They spoke of one thing and another. He stayed for some time, wishing to
prove that he took pleasure in being with her, and on leaving, remarked:
"It is understood, then, that we are friends?"
"It is."
As he had noted the effect of the compliment he had paid her shortly
before, he seconded it by adding: "And if ever you become a widow, I
enter the lists."
Then he hurried away, so as not to give her time to get angry.
A visit to Madame Walter was rather awkward for Duroy, for he had not
been authorized to call, and he did not want to commit a blunder. The
governor displayed some good will towards him, appreciated his services,
and employed him by preference on difficult jobs, so why should he not
profit by this favor to enter the house? One day, then, having risen
early, he went to the market while the morning sales were in progress,
and for ten francs obtained a score of splendid pears. Having carefully
packed them in a hamper to make it appear that they had come from a
distance, he left them with the doorkeeper at Madame Walter's with his
card, on which he had written: "George Duroy begs Madame Walter to
accept a little fruit which he received this morning from Normandy."
He found the next morning, among his letters at the office, an envelope
in reply, containing the card of Madame Walter, who "thanked Monsieur
George Duroy, and was at home every Saturday."
On the following Saturday he called. Monsieur Walter occupied, on the
Boulevard Malesherbes, a double house, which belonged to him, and of
which a part was let off, in the economical way of practical people. A
single doorkeeper, quartered between the two carriage entrances, opened
the door for both landlord and tenant, and imparted to each of the
entrances an air of wealth by his get-up like a beadle, his big calves
in white stockings, and his coat with gilt buttons and scarlet facings.
The reception-rooms were on the first floor, preceded by an ante-room
hung with tapestry, and shut in by curtains over the doorways. Two
footmen were dozing on benches. One of them took Duroy's overcoat and
the other relieved him of his cane, opened the door, advanced a few
steps in front of the visitor, and then drawing aside, let him pass,
calling out his name, into an empty room.
The young fellow, somewhat embarrassed, looked round on all sides when
he perceived in a glass some people sitting down who seemed very far
off. He was at sea at first as to the direction in which they were, the
mirror having deceived his eyes. Then he passed through two empty
drawing-rooms and reached a small boudoir hung with blue silk, where
four ladies were chatting round a table bearing cups of tea. Despite the
assurance he had acquired in course of his Parisian life, and above all
in his career as a reporter, which constantly brought him into contact
with important personages, Duroy felt somewhat intimidated by the get-up
of the entrance and the passage through the deserted drawing-room. He
stammered: "Madame, I have ventured," as his eyes sought the mistress of
the house.
She held out her hand, which he took with a bow, and having remarked:
"You are very kind sir, to call and see me," she pointed to a chair, in
seeking to sit down in which he almost fell, having thought it much
higher.
They had become silent. One of the ladies began to talk again. It was a
question of the frost, which was becoming sharper, though not enough,
however, to check the epidemic of typhoid fever, nor to allow skating.
Every one gave her opinion on this advent of frost in Paris, then they
expressed their preference for the different seasons with all the
trivial reasons that lie about in people's minds like dust in rooms. The
faint noise made by a door caused Duroy to turn his head, and he saw in
a glass a stout lady approaching. As soon as she made her appearance in
the boudoir one of the other visitors rose, shook hands and left, and
the young fellow followed her black back glittering with jet through the
drawing-rooms with his eyes. When the agitation due to this change had
subsided they spoke without transition of the Morocco question and the
war in the East and also of the difficulties of England in South Africa.
These ladies discussed these matters from memory, as if they had been
reciting passages from a fashionable play, frequently rehearsed.
A fresh arrival took place, that of a little curly-headed blonde, which
brought about the departure of a tall, thin lady of middle age. They now
spoke of the chance Monsieur Linet had of getting into the
Academie-Francaise. The new-comer formerly believed that he would be
beaten by Monsieur Cabanon-Lebas, the author of the fine dramatic
adaption of Don Quixote in verse.
"You know it is to be played at the Odeon next winter?"
"Really, I shall certainly go and see such a very excellent literary
effort."
