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“Where does M.
Forestier live?”
“Third floor on
the left,” said the porter pleasantly, on learning Duroy’s destination.
Georges
ascended the staircase. He was somewhat embarrassed and ill-at-ease. He had on
a new suit but he was uncomfortable. He felt that it was defective; his boots
were not glossy, he had bought his shirt that same evening at the Louvre for
four francs fifty, his trousers were too wide and betrayed their cheapness in
their fit, or rather, misfit, and his coat was too tight.
Slowly he
ascended the stairs, his heart beating, his mind anxious. Suddenly before him
stood a well-dressed gentleman staring at him. The person resembled Duroy so
close that the latter retreated, then stopped, and saw that it was his own
image reflected in a pier-glass! Not having anything but a small mirror at
home, he had not been able to see himself entirely, and had exaggerated the
imperfections of his toilette. When he saw his reflection in the glass, he did
not even recognize himself; he took himself for some one else, for a
man-of-the-world, and was really satisfied with his general appearance. Smiling
to himself, Duroy extended his hand and expressed his astonishment, pleasure,
and approbation. A door opened on the staircase, He was afraid of being
surprised and began to ascend more rapidly, fearing that he might have been
seen posing there by some of his friend’s invited guests.
On reaching the
second floor, he saw another mirror, and once more slackened his pace to look
at himself. He likewise paused before the third glass, twirled his mustache,
took off his hat to arrange his hair, and murmured half aloud, a habit of his:
“Hall mirrors are most convenient.”
Then he rang
the bell. The door opened almost immediately, and before him stood a servant in
a black coat, with a grave, shaven face, so perfect in his appearance that
Duroy again became confused as he compared the cut of their garments.
The lackey
asked:
“Whom shall I
announce, Monsieur?” He raised a portiere and pronounced the name.
Duroy lost his
self-possession upon being ushered into a world as yet strange to him. However,
he advanced. A young, fair woman received him alone in a large, well-lighted
room. He paused, disconcerted. Who was that smiling lady? He remembered that
Forestier was married, and the thought that the handsome blonde was his
friend’s wife rendered him awkward and ill-at-ease. He stammered out:
“Madame, I am—”
She held out
her hand. “I know, Monsieur—Charles told me of your meeting last night, and I
am very glad that he asked you to dine with us to-day.”
Duroy blushed
to the roots of his hair, not knowing how to reply; he felt that he was being
inspected from his head to his feet. He half thought of excusing himself, of
inventing an explanation of the carelessness of his toilette, but he did not
know how to touch upon that delicate subject.
He seated
himself upon a chair she pointed out to him, and as he sank into its luxurious
depths, it seemed to him that he was entering a new and charming life, that he
would make his mark in the world, that he was saved. He glanced at Mme.
Forestier. She wore a gown of pale blue cashmere which clung gracefully to her
supple form and rounded outlines; her arms and throat rose in, lily-white
purity from the mass of lace which ornamented the corsage and short sleeves.
Her hair was dressed high and curled on the nape of her neck.
Duroy grew more
at his ease under her glance, which recalled to him, he knew not why, that of
the girl he had met the preceding evening at the Folies-Bergeres. Mme.
Forestier had gray eyes, a small nose, full lips, and a rather heavy chin, an
irregular, attractive face, full of gentleness and yet of malice.
After a short
silence, she asked: “Have you been in Paris a long time?”
Gradually
regaining his self-possession, he replied: “a few months, Madame. I am in the
railroad employ, but my friend Forestier has encouraged me to hope that, thanks
to him, I can enter into journalism.”
She smiled
kindly and murmured in a low voice: “I know.”
The bell rang
again and the servant announced: “Mme. de Marelle.” She was a dainty brunette,
attired in a simple, dark robe; a red rose in her black tresses seemed to accentuate
her special character, and a young girl, or rather a child, for such she was,
followed her.
Mme. Forestier
said: “Good evening, Clotilde.”
“Good evening,
Madeleine.”
They embraced
each other, then the child offered her forehead with the assurance of an adult,
saying:
“Good evening,
cousin.”
Mme. Forestier
kissed her, and then made the introductions:
“M. Georges
Duroy, an old friend of Charles. Mme. de Marelle, my friend, a relative in
fact.” She added: “Here, you know, we do not stand on ceremony.”
Duroy bowed.
