THE COLLECTED NOVELS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT. Guy de Maupassant
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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.
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 is the whole truth, sir,” and having offered him a glass of cordial, which he declined, the old woman insisted on the short weight of the butcher being spoken of in the report.
On his return to the office, Duroy wrote his reply:
“An anonymous scribbler in the Plume seeks to pick a quarrel with me on the subject of an old woman whom he states was arrested by an agent des mœurs, which fact I deny. I have myself seen Madame Aubert — who is at least sixty years of age — and she told me in detail her quarrel with the butcher over the weighing of some chops, which led to an explanation before the commissary of police. This is the whole truth. As to the other insinuations of the writer in the Plume, I despise them. Besides, a man does not reply to such things when they are written under a mask.
“George Duroy.”
Monsieur Walter and Jacques Rival, who had come in, thought this note satisfactory, and it was settled that it should go in at once.
Duroy went home early, somewhat agitated and slightly uneasy. What reply would the other man make? Who was he? Why this brutal attack? With the brusque manners of journalists this affair might go very far. He slept badly. When he read his reply in the paper next morning, it seemed to him more aggressive in print than in manuscript. He might, it seemed to him, have softened certain phrases. He felt feverish all day, and slept badly again at night. He rose at dawn to get the number of the Plume that must contain a reply to him.
The weather had turned cold again, it was freezing hard. The gutters, frozen while still flowing, showed like two ribbons of ice alongside the pavement. The morning papers had not yet come in, and Duroy recalled the day of his first article, “The Recollections of a Chasseur d’Afrique.” His hands and feet getting numbed, grew painful, especially the tips of his fingers, and he began to trot round the glazed kiosque in which the newspaper seller, squatting over