She was no longer smiling. Her face was calm and impassive, and she said, emphasizing each word: ‘You must understand that I shall never, ever be your mistress. Therefore it’s absolutely pointless, it would even be bad for you to persist in this desire… And now that that’s over and done with… do you want us to be friends, good friends, I mean true friends, without any ulterior motives?’
He had realized that any attempt on his part would be fruitless, in the face of this irrevocable decision. He promptly and openly resigned himself, and, delighted at being able to secure himself this ally in life, he reached both hands out to her: ‘I am yours, Mme Forestier, in whatever way you wish.’
She heard the sincerity of the thought in the voice, and gave him her hands. He kissed them one after the other, then, raising his head, said simply: ‘Lord, if I’d found a woman like you, how happy I’d have been to marry her!’
She was touched, this time, gratified by his remark, as women are by compliments that speak directly to their heart, and she gave him one of those rapid, grateful glances that make us their slaves. Then, as he could find no suitable topic with which to continue the conversation, she said in a gentle voice, placing a finger on his arm: ‘And I shall start immediately in my role as your friend. You’ve made some blunders, my dear man…’ She hesitated, and asked: ‘May I speak frankly?’
‘Yes.’
‘Quite frankly?’
‘Quite frankly.’
‘Well! Then go and see Mme Walter, who thinks highly of you, and make yourself agreeable to her. You’ll get the chance, with her, to pay your compliments, although she’s a virtuous woman, make no mistake, absolutely virtuous. Oh! There’s not a chance of… poaching there either. But you might do yourself some good by making a favourable impression there. I know that you’re still in a modest position at the paper. But don’t worry, they welcome all their editorial staff in the same friendly way. Take my advice, go.’
He smiled and said: ‘Thank you, you’re an angel… a guardian angel.’ Then they talked of this and that. He stayed a long time, wanting to prove that he enjoyed being with her, and, on leaving, he asked again: ‘We’re friends, agreed?’
‘Agreed.’
As, earlier, he had noticed the effect of his compliment, he underscored it, by adding: ‘In case you should ever become a widow, I’m putting my name down.’ Then he left, quickly, so that she would not have the time to be annoyed.
Duroy was a little uneasy at visiting Mme Walter, for he had not received permission to call on her, and was afraid of committing a faux pas. But the Director treated him benevolently, appreciated his work, and made a point of choosing him for difficult assignments, so why should he not take advantage of this favour to get inside the house?
So one day, having got up early, he went off to Les Halles as the markets opened, and for about ten francs obtained some twenty splendid pears. He packed them up carefully in a hamper to make them look as if they had been sent from a distance, and took them to the concierge at the Walters’, together with his card on which he had written:
‘Georges Duroy humbly begs Mme Walter to accept these pears, which he received from Normandy this morning?
The next day, in his mail box at the paper, he found in exchange an envelope containing a card from Mme Walter, ‘who thanked M. Georges Duroy most warmly, and was always at home on Saturdays.’.
The following Saturday he presented himself.
M. Walter lived on the Boulevard Malesherbes,* in a double-fronted house owned by him, part of which he rented out–an economical practice favoured by the thrifty. A single concierge, housed between the two entry-ways, served as porter for both owner and tenant, giving each entrance the imposing air of a wealthy, respectable establishment, thanks to his handsome porter’s uniform, with his solid calves encased in white hose, and his ceremonial coat complete with gold buttons and scarlet facings.
The reception rooms were on the first floor, leading out of a vestibule hung with tapestries and closed off by heavy curtains over the doors. Two valets sat dozing on benches. One of them took Duroy’s overcoat, the other seized his walking-stick, opened a door, preceded the visitor by a few paces, and then stood aside to let him pass, while shouting his name into an empty room.