The door opened again and a short man entered, upon his arm a tall, handsome
woman, taller than he and much younger, with distinguished manners and a
dignified carriage. It was M. Walter, deputy, financier, a moneyed man, and a
man of business, manager of “La Vie Francaise,” with his wife, nee Basile
Ravalade, daughter of the banker of that name.
Then came
Jacques Rival, very elegant, followed by Norbert de Varenne. The latter
advanced with the grace of the old school and taking Mme. Forestier’s hand
kissed it; his long hair falling upon his hostess’s bare arm as he did so.
Forestier now
entered, apologizing for being late; he had been detained.
The servant
announced dinner, and they entered the dining-room. Duroy was placed between
Mme. de Marelle and her daughter. He was again rendered uncomfortable for fear
of committing some error in the conventional management of his fork, his spoon,
or his glasses, of which he had four. Nothing was said during the soup; then
Norbert de Varenne asked a general question: “Have you read the Gauthier case?
How droll it was!”
Then followed a
discussion of the subject in which the ladies joined. Then a duel was mentioned
and Jacques Rival led the conversation; that was his province. Duroy did not
venture a remark, but occasionally glanced at his neighbor. A diamond upon a
slight, golden thread depended from her ear; from time to time she uttered a
remark which evoked a smile upon his lips. Duroy sought vainly for some
compliment to pay her; he busied himself with her daughter, filled her glass,
waited upon her, and the child, more dignified than her mother, thanked him
gravely saying, “You are very kind, Monsieur,” while she listened to the
conversation with a reflective air. The dinner was excellent and everyone was
delighted with it.
The
conversation returned to the colonization of Algeria. M. Walter uttered several
jocose remarks; Forestier alluded to the article he had prepared for the
morrow; Jacques Rival declared himself in favor of a military government with
grants of land to all the officers after thirty years of colonial service.
“In that way,”
said he, “you can establish a strong colony, familiar with and liking the
country, knowing its language and able to cope with all those local yet grave
questions which invariably confront newcomers.”
Norbert de
Varenne interrupted: “Yes, they would know everything, except agriculture. They
would speak Arabic, but they would not know how to transplant beet-root, and
how to sow wheat. They would be strong in fencing, but weak in the art of
farming. On the contrary, the new country should be opened to everyone.
Intelligent men would make positions for themselves; the others would succumb.
It is a natural law.”
A pause ensued.
Everyone smiled. Georges Duroy, startled at the sound of his own voice, as if
he had never heard it, said:
“What is needed
the most down there is good soil. Really fertile land costs as much as it does
in France and is bought by wealthy Parisians. The real colonists, the poor, are
generally cast out into the desert, where nothing grows for lack of water.”
All eyes turned
upon him. He colored. M. Walter asked: “Do you know Algeria, sir?”
He replied:
“Yes, sir, I was there twenty-eight months.” Leaving the subject of
colonization, Norbert de Varenne questioned him as to some of the Algerian
customs. Georges spoke with animation; excited by the wine and the desire to
please, he related anecdotes of the regiment, of Arabian life, and of the war.
Mme. Walter
murmured to him in her soft tones: “You could write a series of charming
articles.”
Forestier took
advantage of the situation to say to M. Walter: “My dear sir, I spoke to you a
short while since of M. Georges Duroy and asked you to permit me to include him
on the staff of political reporters. Since Marambot has left us, I have had no
one to take urgent and confidential reports, and the paper is suffering by it.”
M. Walter put
on his spectacles in order to examine Duroy. Then he said: “I am convinced that
M. Duroy is original, and if he will call upon me tomorrow at three o’clock, we
will arrange matters.” After a pause, turning to the young man, he said: “You
may write us a short sketch on Algeria, M. Duroy. Simply relate your
experiences; I am sure they will interest our readers. But you must do it quickly.”
Mme. Walter
added with her customary, serious grace: “You will have a charming title:
‘Souvenirs of a Soldier in Africa.’ Will he not, M. Norbert?”
The old poet,
who had attained renown late in life, disliked and mistrusted newcomers. He
replied dryly: “Yes, excellent, provided that it is written in the right key,
for there lies the great difficulty.”
Mme. Forestier
cast upon Duroy a protecting and smiling glance which seemed to say: “You shall
succeed.” The servant filled the glasses with wine, and Forestier proposed the
toast: “To the long prosperity of ‘La Vie Francaise.’” Duroy felt superhuman
strength within him, infinite hope, and invincible resolution. He was at his
ease now among these people; his eyes rested upon their faces with renewed assurance,
and for the first time he ventured to address his neighbor:
“You have the
most beautiful earrings I have ever seen.”
