Bel Ami - The Original Classic Edition. Maupassant Guy

get rid of this bronchitis? And here is midsummer! This winter I shall go to Mentone. Health before everything."

       They reached the Boulevarde Poissoniere; behind a large glass door an open paper was affixed; three people were reading it. Above the door was printed the legend, "La Vie Francaise."

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       Forestier pushed open the door and said: "Come in." Duroy entered; they ascended the stairs, passed through an antechamber in which two clerks greeted their comrade, and then entered a kind of waiting-room.

       "Sit down," said Forestier, "I shall be back in five minutes," and he disappeared.

       Duroy remained where he was; from time to time men passed him by, entering by one door and going out by another before he had time to glance at them.

       Now they were young men, very young, with a busy air, holding sheets of paper in their hands; now compositors, their shirts spotted with ink--carefully carrying what were evidently fresh proofs. Occasionally a gentleman entered, fashionably dressed, some reporter bringing news.

       Forestier reappeared arm-in-arm with a tall, thin man of thirty or forty, dressed in a black coat, with a white cravat, a dark complex-ion, and an insolent, self-satisfied air. Forestier said to him: "Adieu, my dear sir," and the other pressed his hand with: "Au revoir, my friend." Then he descended the stairs whistling, his cane under his arm.

       Duroy asked his name.

       "That is Jacques Rival, the celebrated writer and duelist. He came to correct his proofs. Garin, Montel and he are the best witty and realistic writers we have in Paris. He earns thirty thousand francs a year for two articles a week."

       As they went downstairs, they met a stout, little man with long hair, who was ascending the stairs whistling. Forestier bowed low. "Norbert de Varenne," said he, "the poet, the author of 'Les Soleils Morts,'--a very expensive man. Every poem he gives us costs

       three hundred francs and the longest has not two hundred lines. But let us go into the Napolitain, I am getting thirsty."

       When they were seated at a table, Forestier ordered two glasses of beer. He emptied his at a single draught, while Duroy sipped his beer slowly as if it were something rare and precious. Suddenly his companion asked, "Why don't you try journalism?"

       Duroy looked at him in surprise and said: "Because I have never written anything."

       "Bah, we all have to make a beginning. I could employ you myself by sending you to obtain information. At first you would only get two hundred and fifty francs a month but your cab fare would be paid. Shall I speak to the manager?"

       "If you will."

       "Well, then come and dine with me tomorrow; I will only ask five or six to meet you; the manager, M. Walter, his wife, with Jacques