The embarrassed young man looked all round, then noticed, reflected in a mirror, a number of seated people who seemed a long way away. At first he set off in the wrong direction, for the mirror had deceived him, then he crossed two more empty rooms to reach a sort of small parlour hung with blue silk patterned with buttercups, where four ladies were chatting in low voices at a round table on which stood cups of tea.
Despite the confidence he had gained in the course of his life in Paris, and especially through his work as a reporter, which put him in frequent contact with prominent people, Duroy felt somewhat intimidated by the circumstances of his entrance, and by having had to walk through empty drawing-rooms. He stammered: ‘Madame, I’ve taken the liberty…’ as his eyes sought the mistress of the house.
She offered him her hand which he bowed over, then, saying: ‘It’s very kind of you, Monsieur, to come and see me,’ she indicated a seat onto which, in sitting down, he dropped heavily, imagining it to be much higher than it was. Silence had fallen. One of the women began talking again. The topic was the cold weather, which was growing severe, although not sufficiently so to put a stop to the epidemic of typhoid fever, nor to make skating possible. And each of them gave her opinion about this first appearance of frost in Paris; then each explained which season she preferred, giving all the hackneyed reasons that hang about in people’s minds in the way dust hangs about in rooms.
A faint sound of an opening door made Duroy turn his head and he saw, through two panes of plate glass, a large lady approaching. As soon as she appeared in the parlour one of the visitors rose, shook hands, then departed; and the young man’s gaze followed her black back, glistening with beads of jet, through the other drawing-rooms.
When the excitement generated by this interchange of persons had subsided, the conversation turned spontaneously, without transition, to the Moroccan question and the war in the East, as well as to the problems England was encountering in the southernmost tip of Africa.*
The ladies discussed these matters by rote, as if they were repeating lines from an endlessly rehearsed, decorous comedy of manners.
A fresh entrance now occurred, of a little curly-headed blonde, and this triggered the departure of a tall dried-up person of middle age.
They talked of M. Linet’s chances of entering the Academy.* The most recent arrival was convinced that he would be beaten by M. Cabanon-Lebas, author of the fine French verse adaptation for the theatre of Don Quixote.*
‘You know that it’s going to be put on at the Odéon* next winter?’
‘Really? I’ll certainly go and see such a very literary experiment.’
Mme Walter replied graciously, her manner calm and indifferent, never hesitating over what she should say, for her opinions were always ready in advance. Noticing that darkness was approaching, she rang for the lamps, while she listened to the chatter which flowed on in a stream of syrupy platitudes, and reflected that she had forgotten to call at the engraver’s for the invitations to her next dinner-party.
A trifle too plump but still beautiful, she had reached the dangerous age at which rapid decay is imminent. She kept her looks by dint of care, precautions, hygiene, and creams for the skin. She seemed sensible in every way, moderate and reasonable, one of those women whose mind runs on orderly lines like a French garden. There are no surprises when you walk around one, but it does possess a certain charm. She had judgement, subtle, discreet, reliable judgement, that in her took the place of imagination; she was good, loyal, calmly benevolent, generous to everyone and in everything.
She noticed that Duroy had said nothing, that no one had addressed him, and that he seemed somewhat ill at ease; and as the ladies had not abandoned the Academy–a favourite subject upon wh
ich they invariably dwelt–she asked: ‘You must be better informed than any of us, M. Duroy; whom do you favour?’
He replied without hesitation: ‘In this matter, Madame, I would never consider the merits–which are always debatable–of the candidates, but their age and their health. I would not ask about their qualifications, but about their illnesses. I would not enquire whether they have made a verse translation of Lope de Vega,* but I would take pains to find out about the state of their liver, their heart, their kidneys, and their spinal cord. For me, a nice hypertrophy, a nice albuminuria, and especially a nice incipient ataxia would be a hundred times more valuable than forty volumes’ worth of disquisitions on the concept of patriotism in Berber poetry.’
An astonished silence greeted this statement.
