‘Georges Duroy, 6th Hussars.’
Forestier held out both hands: ‘Georges! How are you, old man?’
‘Fine, and how about you?’
‘Oh, not so good; can you imagine, my chest’s as delicate as a girl’s; I’ve a cough six months out of twelve, ever since I got bronchitis at Bougival,* the year I came back to Paris, which is four years ago now.’
‘Really! But you look in great form.’
And Forestier, taking his old comrade by the arm, talked about his illness, telling him of the consultations with the doctors, their diagnoses, their advice, and the difficulty of following their recommendations because of his job. They had ordered him to spend the winter in the South of France, but how could he do that? He was married, a journalist in a good position.
‘I’m in charge of the political section at La Vie française. I cover the Senate for Le Salut, and occasionally I write literary columns for La Planète* So you see, I’ve come a long way.’
Surprised, Duroy looked at him. He had certainly changed, matured. He now had the demeanour, bearing, and clothes of an established, self-confident man, and the paunch of a man who dines well. In the old days he had been a lean, slender, lithe fellow, scatterbrained, rowdy, and boisterous, always on the go. Three years in Paris had turned him into someone quite different, someone stout and sober, with a few white hairs at his temples, although he was only twenty-seven.
Forestier enquired: ‘Where are you headed?’
‘Nowhere in particular, I’m taking a turn before going home,’ replied Duroy.
‘Well, how about coming with me to La Vie française, where I’ve some proofs to correct; then we can go and have a beer together?’
‘Lead on.’
And they set off walking arm in arm, with that easy familiarity of school friends or brothers-in-arms.
‘What are you doing in Paris?’ enquired Forestier.
Duroy shrugged: ‘Starving, to put it bluntly. When I’d served my time, I wanted to come here to… to make my pile, or rather to live in Paris; and for six months now I’ve been working as a clerk for the Northern Railway, for a paltry fifteen hundred francs a year.’*
Forestier muttered: ‘My God, that’s not much!’
‘You don’t have to tell me. But what can I do about it? I’m on my own, I don’t know a soul, I’ve got no contacts. It’s not the will that’s lacking, it’s the means.’
His companion looked him over from head to foot, in the style of a practical man sizing someone up, then declared in a positive tone:
‘You see, old chap, here everything depends on how much nerve you have. For someone with a little know-how it’s easier to become a minister than a head clerk in an office. Never beg; you have to assert yourself. But why the devil couldn’t you find something better than working for the Northern line?’
Duroy replied: ‘I’ve searched everywhere, without finding anything. But I’m considering something at the moment, I’ve been asked to join the Pellerin riding-school* as an instructor. There I’ll make three thousand at the very least.’
Forestier stopped dead: ‘Don’t do that, it’s stupid, when you should be earning ten thousand. It would wreck your future on the spot. At your office, at least you’re hidden away, nobody knows you, and if you’ve got what it takes you can leave and get ahead. But once you’re a riding instructor, you’re done for. It’s as if you were to become head waiter in a restaurant where all Paris society dines. When you’ve given riding lessons to men of fashion, or to their sons, they couldn’t ever get used to seeing you as their equal.’
He fell silent, thought for a few seconds, then enquired: ‘Did you get your baccalauréat?’*
‘No: I failed it, twice.’
‘That doesn’t matter, since you stayed on at school long enough to sit it. If someone mentions Cicero or Tiberius, you know more or less what they’re talking about?’
‘Yes, more or less.’
‘Fine, that’s all anybody knows, except for a handful of idiots who don’t know how to use their knowledge. Believe me, it’s not hard to appear clever; the whole trick is not to let yourself be shown up as ignorant. You wriggle out of it, you avoid the difficulty, you turn the question round, all you need in order to pull the wool over other people’s eyes is a dictionary. All men are hopelessly stupid and don’t know a thing.’
He spoke with the cheerful, easy confidence of a man who knows what’s what, as he smilingly watched the crowds walking by. But, suddenly, he began to cough, stood still until the attack had passed, then said, in a disheartened tone:
‘Isn’t it exasperating, not being able to get rid of this bronchitis? And we’re in the middle of summer. Oh, this winter, I’ll go and recuperate at Menton.* There’s nothing else for it, your health comes first, by God.’
