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A gentle rap came at the door through which Mme. de Marelle had entered, and she cried: "You may come in, my darling." The child entered, advanced to Duroy and offered him her hand. The astonished mother murmured: "That is a conquest." The young man, having kissed the child, seated her by his side, and with a serious air questioned her as to what she had done since they last met.
His second and the doctor felt him, unbuttoned his garments, and asked anxiously: "Are you wounded?" He replied: "No, I think not." Langremont was not wounded either, and Jacques Rival muttered discontentedly: "That is always the way with those cursed pistols, one either misses or kills one's opponent." Duroy was paralyzed with surprise and joy. All was over!
He emptied his at a single draught, while Duroy sipped his beer slowly as if it were something rare and precious. Suddenly his companion asked, "Why don't you try journalism?" Duroy looked at him in surprise and said: "Because I have never written anything." "Bah, we all have to make a beginning. I could employ you myself by sending you to obtain information.
The following day he found in his letter-box at the office an envelope containing Mme, Walter's card on which was written: "Mme. Walter thanks M. Georges Duroy very much, and is at home on Saturdays." The next Saturday he called. M. Walter lived on Boulevard Malesherbes in a double house which he owned. The reception-rooms were on the first floor.
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 flowers. "Do you take coffee, M. Duroy?" Mme.
"These dinners are truly delightful." Very soon the door opened and Mesdames Forestier and De Marelle appeared, heavily veiled, surrounded by the charming mystery necessary to a rendezvous in a place so public. As Duroy greeted the former, she took him to task for not having been to see her; then she added with a smile: "Ah, you prefer Mme. de Marelle; the time passes more pleasantly with her."
He hesitated, then repeated: "A gaming debt." "Is it large?" "Five hundred francs." He only needed two hundred and eighty. Forestier asked sceptically: "To whom do you owe that amount?" Duroy did not reply at once. "To to a M. de Carleville." "Ah, where does he live?" "Rue Rue " Forestier laughed. "I know the gentleman! If you want twenty francs you can have them, but no more."
Duroy continued: "Yes, anyone is liable to have that trouble at the beginning; and, well I have come to ask you to help me. In ten minutes you can set me right. You can give me a lesson in style; without you I can do nothing." The other smiled gaily. He patted his companion's arm and said to him: "Go to my wife; she will help you better than I can. I have trained her for that work.
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.
That is the way, my dear fellow." When they arrived at the Madeleine, Saint-Potin said to his companion: "If you have anything to do, I do not need you." Duroy shook hands with him and walked away. The thought of the article he had to write that evening haunted him. Mentally he collected the material as he wended his way to the cafe at which he dined.
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