Читать книгу The Complete Works: Short Stories, Novels, Plays, Poetry, Memoirs and more - Guy de Maupassant - Страница 40

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George Duroy slept badly, so excited was he by the wish to see his article in print. He was up as soon as it was daylight, and was prowling about the streets long before the hour at which the porters from the newspaper offices run with their papers from kiosque to kiosque. He went on to the Saint Lazare terminus, knowing that the Vie Francaise would be delivered there before it reached his own district. As he was still too early, he wandered up and down on the footpath.

He witnessed the arrival of the newspaper vendor who opened her glass shop, and then saw a man bearing on his head a pile of papers. He rushed forward. There were the Figaro, the Gil Blas, the Gaulois, the Evenement, and two or three morning journals, but the Vie Francaise was not among them. Fear seized him. Suppose the “Recollections of a Chasseur d’Afrique” had been kept over for the next day, or that by chance they had not at the last moment seemed suitable to Daddy Walter.

Turning back to the kiosque, he saw that the paper was on sale without his having seen it brought there. He darted forward, unfolded it, after having thrown down the three sous, and ran through the headings of the articles on the first page. Nothing. His heart began to beat, and he experienced strong emotion on reading at the foot of a column in large letters, “George Duroy.” It was in; what happiness!

He began to walk along unconsciously, the paper in his hand and his hat on one side of his head, with a longing to stop the passersby in order to say to them: “Buy this, buy this, there is an article by me in it.” He would have liked to have bellowed with all the power of his lungs, like some vendors of papers at night on the boulevards, “Read the Vie Francaise; read George Duroy’s article, ‘Recollections of a Chasseur d’Afrique.’” And suddenly he felt a wish to read this article himself, read it in a public place, a café, in sight of all. He looked about for some establishment already filled with customers. He had to walk in search of one for some time. He sat down at last in front of a kind of wine shop, where several customers were already installed, and asked for a glass of rum, as he would have asked for one of absinthe, without thinking of the time. Then he cried: “Waiter, bring me the Vie Francaise.”

A man in a white apron stepped up, saying: “We have not got it, sir; we only take in the Rappel, the Siecle, the Lanierne, and the Petit Parisien.”

“What a den!” exclaimed Duroy, in a tone of anger and disgust. “Here, go and buy it for me.”

The waiter hastened to do so, and brought back the paper. Duroy began to read his article, and several times said aloud: “Very good, very well put,” to attract the attention of his neighbors, and inspire them with the wish to know what there was in this sheet. Then, on going away, he left it on the table. The master of the place, noticing this, called him back, saying: “Sir, sir, you are forgetting your paper.”

And Duroy replied: “I will leave it to you. I have finished with it. There is a very interesting article in it this morning.”

He did not indicate the article, but he noticed as he went away one of his neighbors take the Vie Francaise up from the table on which he had left it.

He thought: “What shall I do now?” And he decided to go to his office, take his month’s salary, and tender his resignation. He felt a thrill of anticipatory pleasure at the thought of the faces that would be pulled up by the chief of his room and his colleagues. The notion of the bewilderment of the chief above all charmed him.

He walked slowly, so as not to get there too early, the cashier’s office not opening before ten o’clock.

His office was a large, gloomy room, in which gas had to be kept burning almost all day long in winter. It looked into a narrow courtyard, with other offices on the further side of it. There were eight clerks there, besides a sub-chief hidden behind a screen in one corner.

Duroy first went to get the hundred and eighteen francs twenty-five centimes enclosed in a yellow envelope, and placed in the drawer of the clerk entrusted with such payments, and then, with a conquering air, entered the large room in which he had already spent so many days.

As soon as he came in the sub-chief, Monsieur Potel, called out to him: “Ah! it is you, Monsieur Duroy? The chief has already asked for you several times. You know that he will not allow anyone to plead illness two days running without a doctor’s certificate.”

Duroy, who was standing in the middle of the room preparing his sensational effect, replied in a loud voice:

“I don’t care a damn whether he does or not.”

There was a movement of stupefaction among the clerks, and Monsieur Potel’s features showed affrightedly over the screen which shut him up as in a box. He barricaded himself behind it for fear of draughts, for he was rheumatic, but had pierced a couple of holes through the paper to keep an eye on his staff. A pin might have been heard to fall. At length the sub-chief said, hesitatingly: “You said?”

“I said that I don’t care a damn about it. I have only called to-day to tender my resignation. I am engaged on the staff of the Vie Francaise at five hundred francs a month, and extra pay for all I write. Indeed, I made my début this morning.”