Madame Walter answered gracefully with calm indifference, without ever
hesitating as to what she should say, her mind being always made up
beforehand. But she saw that night was coming on, and rang for the
lamps, while listening to the conversation that trickled on like a
stream of honey, and thinking that she had forgotten to call on the
stationer about the invitation cards for her next dinner. She was a
little too stout, though still beautiful, at the dangerous age when the
general break-up is at hand. She preserved herself by dint of care,
hygienic precautions, and salves for the skin. She seemed discreet in
all matters; moderate and reasonable; one of those women whose mind is
correctly laid out like a French garden. One walks through it with
surprise, but experiencing a certain charm. She had keen, discreet, and
sound sense, that stood her instead of fancy, generosity, and affection,
together with a calm kindness for everybody and everything.
She noted that Duroy had not said anything, that he had not been spoken
to, and that he seemed slightly ill at ease; and as the ladies had not
yet quitted the Academy, that favorite subject always occupying them
some time, she said: "And you who should be better informed than any
one, Monsieur Duroy, who is your favorite?"
He replied unhesitatingly: "In this matter, madame, I should never
consider the merit, always disputable, of the candidates, but their age
and their state of health. I should not ask about their credentials, but
their disease. I should not seek to learn whether they have made a
metrical translation of Lope de Vega, but I should take care to obtain
information as to the state of their liver, their heart, their lungs,
and their spinal marrow. For me a good hypertrophy, a good aneurism, and
above all, a good beginning of locomotor ataxy, would be a hundred times
more valuable than forty volumes of disgressions on the idea of
patriotism as embodied in barbaric poetry."
An astonished silence followed this opinion, and Madame Walter asked
with a smile: "But why?"
He replied: "Because I never seek aught else than the pleasure that any
one can give the ladies. But, Madame, the Academy only has any real
interest for you when an Academician dies. The more of them die the
happier you must be. But in order that they may die quickly they must be
elected sick and old." As they still remained somewhat surprised, he
continued. "Besides, I am like you, and I like to read of the death of
an Academician. I at once ask myself: 'Who will replace him?' And I draw
up my list. It is a game, a very pretty little game that is played in
all Parisian salons at each decease of one of the Immortals, the game of
'Death and the Forty Fogies.'"
The ladies, still slightly disconcerted, began however, to smile, so
true were his remarks. He concluded, as he rose: "It is you who really
elect them, ladies, and you only elect them to see them die. Choose them
old, therefore, very old; as old as possible, and do not trouble
yourselves about anything else."
He then retired very gracefully. As soon as he was gone, one of the
ladies said: "He is very funny, that young fellow. Who is he?"
Madame Walter replied: "One of the staff of our paper, who does not do
much yet; but I feel sure that he will get on."
Duroy strode gayly down the Boulevard Malesherbes, content with his
exit, and murmuring: "A capital start."
He made it up with Rachel that evening.
The following week two things happened to him. He was appointed chief
reporter and invited to dinner at Madame Walter's. He saw at once a
connection between these things. The _Vie Francaise_ was before
everything a financial paper, the head of it being a financier, to whom
the press and the position of a deputy served as levers. Making use of
every cordiality as a weapon, he had always worked under the smiling
mask of a good fellow; but he only employed men whom he had sounded,
tried, and proved; whom he knew to be crafty, bold, and supple. Duroy,
appointed chief of the reporting staff, seemed to him a valuable fellow.
This duty had been filled up till then by the chief sub-editor, Monsieur
Boisrenard, an old journalist, as correct, punctual, and scrupulous as a
clerk. In course of thirty years he had been sub-editor of eleven
different papers, without in any way modifying his way of thinking or
acting. He passed from one office to another as one changes one's
restaurant, scarcely noticing that the cookery was not quite the same.
Political and religious opinions were foreign to him. He was devoted to
his paper, whatever it might be, well up in his work, and valuable from
his experience. He worked like a blind man who sees nothing, like a deaf
man who hears nothing, and like a dumb man who never speaks of anything.
He had, however, a strong instinct of professional loyalty, and would
not stoop to aught he did not think honest and right from the special
point of view of his business.
