The Complete Works: Short Stories, Novels, Plays, Poetry, Memoirs and more. Guy de Maupassant
and delicate. He rose and resumed his journey, thinking of Forestier. What luck the fellow had!
He reached the door at the moment his friend was coming out of it. “You here at this time of day. What do you want of me?”
Duroy, taken aback at meeting him thus, just as he was starting off, stammered: “You see, you see, I can’t manage to write my article; you know the article Monsieur Walter asked me to write on Algeria. It is not very surprising, considering that I have never written anything. Practice is needed for that, as for everything else. I shall get used to it very quickly, I am sure, but I do not know how to set about beginning. I have plenty of ideas, but I cannot manage to express them.”
He stopped, hesitatingly, and Forestier smiled somewhat slyly, saying: “I know what it is.”
Duroy went on: “Yes, it must happen to everyone at the beginning. Well, I came, I came to ask you for a lift. In ten minutes you can give me a start, you can show me how to shape it. It will be a good lesson in style you will give me, and really without you I do not see how I can get on with it.”
Forestier still smiled, and tapping his old comrade on the arm, said: “Go in and see my wife; she will settle your business quite as well as I could. I have trained her for that kind of work. I, myself, have not time this morning, or I would willingly have done it for you.”
Duroy suddenly abashed, hesitated, feeling afraid.
“But I cannot call on her at this time of the day.”
“Oh, yes; she is up. You will find her in my study arranging some notes for me.”
Duroy refused to go upstairs, saying: “No, I can’t think of such a thing.”
Forestier took him by the shoulders, twisted him round on his heels, and pushing him towards the staircase, said: “Go along, you great donkey, when I tell you to. You are not going to oblige me to go up these flights of stairs again to introduce you and explain the fix you are in.”
Then Duroy made up his mind. “Thanks, then, I will go up,” he said. “I shall tell her that you forced me, positively forced me to come and see her.”
“All right. She won’t scratch your eyes out. Above all, do not forget our appointment for three o’clock.”
“Oh! don’t be afraid about that.”
Forestier hastened off, and Duroy began to ascend the stairs slowly, step by step, thinking over what he should say, and feeling uneasy as to his probable reception.
The man servant, wearing a blue apron, and holding a broom in his hand, opened the door to him.
“Master is not at home,” he said, without waiting to be spoken to.
Duroy persisted.
“Ask Madame Forestier,” said he, “whether she will receive me, and tell her that I have come from her husband, whom I met in the street.”
Then he waited while the man went away, returned, and opening the door on the right, said: “Madame will see you, sir.”
She was seated in an office armchair in a small room, the walls of which were wholly hidden by books carefully ranged on shelves of black wood. The bindings, of various tints, red, yellow, green, violet, and blue, gave some color and liveliness to those monotonous lines of volumes.
She turned round, still smiling. She was wrapped in a white dressing gown, trimmed with lace, and as she held out her hand, displayed her bare arm in its wide sleeve.
“Already?” said she, and then added: “That is not meant for a reproach, but a simple question.”
“Oh, madame, I did not want to come up, but your husband, whom I met at the bottom of the house, obliged me to. I am so confused that I dare not tell you what brings me.”
She pointed to a chair, saying: “Sit down and tell me about it.”
She was twirling a goose-quill between her fingers, and in front of her was a half-written page, interrupted by the young fellow’s arrival. She seemed quite at home at this work table, as much at her ease as if in her drawingroom, engaged on everyday tasks. A faint perfume emanated from her dressing gown, the fresh perfume of a recent toilet. Duroy sought to divine, fancied he could trace, the outline of her plump, youthful figure through the soft material enveloping it.
She went on, as he did not reply: “Well, come tell me what is it.”
He murmured, hesitatingly: “Well, you see — but I really dare not — I was working last night very late and quite early this morning on the article upon Algeria, upon which Monsieur Walter asked me to write, and I could not get on with it — I tore up all my attempts. I am not accustomed to this kind of work, and I came to ask Forestier to help me this once— “
She interrupted him, laughing heartily. “And he told you to come and see me? That is a nice thing.”
“Yes, madame. He said that you will get me out of my difficulty better than himself, but I did not dare, I did not wish to — you understand.”
She rose, saying: “It will be delightful to work in collaboration with you like that. I am charmed at the notion. Come, sit down in my place, for they know my handwriting at the office. And we will knock you off an article; oh, but a good one.”
He sat down, took a pen, spread a sheet of paper before him, and waited.
Madame Forestier, standing by, watched him make these preparations, then took a cigarette from the mantelshelf, and lit it.
“I cannot work without smoking,” said she. “Come, what are you going to say?”
He lifted his head towards her with astonishment.
“But that is just what I don’t know, since it is that I came to see you about.”
She replied: “Oh, I will put it in order for you. I will make the sauce, but then I want the materials of the dish.”
He remained embarrassed before her. At length he said, hesitatingly: “I should like to relate my journey, then, from the beginning.”
Then she sat down before him on the other side of the table, and looking him in the eyes:
“Well, tell it me first; for myself alone, you understand, slowly and without forgetting anything, and I will select what is to be used of it.”
But as he did not know where to commence, she began to question him as a priest would have done in the confessional, putting precise questions which recalled to him forgotten details, people encountered and faces merely caught sight of.
When she had made him speak thus for about a quarter of an hour, she suddenly interrupted him with: “Now we will begin. In the first place, we will imagine that you are narrating your impressions to a friend, which will allow you to write a lot of tomfoolery, to make remarks of all kinds, to be natural and funny if we can. Begin:
“‘My Dear Henry, — You want to know what Algeria is like, and you shall. I will send you, having nothing else to do in a little cabin of dried mud which serves me as a habitation, a kind of journal of my life, day by day, and hour by hour. It will be a little lively at times, more is the pity, but you are not obliged to show it to your lady friends.’”
She paused to relight her cigarette, which had gone out, and the faint creaking of the quill on the paper stopped, too.
“Let us continue,” said she.
“Algeria is a great French country on the frontiers of the great unknown countries called the Desert, the Sahara, central Africa, etc., etc.
“Algiers is the door, the pretty white door of this strange continent.
“But it is first necessary to get to it, which is not a rosy job for everyone. I am, you know, an excellent horseman, since I break in the colonel’s horses; but a man may be a very