'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