Monsieur Walter, who thoroughly appreciated him, had however, often
wished for another man to whom to entrust the "Echoes," which he held to
be the very marrow of the paper. It is through them that rumors are set
afloat and the public and the funds influenced. It is necessary to know
how to slip the all-important matter, rather hinted at than said right
out, in between the description of two fashionable entertainments,
without appearing to intend it. It is necessary to imply a thing by
judicious reservations; let what is desired be guessed at; contradict in
such a fashion as to confirm, or affirm in such a way that no one shall
believe the statement. It is necessary that in the "Echoes" everyone
shall find every day at least one line of interest, in order that every
one may read them. Every one must be thought of, all classes, all
professions, Paris and the provinces, the army and the art world, the
clergy and the university, the bar and the world of gallantry. The man
who has the conduct of them, and who commands an army of reporters, must
be always on the alert and always on his guard; mistrustful, far-seeing,
cunning, alert, and supple; armed with every kind of cunning, and gifted
with an infallible knack of spotting false news at the first glance, of
judging which is good to announce and good to hide, of divining what
will catch the public, and of putting it forward in such a way as to
double its effect.
Monsieur Boisrenard, who had in his favor the skill acquired by long
habit, nevertheless lacked mastery and dash; he lacked, above all, the
native cunning needed to put forth day by day the secret ideas of the
manager. Duroy could do it to perfection, and was an admirable addition
to the staff. The wire-pullers and real editors of the _Vie Francaise_
were half a dozen deputies, interested in all the speculations brought
out or backed up by the manager. They were known in the Chamber as
"Walter's gang," and envied because they gained money with him and
through him. Forestier, the political editor, was only the man of straw
of these men of business, the worker-out of ideas suggested by them.
They prompted his leaders, which he always wrote at home, so as to do so
in quiet, he said. But in order to give the paper a literary and truly
Parisian smack, the services of two celebrated writers in different
styles had been secured--Jacques Rival, a descriptive writer, and
Norbert de Varenne, a poet and story-writer. To these had been added, at
a cheap rate, theatrical, musical and art critics, a law reporter, and a
sporting reporter, from the mercenary tribe of all-round pressmen. Two
ladies, "Pink Domino" and "Lily Fingers," sent in fashion articles, and
dealt with questions of dress, etiquette, and society.
Duroy was in all the joy of his appointment as chief of the "Echoes"
when he received a printed card on which he read: "Monsieur and Madame
Walter request the pleasure of Monsieur Geo. Duroy's company at dinner,
on Thursday, January 20." This new mark of favor following on the other
filled him with such joy that he kissed the invitation as he would have
done a love letter. Then he went in search of the cashier to deal with
the important question of money. A chief of the reporting staff on a
Paris paper generally has his budget out of which he pays his reporters
for the intelligence, important or trifling, brought in by them, as
gardeners bring in their fruits to a dealer. Twelve hundred francs a
month were allotted at the outset to Duroy, who proposed to himself to
retain a considerable share of it. The cashier, on his pressing
instances, ended by advancing him four hundred francs. He had at first
the intention of sending Madame de Marelle the two hundred and eighty
francs he owed her, but he almost immediately reflected that he would
only have a hundred and twenty left, a sum utterly insufficient to carry
on his new duties in suitable fashion, and so put off this resolution to
a future day.
During a couple of days he was engaged in settling down, for he had
inherited a special table and a set of pigeon holes in the large room
serving for the whole of the staff. He occupied one end of the room,
while Boisrenard, whose head, black as a crow's, despite his age, was
always bent over a sheet of paper, had the other. The long table in the
middle belonged to the staff. Generally it served them to sit on, either
with their legs dangling over the edges, or squatted like tailors in the
center. Sometimes five or six would be sitting on it in that fashion,
perseveringly playing cup and ball. Duroy had ended by having a taste
for this amusement, and was beginning to get expert at it, under the
guidance, and thanks to the advice of Saint-Potin. Forestier, grown
worse, had lent him his fine cup and ball in West Indian wood, the last
he had bought, and which he found rather too heavy for him, and Duroy
swung with vigorous arm the big black ball at the end of its string,
counting quickly to himself: "One--two--three--four--five--six." It
happened precisely that for the first time he spiked the ball twenty
times running, the very day that he was to dine at Madame Walter's. "A
good day," he thought, "I am successful in everything." For skill at
cup and ball really conferred a kind of superiority in the office of
the _Vie Francaise_.
