IV
George Duroy slept badly, so excited was he by the wish to see hisarticle in print. He was up as soon as it was daylight, and was prowlingabout the streets long before the hour at which the porters from thenewspaper offices run with their papers from kiosque to kiosque. He wenton to the Saint Lazare terminus, knowing that the _Vie Francaise_ wouldbe delivered there before it reached his own district. As he was stilltoo early, he wandered up and down on the footpath.
He witnessed the arrival of the newspaper vendor who opened her glassshop, and then saw a man bearing on his head a pile of papers. He rushedforward. There were the _Figaro_, the _Gil Blas_, the _Gaulois_, the_Evenement_, and two or three morning journals, but the _Vie Francaise_was not among them. Fear seized him. Suppose the "Recollections of aChasseur d'Afrique" had been kept over for the next day, or that bychance they had not at the last moment seemed suitable to Daddy Walter.
Turning back to the kiosque, he saw that the paper was on sale withouthis having seen it brought there. He darted forward, unfolded it, afterhaving thrown down the three sous, and ran through the headings of thearticles on the first page. Nothing. His heart began to beat, and heexperienced strong emotion on reading at the foot of a column in largeletters, "George Duroy." It was in; what happiness!
He began to walk along unconsciously, the paper in his hand and his haton one side of his head, with a longing to stop the passers-by in orderto say to them: "Buy this, buy this, there is an article by me in it."He would have liked to have bellowed with all the power of his lungs,like some vendors of papers at night on the boulevards, "Read the _VieFrancaise_; read George Duroy's article, 'Recollections of a Chasseurd'Afrique.'" And suddenly he felt a wish to read this article himself,read it in a public place, a _cafe_, in sight of all. He looked aboutfor some establishment already filled with customers. He had to walk insearch of one for some time. He sat down at last in front of a kind ofwine shop, where several customers were already installed, and asked fora glass of rum, as he would have asked for one of absinthe, withoutthinking of the time. Then he cried: "Waiter, bring me the _VieFrancaise_."
A man in a white apron stepped up, saying: "We have not got it, sir; weonly take in the _Rappel_, the _Siecle_, the _Lanierne_, and the _PetitParisien_."
"What a den!" exclaimed Duroy, in a tone of anger and disgust. "Here, goand buy it for me."
The waiter hastened to do so, and brought back the paper. Duroy began toread his article, and several times said aloud: "Very good, very wellput," to attract the attention of his neighbors, and inspire them withthe wish to know what there was in this sheet. Then, on going away, heleft it on the table. The master of the place, noticing this, called himback, saying: "Sir, sir, you are forgetting your paper."
And Duroy replied: "I will leave it to you. I have finished with it.There is a very interesting article in it this morning."
He did not indicate the article, but he noticed as he went away one ofhis neighbors take the _Vie Francaise_ up from the table on which he hadleft it.
He thought: "What shall I do now?" And he decided to go to his office,take his month's salary, and tender his resignation. He felt a thrill ofanticipatory pleasure at the thought of the faces that would be pulledup by the chief of his room and his colleagues. The notion of thebewilderment of the chief above all charmed him.
He walked slowly, so as not to get there too early, the cashier's officenot opening before ten o'clock.
His office was a large, gloomy room, in which gas had to be kept burningalmost all day long in winter. It looked into a narrow court-yard, withother offices on the further side of it. There were eight clerks there,besides a sub-chief hidden behind a screen in one corner.
Duroy first went to get the hundred and eighteen francs twenty-fivecentimes enclosed in a yellow envelope, and placed in the drawer of theclerk entrusted with such payments, and then, with a conquering air,entered the large room in which he had already spent so many days.
As soon as he came in the sub-chief, Monsieur Potel, called out to him:"Ah! it is you, Monsieur Duroy? The chief has already asked for youseveral times. You know that he will not allow anyone to plead illnesstwo days running without a doctor's certificate."
Duroy, who was standing in the middle of the room preparing hissensational effect, replied in a loud voice:
"I don't care a damn whether he does or not."
There was a movement of stupefaction among the clerks, and MonsieurPotel's features showed affrightedly over the screen which shut him upas in a box. He barricaded himself behind it for fear of draughts, forhe was rheumatic, but had pierced a couple of holes through the paper tokeep an eye on his staff. A pin might have been heard to fall. At lengththe sub-chief said, hesitatingly: "You said?"
"I said that I don't care a damn about it. I have only called to-day totender my resignation. I am engaged on the staff of the _Vie Francaise_at five hundred francs a month, and extra pay for all I write. Indeed, Imade my _debut_ this morning."
He had promised himself to spin out his enjoyment, but had not been ableto resist the temptation of letting it all out at once.
