Then it was a question of a duel, and Jacques Rival spoke. This was his business; no one else could handle it.
Duroy dared not put in a word. He glanced from time to time at his neighbor, whose full bosom captivated him. A diamond, suspended by a thread of gold, dangled from her ear like a drop of water that had rolled down it. From time to time she made an observation which always brought a smile to her hearers’ lips. She had a quaint, pleasant wit, that of an experienced tomboy who views things with indifference and judges them with frivolous and benevolent skepticism.
Duroy sought in vain for some compliment to pay her, and, not finding one, occupied himself with her daughter, filling her glass, holding her plate, and helping her. The child, graver than her mother, thanked him in a serious tone and with a slight bow, saying: “You are very good, sir,” and listened to her elders with an air of reflection.
The dinner was very good, and everyone was enraptured. Monsieur Walter ate like an ogre, hardly spoke, and glanced obliquely under his glasses at the dishes offered to him. Norbert de Varenne kept him company, and from time to time let drops of gravy fall on his shirt front. Forestier, silent and serious, watched everything, exchanging glances of intelligence with his wife, like confederates engaged together on a difficult task which is going on swimmingly.
Faces grew red, and voices rose, as from time to time the manservant murmured in the guests’ ears: “Corton or Château-Laroze.”
Duroy had found the Corton to his liking, and let his glass be filled every time. A delicious liveliness stole over him, a warm cheerfulness, that mounted from the stomach to the head, flowed through his limbs and penetrated him throughout. He felt himself wrapped in perfect comfort of life and thought, body and soul.
A longing to speak assailed him, to bring himself into notice, to be appreciated like these men, whose slightest words were relished.
But the conversation, which had been going on unchecked, linking ideas one to another, jumping from one topic to another at a chance word, a mere trifle, and skimming over a thousand matters, turned again on the great question put by Monsieur Morel in the Chamber respecting the colonization of Algeria.
Monsieur Walter, between two courses, made a few jests, for his wit was skeptical and broad. Forestier recited his next day’s leader. Jacques Rival insisted on a military government with land grants to all officers after thirty years of colonial service.
“By this plan,” he said, “you will create an energetic class of colonists, who will have already learned to love and understand the country, and will be acquainted with its language, and with all those grave local questions against which newcomers invariably run their heads.”
Norbert de Varenne interrupted him with: “Yes; they will be acquainted with everything except agriculture. They will speak Arabic, but they will be ignorant how beetroot is planted out and wheat sown. They will be good at fencing, but very shaky as regards manures. On the contrary, this new land should be thrown entirely open to everyone. Intelligent men will achieve a position there; the others will go under. It is the social law.”
A brief silence followed, and the listeners smiled at one another.
George Duroy opened his mouth, and said, feeling as much surprised at the sound of his own voice as if he had never heard himself speak: “What is most lacking there is good land. The really fertile estates cost as much as in France, and are bought up as investments by rich Parisians. The real colonists, the poor fellows who leave home for lack of bread, are forced into the desert, where nothing will grow for want of water.”
Everyone looked at him, and he felt himself blushing.
Monsieur Walter asked: “Do you know Algeria, sir?”
George replied: “Yes, sir; I was there nearly two years and a half, and I was quartered in all three provinces.”
Suddenly unmindful of the Morel question, Norbert de Varenne interrogated him respecting a detail of manners and customs of which he had been informed by an officer. It was with respect to the Mzab, that strange little Arab republic sprung up in the midst of the Sahara, in the driest part of that burning region.
Duroy had twice visited the Mzab, and he narrated some of the customs of this singular country, where drops of water are valued as gold; where every inhabitant is bound to discharge all public duties; and where commercial honesty is carried further than among civilized nations.
He spoke with a certain raciness excited by the wine and the desire to please, and told regimental yarns, incidents of Arab life and military adventure. He even hit on some telling phrases to depict these bare and yellow lands, eternally laid waste by the devouring fire of the sun.
All the women had their eyes turned upon him, and Madame Walter said, in her deliberate tones: “You could make a charming series of articles out of your recollections.”
Then Walter looked at the young fellow over the glasses of his spectacles, as was his custom when he wanted to see anyone’s face distinctly. He looked at the dishes underneath them.
Forestier seized the opportunity. “My dear sir, I had already spoken to you about Monsieur George Duroy, asking you to let me have him for my assistant in gleaning political topics. Since Marambot left us, I have no one to send in quest of urgent and confidential information, and the paper suffers from it.”
Daddy Walter became serious, and pushed his spectacles upon his forehead, in order to look Duroy well in the face. Then he said: “It is true that Monsieur Duroy has evidently an original turn of thought. If he will come and have a chat with us tomorrow at three o’clock, we will settle the matter.” Then, after a short silence, turning right round towards George, he added: “But write us a little fancy series of articles