Smiling, Mme Walter went on: ‘Yes, but why?’ He replied: ‘Because my sole concern is to give pleasure to the ladies. Now, Madame, the Academy really only interests you when an Academician dies. The more Academicians die, the happier you must be. But in order for them to die quickly, they must be appointed when they’re old and sick.’
As the ladies still seemed a bit taken aback, he added: ‘Moreover I feel just as you do; I love reading of the death of an Academician in the Paris gossip columns. I immediately wonder: “Who’s going to take his place?” And I make up my list. It’s a game, a very agreeable little game people play in every Parisian drawing-room each time one of the Immortals dies: “The game of death and the forty old men.”’
The ladies, still a trifle disconcerted, nevertheless began to smile, his remark was so true. He concluded, rising from his seat: ‘It is you who appoint them, Mesdames, and you appoint them in order to see them die. Therefore choose those who are old, very old, as old as possible, and don’t ever concern yourselves about anything else.’ Then, with considerable grace, he took his leave.
As soon as he had gone, one of the women declared: ‘That young man is amusing. Who is he?’ Mme Walter replied: ‘One of our subeditors; so far his job at the paper is a modest one, but I’ve no doubt he’ll soon make a name for himself.’
A cheerful Duroy strode rhythmically down the Boulevard Malesherbes, well satisfied with his outing and murmuring to himself: ‘Good beginning.’
That same evening he made it up with Rachel.
The following week two things happened to him. He was appointed head of the gossip column,* and he was invited to dinner by Mme Walter. He immediately saw a connection between the two events.
La Vie française was above all a financial paper, since the owner was a financier who had used the press and the deputies as a means of influence. Making a weapon of his affability, he had always done his scheming from behind a smiling, good-natured mask, but in the tasks he delegated–whatever they might be–he employed only those whom he had probed, tested, sniffed out, who he sensed were wily, audacious, and flexible. He thought Duroy, the new head of the gossip column, a real asset.
Up to that time, the position had been filled by the chief subeditor, M. Boisrenard, an elderly journalist who was as correct, as conscientious, and as meticulous as a clerk. Over the last thirty years he had served as chief sub-editor for eleven different papers, without making the slightest modification in the way he operated or how he looked at things. He moved from one newspaper office to another in the way one changes restaurants, barely aware that the food did not taste exactly the same. Political or religious opinions were a closed book to him. He was devoted to whatever paper he worked for, very capable at his job, and highly valued because of his experience. In his work he was like a blind man who sees nothing, a deaf man who hears nothing, and a mute who never says a word about anything. He was intensely loyal, however, and would never have been party to anything that he did not consider professionally honourable, honest, and correct.
M. Walter, who appreciated him nevertheless, had often wished there was someone else to whom he could entrust the gossip column, which was, he used to say, the nerve centre of the paper. That is where news is first reported, where rumours are born, where influence can be exerted on the public and on the stock exchange. You need to know how to slip the important piece of news in between two fashionable evening parties, as though it is of no significance, insinuating rather than explicit. You have to hint at what you want to say, letting readers guess what you have in mind, issuing denials in terms which confirm a rumour, or confirming in such a way that no one believes it. It is essential that every reader, every day, should find at least one item of gossip that is of interest to him, so that everyone will read the column. You must think of everything and everybody, of every class, of every profession, of Paris and the provinces, of the military, the arts, the clergy, the university, the magistrature, and the world of high-class prostitution.
The man in control of the column and in command of the legion of reporters must be always on the alert, always on his guard, distrustful, far-sighted, cunning, vigilant, and flexible, capable of every kind of guile and endowed with an infallible gift for uncovering a bogus news item at a glance, for judging what should be communicated and what should be kept quiet, for guessing what will make an impression on the public; and he must know how to present it in such a manner that its effect will be intensified.
M. Boisrenard, who was thoroughly competent in his way, lacked adroitness and style; above all, he lacked the innate, amoral wiliness needed to sense what the boss was secretly thinking every day. Duroy was to fill the bill perfectly, and he made an excellent addition to the editorial staff of this paper which, in the words of Norbert de Varenne, ‘navigated the deep waters of state finance and the shallows of politics.’