The effect, too, was overwhelming. No one stirred.
Duroy went on: "I will go and inform Monsieur Perthuis, and then comeand wish you good-bye."
And he went out in search of the chief, who exclaimed, on seeing him:"Ah, here you are. You know that I won't have--"
His late subordinate cut him short with: "It's not worth while yellinglike that."
Monsieur Perthuis, a stout man, as red as a turkey cock, was choked withbewilderment.
Duroy continued: "I have had enough of this crib. I made my _debut_ thismorning in journalism, where I am assured of a very good position. Ihave the honor to bid you good-day." And he went out. He was avenged.
As he promised, he went and shook hands with his old colleagues, whoscarcely dared to speak to him, for fear of compromising themselves, forthey had overheard his conversation with the chief, the door havingremained open.
He found himself in the street again, with his salary in his pocket. Hestood himself a substantial breakfast at a good but cheap restaurant hewas acquainted with, and having again purchased the _Vie Francaise_, andleft it on the table, went into several shops, where he bought sometrifles, solely for the sake of ordering them to be sent home, andgiving his name: "George Duroy," with the addition, "I am the editor ofthe _Vie Francaise_."
Then he gave the name of the street and the number, taking care to add:"Leave it with the doorkeeper."
As he had still some time to spare he went into the shop of alithographer, who executed visiting cards at a moment's notice beforethe eyes of passers-by, and had a hundred, bearing his new occupationunder his name, printed off while he waited.
Then he went to the office of the paper.
Forestier received him loftily, as one receives a subordinate. "Ah! hereyou are. Good. I have several things for you to attend to. Just wait tenminutes. I will just finish what I am about."
And he went on with a letter he was writing.
At the other end of the large table a fat, bald little man, with a verypale, puffy face, and a white and shining head, was writing, with hisnose on the paper owing to extreme shortsightedness. Forestier said tohim: "I say, Saint-Potin, when are you going to interview thosepeople?"
"At four o'clock."
"Will you take young Duroy here with you, and let him into the way ofdoing it?"
"All right."
Then turning to his friend, Forestier added: "Have you brought thecontinuation of the Algerian article? The opening this morning was verysuccessful."
Duroy, taken aback, stammered: "No. I thought I should have time thisafternoon. I had heaps of things to do. I was not able."
The other shrugged his shoulders with a dissatisfied air. "If you arenot more exact than that you will spoil your future. Daddy Walter wasreckoning on your copy. I will tell him it will be ready to-morrow. Ifyou think you are to be paid for doing nothing you are mistaken."
>
Then, after a short silence, he added: "One must strike the iron whileit is hot, or the deuce is in it."
Saint-Potin rose, saying: "I am ready."
Then Forestier, leaning back in his chair, assumed a serious attitude inorder to give his instructions, and turning to Duroy, said: "This iswhat it is. Within the last two days the Chinese General, Li Theng Fao,has arrived at the Hotel Continental, and the Rajah Taposahib RamaderaoPali at the Hotel Bristol. You will go and interview them." Turning toSaint-Potin, he continued: "Don't forget the main points I told you of.Ask the General and the Rajah their opinion upon the action of Englandin the East, their ideas upon her system of colonization and domination,and their hopes respecting the intervention of Europe, and especially ofFrance." He was silent for a moment, and then added in a theatricalaside: "It will be most interesting to our readers to learn at the sametime what is thought in China and India upon these matters which soforcibly occupy public attention at this moment." He continued, for thebenefit of Duroy: "Watch how Saint-Potin sets to work; he is a capitalreporter; and try to learn the trick of pumping a man in five minutes."
Then he gravely resumed his writing, with the evident intention ofdefining their relative positions, and putting his old comrade andpresent colleague in his proper place.
As soon as they had crossed the threshold Saint-Potin began to laugh,and said to Duroy: "There's a fluffer for you. He tried to fluff evenus. One would really think he took us for his readers."
They reached the boulevard, and the reporter observed: "Will you have adrink?"
"Certainly. It is awfully hot."
They turned into a _cafe_ and ordered cooling drinks. Saint-Potin beganto talk. He talked about the paper and everyone connected with it withan abundance of astonishing details.
"The governor? A regular Jew? And you know, nothing can alter a Jew.What a breed!" And he instanced some astounding traits of avariciousnesspeculiar to the children of Israel, economies of ten centimes, pettybargaining, shameful reductions asked for and obtained, all the ways ofa usurer and pawnbroker.