She turned
toward him with a smile: “It is a fancy of mine to wear diamonds like this,
simply on a thread.”
He murmured in
reply, trembling at his audacity: “It is charming— but the ear increases the
beauty of the ornament.”
She thanked him
with a glance. As he turned his head, he met Mme. Forestier’s eyes, in which he
fancied he saw a mingled expression of gaiety, malice, and encouragement. All
the men were talking at the same time; their discussion was animated.
When the party
left the dining-room, Duroy offered his arm to the little girl. She thanked him
gravely and stood upon tiptoe in order to lay her hand upon his arm. Upon
entering the drawing-room, the young man carefully surveyed it. It was not a
large room; but there were no bright colors, and one felt at ease; it was
restful. The walls were draped with violet hangings covered with tiny
embroidered flowers of yellow silk. The portieres were of a grayish blue and
the chairs were of all shapes, of all sizes; scattered about the room were
couches and large and small easy-chairs, all covered with Louis XVI. brocade,
or Utrecht velvet, a cream colored ground with garnet flowers.
“Do you take
coffee, M. Duroy?” Mme. Forestier offered him a cup, with the smile that was
always upon her lips.
“Yes, Madame,
thank you.” He took the cup, and as he did so, the young woman whispered to
him: “Pay Mme. Walter some attention.” Then she vanished before he could reply.
First he drank
his coffee, which he feared he should let fall upon the carpet; then he sought
a pretext for approaching the manager’s wife and commencing a conversation.
Suddenly he perceived that she held an empty cup in her hand, and as she was
not near a table, she did not know where to put it. He rushed toward her:
“Allow me,
Madame.”
“Thank you,
sir.”
He took away
the cup and returned: “If you, but knew, Madame, what pleasant moments ‘La Vie
Francaise’ afforded me, when I was in the desert! It is indeed the only paper
one cares to read outside of France; it contains everything.”
She smiled with
amiable indifference as she replied: “M. Walter had a great deal of trouble in
producing the kind of journal which was required.”
They talked of
Paris, the suburbs, the Seine, the delights of summer, of everything they could
think of. Finally M. Norbert de Varenne advanced, a glass of liqueur in his
hand, and Duroy discreetly withdrew. Mme. de Marelle, who was chatting with her
hostess, called him: “So, sir,” she said bluntly, “you are going to try
journalism?” That question led to a renewal of the interrupted conversation
with Mme. Walter. In her turn Mme. de Marelle related anecdotes, and becoming
familiar, laid her hand upon Duroy’s arm. He felt that he would like to devote
himself to her, to protect her— and the slowness with which he replied to her
questions indicated his preoccupation. Suddenly, without any cause, Mme. de
Marelle called: “Laurine!” and the girl came to her. “Sit down here, my child,
you will be cold near the window.”
Duroy was
seized with an eager desire to embrace the child, as if part of that embrace
would revert to the mother. He asked in a gallant, yet paternal tone: “Will you
permit me to kiss you, Mademoiselle?” The child raised her eyes with an air of
surprise. Mme. de Marelle said with a smile: “Reply.”
“I will allow
you to-day, Monsieur, but not all the time.”
Seating
himself, Duroy took Laurine upon his knee, and kissed her lips and her fine
wavy hair. Her mother was surprised: “Well, that is strange! Ordinarily she
only allows ladies to caress her. You are irresistible, Monsieur!”
Duroy colored,
but did not reply.
When Mme.
Forestier joined them, a cry of astonishment escaped her: “Well, Laurine has
become sociable; what a miracle!”
The young man
rose to take his leave, fearing he might spoil his conquest by some awkward
word. He bowed to the ladies, clasped and gently pressed their hands, and then
shook hands with the men. He observed that Jacques Rival’s was dry and warm and
responded cordially to his pressure; Norbert de Varenne’s was moist and cold
and slipped through his fingers; Walter’s was cold and soft, without life,
expressionless; Forestier’s fat and warm.
His friend
whispered to him: “To-morrow at three o’clock; do not forget.”
“Never fear!”
When he reached
the staircase, he felt like running down, his joy was so great; he went down
two steps at a time, but suddenly on the second floor, in the large mirror, he
saw a gentleman hurrying on, and he slackened his pace, as much ashamed as if
he had been surprised in a crime.
He surveyed
himself some time with a complacent smile; then taking leave of his image, he
bowed low, ceremoniously, as if saluting some grand personage.
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