He had promised himself to spin out his enjoyment, but had not been able to resist the temptation of letting it all out at once.

The effect, too, was overwhelming. No one stirred.

Duroy went on: “I will go and inform Monsieur Perthuis, and then come and wish you goodbye.”

And he went out in search of the chief, who exclaimed, on seeing him: “Ah, here you are. You know that I won’t have— “

His late subordinate cut him short with: “It’s not worth while yelling like that.”

Monsieur Perthuis, a stout man, as red as a turkey cock, was choked with bewilderment.

Duroy continued: “I have had enough of this crib. I made my début this morning in journalism, where I am assured of a very good position. I have the honor to bid you good-day.” And he went out. He was avenged.

As he promised, he went and shook hands with his old colleagues, who scarcely dared to speak to him, for fear of compromising themselves, for they had overheard his conversation with the chief, the door having remained open.

He found himself in the street again, with his salary in his pocket. He stood himself a substantial breakfast at a good but cheap restaurant he was acquainted with, and having again purchased the Vie Francaise, and left it on the table, went into several shops, where he bought some trifles, solely for the sake of ordering them to be sent home, and giving his name: “George Duroy,” with the addition, “I am the editor of the Vie Francaise.”

Then he gave the name of the street and the number, taking care to add: “Leave it with the doorkeeper.”

As he had still some time to spare he went into the shop of a lithographer, who executed visiting cards at a moment’s notice before the eyes of passersby, and had a hundred, bearing his new occupation under his name, printed off while he waited.

Then he went to the office of the paper.

Forestier received him loftily, as one receives a subordinate. “Ah! here you are. Good. I have several things for you to attend to. Just wait ten minutes. I will just finish what I am about.”

And he went on with a letter he was writing.

At the other end of the large table a fat, bald little man, with a very pale, puffy face, and a white and shining head, was writing, with his nose on the paper owing to extreme shortsightedness. Forestier said to him: “I say, Saint-Potin, when are you going to interview those people?”

“At four o’clock.”

“Will you take young Duroy here with you, and let him into the way of doing it?”

“All right.”

Then turning to his friend, Forestier added: “Have you brought the continuation of the Algerian article? The opening this morning was very successful.”

Duroy, taken aback, stammered: “No. I thought I should have time this afternoon. I had heaps of things to do. I was not able.”

The other shrugged his shoulders with a dissatisfied air. “If you are not more exact than that you will spoil your future. Daddy Walter was reckoning on your copy. I will tell him it will be ready tomorrow. If you think you are to be paid for doing nothing you are mistaken.”

Then, after a short silence, he added: “One must strike the iron while it is hot, or the deuce is in it.”

Saint-Potin rose, saying: “I am ready.”

Then Forestier, leaning back in his chair, assumed a serious attitude in order to give his instructions, and turning to Duroy, said: “This is what it is. Within the last two days the Chinese General, Li Theng Fao, has arrived at the Hotel Continental, and the Rajah Taposahib Ramaderao Pali at the Hotel Bristol. You will go and interview them.” Turning to Saint-Potin, he continued: “Don’t forget the main points I told you of. Ask the General and the Rajah their opinion upon the action of England in the East, their ideas upon her system of colonization and domination, and their hopes respecting the intervention of Europe, and especially of France.” He was silent for a moment, and then added in a theatrical aside: “It will be most interesting to our readers to learn at the same time what is thought in China and India upon these matters which so forcibly occupy public attention at this moment.” He continued, for the benefit of Duroy: “Watch how Saint-Potin sets to work; he is a capital reporter; and try to learn the trick of pumping a man in five minutes.”

Then he gravely resumed his writing, with the evident intention of defining their relative positions, and putting his old comrade and present colleague in his proper place.

As soon as they had crossed the threshold Saint-Potin began to laugh, and said to Duroy: “There’s a fluffer for you. He tried to fluff even us. One would really think he took us for his readers.”

They reached the boulevard, and the reporter observed: “Will you have a drink?”

“Certainly. It is awfully hot.”

They turned into a café and ordered cooling drinks. Saint-Potin began to talk. He talked about the paper and everyone connected with it with an abundance of astonishing details.

“The governor? A regular Jew? And you know, nothing can alter a Jew. What a breed!” And he instanced some astounding traits of avariciousness peculiar to the children of Israel, economies of ten centimes, petty bargaining, shameful reductions asked for and obtained, all the ways of a usurer and pawnbroker.