"And yet with all this, a good fellow who believes in nothing and doeseveryone. His paper, which is Governmental, Catholic, Liberal,Republican, Orleanist, pay your money and take your choice, was onlystarted to help him in his speculations on the Bourse, and bolster uphis other schemes. At that game he is very clever, and nets millionsthrough companies without four sous of genuine capital."
He went on, addressing Duroy as "My dear fellow."
"And he says things worthy of Balzac, the old shark. Fancy, the otherday I was in his room with that old tub Norbert, and that Don QuixoteRival, when Montelin, our business manager, came in with his moroccobill-case, that bill-case that everyone in Paris knows, under his arm.Walter raised his head and asked: 'What news?' Montelin answered simply:'I have just paid the sixteen thousand francs we owed the paper maker.'The governor gave a jump, an astonishing jump. 'What do you mean?' saidhe. 'I have just paid Monsieur Privas,' replied Montelin. 'But you aremad.' 'Why?' 'Why--why--why--' he took off his spectacles and wipedthem. Then he smiled with that queer smile that flits across his fatcheeks whenever he is going to say something deep or smart, and went onin a mocking and derisive tone, 'Why? Because we could have obtained areduction of from four to five thousand francs.' Montelin replied, inastonishment: 'But, sir, all the accounts were correct, checked by meand passed by yourself.' Then the governor, quite serious again,observed: 'What a fool you are. Don't you know, Monsieur Montelin, thatone should always let one's debts mount up, in order to offer acomposition?'"
And Saint-Potin added, with a knowing shake of his head, "Eh! isn't thatworthy of Balzac?"
Duroy had not read Balzac, but he replied, "By Jove! yes."
Then the reporter spoke of Madame Walter, an old goose; of Norbert deVarenne, an old failure; of Rival, a copy of Fervacques. Next he cameto Forestier. "As to him, he has been lucky in marrying his wife, thatis all."
Duroy asked: "What is his wife, really?"
Saint-Potin rubbed his hands. "Oh! a deep one, a smart woman. She wasthe mistress of an old rake named Vaudrec, the Count de Vaudrec, whogave her a dowry and married her off."
Duroy suddenly felt a cold shiver run through him, a tingling of thenerves, a longing to smack this gabbler on the face. But he merelyinterrupted him by asking:
"And your name is Saint-Potin?"
The other replied, simply enough:
"No, my name is Thomas. It is in the office that they have nicknamed meSaint-Potin."
Duroy, as he paid for the drinks, observed: "But it seems to me thattime is getting on, and that we have two noble foreigners to call on."
Saint-Potin began to laugh. "You are still green. So you fancy I amgoing to ask the Chinese and the Hindoo what they think of England? Asif I did not know better than themselves what they ought to think inorder to please the readers of the _Vie Francaise_. I have alreadyinterviewed five hundred of these Chinese, Persians, Hindoos, Chilians,Japanese, and others. They all reply the same, according to me. I haveonly to take my article on the last comer and copy it word for word.What has to be changed, though, is their appearance, their name, theirtitle, their age, and their suite. Oh! on that point it does not do tomake a mistake, for I should be snapped up sharp by the _Figaro_ or the_Gaulois_. But on these matters the hall porters at the Hotel Bristoland the Hotel Continental will put me right in five minutes. We willsmoke a cigar as we walk there. Five francs cab hire to charge to thepaper. That is how one sets about it, my dear fellow, when one ispractically inclined."
"It must be worth something decent to be a reporter under thesecircumstances," said Duroy.
The journalist replied mysteriously: "Yes, but nothing pays so well asparagraphs, on account of the veiled advertisements."
They had got up and were passing down the boulevards towards theMadeleine. Saint-Potin suddenly observed to his companion: "You know ifyou have anything else to do, I shall not need you in any way."
Duroy shook hands and left him. The notion of the article to be writtenthat evening worried him, and he began to think. He stored his mind withideas, reflections, opinions, and anecdotes as he walked along, and wentas far as the end of the Avenue des Champs Elysees, where only a fewstrollers were to be seen, the heat having caused Paris to be evacuated.
Having dined at a wine shop near the Arc de Triomphe, he walked slowlyhome along the outer boulevards and sat down at his table to work. Butas soon as he had the sheet of blank paper before his eyes, all thematerials that he had accumulated fled from his mind as though his brainhad evaporated. He tried to seize on fragments of his recollections andto retain them, but they escaped him as fast as he laid hold of them, orelse they rushed on him altogether pell-mell, and he did not know how toclothe and present them, nor which one to begin with.
After an hour of attempts and five sheets of paper blackened by openingphrases that had no continuation, he said to himself: "I am not yetwell enough up in the business. I must have another lesson." And all atonce the prospect of another morning's work with Madame Forestier, thehope of another long and intimate _tete-a-tete_ so cordial and sopleasant, made him quiver with desire. He went to bed in a hurry, almostafraid now of setting to work again and succeeding all at once.