He left the office early to have time to dress, and was going up the Rue
de Londres when he saw, trotting along in front of him, a little woman
whose figure recalled that of Madame de Marelle. He felt his cheeks
flush, and his heart began to beat. He crossed the road to get a view of
her. She stopped, in order to cross over, too. He had made a mistake,
and breathed again. He had often asked how he ought to behave if he met
her face to face. Should he bow, or should he seem not to have seen
her. "I should not see her," he thought.
It was cold; the gutters were frozen, and the pavement dry and gray in
the gas-light. When he got home he thought: "I must change my lodgings;
this is no longer good enough for me." He felt nervous and lively,
capable of anything; and he said aloud, as he walked from his bed to the
window: "It is fortune at last--it is fortune! I must write to father."
From time to time he wrote to his father, and the letter always brought
happiness to the little Norman inn by the roadside, at the summit of the
slope overlooking Rouen and the broad valley of the Seine. From time to
time, too, he received a blue envelope, addressed in a large, shaky
hand, and read the same unvarying lines at the beginning of the paternal
epistle. "My Dear Son: This leaves your mother and myself in good
health. There is not much news here. I must tell you, however," etc. In
his heart he retained a feeling of interest for the village matters, for
the news of the neighbours, and the condition of the crops.
He repeated to himself, as he tied his white tie before his little
looking-glass: "I must write to father to-morrow. Wouldn't the old
fellow be staggered if he could see me this evening in the house I am
going to? By Jove! I am going to have such a dinner as he never tasted."
And he suddenly saw the dark kitchen behind the empty _cafe_; the copper
stewpans casting their yellow reflections on the wall; the cat on the
hearth, with her nose to the fire, in sphinx-like attitude; the wooden
table, greasy with time and spilt liquids, a soup tureen smoking upon
it, and a lighted candle between two plates. He saw them, too--his
father and mother, two slow-moving peasants, eating their soup. He knew
the smallest wrinkles on their old faces, the slightest movements of
their arms and heads. He knew even what they talked about every evening
as they sat at supper. He thought, too: "I must really go and see them;"
but his toilet being ended, he blew out his light and went downstairs.
As he passed along the outer boulevard girls accosted him from time to
time. He replied, as he pulled away his arm: "Go to the devil!" with a
violent disdain, as though they had insulted him. What did they take him
for? Could not these hussies tell what a man was? The sensation of his
dress coat, put on in order to go to dinner with such well-known and
important people, inspired him with the sentiment of a new
impersonality--the sense of having become another man, a man in society,
genuine society.
He entered the ante-room, lit by tall bronze candelabra, with
confidence, and handed in easy fashion his cane and overcoat to two
valets who approached. All the drawing-rooms were lit up. Madame Walter
received her guests in the second, the largest. She welcomed him with a
charming smile, and he shook hands with two gentlemen who had arrived
before him--Monsieur Firmin and Monsieur Laroche-Mathieu, deputies, and
anonymous editors of the _Vie Francaise_. Monsieur Laroche-Mathieu had a
special authority at the paper, due to a great influence he enjoyed in
the Chamber. No one doubted his being a minister some day. Then came the
Forestiers; the wife in pink, and looking charming. Duroy was stupefied
to see her on terms of intimacy with the two deputies. She chatted in
low tones beside the fireplace, for more than five minutes, with
Monsieur Laroche-Mathieu. Charles seemed worn out. He had grown much
thinner during the past month, and coughed incessantly as he repeated:
"I must make up my mind to finish the winter in the south." Norbert de
Varenne and Jacques Rival made their appearance together. Then a door
having opened at the further end of the room, Monsieur Walter came in
with two tall young girls, of from sixteen to eighteen, one ugly and the
other pretty.