“And yet with all this, a good fellow who believes in nothing and does everyone. His paper, which is Governmental, Catholic, Liberal, Republican, Orleanist, pay your money and take your choice, was only started to help him in his speculations on the Bourse, and bolster up his other schemes. At that game he is very clever, and nets millions through companies without four sous of genuine capital.”

He went on, addressing Duroy as “My dear fellow.”

“And he says things worthy of Balzac, the old shark. Fancy, the other day I was in his room with that old tub Norbert, and that Don Quixote Rival, when Montelin, our business manager, came in with his morocco bill-case, that bill-case that everyone in Paris knows, under his arm. Walter raised his head and asked: ‘What news?’ Montelin answered simply: ‘I have just paid the sixteen thousand francs we owed the paper maker.’ The governor gave a jump, an astonishing jump. ‘What do you mean?’ said he. ‘I have just paid Monsieur Privas,’ replied Montelin. ‘But you are mad.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Why — why — why— ‘ he took off his spectacles and wiped them. Then he smiled with that queer smile that flits across his fat cheeks whenever he is going to say something deep or smart, and went on in a mocking and derisive tone, ‘Why? Because we could have obtained a reduction of from four to five thousand francs.’ Montelin replied, in astonishment: ‘But, sir, all the accounts were correct, checked by me and passed by yourself.’ Then the governor, quite serious again, observed: ‘What a fool you are. Don’t you know, Monsieur Montelin, that one should always let one’s debts mount up, in order to offer a composition?’”

And Saint-Potin added, with a knowing shake of his head, “Eh! isn’t that worthy of Balzac?”

Duroy had not read Balzac, but he replied, “By Jove! yes.”

Then the reporter spoke of Madame Walter, an old goose; of Norbert de Varenne, an old failure; of Rival, a copy of Fervacques. Next he came to Forestier. “As to him, he has been lucky in marrying his wife, that is all.”

Duroy asked: “What is his wife, really?”

Saint-Potin rubbed his hands. “Oh! a deep one, a smart woman. She was the mistress of an old rake named Vaudrec, the Count de Vaudrec, who gave her a dowry and married her off.”

Duroy suddenly felt a cold shiver run through him, a tingling of the nerves, a longing to smack this gabbler on the face. But he merely interrupted him by asking:

“And your name is Saint-Potin?”

The other replied, simply enough:

“No, my name is Thomas. It is in the office that they have nicknamed me Saint-Potin.”

Duroy, as he paid for the drinks, observed: “But it seems to me that time is getting on, and that we have two noble foreigners to call on.”

Saint-Potin began to laugh. “You are still green. So you fancy I am going to ask the Chinese and the Hindoo what they think of England? As if I did not know better than themselves what they ought to think in order to please the readers of the Vie Francaise. I have already interviewed five hundred of these Chinese, Persians, Hindoos, Chilians, Japanese, and others. They all reply the same, according to me. I have only to take my article on the last comer and copy it word for word. What has to be changed, though, is their appearance, their name, their title, their age, and their suite. Oh! on that point it does not do to make a mistake, for I should be snapped up sharp by the Figaro or the Gaulois. But on these matters the hall porters at the Hotel Bristol and the Hotel Continental will put me right in five minutes. We will smoke a cigar as we walk there. Five francs cab hire to charge to the paper. That is how one sets about it, my dear fellow, when one is practically inclined.”

“It must be worth something decent to be a reporter under these circumstances,” said Duroy.

The journalist replied mysteriously: “Yes, but nothing pays so well as paragraphs, on account of the veiled advertisements.”

They had got up and were passing down the boulevards towards the Madeleine. Saint-Potin suddenly observed to his companion: “You know if you have anything else to do, I shall not need you in any way.”

Duroy shook hands and left him. The notion of the article to be written that evening worried him, and he began to think. He stored his mind with ideas, reflections, opinions, and anecdotes as he walked along, and went as far as the end of the Avenue des Champs Elysées, where only a few strollers were to be seen, the heat having caused Paris to be evacuated.

Having dined at a wine shop near the Arc de Triomphe, he walked slowly home along the outer boulevards and sat down at his table to work. But as soon as he had the sheet of blank paper before his eyes, all the materials that he had accumulated fled from his mind as though his brain had evaporated. He tried to seize on fragments of his recollections and to retain them, but they escaped him as fast as he laid hold of them, or else they rushed on him altogether pellmell, and he did not know how to clothe and present them, nor which one to begin with.