Reaching the Boulevard Poissonnière,* they came to a big glass door, which had an open newspaper spread out on each of its panels. Three people had stopped to read it.
The words La Vie française were blazoned over the door like a challenge, spelt out in huge fiery letters by gas flares. The passers-by, moving abruptly into the brightness cast by these three dazzling words, would suddenly be bathed in light, as visible, clear, and distinct as if it were the middle of the day, before quickly passing back into the shadows.
Forestier pushed open the door: ‘Come in,’ he said. Duroy went inside, climbed a magnificent yet dirty staircase visible to the entire street, reached an anteroom where two messenger boys nodded to his companion, then came to a halt in a kind of waiting-room, a dusty, dilapidated place, hung with a dingy green imitation velvet that was covered with stains and worn through in places, as if mice had nibbled it.
‘Sit down,’ said Forestier; ‘I’ll be back in a minute or two.’ He vanished through one of the three doors that led out of the room.
A strange, unique, indescribable smell, the smell of a newsroom, hung in the air. Duroy sat motionless, a little intimidated, but above all surprised. From time to time men raced past him, coming in by one door and leaving by another before he had time to get a good look at them.
Sometimes it would be a young man, very young, with a busy, preoccupied air, holding in his hand a sheet of paper which fluttered as he hurried by; sometimes it would be a typesetter wearing an ink-stained calico overall under which you could see a very white shirt-collar and cloth trousers like those gentlemen wear; they were carefully carrying strips of printed paper, fresh proofs which were still damp. Occasionally a little man would enter the room, dressed with overly conspicuous elegance, his waist too tightly moulded by his frock coat, his calf too shapely beneath the cloth of his trouser, his foot squeezed into too sharply pointed a shoe–some society reporter bringing that evening’s latest items of gossip.
And then there were others who came in–solemn, self-important men, sporting flat-brimmed top hats, as if that shape set them apart from the rest of mankind.
Forestier reappeared, escorting a tall thin individual of between thirty and forty. Very dark-haired, dressed in tails and white tie, this man wore the ends of his moustache tightly curled and pointed. He had an insolent, self-satisfied air.
Forestier took his leave of him deferentially: ‘Goodbye, my dear colleague.’ The other shook his hand: ‘Bye, my dear fellow.’ And he went down the stairs whistling to himself, his walking-stick under his arm.
‘Who’s that?’ enquired Duroy.
‘It’s Jacques Rival, you know, the well-known columnist, the duellist. He’s just been correcting his proofs. Garin, Montel, and he are the three best, wittiest columnists on current affairs in Paris. He earns thirty thousand francs a year from us, for two articles a week.’*
As they were leaving, they met a short, fat, long-haired man of slovenly appearance, who puffed as he climbed the stairs.
Bowing very low, Forestier said: ‘Norbert de Varenne, the poet, the author of Dead Suns, another one whose fees are enormous. Every story he gives us costs three hundred francs, and the longest are barely two hun
dred lines. But let’s go to the Napolitain,* I’m beginning to die of thirst.’
The moment they were seated at the café table, Forestier shouted: ‘two beers’ and swallowed his in a single gulp, while Duroy drank his beer in slow mouthfuls, relishing and savouring it, as if it were something precious and rare. His companion was silent, apparently thinking, then suddenly said: ‘Why don’t you try your hand at journalism?’
Taken aback, the other stared at him, then replied: ‘But… you know… I’ve never written anything.’
‘Bah! You try it, you make a start. I could use you myself, to collect information, make contact with people, pay visits. You’d begin at two hundred and fifty a month, and your cabs paid. Would you like me to mention it to the boss?’
‘Yes, of course I’d like that.’
‘In that case, there’s something you must do: come to my house for dinner tomorrow. There’s only five or six coming, the boss, M. Walter, and his wife, Jacques Rival and Norbert de Varenne, whom you’ve just seen, plus a woman friend of my wife’s. All right?’
