It was broad day when he left, and the notion occurred to him to buy the _Vie Francaise_.
He opened the paper with feverish hand.
His article was not there, and he stood on the footpath, anxiously running his eye down the printed columns with the hope of at length finding what he was in search of.
A weight suddenly oppressed his heart, for after the fatigue of a night of love, this vexation came upon him with the weight of a disaster.
He reached home and went to sleep in his clothes on the bed.
Entering the office some hours later, he went on to see Monsieur Walter.
"I was surprised at not seeing my second article on Algeria in the paper this morning, sir," said he.
The manager raised his head, and replied in a dry tone:
"I gave it to your friend Forestier, and asked him to read it through.
He did not think it up to the mark; you must rewrite it."
Duroy, in a rage, went out without saying a word, and abruptly entering his old comrade's room, said:
"Why didn't you let my article go in this morning?"
The journalist was smoking a cigarette with his back almost on the seat of his armchair and his feet on the table, his heels soiling an article already commenced.
He said slowly, in a bored and distant voice, as though speaking from the depths of a hole:
"The governor thought it poor, and told me to give it back to you to do over again.
There it is."
And he pointed out the slips flattened out under a paperweight.
Duroy, abashed, could find nothing to say in reply, and as he was putting his prose into his pocket, Forestier went on:
"To-day you must first of all go to the Prefecture."
And he proceeded to give a list of business errands and items of news to be attended to.
Duroy went off without having been able to find the cutting remark he wanted to.
He brought back his article the next day.
It was returned to him again.
Having rewritten it a third time, and finding it still refused, he understood that he was trying to go ahead too fast, and that Forestier's hand alone could help him on his way.
He did not therefore say anything more about the
"Recollections of a Chasseur d'Afrique," promising himself to be supple and cunning since it was needful, and while awaiting something better to zealously discharge his duties as a reporter.
He learned to know the way behind the scenes in theatrical and political life; the waiting-rooms of statesmen and the lobby of the Chamber of Deputies; the important countenances of permanent secretaries, and the grim looks of sleepy ushers.
He had continual relations with ministers, doorkeepers, generals, police agents, princes, bullies, courtesans, ambassadors, bishops, panders, adventurers, men of fashion, card-sharpers, cab drivers, waiters, and many others, having become the interested yet indifferent friend of all these; confounding them together in his estimation, measuring them with the same measure, judging them with the same eye, though having to see them every day at every hour, without any transition, and to speak with them all on the same business of his own.
He compared himself to a man who had to drink off samples of every kind of wine one after the other, and who would soon be unable to tell Chateau Margaux from Argenteuil.
He became in a short time a remarkable reporter, certain of his information, artful, swift, subtle, a real find for the paper, as was observed by Daddy Walter, who knew what newspaper men were.
However, as he got only centimes a line in addition to his monthly screw of two hundred francs, and as life on the boulevards and in _cafes_ and restaurants is costly, he never had a halfpenny, and was disgusted with his poverty.
There is some knack to be got hold of, he thought, seeing some of his fellows with their pockets full of money without ever being able to understand what secret methods they could make use of to procure this abundance.
He enviously suspected unknown and suspicious transactions, services rendered, a whole system of contraband accepted and agreed to.
But it was necessary that he should penetrate the mystery, enter into the tacit partnership, make himself one with the comrades who were sharing without him.
And he often thought of an evening, as he watched the trains go by from his window, of the steps he ought to take.
Two months had gone by, September was at hand, and the rapid fortune which Duroy had hoped for seemed to him slow in coming.
He was, above all, uneasy at the mediocrity of his position, and did not see by what path he could scale the heights on the summit of which one finds respect, power, and money.
He felt shut up in the mediocre calling of a reporter, so walled in as to be unable to get out of it.
He was appreciated, but estimated in accordance with his position.
Even Forestier, to whom he rendered a thousand services, no longer invited him to dinner, and treated him in every way as an inferior, though still accosting him as a friend.
From time to time, it is true, Duroy, seizing an opportunity, got in a short article, and having acquired through his paragraphs a mastery over his pen, and a tact which was lacking to him when he wrote his second article on Algeria, no longer ran any risk of having his descriptive efforts refused.
But from this to writing leaders according to his fancy, or dealing with political questions with authority, there was as great a difference as driving in the Bois de Boulogne as a coachman, and as the owner of an equipage.
That which humiliated him above everything was to see the door of society closed to him, to have no equal relations with it, not to be able to penetrate into the intimacy of its women, although several well-known actresses had occasionally received him with an interested familiarity.
He knew, moreover, from experience that all the sex, ladies or actresses, felt a singular attraction towards him, an instantaneous sympathy, and he experienced the impatience of a hobbled horse at not knowing those whom his future may depend on.
He had often thought of calling on Madame Forestier, but the recollection of their last meeting checked and humiliated him; and besides, he was awaiting an invitation to do so from her husband.
Then the recollection of Madame de Marelle occurred to him, and recalling that she had asked him to come and see her, he called one afternoon when he had nothing to do.
"I am always at home till three o'clock," she had said.
He rang at the bell of her residence, a fourth floor in the Rue de Verneuil, at half-past two.
At the sound of the bell a servant opened the door, an untidy girl, who tied her cap strings as she replied: