Madame Forestier gently shrugged her shoulders, and raised her eyebrows,
with a gesture of incomprehensible meaning.
"Oh! he is an inspector on the Northern Railway. He spends eight days
out of the month in Paris. What his wife calls 'obligatory service,' or
'weekly duty,' or 'holy week.' When you know her better you will see how
nice and bright she is. Go and call on her one of these days."
Duroy no longer thought of leaving. It seemed to him that he was going
to stop for ever; that he was at home.
But the door opened noiselessly, and a tall gentleman entered without
being announced. He stopped short on seeing a stranger. Madame Forestier
seemed troubled for a moment; then she said in natural tones, though a
slight rosy flush had risen to her cheeks:
"Come in, my dear sir. I must introduce one of Charles' old friends,
Monsieur George Duroy, a future journalist." Then in another tone, she
added: "Our best and most intimate friend, the Count de Vaudrec."
The two men bowed, looking each other in the eyes, and Duroy at once
took his leave.
There was no attempt to detain him. He stammered a few thanks, grasped
the outstretched hand of Madame Forestier, bowed again to the new-comer,
who preserved the cold, grave air of a man of position, and went out
quite disturbed, as if he had made a fool of himself.
On finding himself once more in the street, he felt sad and uneasy,
haunted by the vague idea of some hidden vexation. He walked on, asking
himself whence came this sudden melancholy. He could not tell, but the
stern face of the Count de Vaudrec, already somewhat aged, with gray
hair, and the calmly insolent look of a very wealthy man, constantly
recurred to his recollection. He noted that the arrival of this unknown,
breaking off a charming _tete-a-tete_, had produced in him that chilly,
despairing sensation that a word overheard, a trifle noticed, the least
thing suffices sometimes to bring about. It seemed to him, too, that
this man, without his being able to guess why, had been displeased at
finding him there.
He had nothing more to do till three o'clock, and it was not yet noon.
He had still six francs fifty centimes in his pocket, and he went and
lunched at a Bouillon Duval. Then he prowled about the boulevard, and
as three o'clock struck, ascended the staircase, in itself an
advertisement, of the _Vie Francaise_.
The messengers-in-waiting were seated with folded arms on a bench, while
at a kind of desk a doorkeeper was sorting the correspondence that had
just arrived. The entire get-up of the place, intended to impress
visitors, was perfect. Everyone had the appearance, bearing, dignity,
and smartness suitable to the ante-room of a large newspaper.
"Monsieur Walter, if you please?" inquired Duroy.
"The manager is engaged, sir," replied the doorkeeper. "Will you take a
seat, sir?" and he indicated the waiting-room, already full of people.
There were men grave, important-looking, and decorated; and men without
visible linen, whose frock-coats, buttoned up to the chin, bore upon the
breast stains recalling the outlines of continents and seas on
geographical maps. There were three women among them. One of them was
pretty, smiling, and decked out, and had the air of a gay woman; her
neighbor, with a wrinkled, tragic countenance, decked out also, but in
more severe fashion, had about her something worn and artificial which
old actresses generally have; a kind of false youth, like a scent of
stale love. The third woman, in mourning, sat in a corner, with the air
of a desolate widow. Duroy thought that she had come to ask for charity.
However, no one was ushered into the room beyond, and more than twenty
minutes had elapsed.
Duroy was seized with an idea, and going back to the doorkeeper, said:
"Monsieur Walter made an appointment for me to call on him here at three
o'clock. At all events, see whether my friend, Monsieur Forestier, is
here."
He was at once ushered along a lengthy passage, which brought him to a
large room where four gentlemen were writing at a large green-covered
table.
Forestier standing before the fireplace was smoking a cigarette and
playing at cup and ball. He was very clever at this, and kept spiking
the huge ball of yellow boxwood on the wooden point. He was counting
"Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five."
"Twenty-six," said Duroy.
His friend raised his eyes without interrupting the regular movement of
his arm, saying: "Oh! here you are, then. Yesterday I landed the ball
fifty-seven times right off. There is only Saint-Potin who can beat me
at it among those here. Have you seen the governor? There is nothing
funnier than to see that old tubby Norbert playing at cup and ball. He
opens his mouth as if he was going to swallow the ball every time."
One of the others turned round towards him, saying: "I say, Forestier, I
know of one for sale, a beauty in West Indian wood; it is said to have
belonged to the Queen of Spain. They want sixty francs for it. Not
dear."