Flushing, Duroy hesitated, disconcerted. Finally he muttered: ‘The thing is… I haven’t the right clothes.’
Forestier was dumbfounded. ‘You’ve no evening clothes? Goodness! But they’re absolutely essential. In Paris, you know, it would be better not to have a bed than not to have evening clothes.’
Then, fishing in his waistcoat pocket, he quickly pulled out a handful of gold coins, selected two louis,* put them in front of his former comrade and said, in a friendly, familiar tone:
‘Pay me back when you can. Hire the clothes you need or buy them with a down payment, but get them somehow, and come for dinner at my place tomorrow at seven-thirty, it’s 17 rue Fontaine.’*
Duroy, flustered, stammered as he picked up the coins: ‘You’re too kind, thank you so much, you can be sure I won’t forget…’
‘Oh, that’s all right,’ the other interrupted. ‘Let’s have another beer, shall we?’ And he shouted: ‘Waiter, two beers.’
When they had drunk them, the journalist asked: ‘How about a bit of a stroll, for an hour or so?’
‘By all means.’
They set off again, in the direction of the Madeleine.
‘What do you think we should do?’ enquired Forestier. ‘People say there’s lots to occupy you just strolling round Paris; that’s not so. Whenever I feel like taking a stroll for an hour or two in the evening, I never know where to go. A walk in the Bois* is no fun unless you’re with a woman, and there isn’t always one to hand; the café-concert* may amuse my pharmacist and his wife, but not me. So, what is there to do? Nothing. There ought to be a summer pleasure garden here, like the Pare Monceau,* that’s open at night, where you could listen to really good music while enjoying a cool drink under the trees. Not an amusement park, but a place for strolling, and they’d charge plenty for entrance, so as to attract pretty ladies. You could walk along nicely gravelled paths, lit by electric light, and sit down when you felt like it to listen to the music, either close by or from a distance. We used to have something of the sort, at Musard’s,* but the band was too low class and played too much dance music; it wasn’t spacious or shady enough, the lighting was too bright. You’d need a very beautiful garden, really enormous. It would be delightful. So where do you want to go?’
At a loss, Duroy hesitated, then made up his mind: ‘I’ve never been to the Folies-Bergère.* I’d love to take a look at it.’
His companion exclaimed: ‘My goodness, the Folies-Bergère! It’ll be like an oven there, we’ll roast. But all right, it’s always fun.’
And they turned around and set off for the Rue du Faubourg-Montmartre.
The illuminated facade of the establishment cast a bright light down the four streets which met in front of it. A line of cabs stood waiting for people to leave.
As Forestier was walking in, Duroy stopped him: ‘We haven’t gone to the box-office.’
The other replied in a self-important tone: ‘With me, you don’t pay.’
As they reached the entrance, the three attendants nodded to him. The one in the centre shook his hand. The journalist enquired: ‘Do you have a good box?’
‘Certainly, M. Forestier.’
He took the proffered ticket, pushed open the padded, leather-furbished double doors, and they were in the theatre.
Like a very fine mist, a haze of tobacco smoke partially obscured the distant stage and the other side of the auditorium. Climbing endlessly into the air in thin whitish columns from all the cigars and all the cigarettes that all those people were smoking, this light mist went on rising, collecting at the ceiling where, under the wide dome, round the chandelier, and above the first-floor balcony thronged with spectators, it formed a sky heavy with smoke-laden clouds.
In the vast lobby that leads into the circular promenade, where the gaudily dressed pack of whores prowls about, mingling with the dark-suited crowd of men, a group of women waited for new arrivals in front of one of the three counters, over which three raddled and rouged vendors of drink and of love were presiding. Behind them, tall mirrors reflected their backs and the faces of the passers-by.
Threading his way rapidly through the crowds, like a man entitled to respect, Forestier went up to an attendant: ‘Box 17?’ he asked.
‘This way, Monsieur.’
