"Where does M. Forestier live?"
"Third floor on the left," said the porter pleasantly, on learning
Georges ascended the staircase. He was somewhat embarrassed and ill-
at-ease. He had on a new suit but he was uncomfortable. He felt that
it was defective; his boots were not glossy, he had bought his shirt
that same evening at the Louvre for four francs fifty, his trousers
were too wide and betrayed their cheapness in their fit, or rather,
misfit, and his coat was too tight.
Slowly he ascended the stairs, his heart beating, his mind anxious.
Suddenly before him stood a well-dressed gentleman staring at him.
The person resembled Duroy so close that the latter retreated, then
stopped, and saw that it was his own image reflected in a pier-
glass! Not having anything but a small mirror at home, he had not
been able to see himself entirely, and had exaggerated the
imperfections of his toilette. When he saw his reflection in the
glass, he did not even recognize himself; he took himself for some
one else, for a man-of-the-world, and was really satisfied with his
general appearance. Smiling to himself, Duroy extended his hand and
expressed his astonishment, pleasure, and approbation. A door opened
on the staircase, He was afraid of being surprised and began to
ascend more rapidly, fearing that he might have been seen posing
there by some of his friend's invited guests.
On reaching the second floor, he saw another mirror, and once more
slackened his pace to look at himself. He likewise paused before the
third glass, twirled his mustache, took off his hat to arrange his
hair, and murmured half aloud, a habit of his: "Hall mirrors are
Then he rang the bell. The door opened almost immediately, and
before him stood a servant in a black coat, with a grave, shaven
face, so perfect in his appearance that Duroy again became confused
as he compared the cut of their garments.
The lackey asked:
"Whom shall I announce, Monsieur?" He raised a portiere and
pronounced the name.
Duroy lost his self-possession upon being ushered into a world as
yet strange to him. However, he advanced. A young, fair woman
received him alone in a large, well-lighted room. He paused,
disconcerted. Who was that smiling lady? He remembered that
Forestier was married, and the thought that the handsome blonde was
his friend's wife rendered him awkward and ill-at-ease. He stammered
"Madame, I am--"
She held out her hand. "I know, Monsieur--Charles told me of your
meeting last night, and I am very glad that he asked you to dine
with us to-day."
Duroy blushed to the roots of his hair, not knowing how to reply; he
felt that he was being inspected from his head to his feet. He half
thought of excusing himself, of inventing an explanation of the
carelessness of his toilette, but he did not know how to touch upon
that delicate subject.
He seated himself upon a chair she pointed out to him, and as he
sank into its luxurious depths, it seemed to him that he was
entering a new and charming life, that he would make his mark in the
world, that he was saved. He glanced at Mme. Forestier. She wore a
gown of pale blue cashmere which clung gracefully to her supple form
and rounded outlines; her arms and throat rose in, lily-white purity
from the mass of lace which ornamented the corsage and short
sleeves. Her hair was dressed high and curled on the nape of her
Duroy grew more at his ease under her glance, which recalled to him,
he knew not why, that of the girl he had met the preceding evening
at the Folies-Bergeres. Mme. Forestier had gray eyes, a small nose,
full lips, and a rather heavy chin, an irregular, attractive face,
full of gentleness and yet of malice.
After a short silence, she asked: "Have you been in Paris a long
Gradually regaining his self-possession, he replied: "a few months,
Madame. I am in the railroad employ, but my friend Forestier has
encouraged me to hope that, thanks to him, I can enter into
She smiled kindly and murmured in a low voice: "I know."
The bell rang again and the servant announced: "Mme. de Marelle."
She was a dainty brunette, attired in a simple, dark robe; a red
rose in her black tresses seemed to accentuate her special
character, and a young girl, or rather a child, for such she was,
Mme. Forestier said: "Good evening, Clotilde."
"Good evening, Madeleine."
They embraced each other, then the child offered her forehead with
the assurance of an adult, saying:
"Good evening, cousin."
Mme. Forestier kissed her, and then made the introductions:
"M. Georges Duroy, an old friend of Charles. Mme. de Marelle, my
friend, a relative in fact." She added: "Here, you know, we do not
stand on ceremony."
