises. He’s really good at that, and makes millions through companies that haven’t a sou of capital…’
He talked on and on, calling Duroy ‘my dear fellow’.
‘The old skinflint says things straight out of Balzac. Just imagine, the other day I was in his office with that halfwitted antique, Norbert, and our Don Quixote, Rival, when our business manager Montelin walks in with his morocco leather briefcase under his arm–the whole of Paris knows that briefcase. Walter squints up at him and says: “What’s the latest?” Montelin artlessly replies: “I’ve just paid the sixteen thousand francs we owe the paper supplier.”
‘The boss nearly jumped out of his skin. “What did you say?”
‘“That I’ve just paid M. Privas.”
‘“But you’re out of your mind!”
‘“Why?”
‘“Why… why… why.” He took off his glasses and wiped them. Then he smiled, an odd little smile that flutters round his fat cheeks whenever he’s going to say something cunning or outrageous, and in a mocking, emphatic tone he said: “Why? Because we could have got it reduced by four or five thousand francs.”
‘Montelin, astonished, retorted: “But Monsieur, all the bills were in order; they’d been checked by me and approved by you…”
‘Then the boss, growing serious again, declared: “I didn’t know anyone could be that naive. Please remember, M. Montelin, always incur debts; they enable you to negotiate.”’
And, giving an appreciative nod, Saint-Potin added: ‘Well? Straight out of Balzac isn’t he?’
Duroy had never read any Balzac, but he replied with conviction: ‘My God, yes.’
Then the reporter talked about Mme Walter, a dull, stupid woman, about Norbert de Varenne, an old has-been, about Rival, a rehash of Fervacques.* Finally he came to Forestier.
‘As for him, he’s had the good luck to marry his wife, that’s all.’
Duroy asked: ‘What’s his wife like, really?’
Saint-Potin rubbed his hands together: ‘Oh, she’s a cunning woman, she’s quite a one. She’s the mistress of an old lecher named Vaudrec, the Comte de Vaudrec, who gave her a dowry and married her off…’
Duroy suddenly felt a chill, a kind of nervous constriction, an urge to insult and slap the face of this gossip-monger. Instead he just interrupted him to ask:
‘Is Saint-Potin your real name?’
The other answered quite simply:
‘No, my name’s Thomas. They nicknamed me Saint-Potin at the paper.’
Duroy, as he paid for the drinks, went on:
‘It seems to me that it’s getting late, and we’ve two most distinguished gentlemen to see.’
Saint-Potin began to laugh: ‘You’re still very naive, aren’t you! Do you really believe that I’m going to ask that Chinaman and that Indian what they think of England? As if I didn’t know better than they do what they’re supposed to think for the readers of La Vie française! I’ve already interviewed hundreds of those Chinese, Persians, Hindus, Chileans, Japanese, and suchlike. As far as I can see, they all tell me the same thing. I simply have to take the article I wrote most recently and copy it word for word. What does change, naturally, is their appearance, their names, their titles, their age, their staff. Oh! I mustn’t make a single mistake there, because Le Figaro or Le Gaulois would come down on me like a ton of bricks. But I’ll get what I need on that subject in five minutes from the concierges of the Continental and the Bristol. We can walk there while we have a cigar. Total: a five franc cab fare I can charge to the paper. That’s the way to go about it, old man, when you know your way around.’
‘It must be quite profitable, being a reporter on that basis?’ enquired Duroy.
The journalist replied cryptically: ‘Yes, but nothing’s as profitable as writing the gossip column,* because of the self-publicity* you can sneak in.’
They had got up from their table and were walking along the boulevard towards the Madeleine. Saint-Potin suddenly said to his companion: ‘You know, if you’ve got things to do, I really don’t need you.’ So Duroy shook his hand and left him.
The thought of the article he had to write that evening was worrying him, and he began turning it over in his mind. As he walked along, he was storing up ideas, impressions, opinions, and anecdotes, and he went right to the end of the Champs-Élysées, where only the occasional stroller was to be seen. Paris was deserted during the hot weather.
After dining in a cheap restaurant near the Arc de Triomphe, he walked home slowly along the outer boulevards, then sat down at his table to work. But the instant his gaze fell upon the big sheet of white paper spread out before him, all the material he had amassed vanished from his head, as if his brain had melted into thin air. He tried to grab hold again of the odds and ends he had recalled, and fix them in his memory; just as fast as he remembered them they disappeared again, or else they came rushing into his head in a jumble, and he could not work out how to introduce them, how to present them, or with which to begin.
After struggling for an hour, and covering five pages with opening sentences which led nowhere, he thought: ‘I still haven’t got the hang of this. I need another lesson.’ And, immediately, the prospect of another morning spent working with Mme Forestier, the expectation of that long, warm, intimate tête-à-tête that was so sweet, made him tremble with desire. He quickly went to bed, almost afraid, now, of trying again, lest he should suddenly succeed.
