Forestier bowed low to him. “Norbert de Varenne,” said he, “the poet; the author of Les Soleils Morts; another who gets long prices. Every tale he writes for us costs three hundred francs, and the longest do not run to two hundred lines. But let us turn into the Neapolitan café, I am beginning to choke with thirst.”
As soon as they were seated at a table in the café, Forestier called for two bocks, and drank off his own at a single draught, while Duroy sipped his beer in slow mouthfuls, tasting it and relishing it like something rare and precious.
His companion was silent, and seemed to be reflecting. Suddenly he exclaimed: “Why don’t you try journalism?”
The other looked at him in surprise, and then said: “But, you know, I have never written anything.”
“Bah! everyone must begin. I could give you a job to hunt up information for me—to make calls and inquiries. You would have to start with two hundred and fifty francs a month and your cab hire. Shall I speak to the manager about it?”
“Certainly!”
“Very well, then, come and dine with me tomorrow. I shall only have five or six people—the governor, Monsieur Walter and his wife, Jacques Rival, and Norbert de Varenne, whom you have just seen, and a lady, a friend of my wife. Is it settled?”
Duroy hesitated, blushing and perplexed. At length he murmured: “You see, I have no clothes.”
Forestier was astounded. “You have no dress clothes? Hang it all, they are indispensable, though. In Paris one would be better off without a bed than without a dress suit.”
Then, suddenly feeling in his waistcoat pocket, he drew out some gold, took two louis, placed them in front of his old comrade, and said in a cordial and familiar tone: “You will pay me back when you can. Hire or arrange to pay by installments for the clothes you want, whichever you like, but come and dine with me tomorrow, half-past seven, number seventeen Rue Fontaine.”
Duroy, confused, picked up the money, stammering: “You are too good; I am very much obliged to you; you may be sure I shall not forget.”
The other interrupted him. “All right. Another bock, eh? Waiter, two bocks.”
Then, when they had drunk them, the journalist said: “Will you stroll about a bit for an hour?”
“Certainly.”
And they set out again in the direction of the Madeleine.
“What shall we, do?” said Forestier. “They say that in Paris a lounger can always find something to amuse him, but it is not true. I, when I want to lounge about of an evening, never know where to go. A drive round the Bois de Boulogne is only amusing with a woman, and one has not always one to hand; the café concerts may please my chemist and his wife, but not me. Then what is there to do? Nothing. There ought to be a summer garden like the Parc Monceau, open at night, where one would hear very good music while sipping cool drinks under the trees. It should not be a pleasure resort, but a lounging place, with a high price for entrance in order to attract the fine ladies. One ought to be able to stroll along well-graveled walks lit up by electric light, and to sit down when one wished to hear the music near or at a distance. We had about the sort of thing formerly at Musard’s, but with a smack of the low-class dancing-room, and too much dance music, not enough space, not enough shade, not enough gloom. It would want a very fine garden and a very extensive one. It would be delightful. Where shall we go?”
Duroy, rather perplexed, did not know what to say; at length he made up his mind. “I have never been in the Folies Bergère. I should not mind taking a look round there,” he said.
“The Folies Bergère,” exclaimed his companion, “the deuce; we shall roast there as in an oven. But, very well, then, it is always funny there.”
And they turned on their heels to make their way to the Rue du Faubourg Montmartre.
The lit-up front of the establishment threw a bright light into the four streets which met in front of it. A string of cabs were waiting for the close of the performance.
Forestier was walking in when Duroy checked him.
“You are passing the pay-box,” said he.
“I never pay,” was the reply, in a tone of importance.
When he approached the check-takers they bowed, and one of them held out his hand. The journalist asked: “Have you a good box?”
“Certainly, Monsieur Forestier.”
He took the ticket held out to him, pushed the padded door with its leather borders, and they found themselves in the auditorium.
Tobacco smoke slightly veiled like a faint mist the stage and the further side of the theater. Rising incessantly in thin white spirals from the cigars and pipes, this light fog ascended to the ceiling, and there, accumulating, formed under the dome above the crowded gallery a cloudy sky.
In the broad corridor leading to the circular promenade a group of women were awaiting newcomers in front of one of the bars, at which sat enthroned three painted and faded vendors of love and liquor.
The tall mirrors behind them reflected their backs and the faces of passersby.
Forestier pushed his way through the groups, advancing quickly with the air of a man entitled to consideration.
He went up to a box-keeper. “Box seventeen,” said he.
“This way, sir.”
And they were shut up in a little open box draped with red, and holding four chairs of the same color, so near to one another that one could scarcely slip between them. The two friends sat down. To the right, as to the left, following a long curved line, the two ends of which joined the proscenium, a row of similar cribs held people seated in like fashion, with only their heads and chests visible.
On the stage, three young
