"Jacques Rival, you know, the celebrated descriptive writer, the
duellist. He has just been correcting his proofs. Garin, Montel, and he
are the three best descriptive writers, for facts and points, we have in
Paris. He gets thirty thousand francs a year here for two articles a
week."
As they were leaving they met a short, stout man, with long hair and
untidy appearance, who was puffing as he came up the stairs.
Forestier bowed low to him. "Norbert de Varenne," said he, "the poet;
the author of '_Les Soleils Morts_'; another who gets long prices. Every
tale he writes for us costs three hundred francs, and the longest do not
run to two hundred lines. But let us turn into the Neapolitan _cafe_, I
am beginning to choke with thirst."
As soon as they were seated at a table in the _cafe_, Forestier called
for two bocks, and drank off his own at a single draught, while Duroy
sipped his beer in slow mouthfuls, tasting it and relishing it like
something rare and precious.
His companion was silent, and seemed to be reflecting. Suddenly he
exclaimed: "Why don't you try journalism?"
The other looked at him in surprise, and then said: "But, you know, I
have never written anything."
"Bah! everyone must begin. I could give you a job to hunt up information
for me--to make calls and inquiries. You would have to start with two
hundred and fifty francs a month and your cab hire. Shall I speak to the
manager about it?"
"Certainly!"
"Very well, then, come and dine with me to-morrow. I shall only have
five or six people--the governor, Monsieur Walter and his wife, Jacques
Rival, and Norbert de Varenne, whom you have just seen, and a lady, a
friend of my wife. Is it settled?"
Duroy hesitated, blushing and perplexed. At length he murmured: "You
see, I have no clothes."
Forestier was astounded. "You have no dress clothes? Hang it all, they
are indispensable, though. In Paris one would be better off without a
bed than without a dress suit."
Then, suddenly feeling in his waistcoat pocket, he drew out some gold,
took two louis, placed them in front of his old comrade, and said in a
cordial and familiar tone: "You will pay me back when you can. Hire or
arrange to pay by installments for the clothes you want, whichever you
like, but come and dine with me to-morrow, half-past seven, number
seventeen Rue Fontaine."
Duroy, confused, picked up the money, stammering: "You are too good; I
am very much obliged to you; you may be sure I shall not forget."
The other interrupted him. "All right. Another bock, eh? Waiter, two
bocks."
Then, when they had drunk them, the journalist said: "Will you stroll
about a bit for an hour?"
"Certainly."
And they set out again in the direction of the Madeleine.
"What shall we, do?" said Forestier. "They say that in Paris a lounger
can always find something to amuse him, but it is not true. I, when I
want to lounge about of an evening, never know where to go. A drive
round the Bois de Boulogne is only amusing with a woman, and one has not
always one to hand; the _cafe_ concerts may please my chemist and his
wife, but not me. Then what is there to do? Nothing. There ought to be a
summer garden like the Parc Monceau, open at night, where one would hear
very good music while sipping cool drinks under the trees. It should not
be a pleasure resort, but a lounging place, with a high price for
entrance in order to attract the fine ladies. One ought to be able to
stroll along well-graveled walks lit up by electric light, and to sit
down when one wished to hear the music near or at a distance. We had
about the sort of thing formerly at Musard's, but with a smack of the
low-class dancing-room, and too much dance music, not enough space, not
enough shade, not enough gloom. It would want a very fine garden and a
very extensive one. It would be delightful. Where shall we go?"
Duroy, rather perplexed, did not know what to say; at length he made up
his mind. "I have never been in the Folies Bergere. I should not mind
taking a look round there," he said.
"The Folies Bergere," exclaimed his companion, "the deuce; we shall
roast there as in an oven. But, very well, then, it is always funny
there."
And they turned on their heels to make their way to the Rue du Faubourg
Montmartre.
The lit-up front of the establishment threw a bright light into the four
streets which met in front of it. A string of cabs were waiting for the
close of the performance.
Forestier was walking in when Duroy checked him.
"You are passing the pay-box," said he.
"I never pay," was the reply, in a tone of importance.
