Then he threw down his pen and rose from his chair.
On his little iron bedstead, hollowed in the center by the pressure of
his body, he saw his everyday garments cast down there, empty, worn,
limp, ugly as the clothing at the morgue. On a straw-bottomed chair his
tall hat, his only one, brim uppermost, seemed to be awaiting an alms.
The wall paper, gray with blue bouquets, showed as many stains as
flowers, old suspicious-looking stains, the origin of which could not be
defined; crushed insects or drops of oil; finger tips smeared with
pomatum or soapy water scattered while washing. It smacked of shabby,
genteel poverty, the poverty of a Paris lodging-house. Anger rose within
him at the wretchedness of his mode of living. He said to himself that
he must get out of it at once; that he must finish with this irksome
existence the very next day.
A frantic desire of working having suddenly seized on him again, he sat
down once more at the table, and began anew to seek for phrases to
describe the strange and charming physiognomy of Algiers, that ante-room
of vast and mysterious Africa; the Africa of wandering Arabs and unknown
tribes of negroes; that unexplored Africa of which we are sometimes
shown in public gardens the improbable-looking animals seemingly made to
figure in fairy tales; the ostriches, those exaggerated fowls; the
gazelles, those divine goats; the surprising and grotesque giraffes; the
grave-looking camels, the monstrous hippopotomi, the shapeless
rhinosceri, and the gorillas, those frightful-looking brothers of
mankind.
He vaguely felt ideas occurring to him; he might perhaps have uttered
them, but he could not put them into writing. And his impotence
exasperated him, he got up again, his hands damp with perspiration, and
his temples throbbing.
His eyes falling on his washing bill, brought up that evening by the
concierge, he was suddenly seized with wild despair. All his joy
vanishing in a twinkling, with his confidence in himself and his faith
in the future. It was all up; he could not do anything, he would never
be anybody; he felt played out, incapable, good for nothing, damned.
And he went and leaned out of the window again, just as a train issued
from the tunnel with a loud and violent noise. It was going away, afar
off, across the fields and plains towards the sea. And the recollection
of his parents stirred in Duroy's breast. It would pass near them, that
train, within a few leagues of their house. He saw it again, the little
house at the entrance to the village of Canteleu, on the summit of the
slope overlooking Rouen and the immense valley of the Seine.
His father and mother kept a little inn, a place where the tradesfolk of
the suburbs of Rouen came out to lunch on Sunday at the sign of the
Belle Vue. They had wanted to make a gentleman of their son, and had
sent him to college. Having finished his studies, and been plowed for
his bachelor's degree, he had entered on his military service with the
intention of becoming an officer, a colonel, a general. But, disgusted
with military life long before the completion of his five years' term
of service, he had dreamed of making a fortune at Paris.
He came there at the expiration of his term of service, despite the
entreaties of his father and mother, whose visions having evaporated,
wanted now to have him at home with them. In his turn he hoped to
achieve a future; he foresaw a triumph by means as yet vaguely defined
in his mind, but which he felt sure he could scheme out and further.
He had had some successful love affairs in the regiment, some easy
conquests, and even some adventures in a better class of society, having
seduced a tax collector's daughter, who wanted to leave her home for his
sake, and a lawyer's wife, who had tried to drown herself in despair at
being abandoned.
His comrades used to say of him: "He is a sharp fellow, a deep one to
get out of a scrape, a chap who knows which side his bread is buttered,"
and he had promised himself to act up to this character.
His conscience, Norman by birth, worn by the daily dealings of garrison
life, rendered elastic by the examples of pillaging in Africa, illicit
commissions, shaky dodges; spurred, too, by the notions of honor current
in the army, military bravadoes, patriotic sentiments, the fine-sounding
tales current among sub-officers, and the vain glory of the profession
of arms, had become a kind of box of tricks in which something of
everything was to be found.
But the wish to succeed reigned sovereign in it.
He had, without noticing it, began to dream again as he did every
evening. He pictured to himself some splendid love adventure which
should bring about all at once the realization of his hopes. He married
the daughter of some banker or nobleman met with in the street, and
captivated at the first glance.
The shrill whistle of a locomotive which, issuing from the tunnel like a
big rabbit bolting out of its hole, and tearing at full speed along the
rails towards the machine shed where it was to take its rest, awoke him
from his dream.
Then, repossessed by the vague and joyful hope which ever haunted his
mind, he wafted a kiss into the night, a kiss of love addressed to the
vision of the woman he was awaiting, a kiss of desire addressed to the
fortune he coveted. Then he closed his window and began to undress,
murmuring:
"I shall feel in a better mood for it to-morrow. My thoughts are not
clear to-night. Perhaps, too, I have had just a little too much to
drink. One can't work well under those circumstances."
He got into bed, blew out his light, and went off to sleep almost
immediately.
He awoke early, as one awakes on mornings of hope and trouble, and
jumping out of bed, opened his window to drink a cup of fresh air, as he
phrased it.
The houses of the Rue de Rome opposite, on the other side of the broad
railway cutting, glittering in the rays of the rising sun, seemed to be
painted with white light. Afar off on the right a glimpse was caught of
the slopes of Argenteuil, the hills of Sannois, and the windmills of
Orgemont through a light bluish mist; like a floating and transparent
veil cast onto the horizon.
Duroy remained for some minutes gazing at the distant country side, and
he murmured: "It would be devilish nice out there a day like this." Then
he bethought himself that he must set to work, and that at once, and
also send his concierge's lad, at a cost of ten sous, to the office to
say that he was ill.
He sat down at his table, dipped his pen in the ink, leaned his forehead
on his hand, and sought for ideas. All in vain, nothing came.
He was not discouraged, however. He thought, "Bah! I am not accustomed
to it. It is a trade to be learned like all other trades. I must have
some help the first time. I will go and find Forestier, who will give me
a start for my article in ten minutes."
And he dressed himself.
When he got into the street he came to the conclusion that it was still
too early to present himself at the residence of his friend, who must be
a late sleeper. He therefore walked slowly along beneath the trees of
the outer boulevards. It was not yet nine o'clock when he reached the
Parc Monceau, fresh from its morning watering. Sitting down upon a bench
he began to dream again. A well-dressed young man was walking up and
down at a short distance, awaiting a woman, no doubt. Yes, she appeared,
close veiled and quick stepping, and taking his arm, after a brief clasp
of the hand, they walked away together.
A riotous need of love broke out in Duroy's heart, a need of amours at
once distinguished 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."