الفصل الفصل 1 · POVERTY

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POVERTY

After changing his five-franc piece Georges Duroy left the restaurant.

He twisted his mustache in military style and cast a rapid, sweeping

glance upon the diners, among whom were three saleswomen, an untidy

music-teacher of uncertain age, and two women with their husbands.

When he reached the sidewalk, he paused to consider what route he

should take. It was the twenty-eighth of June and he had only three

francs in his pocket to last him the remainder of the month. That meant

two dinners and no lunches, or two lunches and no dinners, according to

choice. As he pondered upon this unpleasant state of affairs, he

sauntered down Rue Notre Dame de Lorette, preserving his military air

and carriage, and rudely jostled the people upon the streets in order

to clear a path for himself. He appeared to be hostile to the

passers-by, and even to the houses, the entire city.

Tall, well-built, fair, with blue eyes, a curled mustache, hair

naturally wavy and parted in the middle, he recalled the hero of the

popular romances.

It was one of those sultry, Parisian evenings when not a breath of air

is stirring; the sewers exhaled poisonous gases and the restaurants the

disagreeable odors of cooking and of kindred smells. Porters in their

shirt-sleeves, astride their chairs, smoked their pipes at the carriage

gates, and pedestrians strolled leisurely along, hats in hand.

When Georges Duroy reached the boulevard he halted again, undecided as

to which road to choose. Finally he turned toward the Madeleine and

followed the tide of people.

The large, well-patronized cafes tempted Duroy, but were he to drink

only two glasses of beer in an evening, farewell to the meager supper

the following night! Yet he said to himself: "I will take a glass at

the Americain. By Jove, I am thirsty."

He glanced at men seated at the tables, men who could afford to slake

their thirst, and he scowled at them. "Rascals!" he muttered. If he

could have caught one of them at a corner in the dark he would have

choked him without a scruple! He recalled the two years spent in

Africa, and the manner in which he had extorted money from the Arabs. A

smile hovered about his lips at the recollection of an escapade which

had cost three men their lives, a foray which had given his two

comrades and himself seventy fowls, two sheep, money, and something to

laugh about for six months. The culprits were never found; indeed, they

were not sought for, the Arab being looked upon as the soldier's prey.

But in Paris it was different; there one could not commit such deeds

with impunity. He regretted that he had not remained where he was; but

he had hoped to improve his condition--and for that reason he was in

Paris!

He passed the Vaudeville and stopped at the Cafe Americain, debating as

to whether he should take that "glass." Before deciding, he glanced at

a clock; it was a quarter past nine. He knew that when the beer was

placed in front of him, he would drink it; and then what would he do at

eleven o'clock? So he walked on, intending to go as far as the

Madeleine and return.

When he reached the Place de l'Opera, a tall, young man passed him,

whose face he fancied was familiar. He followed him, repeating: "Where

the deuce have I seen that fellow?"

For a time he racked his brain in vain; then suddenly he saw the same

man, but not so corpulent and more youthful, attired in the uniform of

a Hussar. He exclaimed: "Wait, Forestier!" and hastening up to him,

laid his hand upon the man's shoulder. The latter turned, looked at

him, and said: "What do you want, sir?"

Duroy began to laugh: "Don't you remember me?"

"No."

"Not remember Georges Duroy of the Sixth Hussars."

Forestier extended both hands.

"Ah, my dear fellow, how are you?"

"Very well. And how are you?"

"Oh, I am not very well. I cough six months out of the twelve as a

result of bronchitis contracted at Bougival, about the time of my

return to Paris four years ago."

"But you look well."

Forestier, taking his former comrade's arm, told him of his malady, of

the consultations, the opinions and the advice of the doctors and of

the difficulty of following their advice in his position. They ordered

him to spend the winter in the south, but how could he? He was married

and was a journalist in a responsible editorial position.

"I manage the political department on 'La Vie Francaise'; I report the

doings of the Senate for 'Le Salut,' and from time to time I write for

'La Planete.' That is what I am doing."

Duroy, in surprise, glanced at him. He was very much changed. Formerly

Forestier had been thin, giddy, noisy, and always in good spirits. But

three years of life in Paris had made another man of him; now he was

stout and serious, and his hair was gray on his temples although he

could not number more than twenty-seven years.

Forestier asked: "Where are you going?"

Duroy replied: "Nowhere in particular."

"Very well, will you accompany me to the 'Vie Francaise' where I have

some proofs to correct; and afterward take a drink with me?"

"Yes, gladly."

They walked along arm-in-arm with that familiarity which exists between

schoolmates and brother-officers.

"What are you doing in Paris?" asked Forestier, Duroy shrugged his

shoulders.

"Dying of hunger, simply. When my time was up, I came hither to make my

fortune, or rather to live in Paris--and for six months I have been

employed in a railroad office at fifteen hundred francs a year."

