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 newcomer 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 breakup 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 anyone, 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 subeditor, Monsieur Boisrenard, an old journalist, as correct, punctual, and scrupulous as a clerk. In course of thirty years he had been subeditor of eleven different papers, without in any way modifying his way of thinking or acting. He passed from one office to another