After an hour of attempts and five sheets of paper blackened by opening phrases that had no continuation, he said to himself: “I am not yet well enough up in the business. I must have another lesson.” And all at once the prospect of another morning’s work with Madame Forestier, the hope of another long and intimate tête-à-tête so cordial and so pleasant, made him quiver with desire. He went to bed in a hurry, almost afraid now of setting to work again and succeeding all at once.

He did not get up the next day till somewhat late, putting off and tasting in advance the pleasure of this visit.

It was past ten when he rang his friend’s bell.

The manservant replied: “Master is engaged at his work.”

Duroy had not thought that the husband might be at home. He insisted, however, saying: “Tell him that I have called on a matter requiring immediate attention.”

After waiting five minutes he was shown into the study in which he had passed such a pleasant morning. In the chair he had occupied Forestier was now seated writing, in a dressing-gown and slippers and with a little Scotch bonnet on his head, while his wife in the same white gown leant against the mantelpiece and dictated, cigarette in mouth.

Duroy, halting on the threshold, murmured: “I really beg your pardon; I am afraid I am disturbing you.”

His friend, turning his face towards him — an angry face, too — growled: “What is it you want now? Be quick; we are pressed for time.”

The intruder, taken back, stammered: “It is nothing; I beg your pardon.”

But Forestier, growing angry, exclaimed: “Come, hang it all, don’t waste time about it; you have not forced your way in just for the sake of wishing us good-morning, I suppose?”

Then Duroy, greatly perturbed, made up his mind. “No — you see — the fact is — I can’t quite manage my article — and you were — so — so kind last time — that I hoped — that I ventured to come— “

Forestier cut him short. “You have a pretty cheek. So you think I am going to do your work, and that all you have to do is to call on the cashier at the end of the month to draw your screw? No, that is too good.”

The young woman went on smoking without saying a word, smiling with a vague smile, which seemed like an amiable mask, concealing the irony of her thoughts.

Duroy, colored up, stammered: “Excuse me — I fancied — I thought— “ then suddenly, and in a clear voice, he went on: “I beg your pardon a thousand times, Madame, while again thanking you most sincerely for the charming article you produced for me yesterday.” He bowed, remarked to Charles: “I shall be at the office at three,” and went out.

He walked home rapidly, grumbling: “Well, I will do it all alone, and they shall see— “

Scarcely had he got in than, excited by anger, he began to write. He continued the adventure began by Madame Forestier, heaping up details of catch-penny romance, surprising incidents, and inflated descriptions, with the style of a schoolboy and the phraseology of the barrack-room. Within an hour he had finished an article which was a chaos of nonsense, and took it with every assurance to the Vie Francaise.

The first person he met was Saint-Potin, who, grasping his hand with the energy of an accomplice, said: “You have read my interview with the Chinese and the Hindoo? Isn’t it funny? It has amused everyone. And I did not even get a glimpse of them.”

Duroy, who had not read anything, at once took up the paper and ran his eye over a long article headed: “India and China,” while the reporter pointed out the most interesting passages.

Forestier came in puffing, in a hurry, with a busy air, saying:

“Good; I want both of you.”

And he mentioned a number of items of political information that would have to be obtained that very afternoon.

Duroy held out his article.

“Here is the continuation about Algeria.”

“Very good; hand it over; and I will give it to the governor.”

That was all.

Saint-Potin led away his new colleague, and when they were in the passage, he said to him: “Have you seen the cashier?”

“No; why?”

“Why? To draw your money. You see you should always draw a month in advance. One never knows what may happen.”

“But — I ask for nothing better.”

“I will introduce you to the cashier. He will make no difficulty about it. They pay up well here.”

Duroy went and drew his two hundred francs, with twenty-eight more for his article of the day before, which, added to what remained of his salary from the railway company, gave him three hundred and forty francs in his pocket. He had never owned such a sum, and thought himself possessed of wealth for an indefinite period.

Saint-Potin then took him to have a gossip in the offices of four or five rival papers, hoping that the news he was entrusted to obtain had already been gleaned by others, and that he should be able to draw it out of them — thanks to the flow and artfulness of his conversation.

When evening had come, Duroy, who had nothing more to do, thought of going again to the Folies Bergères, and putting a bold face on, he went up to the box office.

“I am George Duroy, on the staff of the Vie Francaise. I came here the other day with Monsieur Forestier, who promised me to see about my being put on the free list; I do not know whether he has thought of it.”

The list was referred to. His name was not entered.

However, the box office-keeper, a very affable man, at once said: “Pray, go in all the same, sir, and write yourself to the manager, who, I am sure, will pay attention to your letter.”

He went in and almost immediately met Rachel, the woman he had gone off with the first evening. She came up to him, saying: “Good evening, ducky. Are you quite well?”

