漂亮朋友 第四章 英2

孙祎卓

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. Then he returned home and seated himself at his table to work. Before his eyes was the sheet of blank paper, but all the material he had amassed had escaped him. After trying for an hour, and after filling five pages with sentences which had no connection one with the other, he said: “I am not yet familiar with the work. I must take another lesson.”

At ten o’clock the following morning he rang the bell, at his friend’s house. The servant who opened the door, said: “Monsieur is busy.”

Duroy had not expected to find Forestier at home. However he said: “Tell him it is M. Duroy on important business.”

In the course of five minutes he was ushered into the room in which he had spent so happy a morning. In the place Mme. Forestier had occupied, her husband was seated writing, while Mme. Forestier stood by the mantelpiece and dictated to him, a cigarette between her lips.

Duroy paused upon the threshold and murmured: “I beg your pardon, I am interrupting you.”

His friend growled angrily: “What do you want again? Make haste; we are busy.”

Georges stammered: “It is nothing.”

But Forestier persisted: “Come, we are losing time; you did not force your way into the house for the pleasure of bidding us good morning.”

Duroy, in confusion, replied: “No, it is this: I cannot complete my article, and you were — so — so kind the last time that I hoped — that I dared to come —”

Forestier interrupted with: “So you think I will do your work and that you have only to take the money. Well, that is fine!” His wife smoked on without interfering.

Duroy hesitated: “Excuse me. I believed — I— thought —” Then, in a clear voice, he said: “I beg a thousand pardons, Madame, and thank you very much for the charming article you wrote for me yesterday.” Then he bowed, and said to Charles: “I will be at the office at three o’clock.”

He returned home saying to himself: “Very well, I will write it alone and they shall see.” Scarcely had he entered than he began to write, anger spurring him on. In an hour he had finished an article, which was a chaos of absurd matter, and took it boldly to the office. Duroy handed Forestier his manuscript. “Here is the rest of Algeria.”

“Very well, I will hand it to the manager. That will do.”

When Duroy and Saint-Potin, who had some political information to look up, were in the hall, the latter asked: “Have you been to the cashier’s room?”

“No, why?”

“Why? To get your pay? You should always get your salary a month in advance. One cannot tell what might happen. I will introduce you to the cashier.”

Duroy drew his two hundred francs together with twenty-eight francs for his article of the preceding day, which, in addition to what remained to him of his salary from the railroad office, left him three hundred and forty francs. He had never had so much, and he thought himself rich for an indefinite time. Saint-Potin took him to the offices of four or five rival papers, hoping that the news he had been commissioned to obtain had been already received by them and that he could obtain it by means of his diplomacy.

When evening came, Duroy, who had nothing more to do, turned toward the Folies-Bergeres, and walking up to the office, he said: “My name is Georges Duroy. I am on the staff of ‘La Vie Francaise.’ I was here the other night with M. Forestier, who promised to get me a pass. I do not know if he remembered it.”

The register was consulted, but his name was not inscribed upon it. However, the cashier, a very affable man, said to him: “Come in, M. Duroy, and speak to the manager yourself; he will see that everything is all right.”

He entered and almost at once came upon Rachel, the woman he had seen there before. She approached him: “Good evening, my dear; are you well?”

“Very well; how are you?”

“I am not ill. I have dreamed of you twice since the other night.”

Duroy smiled. “What does that mean?”

“That means that I like you”; she raised her eyes to the young man’s face, took his arm and leaning upon it, said: “Let us drink a glass of wine and then take a walk. I should like to go to the opera like this, with you, to show you off.”

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