if she had some one already in her eye — a deputy, unless, indeed, he objects — for — for — there may be serious — moral — obstacles. But then — I don’t really know.”
Monsieur de Marelle grumbled with slow impatience: “You are always suspecting a number of things that I do not like. Do not let us meddle with the affairs of others. Our conscience is enough to guide us. That should be a rule with everyone.”
Duroy withdrew, uneasy at heart, and with his mind full of vague plans. The next day he paid a visit to the Forestiers, and found them finishing their packing up. Charles, stretched on a sofa, exaggerated his difficulty of breathing, and repeated: “I ought to have been off a month ago.”
Then he gave George a series of recommendations concerning the paper, although everything had been agreed upon and settled with Monsieur Walter. As George left, he energetically squeezed his old comrade’s hand, saying: “Well, old fellow, we shall have you back soon.” But as Madame Forestier was showing him out, he said to her, quickly: “You have not forgotten our agreement? We are friends and allies, are we not? So if you have need of me, for no matter what, do not hesitate. Send a letter or a telegram, and I will obey.”
She murmured: “Thanks, I will not forget.” And her eye, too, said “Thanks,” in a deeper and tenderer fashion.
As Duroy went downstairs, he met slowly coming up Monsieur de Vaudrec, whom he had met there once before. The Count appeared sad, at this departure, perhaps. Wishing to show his good breeding, the journalist eagerly bowed. The other returned the salutation courteously, but in a somewhat dignified manner.
The Forestiers left on Thursday evening.
French
VII
Charles’s absence gave Duroy increased importance in the editorial department of the Vie Francaise. He signed several leaders besides his “Echoes,” for the governor insisted on everyone assuming the responsibility of his “copy.” He became engaged in several newspaper controversies, in which he acquitted himself creditably, and his constant relations with different statesmen were gradually preparing him to become in his turn a clever and perspicuous political editor. There was only one cloud on his horizon. It came from a little freelance newspaper, which continually assailed him, or rather in him assailed the chief writer of “Echoes” in the Vie Francaise, the chief of “Monsieur Walter’s startlers,” as it was put by the anonymous writer of the Plume. Day by day cutting paragraphs, insinuations of every kind, appeared in it.
One day Jacques Rival said to Duroy: “You are very patient.”
Duroy replied: “What can I do, there is no direct attack?”
But one afternoon, as he entered the editor’s room, Boisrenard held out the current number of the Plume, saying: “Here’s another spiteful dig at you.”
“Ah! what about?”
“Oh! a mere nothing — the arrest of a Madame Aubert by the police.”
George took the paper, and read, under the heading, “Duroy’s Latest”:
“The illustrious reporter of the Vie Francaise to-day informs us that Madame Aubert, whose arrest by a police agent belonging to the odious brigade des mœurs we announced, exists only in our imagination. Now the person in question lives at 18 Rue de l’Ecureuil, Montmartre. We understand only too well, however, the interest the agents of Walter’s bank have in supporting those of the Prefect of Police, who tolerates their commerce. As to the reporter of whom it is a question, he would do better to give us one of those good sensational bits of news of which he has the secret — news of deaths contradicted the following day, news of battles which have never taken place, announcements of important utterances by sovereigns who have not said anything — all the news, in short, which constitutes Walter’s profits, or even one of those little indiscretions concerning entertainments given by would-be fashionable ladies, or the excellence of certain articles of consumption which are of such resource to some of our compeers.”
The young fellow was more astonished than annoyed, only understanding that there was something very disagreeable for him in all this.
Boisrenard went on: “Who gave you this ‘Echo’?”
Duroy thought for a moment, having forgotten. Then all at once the recollection occurred to him, “Saint-Potin.” He re-read the paragraph in the Plume and reddened, roused by the accusation of venality. He exclaimed: “What! do they mean to assert that I am paid— “
Boisrenard interrupted him: “They do, though. It is very annoying for you. The governor is very strict about that sort of thing. It might happen so often in the ‘Echoes.’”
Saint-Potin came in at that moment. Duroy hastened to him. “Have you seen the paragraph in the Plume?”
“Yes, and I have just come from Madame Aubert. She does exist, but she was not arrested. That much of the report has no foundation.”
Duroy hastened to the room of the governor, whom he found somewhat cool, and with a look of suspicion in his eye. After having listened to the statement of the case, Monsieur Walter said: “Go and see the woman yourself, and contradict the paragraph in such terms as will put a stop to such things being written about you any more. I mean the latter part of the paragraph. It is very annoying for the paper, for yourself, and for me. A journalist should no more be suspected than Cæsar’s wife.”
Duroy got into a cab, with Saint-Potin as his guide, and called out to the driver: “Number 18 Rue de l’Ecureuil, Montmartre.”
It was a huge house, in which they had to go up six flights of stairs. An old woman in a woolen jacket opened the door to them. “What is it you want with me now?” said she, on catching sight of Saint-Potin.
He replied: “I have brought this gentleman, who is an inspector of police, and who would like to hear your story.”
Then she let him in, saying: “Two more have been here since you, for some paper or other, I don’t know which,” and turning towards Duroy, added: “So this gentleman wants to know about it?”
“Yes. Were you arrested by an agent des mœurs?”
She lifted her arms into the air. “Never in my life, sir, never in my life. This is what it is all about. I have a butcher who sells good meat, but who gives bad weight. I have often noticed it without saying anything; but the other day, when I asked him for two pounds of chops, as I had my daughter and my son-in-law to dinner, I caught him weighing in bits of trimmings — trimmings of chops, it is true, but not of mine. I could have made a stew of them, it is true, as well, but when I ask for chops it is not to get other people’s trimmings. I refused to take them, and he calls me an old shark. I called him an old rogue, and from one thing to another we picked up such a row that there were over a hundred people round the shop, some of them laughing fit to split. So that at last a police agent came up and asked us to settle it before the commissary. We went, and he dismissed the case. Since then I get my meat elsewhere, and don’t even pass his door, in order to avoid his slanders.”
She ceased talking, and Duroy asked: “Is that all?”
“It