Forestier murmured: "That is not very much."

"But what can I do?" answered Duroy. "I am alone, I know no one, I have

no recommendations. The spirit is not lacking, but the means are."

His companion looked at him from head to foot like a practical man who

is examining a subject; then he said, in a tone of conviction: "You

see, my dear fellow, all depends on assurance, here. A shrewd,

observing man can sometimes become a minister. You must obtrude

yourself and yet not ask anything. But how is it you have not found

anything better than a clerkship at the station?"

Duroy replied: "I hunted everywhere and found nothing else. But I know

where I can get three thousand francs at least--as riding-master at the

Pellerin school."

Forestier stopped him: "Don't do it, for you can earn ten thousand

francs. You will ruin your prospects at once. In your office at least

no one knows you; you can leave it if you wish to at any time. But when

you are once a riding-master all will be over. You might as well be a

butler in a house to which all Paris comes to dine. When you have given

riding lessons to men of the world or to their sons, they will no

longer consider you their equal."

He paused, reflected several seconds and then asked:

"Are you a bachelor?"

"Yes, though I have been smitten several times."

"That makes no difference. If Cicero and Tiberius were mentioned would

you know who they were?"

"Yes."

"Good, no one knows any more except about a score of fools. It is not

difficult to pass for being learned. The secret is not to betray your

ignorance. Just maneuver, avoid the quicksands and obstacles, and the

rest can be found in a dictionary."

He spoke like one who understood human nature, and he smiled as the

crowd passed them by. Suddenly he began to cough and stopped to allow

the paroxysm to spend itself; then he said in a discouraged tone:

"Isn't it tiresome not to be able to get rid of this bronchitis? And

here is midsummer! This winter I shall go to Mentone. Health before

everything."

They reached the Boulevarde Poissoniere; behind a large glass door an

open paper was affixed; three people were reading it. Above the door

was printed the legend, "La Vie Francaise."

Forestier pushed open the door and said: "Come in." Duroy entered; they

ascended the stairs, passed through an antechamber in which two clerks

greeted their comrade, and then entered a kind of waiting-room.

"Sit down," said Forestier, "I shall be back in five minutes," and he

disappeared.

Duroy remained where he was; from time to time men passed him by,

entering by one door and going out by another before he had time to

glance at them.

Now they were young men, very young, with a busy air, holding sheets of

paper in their hands; now compositors, their shirts spotted with

ink--carefully carrying what were evidently fresh proofs. Occasionally

a gentleman entered, fashionably dressed, some reporter bringing news.

Forestier reappeared arm-in-arm with a tall, thin man of thirty or

forty, dressed in a black coat, with a white cravat, a dark complexion,

and an insolent, self-satisfied air. Forestier said to him: "Adieu, my

dear sir," and the other pressed his hand with: "Au revoir, my friend."

Then he descended the stairs whistling, his cane under his arm.

Duroy asked his name.

"That is Jacques Rival, the celebrated writer and duelist. He came to

correct his proofs. Garin, Montel and he are the best witty and

realistic writers we have in Paris. He earns thirty thousand francs a

year for two articles a week."

As they went downstairs, they met a stout, little man with long hair,

who was ascending the stairs whistling. Forestier bowed low.

"Norbert de Varenne," said he, "the poet, the author of 'Les Soleils

Morts,'--a very expensive man. Every poem he gives us costs three

hundred francs and the longest has not two hundred lines. But let us go

into the Napolitain, I am getting thirsty."

When they were seated at a table, Forestier ordered two glasses of

beer. He emptied his at a single draught, while Duroy sipped his beer

slowly as if it were something rare and precious. Suddenly his

companion asked, "Why don't you try journalism?"

Duroy looked at him in surprise and said: "Because I have never written

anything."

"Bah, we all have to make a beginning. I could employ you myself by

sending you to obtain information. At first you would only get two

hundred and fifty francs a month but your cab fare would be paid. Shall

I speak to the manager?"

"If you will."

"Well, then come and dine with me to-morrow; I will only ask five or

six to meet you; the manager, M. Walter, his wife, with Jacques Rival,

and Norbert de Varenne whom you have just seen, and also a friend of

Mme. Forestier, Will you come?"

Duroy hesitated, blushing and perplexed. Finally he, murmured: "I have

no suitable clothes."

Forestier was amazed. "You have no dress suit? Egad, that is

indispensable. In Paris, it is better to have no bed than no clothes."

Then, fumbling in his vest-pocket, he drew from it two louis, placed

them before his companion, and said kindly: "You can repay me when it

is convenient. Buy yourself what you need and pay an installment on it.

And come and dine with us at half past seven, at 17 Rue Fontaine."

In confusion Duroy picked up the money and stammered: "You are very

kind--I am much obliged--be sure I shall not forget."