Duroy knew that the governor was the father of a family; but he was
struck with astonishment. He had never thought of his daughters, save as
one thinks of distant countries which one will never see. And then he
had fancied them quite young, and here they were grown-up women. They
held out their hands to him after being introduced, and then went and
sat down at a little table, without doubt reserved to them, at which
they began to turn over a number of reels of silk in a work-basket. They
were still awaiting someone, and all were silent with that sense of
oppression, preceding dinners, between people who do not find themselves
in the same mental atmosphere after the different occupations of the
day.
Duroy having, for want of occupation, raised his eyes towards the wall,
Monsieur Walter called to him from a distance, with an evident wish to
show off his property: "Are you looking at my pictures? I will show them
to you," and he took a lamp, so that the details might be distinguished.
"Here we have landscapes," said he.
In the center of the wall was a large canvas by Guillemet, a bit of the
Normandy coast under a lowering sky. Below it a wood, by Harpignies, and
a plain in Algeria, by Guillemet, with a camel on the horizon, a tall
camel with long legs, like some strange monument. Monsieur Walter passed
on to the next wall, and announced in a grave tone, like a master of the
ceremonies: "High Art." There were four: "A Hospital Visit," by Gervex;
"A Harvester," by Bastien-Lepage; "A Widow," by Bouguereau; and "An
Execution," by Jean Paul Laurens. The last work represented a Vendean
priest shot against the wall of his church by a detachment of Blues. A
smile flitted across the governor's grave countenance as he indicated
the next wall. "Here the fanciful school." First came a little canvas by
Jean Beraud, entitled, "Above and Below." It was a pretty Parisian
mounting to the roof of a tramcar in motion. Her head appeared on a
level with the top, and the gentlemen on the seats viewed with
satisfaction the pretty face approaching them, while those standing on
the platform below considered the young woman's legs with a different
expression of envy and desire. Monsieur Walter held the lamp at arm's
length, and repeated, with a sly laugh: "It is funny, isn't it?" Then he
lit up "A Rescue," by Lambert. In the middle of a table a kitten,
squatted on its haunches, was watching with astonishment and perplexity
a fly drowning in a glass of water. It had its paw raised ready to fish
out the insect with a rapid sweep of it. But it had not quite made up
its mind. It hesitated. What would it do? Then the governor showed a
Detaille, "The Lesson," which represented a soldier in a barrack-room
teaching a poodle to play the drum, and said: "That is very witty."
Duroy laughed a laugh of approbation, and exclaimed: "It is charming,
charm--" He stopped short on hearing behind him the voice of Madame de
Marelle, who had just come in.
The governor continued to light up the pictures as he explained them. He
now showed a water-color by Maurice Leloir, "The Obstacle." It was a
sedan chair checked on its way, the street being blocked by a fight
between two laborers, two fellows struggling like Hercules. From out of
the window of the chair peered the head of a charming woman, who watched
without impatience, without alarm, and with a certain admiration, the
combat of these two brutes. Monsieur Walter continued: "I have others in
the adjoining rooms, but they are by less known men. I buy of the young
artists now, the very young ones, and hang their works in the more
private rooms until they become known." He then went on in a low tone:
"Now is the time to buy! The painters are all dying of hunger! They have
not a sou, not a sou!"
But Duroy saw nothing, and heard without understanding. Madame de
Marelle was there behind him. What ought he to do? If he spoke to her,
might she not turn her back on him, or treat him with insolence? If he
did not approach her, what would people think? He said to himself: "I
will gain time, at any rate." He was so moved that for a moment he
thought of feigning a sudden illness, which would allow him to withdraw.
The examination of the walls was over. The governor went to put down his
lamp and welcome the last comer, while Duroy began to re-examine the
pictures as if he could not tire of admiring them. He was quite upset.
What should he do? Madame Forestier called to him: "Monsieur Duroy." He
went to her. It was to speak to him of a friend of hers who was about
to give a fete, and who would like to have a line to that effect in the
_Vie Francaise_. He gasped out: "Certainly, Madame, certainly."
Madame de Marelle was now quite close to him. He dared not turn round to
go away. All at once he thought he was going mad; she had said aloud:
"Good evening, Pretty-boy. So you no longer recognize me."
