George Duroy slept badly, so excited was he by the wish to see his
article in print. He was up as soon as it was daylight, and was prowling
about the streets long before the hour at which the porters from the
newspaper offices run with their papers from kiosque to kiosque. He went
on to the Saint Lazare terminus, knowing that the _Vie Francaise_ would
be delivered there before it reached his own district. As he was still
too early, he wandered up and down on the footpath.
He witnessed the arrival of the newspaper vendor who opened her glass
shop, and then saw a man bearing on his head a pile of papers. He rushed
forward. There were the _Figaro_, the _Gil Blas_, the _Gaulois_, the
_Evenement_, and two or three morning journals, but the _Vie Francaise_
was not among them. Fear seized him. Suppose the "Recollections of a
Chasseur d'Afrique" had been kept over for the next day, or that by
chance they had not at the last moment seemed suitable to Daddy Walter.
Turning back to the kiosque, he saw that the paper was on sale without
his having seen it brought there. He darted forward, unfolded it, after
having thrown down the three sous, and ran through the headings of the
articles on the first page. Nothing. His heart began to beat, and he
experienced strong emotion on reading at the foot of a column in large
letters, "George Duroy." It was in; what happiness!
He began to walk along unconsciously, the paper in his hand and his hat
on one side of his head, with a longing to stop the passers-by in order
to say to them: "Buy this, buy this, there is an article by me in it."
He would have liked to have bellowed with all the power of his lungs,
like some vendors of papers at night on the boulevards, "Read the _Vie
Francaise_; read George Duroy's article, 'Recollections of a Chasseur
d'Afrique.'" And suddenly he felt a wish to read this article himself,
read it in a public place, a _cafe_, in sight of all. He looked about
for some establishment already filled with customers. He had to walk in
search of one for some time. He sat down at last in front of a kind of
wine shop, where several customers were already installed, and asked for
a glass of rum, as he would have asked for one of absinthe, without
thinking of the time. Then he cried: "Waiter, bring me the _Vie
Francaise_."
A man in a white apron stepped up, saying: "We have not got it, sir; we
only take in the _Rappel_, the _Siecle_, the _Lanierne_, and the _Petit
Parisien_."
"What a den!" exclaimed Duroy, in a tone of anger and disgust. "Here, go
and buy it for me."
The waiter hastened to do so, and brought back the paper. Duroy began to
read his article, and several times said aloud: "Very good, very well
put," to attract the attention of his neighbors, and inspire them with
the wish to know what there was in this sheet. Then, on going away, he
left it on the table. The master of the place, noticing this, called him
back, saying: "Sir, sir, you are forgetting your paper."
And Duroy replied: "I will leave it to you. I have finished with it.
There is a very interesting article in it this morning."
He did not indicate the article, but he noticed as he went away one of
his neighbors take the _Vie Francaise_ up from the table on which he had
left it.
He thought: "What shall I do now?" And he decided to go to his office,
take his month's salary, and tender his resignation. He felt a thrill of
anticipatory pleasure at the thought of the faces that would be pulled
up by the chief of his room and his colleagues. The notion of the
bewilderment of the chief above all charmed him.
He walked slowly, so as not to get there too early, the cashier's office
not opening before ten o'clock.
His office was a large, gloomy room, in which gas had to be kept burning
almost all day long in winter. It looked into a narrow court-yard, with
other offices on the further side of it. There were eight clerks there,
besides a sub-chief hidden behind a screen in one corner.
Duroy first went to get the hundred and eighteen francs twenty-five
centimes enclosed in a yellow envelope, and placed in the drawer of the
clerk entrusted with such payments, and then, with a conquering air,
entered the large room in which he had already spent so many days.
As soon as he came in the sub-chief, Monsieur Potel, called out to him:
"Ah! it is you, Monsieur Duroy? The chief has already asked for you
several times. You know that he will not allow anyone to plead illness
two days running without a doctor's certificate."
Duroy, who was standing in the middle of the room preparing his
sensational effect, replied in a loud voice:
"I don't care a damn whether he does or not."
There was a movement of stupefaction among the clerks, and Monsieur
Potel's features showed affrightedly over the screen which shut him up
as in a box. He barricaded himself behind it for fear of draughts, for
he was rheumatic, but had pierced a couple of holes through the paper to
keep an eye on his staff. A pin might have been heard to fall. At length
the sub-chief said, hesitatingly: "You said?"
"I said that I don't care a damn about it. I have only called to-day to
tender my resignation. I am engaged on the staff of the _Vie Francaise_
at five hundred francs a month, and extra pay for all I write. Indeed, I
made my _debut_ this morning."
He had promised himself to spin out his enjoyment, but had not been able
to resist the temptation of letting it all out at once.
The effect, too, was overwhelming. No one stirred.
Duroy went on: "I will go and inform Monsieur Perthuis, and then come
and wish you good-bye."
And he went out in search of the chief, who exclaimed, on seeing him:
"Ah, here you are. You know that I won't have--"
His late subordinate cut him short with: "It's not worth while yelling
like that."
Monsieur Perthuis, a stout man, as red as a turkey cock, was choked with
bewilderment.
Duroy continued: "I have had enough of this crib. I made my _debut_ this
morning in journalism, where I am assured of a very good position. I
have the honor to bid you good-day." And he went out. He was avenged.
As he promised, he went and shook hands with his old colleagues, who
scarcely dared to speak to him, for fear of compromising themselves, for
they had overheard his conversation with the chief, the door having
remained open.
He found himself in the street again, with his salary in his pocket. He
stood himself a substantial breakfast at a good but cheap restaurant he
was acquainted with, and having again purchased the _Vie Francaise_, and
left it on the table, went into several shops, where he bought some
trifles, solely for the sake of ordering them to be sent home, and
giving his name: "George Duroy," with the addition, "I am the editor of
the _Vie Francaise_."
Then he gave the name of the street and the number, taking care to add:
"Leave it with the doorkeeper."
As he had still some time to spare he went into the shop of a
lithographer, who executed visiting cards at a moment's notice before
the eyes of passers-by, and had a hundred, bearing his new occupation
under his name, printed off while he waited.
Then he went to the office of the paper.
Forestier received him loftily, as one receives a subordinate. "Ah! here
you are. Good. I have several things for you to attend to. Just wait ten
minutes. I will just finish what I am about."
And he went on with a letter he was writing.
At the other end of the large table a fat, bald little man, with a very
pale, puffy face, and a white and shining head, was writing, with his
nose on the paper owing to extreme shortsightedness. Forestier said to
him: "I say, Saint-Potin, when are you going to interview those
people?"
"At four o'clock."
"Will you take young Duroy here with you, and let him into the way of
doing it?"
"All right."
Then turning to his friend, Forestier added: "Have you brought the
continuation of the Algerian article? The opening this morning was very
successful."
Duroy, taken aback, stammered: "No. I thought I should have time this
afternoon. I had heaps of things to do. I was not able."
The other shrugged his shoulders with a dissatisfied air. "If you are
not more exact than that you will spoil your future. Daddy Walter was
reckoning on your copy. I will tell him it will be ready to-morrow. If
you think you are to be paid for doing nothing you are mistaken."
Then, after a short silence, he added: "One must strike the iron while
it is hot, or the deuce is in it."