Duroy bowed. The door opened again and a short man entered, upon his
arm a tall, handsome woman, taller than he and much younger, with
distinguished manners and a dignified carriage. It was M. Walter,
deputy, financier, a moneyed man, and a man of business, manager of
"La Vie Francaise," with his wife, nee Basile Ravalade, daughter of
the banker of that name.
Then came Jacques Rival, very elegant, followed by Norbert de
Varenne. The latter advanced with the grace of the old school and
taking Mme. Forestier's hand kissed it; his long hair falling upon
his hostess's bare arm as he did so.
Forestier now entered, apologizing for being late; he had been
The servant announced dinner, and they entered the dining-room.
Duroy was placed between Mme. de Marelle and her daughter. He was
again rendered uncomfortable for fear of committing some error in
the conventional management of his fork, his spoon, or his glasses,
of which he had four. Nothing was said during the soup; then Norbert
de Varenne asked a general question: "Have you read the Gauthier
case? How droll it was!"
Then followed a discussion of the subject in which the ladies
joined. Then a duel was mentioned and Jacques Rival led the
conversation; that was his province. Duroy did not venture a remark,
but occasionally glanced at his neighbor. A diamond upon a slight,
golden thread depended from her ear; from time to time she uttered a
remark which evoked a smile upon his lips. Duroy sought vainly for
some compliment to pay her; he busied himself with her daughter,
filled her glass, waited upon her, and the child, more dignified
than her mother, thanked him gravely saying, "You are very kind,
Monsieur," while she listened to the conversation with a reflective
air. The dinner was excellent and everyone was delighted with it.
The conversation returned to the colonization of Algeria. M. Walter
uttered several jocose remarks; Forestier alluded to the article he
had prepared for the morrow; Jacques Rival declared himself in favor
of a military government with grants of land to all the officers
after thirty years of colonial service.
"In that way," said he, "you can establish a strong colony, familiar
with and liking the country, knowing its language and able to cope
with all those local yet grave questions which invariably confront
Norbert de Varenne interrupted: "Yes, they would know everything,
except agriculture. They would speak Arabic, but they would not know
how to transplant beet-root, and how to sow wheat. They would be
strong in fencing, but weak in the art of farming. On the contrary,
the new country should be opened to everyone. Intelligent men would
make positions for themselves; the others would succumb. It is a
A pause ensued. Everyone smiled. Georges Duroy, startled at the
sound of his own voice, as if he had never heard it, said:
"What is needed the most down there is good soil. Really fertile
land costs as much as it does in France and is bought by wealthy
Parisians. The real colonists, the poor, are generally cast out into
the desert, where nothing grows for lack of water."
All eyes turned upon him. He colored. M. Walter asked: "Do you know
He replied: "Yes, sir, I was there twenty-eight months." Leaving the
subject of colonization, Norbert de Varenne questioned him as to
some of the Algerian customs. Georges spoke with animation; excited
by the wine and the desire to please, he related anecdotes of the
regiment, of Arabian life, and of the war.
Mme. Walter murmured to him in her soft tones: "You could write a
series of charming articles."
Forestier took advantage of the situation to say to M. Walter: "My
dear sir, I spoke to you a short while since of M. Georges Duroy and
asked you to permit me to include him on the staff of political
reporters. Since Marambot has left us, I have had no one to take
urgent and confidential reports, and the paper is suffering by it."
M. Walter put on his spectacles in order to examine Duroy. Then he
said: "I am convinced that M. Duroy is original, and if he will call
upon me tomorrow at three o'clock, we will arrange matters." After a
pause, turning to the young man, he said: "You may write us a short
sketch on Algeria, M. Duroy. Simply relate your experiences; I am
sure they will interest our readers. But you must do it quickly."
Mme. Walter added with her customary, serious grace: "You will have
a charming title: 'Souvenirs of a Soldier in Africa.' Will he not,
The old poet, who had attained renown late in life, disliked and
mistrusted newcomers. He replied dryly: "Yes, excellent, provided
that it is written in the right key, for there lies the great
Mme. Forestier cast upon Duroy a protecting and smiling glance which
seemed to say: "You shall succeed." The servant filled the glasses
with wine, and Forestier proposed the toast: "To the long prosperity
of 'La Vie Francaise.'" Duroy felt superhuman strength within him,
infinite hope, and invincible resolution. He was at his ease now
among these people; his eyes rested upon their faces with renewed
assurance, and for the first time he ventured to address his
"You have the most beautiful earrings I have ever seen."