The next morning he stayed in bed quite late, postponing, and relishing in advance, the pleasure of the visit.
It was past ten when he rang his friend’s doorbell.
The servant replied: ‘I’m afraid M. Forestier is busy.’
It had not occurred to Duroy that the husband might be there. Nevertheless he persevered: ‘Tell him it’s me; I’ve come on urgent business.’
After waiting for five minutes, he was shown into the study where he had spent such a delightful morning.
Forestier, now, was sitting writing in the place he had occupied; he wore a dressing-gown and slippers, and on his head a little cap, while his wife, dressed in the same white wrap as before, was leaning on the mantelpiece with a cigarette in her mouth, dictating.
Duroy stopped on the threshold and murmured: ‘I’m very sorry; am I interrupting you?’
His friend had turned his head and, scowling angrily, snarled: ‘Whatever do you want now? Get a move on, we’ve a lot to do.’
Nonplussed, Duroy stammered: ‘No, I beg your pardon, it’s nothing.’
But Fo
restier, annoyed, went on: ‘Damn it all, man! Hurry up; surely you didn’t barge your way in here just for the pleasure of saying “Good morning” to us.’
At that Duroy, feeling very uncomfortable, took the plunge:
‘No… well… it’s just that I still can’t seem to manage to write my article… and you were so… you were both so kind last time… that I was hoping… that is I took the liberty of coming…’
Forestier interrupted him: ‘Well, you’ve got some cheek, haven’t you! So you think I’m going to do your job, and all you have to do is go and pick up your pay at the end of the month! No! What a nerve!’
The young woman went on smoking without saying a word, a vague, set smile, like a friendly mask, on her face, hiding the irony of her thoughts.
Duroy, blushing, stammered: ‘I’m sorry… I had thought… I had supposed…’ Then, abruptly, in a clear voice: ‘I most humbly beg your pardon, Madame, and I thank you again, most sincerely, for the charming article you wrote for me yesterday.’
Then he said to Charles: ‘I’ll be at the paper at three,’ and left.
He strode rapidly home, muttering: ‘Well, I’m going to do this one, and I’ll do it all by myself, and then they’ll see…’
The moment he was home, spurred on by anger, he began to write.
He went on with the romantic story Mme Forestier had begun, piling up extravagantly unrealistic details, astonishing reversals of fortune, and flowery descriptions, his style as clumsy as a schoolboy’s and as trite as a sergeant’s. In an hour he had completed a story that was a hotchpotch of absurdities, which he then took confidently round to La Vie française.
The first person he encountered was Saint-Potin, who shook his hand with conspiratorial fervour and asked:
‘Have you read my interview with the Chinaman and the Hindu? Don’t you think it’s funny? I’ve made the whole of Paris laugh. And I didn’t see so much as the tips of their noses.’
Duroy, who had not read any of it, promptly took the paper and skimmed through a long article entitled ‘India and China’, while the reporter pointed out and emphasized the most interesting passages.
A breathless Forestier came bustling hurriedly up to them.
‘Oh, good, I need you two.’
And he gave them a list of political questions he wanted answered that very evening.
Duroy handed him his article. ‘Here’s the next instalment on Algeria.’
‘Fine, give it to me. I’ll see the boss gets it.’
That was all.
Saint-Potin led his new colleague away and, when they were in the corridor, said to him:
‘Have you been to see the cashier?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Why? To collect your pay. You see, you should always draw a month’s pay in advance. You never know what might happen.’
‘Well… I’ve no quarrel with that.’
‘I’ll introduce you to the cashier. He won’t have any objection. The pay’s good here.’
And Duroy went and drew his two hundred francs, plus the twenty-eight for his previous day’s article, which, together with what was left of his railway company pay, meant that he had a total of three hundred and forty francs in his pocket.
Never had he owned such a sum, and he felt it was enough to keep him flush indefinitely.
Then Saint-Potin took him off for a chat in the newsrooms of four or five rival papers, hoping that the information he had been told to track down would already have been unearthed by others, and that his fluent and crafty tongue would easily enable him to filch it from them.
In the evening Duroy, who had nothing more to do, decided to return to the Folies-Bergère, where he brazenly presented himself at the box office: ‘My name’s Georges Duroy, I’m a sub-editor at La Vie française. I came the other evening with M. Forestier, and he promised he would see that I got complimentary tickets. I don’t know if he’s remembered to do that?’
They consulted a list. His name was not on it. However, the extremely friendly box-office clerk said: ‘Go in anyway, Monsieur, and ask the manager yourself. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to oblige.’
He went in, and almost immediately met Rachel, the woman he had been with that first night.
She came up to him: ‘Hallo, darling. You well?’
‘Fine, and you?’
‘Oh, not too bad. Just imagine, I’ve dreamt of you twice, since the other day.’
