Bel Ami | Page 6

were evidently fresh proofs. Occasionally
a gentleman entered, fashionably dressed, some reporter bringing news.
Forestier reappeared arm-in-arm with a tall, thin man of thirty or forty,
dressed in a black coat, with a white cravat, a dark complexion, and an
insolent, self-satisfied air. Forestier said to him: "Adieu, my dear sir,"
and the other pressed his hand with: "Au revoir, my friend." Then he
descended the stairs whistling, his cane under his arm.
Duroy asked his name.
"That is Jacques Rival, the celebrated writer and duelist. He came to
correct his proofs. Garin, Montel and he are the best witty and realistic
writers we have in Paris. He earns thirty thousand francs a year for two
articles a week."
As they went downstairs, they met a stout, little man with long hair,
who was ascending the stairs whistling. Forestier bowed low.
"Norbert de Varenne," said he, "the poet, the author of 'Les Soleils
Morts,'--a very expensive man. Every poem he gives us costs three
hundred francs and the longest has not two hundred lines. But let us go
into the Napolitain, I am getting thirsty."
When they were seated at a table, Forestier ordered two glasses of beer.
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. At first you would only get two
hundred and fifty francs a month but your cab fare would be paid. Shall
I speak to the manager?"
"If you will."
"Well, then come and dine with me to-morrow; I will only ask five or
six to meet you; the manager, M. Walter, his wife, with Jacques Rival,

and Norbert de Varenne whom you have just seen, and also a friend of
Mme. Forestier, Will you come?"
Duroy hesitated, blushing and perplexed. Finally he, murmured: "I have
no suitable clothes."
Forestier was amazed. "You have no dress suit? Egad, that is
indispensable. In Paris, it is better to have no bed than no clothes."
Then, fumbling in his vest-pocket, he drew from it two louis, placed
them before his companion, and said kindly: "You can repay me when
it is convenient. Buy yourself what you need and pay an installment on
it. And come and dine with us at half past seven, at 17 Rue Fontaine."
In confusion Duroy picked up the money and stammered: "You are
very kind--I am much obliged--be sure I shall not forget."
Forestier interrupted him: "That's all right, take another glass of beer.
Waiter, two more glasses!" When he had paid the score, the journalist
asked: "Would you like a stroll for an hour?"
"Certainly."
They turned toward the Madeleine. "What shall we do?" asked
Forestier. "They say that in Paris an idler can always find amusement,
but it is not true. A turn in the Bois is only enjoyable if you have a lady
with you, and that is a rare occurrence. The cafe concerts may divert
my tailor and his wife, but they do not interest me. So what can we do?
Nothing! There ought to be a summer garden here, open at night, where
a man could listen to good music while drinking beneath the trees. It
would be a pleasant lounging place. You could walk in alleys bright
with electric light and seat yourself where you pleased to hear the
music. It would be charming. Where would you like to go?"
Duroy did not know what to reply; finally he said: "I have never been
to the Folies Bergeres. I should like to go there."
His companion exclaimed: "The Folies Bergeres! Very well!"
They turned and walked toward the Faubourg Montmartre. The
brilliantly illuminated building loomed up before them. Forestier
entered, Duroy stopped him. "We forgot to pass through the gate."
The other replied in a consequential tone: "I never pay," and
approached the box-office.
"Have you a good box?"
"Certainly, M. Forestier."
He took the ticket handed him, pushed open the door, and they were

within the hall. A cloud of tobacco smoke almost hid the stage and the
opposite side of the theater. In the spacious foyer which led to the
circular promenade, brilliantly dressed women mingled with
black-coated men.
Forestier forced his way rapidly through the throng and accosted an
usher.
"Box 17?"
"This way, sir."
The friends were shown into a tiny box, hung and carpeted in red, with
four chairs upholstered in the same color. They seated themselves. To
their right and left were similar boxes. On the stage three men were
performing on trapezes. But Duroy paid no