Forestier interrupted him: "That's all right, take another glass of

beer. Waiter, two more glasses!" When he had paid the score, the

journalist asked: "Would you like a stroll for an hour?"

"Certainly."

They turned toward the Madeleine. "What shall we do?" asked Forestier.

"They say that in Paris an idler can always find amusement, but it is

not true. A turn in the Bois is only enjoyable if you have a lady with

you, and that is a rare occurrence. The cafe concerts may divert my

tailor and his wife, but they do not interest me. So what can we do?

Nothing! There ought to be a summer garden here, open at night, where a

man could listen to good music while drinking beneath the trees. It

would be a pleasant lounging place. You could walk in alleys bright

with electric light and seat yourself where you pleased to hear the

music. It would be charming. Where would you like to go?"

Duroy did not know what to reply; finally he said: "I have never been

to the Folies Bergeres. I should like to go there."

His companion exclaimed: "The Folies Bergeres! Very well!"

They turned and walked toward the Faubourg Montmartre. The brilliantly

illuminated building loomed up before them. Forestier entered, Duroy

stopped him. "We forgot to pass through the gate."

The other replied in a consequential tone: "I never pay," and

approached the box-office.

"Have you a good box?"

"Certainly, M. Forestier."

He took the ticket handed him, pushed open the door, and they were

within the hall. A cloud of tobacco smoke almost hid the stage and the

opposite side of the theater. In the spacious foyer which led to the

circular promenade, brilliantly dressed women mingled with black-coated

men.

Forestier forced his way rapidly through the throng and accosted an

usher.

"Box 17?"

"This way, sir."

The friends were shown into a tiny box, hung and carpeted in red, with

four chairs upholstered in the same color. They seated themselves. To

their right and left were similar boxes. On the stage three men were

performing on trapezes. But Duroy paid no heed to them, his eyes

finding more to interest them in the grand promenade. Forestier

remarked upon the motley appearance of the throng, but Duroy did not

listen to him. A woman, leaning her arms upon the edge of her loge, was

staring at him. She was a tall, voluptuous brunette, her face whitened

with enamel, her black eyes penciled, and her lips painted. With a

movement of her head, she summoned a friend who was passing, a blonde

with auburn hair, likewise inclined to embonpoint, and said to her in a

whisper intended to be heard; "There is a nice fellow!"

Forestier heard it, and said to Duroy with a smile: "You are lucky, my

dear boy. My congratulations!"

The ci-devant soldier blushed and mechanically fingered the two pieces

of gold in his pocket.

The curtain fell--the orchestra played a valse--and Duroy said:

"Shall we walk around the gallery?"

"If you like."

Soon they were carried along in the current of promenaders. Duroy drank

in with delight the air, vitiated as it was by tobacco and cheap

perfume, but Forestier perspired, panted, and coughed.

"Let us go into the garden," he said. Turning to the left, they entered

a kind of covered garden in which two large fountains were playing.

Under the yews, men and women sat at tables drinking.

"Another glass of beer?" asked Forestier.

"Gladly."

They took their seats and watched the promenaders. Occasionally a woman

would stop and ask with a coarse smile: "What have you to offer, sir?"

Forestier's invariable answer was: "A glass of water from the

fountain." And the woman would mutter, "Go along," and walk away.

At last the brunette reappeared, arm-in-arm with the blonde. They made

a handsome couple. The former smiled on perceiving Duroy, and taking a

chair she calmly seated herself in front of him, and said in a clear

voice: "Waiter, two glasses."

In astonishment, Forestier exclaimed: "You are not at all bashful!"

She replied: "Your friend has bewitched me; he is such a fine fellow. I

believe he has turned my head."

Duroy said nothing.

The waiter brought the beer, which the women swallowed rapidly; then

they rose, and the brunette, nodding her head and tapping Duroy's arm

with her fan, said to him: "Thank you, my dear! However, you are not

very talkative."

As they disappeared, Forestier laughed and said: "Tell, me, old man,

did you know that you had a charm for the weaker sex? You must be

careful."

Without replying, Duroy smiled. His friend asked: "Shall you remain any

longer? I am going; I have had enough."

Georges murmured: "Yes, I will stay a little longer: it is not late."

Forestier arose: "Very well, then, good-bye until to-morrow. Do not

forget: 17 Rue Fontaine at seven thirty."

"I shall not forget. Thank you."

The friends shook hands and the journalist left Duroy to his own

devices.

Forestier once out of sight, Duroy felt free, and again he joyously

touched the gold pieces in his pocket; then rising, he mingled with the

crowd.

He soon discovered the blonde and the brunette. He went toward them,

but when near them dared not address them.

The brunette called out to him: "Have you found your tongue?"

He stammered: "Zounds!" too bashful to say another word. A pause

ensued, during which the brunette took his arm and together they left

the hall.