She turned toward him with a smile: "It is a fancy of mine to wear
diamonds like this, simply on a thread."
He murmured in reply, trembling at his audacity: "It is charming--
but the ear increases the beauty of the ornament."
She thanked him with a glance. As he turned his head, he met Mme.
Forestier's eyes, in which he fancied he saw a mingled expression of
gaiety, malice, and encouragement. All the men were talking at the
same time; their discussion was animated.
When the party left the dining-room, Duroy offered his arm to the
little girl. She thanked him gravely and stood upon tiptoe in order
to lay her hand upon his arm. Upon entering the drawing-room, the
young man carefully surveyed it. It was not a large room; but there
were no bright colors, and one felt at ease; it was restful. The
walls were draped with violet hangings covered with tiny embroidered
flowers of yellow silk. The portieres were of a grayish blue and the
chairs were of all shapes, of all sizes; scattered about the room
were couches and large and small easy-chairs, all covered with Louis
XVI. brocade, or Utrecht velvet, a cream colored ground with garnet
"Do you take coffee, M. Duroy?" Mme. Forestier offered him a cup,
with the smile that was always upon her lips.
"Yes, Madame, thank you." He took the cup, and as he did so, the
young woman whispered to him: "Pay Mme. Walter some attention." Then
she vanished before he could reply.
First he drank his coffee, which he feared he should let fall upon
the carpet; then he sought a pretext for approaching the manager's
wife and commencing a conversation. Suddenly he perceived that she
held an empty cup in her hand, and as she was not near a table, she
did not know where to put it. He rushed toward her:
"Allow me, Madame."
"Thank you, sir."
He took away the cup and returned: "If you, but knew, Madame, what
pleasant moments 'La Vie Francaise' afforded me, when I was in the
desert! It is indeed the only paper one cares to read outside of
France; it contains everything."
She smiled with amiable indifference as she replied: "M. Walter had
a great deal of trouble in producing the kind of journal which was
They talked of Paris, the suburbs, the Seine, the delights of
summer, of everything they could think of. Finally M. Norbert de
Varenne advanced, a glass of liqueur in his hand, and Duroy
discreetly withdrew. Mme. de Marelle, who was chatting with her
hostess, called him: "So, sir," she said bluntly, "you are going to
try journalism?" That question led to a renewal of the interrupted
conversation with Mme. Walter. In her turn Mme. de Marelle related
anecdotes, and becoming familiar, laid her hand upon Duroy's arm. He
felt that he would like to devote himself to her, to protect her--
and the slowness with which he replied to her questions indicated
his preoccupation. Suddenly, without any cause, Mme. de Marelle
called: "Laurine!" and the girl came to her. "Sit down here, my
child, you will be cold near the window."
Duroy was seized with an eager desire to embrace the child, as if
part of that embrace would revert to the mother. He asked in a
gallant, yet paternal tone: "Will you permit me to kiss you,
Mademoiselle?" The child raised her eyes with an air of surprise.
Mme. de Marelle said with a smile: "Reply."
"I will allow you to-day, Monsieur, but not all the time."
Seating himself, Duroy took Laurine upon his knee, and kissed her
lips and her fine wavy hair. Her mother was surprised: "Well, that
is strange! Ordinarily she only allows ladies to caress her. You are
Duroy colored, but did not reply.
When Mme. Forestier joined them, a cry of astonishment escaped her:
"Well, Laurine has become sociable; what a miracle!"
The young man rose to take his leave, fearing he might spoil his
conquest by some awkward word. He bowed to the ladies, clasped and
gently pressed their hands, and then shook hands with the men. He
observed that Jacques Rival's was dry and warm and responded
cordially to his pressure; Norbert de Varenne's was moist and cold
and slipped through his fingers; Walter's was cold and soft, without
life, expressionless; Forestier's fat and warm.
His friend whispered to him: "To-morrow at three o'clock; do not
When he reached the staircase, he felt like running down, his joy
was so great; he went down two steps at a time, but suddenly on the
second floor, in the large mirror, he saw a gentleman hurrying on,
and he slackened his pace, as much ashamed as if he had been
surprised in a crime.
He surveyed himself some time with a complacent smile; then taking
leave of his image, he bowed low, ceremoniously, as if saluting some