He did not get up the next day till somewhat late, putting off andtasting in advance the pleasure of this visit.
It was past ten when he rang his friend's bell.
The man-servant replied: "Master is engaged at his work."
Duroy had not thought that the husband might be at home. He insisted,however, saying: "Tell him that I have called on a matter requiringimmediate attention."
After waiting five minutes he was shown into the study in which he hadpassed such a pleasant morning. In the chair he had occupied Forestierwas now seated writing, in a dressing-gown and slippers and with alittle Scotch bonnet on his head, while his wife in the same white gownleant against the mantelpiece and dictated, cigarette in mouth.
Duroy, halting
on the threshold, murmured: "I really beg your pardon; Iam afraid I am disturbing you."
His friend, turning his face towards him--an angry face, too--growled:"What is it you want now? Be quick; we are pressed for time."
The intruder, taken back, stammered: "It is nothing; I beg yourpardon."
But Forestier, growing angry, exclaimed: "Come, hang it all, don't wastetime about it; you have not forced your way in just for the sake ofwishing us good-morning, I suppose?"
Then Duroy, greatly perturbed, made up his mind. "No--you see--the factis--I can't quite manage my article--and you were--so--so kind lasttime--that I hoped--that I ventured to come--"
Forestier cut him short. "You have a pretty cheek. So you think I amgoing to do your work, and that all you have to do is to call on thecashier at the end of the month to draw your screw? No, that is toogood."
The young woman went on smoking without saying a word, smiling with avague smile, which seemed like an amiable mask, concealing the irony ofher thoughts.
Duroy, colored up, stammered: "Excuse me--I fancied--I thought--" thensuddenly, and in a clear voice, he went on: "I beg your pardon athousand times, Madame, while again thanking you most sincerely for thecharming article you produced for me yesterday." He bowed, remarked toCharles: "I shall be at the office at three," and went out.
He walked home rapidly, grumbling: "Well, I will do it all alone, andthey shall see--"
Scarcely had he got in than, excited by anger, he began to write. Hecontinued the adventure began by Madame Forestier, heaping up details ofcatch-penny romance, surprising incidents, and inflated descriptions,with the style of a schoolboy and the phraseology of the barrack-room.Within an hour he had finished an article which was a chaos of nonsense,and took it with every assurance to the _Vie Francaise_.
The first person he met was Saint-Potin, who, grasping his hand with theenergy of an accomplice, said: "You have read my interview with theChinese and the Hindoo? Isn't it funny? It has amused everyone. And Idid not even get a glimpse of them."
Duroy, who had not read anything, at once took up the paper and ran hiseye over a long article headed: "India and China," while the reporterpointed out the most interesting passages.
Forestier came in puffing, in a hurry, with a busy air, saying:
"Good; I want both of you."
And he mentioned a number of items of political information that wouldhave to be obtained that very afternoon.
Duroy held out his article.
"Here is the continuation about Algeria."
"Very good; hand it over; and I will give it to the governor."
That was all.
Saint-Potin led away his new colleague, and when they were in thepassage, he said to him: "Have you seen the cashier?"
"No; why?"
"Why? To draw your money. You see you should always draw a month inadvance. One never knows what may happen."
"But--I ask for nothing better."
"I will introduce you to the cashier. He will make no difficulty aboutit. They pay up well here."
Duroy went and drew his two hundred francs, with twenty-eight more forhis article of the day before, which, added to what remained of hissalary from the railway company, gave him three hundred and fortyfrancs in his pocket. He had never owned such a sum, and thought himselfpossessed of wealth for an indefinite period.
Saint-Potin then took him to have a gossip in the offices of four orfive rival papers, hoping that the news he was entrusted to obtain hadalready been gleaned by others, and that he should be able to draw itout of them--thanks to the flow and artfulness of his conversation.
When evening had come, Duroy, who had nothing more to do, thought ofgoing again to the Folies Bergeres, and putting a bold face on, he wentup to the box office.
"I am George Duroy, on the staff of the _Vie Francaise_. I came here theother day with Monsieur Forestier, who promised me to see about my beingput on the free list; I do not know whether he has thought of it."
The list was referred to. His name was not entered.
However, the box office-keeper, a very affable man, at once said: "Pray,go in all the same, sir, and write yourself to the manager, who, I amsure, will pay attention to your letter."
He went in and almost immediately met Rachel, the woman he had gone offwith the first evening. She came up to him, saying: "Good evening,ducky. Are you quite well?"
"Very well, thanks--and you?"
