BEL-AMI: THE HISTORY OF A SCOUNDREL. Guy de Maupassant
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smack this gabbler on the face. But he merely interrupted him by asking:
“And your name is Saint-Potin?”
The other replied, simply enough:
“No, my name is Thomas. It is in the office that they have nicknamed me Saint-Potin.”
Duroy, as he paid for the drinks, observed: “But it seems to me that time is getting on, and that we have two noble foreigners to call on.”
Saint-Potin began to laugh. “You are still green. So you fancy I am going to ask the Chinese and the Hindoo what they think of England? As if I did not know better than themselves what they ought to think in order to please the readers of the Vie Francaise. I have already interviewed five hundred of these Chinese, Persians, Hindoos, Chilians, Japanese, and others. They all reply the same, according to me. I have only to take my article on the last comer and copy it word for word. What has to be changed, though, is their appearance, their name, their title, their age, and their suite. Oh! on that point it does not do to make a mistake, for I should be snapped up sharp by the Figaro or the Gaulois. But on these matters the hall porters at the Hotel Bristol and the Hotel Continental will put me right in five minutes. We will smoke a cigar as we walk there. Five francs cab hire to charge to the paper. That is how one sets about it, my dear fellow, when one is practically inclined.”
“It must be worth something decent to be a reporter under these circumstances,” said Duroy.
The journalist replied mysteriously: “Yes, but nothing pays so well as paragraphs, on account of the veiled advertisements.”
They had got up and were passing down the boulevards towards the Madeleine. Saint-Potin suddenly observed to his companion: “You know if you have anything else to do, I shall not need you in any way.”
Duroy shook hands and left him. The notion of the article to be written that evening worried him, and he began to think. He stored his mind with ideas, reflections, opinions, and anecdotes as he walked along, and went as far as the end of the Avenue des Champs Elysées, where only a few strollers were to be seen, the heat having caused Paris to be evacuated.
Having dined at a wine shop near the Arc de Triomphe, he walked slowly home along the outer boulevards and sat down at his table to work. But as soon as he had the sheet of blank paper before his eyes, all the materials that he had accumulated fled from his mind as though his brain had evaporated. He tried to seize on fragments of his recollections and to retain them, but they escaped him as fast as he laid hold of them, or else they rushed on him altogether pellmell, and he did not know how to clothe and present them, nor which one to begin with.
After an hour of attempts and five sheets of paper blackened by opening phrases that had no continuation, he said to himself: “I am not yet well enough up in the business. I must have another lesson.” And all at once the prospect of another morning’s work with Madame Forestier, the hope of another long and intimate tête-à-tête so cordial and so pleasant, made him quiver with desire. He went to bed in a hurry, almost afraid now of setting to work again and succeeding all at once.
He did not get up the next day till somewhat late, putting off and tasting in advance the pleasure of this visit.
It was past ten when he rang his friend’s bell.
The manservant replied: “Master is engaged at his work.”
Duroy had not thought that the husband might be at home. He insisted, however, saying: “Tell him that I have called on a matter requiring immediate attention.”
After waiting five minutes he was shown into the study in which he had passed such a pleasant morning. In the chair he had occupied Forestier was now seated writing, in a dressing-gown and slippers and with a little Scotch bonnet on his head, while his wife in the same white gown leant against the mantelpiece and dictated, cigarette in mouth.
Duroy, halting on the threshold, murmured: “I really beg your pardon; I am afraid I am disturbing you.”
His friend, turning his face towards him — an angry face, too — growled: “What is it you want now? Be quick; we are pressed for time.”
The intruder, taken back, stammered: “It is nothing; I beg your pardon.”
But Forestier, growing angry, exclaimed: “Come, hang it all, don’t waste time about it; you have not forced your way in just for the sake of wishing us good-morning, I suppose?”
Then Duroy, greatly perturbed, made up his mind. “No — you see — the fact is — I can’t quite manage my article — and you were — so — so kind last time — that I hoped — that I ventured to come— “
Forestier cut him short. “You have a pretty cheek. So you think I am going to do your work, and that all you have to do is to call on the cashier at the end of the month to draw your screw? No, that is too good.”
The young woman went on smoking without saying a word, smiling with a vague smile, which seemed like an amiable mask, concealing the irony of her thoughts.
Duroy, colored up, stammered: “Excuse me — I fancied — I thought— “ then suddenly, and in a clear voice, he went on: “I beg your pardon a thousand times, Madame, while again thanking you most sincerely for the charming article you produced for me yesterday.” He bowed, remarked to Charles: “I shall be at the office at three,” and went out.
He walked home rapidly, grumbling: “Well, I will do it all alone, and they shall see— “
Scarcely had he got in than, excited by anger, he began to write. He continued the adventure began by Madame Forestier, heaping up details of catch-penny romance, surprising incidents, and inflated descriptions, with the style of a schoolboy and the phraseology of the barrack-room. Within an hour he had finished an article which was a chaos of nonsense, and took it with every assurance to the Vie Francaise.
The first person he met was Saint-Potin, who, grasping his hand with the energy of an accomplice, said: “You have read my interview with the Chinese and the Hindoo? Isn’t it funny? It has amused everyone. And I did not even get a glimpse of them.”
Duroy, who had not read anything, at once took up the paper and ran his eye over a long article headed: “India and China,” while the reporter pointed out the most interesting passages.
Forestier came in puffing, in a hurry, with a busy air, saying:
“Good; I want both of you.”
And he mentioned a number of items of political information that would have to be obtained that very afternoon.
Duroy held out his article.
“Here is the continuation about Algeria.”
“Very good; hand it over; and I will give it to the governor.”
That was all.
Saint-Potin led away his new colleague, and when they were in the passage, he said to him: “Have you seen the cashier?”
“No; why?”
“Why? To draw your money. You see you should always draw a month in advance. One never knows what may happen.”
“But — I ask for nothing better.”
“I will introduce you to the cashier. He will make no difficulty about it. They pay up well here.”
Duroy went and drew his two hundred francs, with twenty-eight more for his article of the day before, which, added to what remained of his salary from the railway company, gave him three hundred and forty francs in his pocket. He had never owned such a sum, and thought himself possessed of wealth for an indefinite period.
Saint-Potin then took him to have a gossip in the offices of four or five rival papers, hoping that the news he was entrusted to obtain had already been gleaned by others, and that he should be able to draw it out of them — thanks to the flow and artfulness of his conversation.
When evening had come, Duroy, who had nothing more to do, thought of going again to the