The inspiration behind La Vie française, and its de facto editors, were a half-dozen deputies who were involved in all the speculations that the Director either launched or supported. In the Chamber they were known as ‘the Walter gang’, and they were envied because of the money they must be making with him and through him. Forestier, the political editor, was merely a front for these businessmen; he carried out projects they suggested. They gave him the ideas for his leaders, which he always went home to write, so he could work in peace, as he put it.
However, in order to give the paper a more literary, Parisian character, two writers, well known in their different fields, had been taken on: Jacques Rival, who specialized in current events, and Norbert de Varenne, a poet and chronicler of the imaginary or, to use the modern literary term, a short-story writer. Then the paper had acquired, at low cost, critics of art, of painting, of music, and of theatre, and editors for crime and for racing, from among the vast tribe of mercenaries made up of writers willing to turn their hand to anything. Two society women, ‘Domino Rose’ and ‘Patte Blanche’,* contributed items of social news and wrote about fashion, fashionable society, elegant entertaining, etiquette, and good breeding, and passed on indiscreet bits of gossip about socially prominent ladies.
And La Vie française ‘navigated the deep waters and the shallows,’ manœuvred by all these different hands.
Duroy was revelling in the pleasure of his appointment as editor-in-chief of the gossip column when he received a small engraved card on which he read: ‘M. and Mme Walter request the pleasure of the company of M. Georges Duroy at dinner on Thursday, the 20th of January.’
This new favour, coming on the heels of the other, filled him with such joy that he kissed the invitation as if it were a love letter. Then he went to find the cashier, to deal with the important matter of funds.
A head of the gossip column section generally has a budget from which he pays his reporters, and also pays for news items–whether important or run-of-the-mill–that different people may bring him, just as market-gardeners bring their produce to a vegetable stall.
Initially, twelve hundred francs a month were allocated to Duroy, who had every intention of keeping a large proportion for himself. In response to his urgent requests, the cashier had finally advanced him four hundred francs. At first he had been absolutely determined to
return to Mme de Marelle the two hundred and eighty francs he owed her, but, realizing almost immediately that he would then have left only a hundred and twenty francs, a sum that was quite inadequate for starting up his new department in a suitable manner, he postponed repaying her to some future time.
He spent two days settling in, for he had inherited a particular table and a set of pigeon-holes in the enormous room shared by all the reporters. He occupied one end of this room, while Boisrenard, whose head–still ebony-black despite his age–was invariably bent over a sheet of paper, occupied the other end. The long table in the centre was the domain of the itinerant reporters. As a rule it served as a bench to sit on, either with one’s legs swinging over the edge, or cross-legged on the top. There were sometimes five or six of them squatting on this table, like a lot of little Chinamen, doggedly playing at cup-and-ball.
After a time Duroy had come to enjoy this pastime, and, thanks to Saint-Potin’s instructions and advice, he was beginning to be very skilled at it. Forestier, whose condition was worsening, had entrusted to him his fine cup-and-ball made out of wood from the Antilles,* the one he had bought most recently and found rather heavy. Duroy, with a vigorous arm, would manipulate the heavy black ball on the cord, quietly counting: ‘one–two–three–four–five–six.’
It so happened that he managed, for the first time, to score twenty points in a row on the very day when he was dining at Mme Walter’s. ‘This is a lucky day,’ he thought, ‘I’m doing well at everything.’ Skill at cup-and-ball did actually confer a kind of distinction at La Vie française.
He left the paper early so as to have time to dress, and he was walking up the Rue de Londres* when he saw, trotting along in front of him, a small woman who resembled Mme de Marelle. He felt his face going hot and his heart begin to pound. He crossed the road in order to see her from the side. She too stopped to cross over. He was mistaken; he breathed again.