Saint-Potin rubbed his hands. "Oh! a deep one, a smart woman. She was
the mistress of an old rake named Vaudrec, the Count de Vaudrec, who
gave her a dowry and married her off."
Duroy suddenly felt a cold shiver run through him, a tingling of the
nerves, a longing to smack this gabbler on the face. But he merely
interrupted him by asking:
"And your name is Saint-Potin?"
The other replied, simply enough:
"No, my name is Thomas. It is in the office that they have nicknamed me
Saint-Potin."
Duroy, as he paid for the drinks, observed: "But it seems to me that
time is getting on, and that we have two noble foreigners to call on."
Saint-Potin began to laugh. "You are still green. So you fancy I am
going to ask the Chinese and the Hindoo what they think of England? As
if I did not know better than themselves what they ought to think in
order to please the readers of the _Vie Francaise_. I have already
interviewed five hundred of these Chinese, Persians, Hindoos, Chilians,
Japanese, and others. They all reply the same, according to me. I have
only to take my article on the last comer and copy it word for word.
What has to be changed, though, is their appearance, their name, their
title, their age, and their suite. Oh! on that point it does not do to
make a mistake, for I should be snapped up sharp by the _Figaro_ or the
_Gaulois_. But on these matters the hall porters at the Hotel Bristol
and the Hotel Continental will put me right in five minutes. We will
smoke a cigar as we walk there. Five francs cab hire to charge to the
paper. That is how one sets about it, my dear fellow, when one is
practically inclined."
"It must be worth something decent to be a reporter under these
circumstances," said Duroy.
The journalist replied mysteriously: "Yes, but nothing pays so well as
paragraphs, on account of the veiled advertisements."
They had got up and were passing down the boulevards towards the
Madeleine. Saint-Potin suddenly observed to his companion: "You know if
you have anything else to do, I shall not need you in any way."
Duroy shook hands and left him. The notion of the article to be written
that evening worried him, and he began to think. He stored his mind with
ideas, reflections, opinions, and anecdotes as he walked along, and went
as far as the end of the Avenue des Champs Elysees, where only a few
strollers were to be seen, the heat having caused Paris to be evacuated.
Having dined at a wine shop near the Arc de Triomphe, he walked slowly
home along the outer boulevards and sat down at his table to work. But
as soon as he had the sheet of blank paper before his eyes, all the
materials that he had accumulated fled from his mind as though his brain
had evaporated. He tried to seize on fragments of his recollections and
to retain them, but they escaped him as fast as he laid hold of them, or
else they rushed on him altogether pell-mell, and he did not know how to
clothe and present them, nor which one to begin with.
After an hour of attempts and five sheets of paper blackened by opening
phrases that had no continuation, he said to himself: "I am not yet
well enough up in the business. I must have another lesson." And all at
once the prospect of another morning's work with Madame Forestier, the
hope of another long and intimate _tete-a-tete_ so cordial and so
pleasant, made him quiver with desire. He went to bed in a hurry, almost
afraid now of setting to work again and succeeding all at once.
He did not get up the next 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.