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