“Very well, thanks — and you?”

“I am all right. Do you know, I have dreamed of you twice since last time?”

Duroy smiled, feeling flattered. “Ah! and what does that mean?”

“It means that you pleased me, you old dear, and that we will begin again whenever you please.”

“To-day, if you like.”

“Yes, I am quite willing.”

“Good, but— “ He hesitated, a little ashamed of what he was going to do. “The fact is that this time I have not a penny; I have just come from the club, where I have dropped everything.”

She looked him full in the eyes, scenting a lie with the instinct and habit of a girl accustomed to the tricks and bargainings of men, and remarked: “Bosh! That is not a nice sort of thing to try on me.”

He smiled in an embarrassed way. “If you will take ten francs, it is all I have left.”

She murmured, with the disinterestedness of a courtesan gratifying a fancy: “What you please, my lady; I only want you.”

And lifting her charming eyes towards the young man’s moustache, she took his arm and leant lovingly upon it.

“Let us go and have a grenadine first of all,” she remarked. “And then we will take a stroll together. I should like to go to the opera like this, with you, to show you off. And we will go home early, eh?”

He lay late at this girl’s place. It was broad day when he left, and the notion occurred to him to buy the Vie Francaise. He opened the paper with feverish hand. His article was not there, and he stood on the footpath, anxiously running his eye down the printed columns with the hope of at length finding what he was in search of. A weight suddenly oppressed his heart, for after the fatigue of a night of love, this vexation came upon him with the weight of a disaster.

He reached home and went to sleep in his clothes on the bed.

Entering the office some hours later, he went on to see Monsieur Walter.

“I was surprised at not seeing my second article on Algeria in the paper this morning, sir,” said he.

The manager raised his head, and replied in a dry tone: “I gave it to your friend Forestier, and asked him to read it through. He did not think it up to the mark; you must rewrite it.”

Duroy, in a rage, went out without saying a word, and abruptly entering his old comrade’s room, said:

“Why didn’t you let my article go in this morning?”

The journalist was smoking a cigarette with his back almost on the seat of his armchair and his feet on the table, his heels soiling an article already commenced. He said slowly, in a bored and distant voice, as though speaking from the depths of a hole: “The governor thought it poor, and told me to give it back to you to do over again. There it is.” And he pointed out the slips flattened out under a paperweight.

Duroy, abashed, could find nothing to say in reply, and as he was putting his prose into his pocket, Forestier went on: “To-day you must first of all go to the Préfecture.” And he proceeded to give a list of business errands and items of news to be attended to.

Duroy went off without having been able to find the cutting remark he wanted to. He brought back his article the next day. It was returned to him again. Having rewritten it a third time, and finding it still refused, he understood that he was trying to go ahead too fast, and that Forestier’s hand alone could help him on his way. He did not therefore say anything more about the “Recollections of a Chasseur d’Afrique,” promising himself to be supple and cunning since it was needful, and while awaiting something better to zealously discharge his duties as a reporter.

He learned to know the way behind the scenes in theatrical and political life; the waiting-rooms of statesmen and the lobby of the Chamber of Deputies; the important countenances of permanent secretaries, and the grim looks of sleepy ushers. He had continual relations with ministers, doorkeepers, generals, police agents, princes, bullies, courtesans, ambassadors, bishops, panders, adventurers, men of fashion, card-sharpers, cab drivers, waiters, and many others, having become the interested yet indifferent friend of all these; confounding them together in his estimation, measuring them with the same measure, judging them with the same eye, though having to see them every day at every hour, without any transition, and to speak with them all on the same business of his own. He compared himself to a man who had to drink off samples of every kind of wine one after the other, and who would soon be unable to tell Château Margaux from Argenteuil.

He became in a short time a remarkable reporter, certain of his information, artful, swift, subtle, a real find for the paper, as was observed by Daddy Walter, who knew what newspaper men were. However, as he got only centimes a line in addition to his monthly screw of two hundred francs, and as life on the boulevards and in cafés and restaurants is costly, he never had a halfpenny, and was disgusted with his poverty. There is some knack to be got hold of, he thought, seeing some of his fellows with their pockets full of money without ever being able to understand what secret methods they could make use of to procure this abundance. He enviously suspected unknown and suspicious transactions, services rendered, a whole system of contraband accepted and agreed to. But it was necessary that he should penetrate the mystery, enter into the tacit partnership, make himself one with the comrades who were sharing without him.

And he often thought of an evening, as he watched the trains go by from his window, of the steps he ought to take.