Duroy smiled, feeling flattered: ‘Aha! And what does that prove?’
‘That proves that I like you, you silly fool, and that we can do it again whenever you like.’
‘How about today?’
‘Suits me.’
‘Good, but listen…’ He hesitated, somewhat embarrassed at what he was about to do. ‘The thing is, this time, I haven’t a sou, I’ve just come from a club,* where I blew it all.’
She gave him a sharp look, suspecting, with her prostitute’s instincts, and her experience of how men swindle and haggle, that he was lying. ‘You’re having me on! That’s not a very nice thing to do, you know!’
He gave an embarrassed smile. ‘If you want ten francs, that’s what I’ve got left.’
She murmured, with the disinterest of a whore indulging her fancy: ‘Whatever suits you, darling, it’s just you I want.’
And, her longing gaze fixed on the young man’s moustache, she took his arm and, clinging to it lovingly:
‘Let’s go and have a grenadine first. I’d like to walk down to the Opéra with you, to show you off. And then we’ll go home early, what d’you say?’
He slept late at her place. It was daylight when he left, and he immediately had the idea of buying La Vie française. He opened the paper with a feverish hand; his article was not in it; he stood there on the pavement, anxiously scanning the columns of print in the hope that he would, in the end, find what he was looking for.
He was suddenly conscious of a feeling of intense depression. After an exhausting night of love-making, this setback, added to his fatigue, seemed like a major disaster.
He returned home and fell asleep, fully dressed, on his bed.
Upon his arrival, some hours later, at the newspaper office, he presented himself at M. Walter’s door. ‘I was very surprised this morning, Monsieur, not to find my second article on Algeria.’
The editor looked up and said in a dry voice: ‘I gave it to your friend Forestier and asked him to read it; he did not consider it satisfactory; you’ll have to rewrite it.’
Duroy walked out in a fury without replying, and burst into his colleague’s office: ‘Why did you stop my article from appearing, this morning?’
The journalist was smoking a cigarette, sitting well back in his armchair with his feet on the table, his heels smudging an article he had begun. He declared calmly, the tone of his voice bored and distant, as though coming from the bottom of a hole: ‘The boss thought it poor, and told me to return it to you to be rewritten. Here it is.’ He pointed with his finger to some sheets that lay under a paperweight.
Disconcerted, Duroy could find nothing to say; as he was putting his composition in his pocket, Forestier went on: ‘Today I want you to go first of all to police headquarters.’ And he listed a series of errands to be run and news items to be collected. Duroy departed, without having been able to come up with the scathing comment he was looking for.
He took his article back the next day. It was returned to him once again. Having rewritten it for the third time and had it returned, he realized that he was moving too fast, and that Forestier was the only person who could help him make his way. He therefore said no more about ‘The Recollections of an African Cavalryman’, resolving to be flexible and crafty, since that was what was required. He would do his job as a reporter zealously, while waiting for better things.
He learnt his way around behind the scenes in the theatre and the world of politics; he grew familiar with the corridors and the waiting-rooms of statesmen and deputies, with the pompous countenances of
cabinet secretaries and the sullen faces of drowsy ushers.
He dealt constantly with ministers and concierges, generals and policemen, princes, pimps, prostitutes and ambassadors, bishops and procurers, foreign con men, men-about-town, card-sharps, cabbies, waiters and countless others. He was the friend–at once self-serving and neutral–of all of them, not discriminating between them in his regard, measuring them by the same standard, judging them with the same impartial eye, as a consequence of meeting them every day, every hour, without ever changing his approach, and talking to them all about the same topics connected with his job. He likened himself to someone who tastes, one after another, samples of every wine, and is soon unable to tell a Château-Margaux from an Argenteuil.*
In a very short time he became a remarkable reporter, sure of his facts, cunning, fast, subtle, a real asset to the paper, as old man Walter, who knew a thing or two about reporters, used to say.
However, as he drew only ten centimes a line, plus his basic two hundred francs, and as the life of a man-about-town, an habitué of cafés and restaurants, is expensive, he never had a sou to his name, and was depressed about his abject poverty.
It’s a trick I’ll have to learn, he thought, seeing how certain of his colleagues had money to burn, although he was never able to grasp by what hidden means they had acquired their wealth. And, full of envy, he suspected them of all sorts of subterfuges, of services rendered, of a whole system of underhand dealings that was accepted and condoned. So he would have to penetrate the mystery, become part of the secret circle, force his colleagues to let him have his share.
And often as he sat at his window in the evening, watching the trains pass by, he would ponder over different ways of doing just that.
CHAPTER 5
Two months had passed; September was approaching, and it seemed to Duroy that the rapid rise in fortune he had been hoping for was very slow indeed in coming. He was particularly disquieted by his humble position, and could not see how to make his way to the top where you find respect, power, and wealth.