He rapidly turned on his heels. She stood before him smiling, her eyes
beaming with sprightliness and affection, and held out her hand. He took
it tremblingly, still fearing some trick, some perfidy. She added,
calmly: "What has become of you? One no longer sees anything of you."
He stammered, without being able to recover his coolness: "I have a
great deal to do, Madame, a great deal to do. Monsieur Walter has
entrusted me with new duties which give me a great deal of occupation."
She replied, still looking him in the face, but without his being able
to discover anything save good will in her glance: "I know it. But that
is no reason for forgetting your friends."
They were separated by a lady who came in, with red arms and red face, a
stout lady in a very low dress, got up with pretentiousness, and walking
so heavily that one guessed by her motions the size and weight of her
legs. As she seemed to be treated with great attention, Duroy asked
Madame Forestier: "Who is that lady?"
"The Viscomtesse de Percemur, who signs her articles 'Lily Fingers.'"
He was astounded, and seized on by an inclination to laugh.
"'Lily Fingers!' 'Lily Fingers!' and I imagined her young like
yourself. So that is 'Lily Fingers.' That is very funny, very funny."
A servant appeared in the doorway and announced dinner. The dinner was
commonplace and lively, one of those dinners at which people talk about
everything, without saying anything. Duroy found himself between the
elder daughter of the master of the house, the ugly one, Mademoiselle
Rose and Madame de Marelle. The neighborhood of the latter made him feel
very ill at ease, although she seemed very much at her ease, and chatted
with her usual vivacity. He was troubled at first, constrained,
hesitating, like a musician who has lost the keynote. By degrees,
however, he recovered his assurance, and their eyes continually meeting
questioned one another, exchanging looks in an intimate, almost sensual,
fashion as of old. All at once he thought he felt something brush
against his foot under the table. He softly pushed forward his leg and
encountered that of his neighbor, which did not shrink from the contact.
They did not speak, each being at that moment turned towards their
neighbor. Duroy, his heart beating, pushed a little harder with his
knee. A slight pressure replied to him. Then he understood that their
loves were beginning anew. What did they say then? Not much, but their
lips quivered every time that they looked at one another.
The young fellow, however, wishing to do the amiable to his employer's
daughter, spoke to her from time to time. She replied as the mother
would have done, never hesitating as to what she should say. On the
right of Monsieur Walter the Viscomtesse de Percemur gave herself the
airs of a princess, and Duroy, amused at watching her, said in a low
voice to Madame de Marelle. "Do you know the other, the one who signs
herself 'Pink Domino'?"
"Yes, very well, the Baroness de Livar."
"Is she of the same breed?"
"No, but quite as funny. A tall, dried-up woman of sixty, false curls,
projecting teeth, ideas dating from the Restoration, and toilets of the
same epoch."
"Where did they unearth these literary phenomena?"
"The scattered waifs of the nobility are always sheltered by enriched
cits."
"No other reason?"
"None."
Then a political discussion began between the master of the house, the
two deputies, Norbert de Varenne, and Jacques Rival, and lasted till
dessert.
When they returned to the drawing-room, Duroy again approached Madame de
Marelle, and looking her in the eyes, said: "Shall I see you home
to-night?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because Monsieur Laroche Mathieu, who is my neighbor, drops me at my
door every time I dine here."
"When shall I see you?"
"Come and lunch with me to-morrow."
And they separated without saying anything more.
Duroy did not remain late, finding the evening dull. As he went
downstairs he overtook Norbert de Varenne, who was also leaving. The old
poet took him by the arm. No longer having to fear any rivalry as
regards the paper, their work being essentially different, he now
manifested a fatherly kindness towards the young fellow.
"Well, will you walk home a bit of my way with me?" said he.
"With pleasure, my dear master," replied Duroy.
And they went out, walking slowly along the Boulevard Malesherbes. Paris
was almost deserted that night--a cold night--one of those nights that
seem vaster, as it were, than others, when the stars seem higher above,
and the air seems to bear on its icy breath something coming from
further than even the stars. The two men did not speak at first. Then
Duroy, in order to say something, remarked: "Monsieur Laroche Mathieu
seems very intelligent and well informed."