"I am all right. Do you know, I have dreamed of you twice since lasttime?"
Duroy smiled, feeling flattered. "Ah! and what does that mean?"
"It means that you pleased me, you old dear, and that we will beginagain whenever you please."
"To-day, if you like."
"Yes, I am quite willing."
"Good, but--" He hesitated, a little ashamed of what he was going to do."The fact is that this time I have not a penny; I have just come fromthe club, where I have dropped everything."
She looked him full in the eyes, scenting a lie with the instinct andhabit of a girl accustomed to the tricks and bargainings of men, andremarked: "Bosh! That is not a nice sort of thing to try on me."
He smiled in an embarrassed way. "If you will take ten francs, it is allI have left."
She murmured, with the disinterestedness of a courtesan gratifying afancy: "What you please, my lady; I only want you."
And lifting her charming eyes towards the young man's moustache, shetook his arm and leant lovingly upon it.
"Let us go and have a grenadine first of all," she remarked. "And thenwe will take a stroll together. I should like to go to the opera likethis, with you, to show you off. And we will go home early, eh?"
* * * * *
He lay late at this girl's place. It was broad day when he left, and thenotion occurred to him to buy the _Vie Francaise_. He opened the paperwith feverish hand. His article was not there, and he stood on thefootpath, anxiously running his eye down the printed columns with thehope of at length finding what he was in search of. A weight suddenlyoppressed his heart, for after the fatigue of a night of love, thisvexation came upon him with the weight of a disaster.
He reached home and went to sleep in his clothes on the bed.
Entering the office some hours later, he went on to see Monsieur Walter.
"I was surprised at not seeing my second article on Algeria in the paperthis morning, sir," said he.
The manager raised his head, and replied in a dry tone: "I gave it toyour friend Forestier, and asked him to read it through. He did notthink it up to the mark; you must rewrite it."
Duroy, in a rage, went out without saying a word, and abruptly enteringhis old comrade's room, said:
"Why didn't you let my article go in this morning?"
The journalist was smoking a cigarette with his back almost on the seatof his armchair and his feet on the table, his heels soiling an articlealready commenced. He said slowly, in a bored and distant voice, asthough speaking from the depths of a hole: "The governor thought itpoor, and told me to give it back to you to do over again. There it is."And he pointed out the slips flattened out under a paperweight.
Duroy, abashed, could find nothing to say in reply, and as he wasputting his prose into his pocket, Forestier went on: "To-day you mustfirst of all go to the Prefecture." And he proceeded to give a list ofbusiness errands and items of news to be attended to.
Duroy went off without having been able to find the cutting remark hewanted to. He brought back his article the next day. It was returned tohim again. Having rewritten it a third time, and finding it stillrefused, he understood that he was trying to go ahead too fast, andthat Forestier's hand alone could help him on his way. He did nottherefore say anything more about the "Recollections of a Chasseurd'Afrique," promising himself to be supple and cunning since it wasneedful, and while awaiting something better to zealously discharge hisduties as a reporter.
He learned to know the way behind the scenes in theatrical and politicallife;
the waiting-rooms of statesmen and the lobby of the Chamber ofDeputies; the important countenances of permanent secretaries, and thegrim looks of sleepy ushers. He had continual relations with ministers,doorkeepers, generals, police agents, princes, bullies, courtesans,ambassadors, bishops, panders, adventurers, men of fashion,card-sharpers, cab drivers, waiters, and many others, having become theinterested yet indifferent friend of all these; confounding themtogether in his estimation, measuring them with the same measure,judging them with the same eye, though having to see them every day atevery hour, without any transition, and to speak with them all on the
same business of his own. He compared himself to a man who had to drinkoff samples of every kind of wine one after the other, and who wouldsoon be unable to tell Chateau Margaux from Argenteuil.
He became in a short time a remarkable reporter, certain of hisinformation, artful, swift, subtle, a real find for the paper, as wasobserved by Daddy Walter, who knew what newspaper men were. However, ashe got only centimes a line in addition to his monthly screw of twohundred francs, and as life on the boulevards and in _cafes_ andrestaurants is costly, he never had a halfpenny, and was disgusted withhis poverty. There is some knack to be got hold of, he thought, seeingsome of his fellows with their pockets full of money without ever beingable to understand what secret methods they could make use of to procurethis abundance. He enviously suspected unknown and suspicioustransactions, services rendered, a whole system of contraband acceptedand agreed to. But it was necessary that he should penetrate themystery, enter into the tacit partnership, make himself one with thecomrades who were sharing without him.
And he often thought of an evening, as he watched the trains go by fromhis window, of the steps he ought to take.