When he approached the check-takers they bowed, and one of them held out
his hand. The journalist asked: "Have you a good box?"
"Certainly, Monsieur Forestier."
He took the ticket held out to him, pushed the padded door with its
leather borders, and they found themselves in the auditorium.
Tobacco smoke slightly veiled like a faint mist the stage and the
further side of the theater. Rising incessantly in thin white spirals
from the cigars and pipes, this light fog ascended to the ceiling, and
there, accumulating, formed under the dome above the crowded gallery a
cloudy sky.
In the broad corridor leading to the circular promenade a group of women
were awaiting new-comers in front of one of the bars, at which sat
enthroned three painted and faded vendors of love and liquor.
The tall mirrors behind them reflected their backs and the faces of
passers-by.
Forestier pushed his way through the groups, advancing quickly with the
air of a man entitled to consideration.
He went up to a box-keeper. "Box seventeen," said he.
"This way, sir."
And they were shut up in a little open box draped with red, and holding
four chairs of the same color, so near to one another that one could
scarcely slip between them. The two friends sat down. To the right, as
to the left, following a long curved line, the two ends of which joined
the proscenium, a row of similar cribs held people seated in like
fashion, with only their heads and chests visible.
On the stage, three young fellows in fleshings, one tall, one of middle
size, and one small, were executing feats in turn upon a trapeze.
The tall one first advanced with short, quick steps, smiling and waving
his hand as though wafting a kiss.
The muscles of his arms and legs stood out under his tights. He expanded
his chest to take off the effect of his too prominent stomach, and his
face resembled that of a barber's block, for a careful parting divided
his locks equally on the center of the skull. He gained the trapeze by a
graceful bound, and, hanging by the hands, whirled round it like a wheel
at full speed, or, with stiff arms and straightened body, held himself
out horizontally in space.
Then he jumped down, saluted the audience again with a smile amidst the
applause of the stalls, and went and leaned against the scenery, showing
off the muscles of his legs at every step.
The second, shorter and more squarely built, advanced in turn, and went
through the same performance, which the third also recommenced amidst
most marked expressions of approval from the public.
But Duroy scarcely noticed the performance, and, with head averted, kept
his eyes on the promenade behind him, full of men and prostitutes.
Said Forestier to him: "Look at the stalls; nothing but middle-class
folk with their wives and children, good noodlepates who come to see
the show. In the boxes, men about town, some artistes, some girls, good
second-raters; and behind us, the strangest mixture in Paris. Who are
these men? Watch them. There is something of everything, of every
profession, and every caste; but blackguardism predominates. There are
clerks of all kinds--bankers' clerks, government clerks, shopmen,
reporters, ponces, officers in plain clothes, swells in evening dress,
who have dined out, and have dropped in here on their way from the Opera
to the Theatre des Italiens; and then again, too, quite a crowd of
suspicious folk who defy analysis. As to the women, only one type, the
girl who sups at the American _cafe_, the girl at one or two louis who
looks out for foreigners at five louis, and lets her regular customers
know when she is disengaged. We have known them for the last ten years;
we see them every evening all the year round in the same places, except
when they are making a hygienic sojourn at Saint Lazare or at Lourcine."
Duroy no longer heard him. One of these women was leaning against their
box and looking at him. She was a stout brunette, her skin whitened with
paint, her black eyes lengthened at the corners with pencil and shaded
by enormous and artificial eyebrows. Her too exuberant bosom stretched
the dark silk of her dress almost to bursting; and her painted lips, red
as a fresh wound, gave her an aspect bestial, ardent, unnatural, but
which, nevertheless, aroused desire.
She beckoned with her head one of the friends who was passing, a blonde
with red hair, and stout, like herself, and said to her, in a voice loud
enough to be heard: "There is a pretty fellow; if he would like to have
me for ten louis I should not say no."
Forestier turned and tapped Duroy on the knee, with a smile. "That is
meant for you; you are a success, my dear fellow. I congratulate you."
The ex-sub-officer blushed, and mechanically fingered the two pieces of
gold in his waistcoat pocket.
The curtain had dropped, and the orchestra was now playing a waltz.