The Complete Works: Short Stories, Novels, Plays, Poetry, Memoirs and more. Guy de Maupassant
day till somewhat late, putting off and tasting in advance the pleasure of this visit.
It was past ten when he rang his friend’s bell.
The manservant 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 requiring immediate attention.”
After waiting five minutes he was shown into the study in which he had passed such a pleasant morning. In the chair he had occupied Forestier was now seated writing, in a dressing-gown and slippers and with a little Scotch bonnet on his head, while his wife in the same white gown leant against the mantelpiece and dictated, cigarette in mouth.
Duroy, halting on the threshold, murmured: “I really beg your pardon; I am 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 your pardon.”
But Forestier, growing angry, exclaimed: “Come, hang it all, don’t waste time about it; you have not forced your way in just for the sake of wishing us good-morning, I suppose?”
Then Duroy, greatly perturbed, made up his mind. “No — you see — the fact is — I can’t quite manage my article — and you were — so — so kind last time — that I hoped — that I ventured to come— “
Forestier cut him short. “You have a pretty cheek. So you think I am going to do your work, and that all you have to do is to call on the cashier at the end of the month to draw your screw? No, that is too good.”
The young woman went on smoking without saying a word, smiling with a vague smile, which seemed like an amiable mask, concealing the irony of her thoughts.
Duroy, colored up, stammered: “Excuse me — I fancied — I thought— “ then suddenly, and in a clear voice, he went on: “I beg your pardon a thousand times, Madame, while again thanking you most sincerely for the charming article you produced for me yesterday.” He bowed, remarked to Charles: “I shall be at the office at three,” and went out.
He walked home rapidly, grumbling: “Well, I will do it all alone, and they shall see— “
Scarcely had he got in than, excited by anger, he began to write. He continued the adventure began by Madame Forestier, heaping up details of catch-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 the energy of an accomplice, said: “You have read my interview with the Chinese and the Hindoo? Isn’t it funny? It has amused everyone. And I did not even get a glimpse of them.”
Duroy, who had not read anything, at once took up the paper and ran his eye over a long article headed: “India and China,” while the reporter pointed 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 would have 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 the passage, he said to him: “Have you seen the cashier?”
“No; why?”
“Why? To draw your money. You see you should always draw a month in advance. One never knows what may happen.”
“But — I ask for nothing better.”
“I will introduce you to the cashier. He will make no difficulty about it. They pay up well here.”
Duroy went and drew his two hundred francs, with twenty-eight more for his article of the day before, which, added to what remained of his salary from the railway company, gave him three hundred and forty francs in his pocket. He had never owned such a sum, and thought himself possessed of wealth for an indefinite period.
Saint-Potin then took him to have a gossip in the offices of four or five rival papers, hoping that the news he was entrusted to obtain had already been gleaned by others, and that he should be able to draw it out of them — thanks to the flow and artfulness of his conversation.
When evening had come, Duroy, who had nothing more to do, thought of going again to the Folies Bergères, and putting a bold face on, he went up to the box office.
“I am George Duroy, on the staff of the Vie Francaise. I came here the other day with Monsieur Forestier, who promised me to see about my being put 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 am sure, will pay attention to your letter.”
He went in and almost immediately met Rachel, the woman he had gone off with 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 last time?”
Duroy smiled, feeling flattered. “Ah! and what does that mean?”
“It means that you pleased me, you old dear, and that we will begin again 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 from the club, where I have dropped everything.”
She looked him full in the eyes, scenting a lie with the instinct and habit of a girl accustomed to the tricks and bargainings of men, and remarked: “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 all I have left.”
She murmured, with the disinterestedness of a courtesan gratifying a fancy: “What you please, my lady; I only want you.”
And lifting her charming eyes towards the young man’s moustache, she took his arm and leant lovingly upon it.
“Let us go and have a grenadine first of all,” she remarked. “And then we will take a stroll together. I should like to go to the opera like this, 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 the notion occurred to him to buy the Vie Francaise. He opened the paper with feverish hand. His article was not there, and he stood on the footpath, anxiously running his eye down the printed columns with the hope of at length finding what he was in search of. A weight suddenly oppressed his heart, for after the fatigue of a night of love, this vexation 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 paper this morning, sir,” said he.