And they were shut into a little open box decorated in red, containing four chairs of the same colour, jammed so closely together that there was barely room to slide between them. The two friends sat down. To right and left of them, following a long curved line ending at either side of the stage, a series of similar compartments contained people who were seated like them, with only their heads and chests visible.
On the stage, three young men dressed in singlets and tights–one tall, one of medium height, and one short–were performing, each in turn, on a trapeze.
First, the tall one walked forward with short, rapid steps, smiling and greeting the audience with a movement of his hand, as though blowing them a kiss. You could see the muscles of his arms and legs outlined by his close-fitting costume; he puffed out his chest to disguise his all-too-visible paunch, and he looked like a barber’s assistant, for his hair was divided into two identical sections by a carefully drawn parting exactly in the centre of his skull. With a graceful leap he caught the trapeze, and, hanging from his hands, turned over and over like a whirling wheel; or else, his body straight and his arms rigid, he remained motionless, lying horizontally in the void, connected to the stationary bar purely by the strength of his wrists.
Then, jumping down onto the floor, he bowed again, smiling, acknowledging the applause from the stalls, and went and stood beside the back-drop, taking care, at every step, to show off the musculature of his leg.
The second, less tall and of stockier build, came forward in his turn and went through the same routine, which the third man repeated again, to a more enthusiastic reception. But Duroy was paying no attention to the show and, turning his head, was constantly gazing over his shoulder at the spacious promenade area crowded with men and prostitutes.
Forestier said to him: ‘Take a look at the orchestra stalls: nothing but solid citizens with their wives and children, well-meaning nitwits who’ve come to watch the show. In the boxes, some men-about-town, a handful of artists, a few fairly high-class tarts, and, behind us, the oddest mixture of men you’ll see anywhere in Paris. Who are they? Look at them. There’s every kind, from every profession and every class, but most are scum. There’s bank clerks and government workers, shop assistants, reporters, pimps, officers out of uniform, nobs in evening clothes who’ve dined in town, then come out of the Opéra and will go on to the Italians;* then there’s a whole mass of shady types who’re impossible to pin down. As for the women, there’s only one brand: the kind that haunts l’Américain, the girl who charges twenty or thirty francs, is on the lookout for a foreigner with a hundred, and gives her regulars the nod when she’s free again. They’ve been around f
or a decade: you see them every evening, all year long, in the same spots, except when they’re having a little rest at Saint-Lazare or Lourcine.’*
Duroy was no longer listening. One of those women was leaning on their box, looking at him. She was a large brunette, her skin plastered with white powder, her black eyes elongated and underlined with eye-liner and framed by huge, pencilled brows. Her massive breasts strained the dark silk of her dress, and her painted lips, red as a gaping wound, gave her a kind of feral, burning, excessive look that nevertheless excited desire.
With a jerk of her head she summoned one of her friends who was passing, a red-haired blonde, also plump, and said to her in a voice loud enough to be heard:
‘Hey! Here’s a good-looking chap; if he wants me for a couple of hundred francs, I wouldn’t say no!’
Forestier turned round and, smiling, tapped his companion on the thigh: ‘That’s meant for you; you’ve made a hit, Duroy. Congratulations.’
The former NCO had gone red and was mechanically fingering the two gold pieces in his waistcoat pocket.
The curtain had been lowered, and the orchestra was now playing a waltz.
Duroy said: ‘Shall we take a turn round the gallery?’
‘If you like.’
They left the box and were immediately caught up in the stream of promenaders. Pushed, shoved, squashed, and jostled, they walked along, a multitude of hats before their eyes. And, two by two, the prostitutes moved about in this crowd of men, passing through it easily, sliding between elbows, chests, and backs, as if they were totally at home and at ease, like fish in the sea, in the midst of this tide of males.
Entranced, Duroy gave himself up to the moment, rapturously drinking in the air polluted by tobacco, by the smell of humanity, and by the scent of the whores. But Forestier was sweating, panting, coughing.
‘Let’s go into the garden,’ he said.
Turning left, they entered a kind of covered garden cooled by a pair of big, garish fountains. Men and women were sitting drinking at zinc-topped tables, under yews and arborvitae growing in tubs.