George Duroy woke up chapfallen the next morning.
He dressed himself slowly, and then sat down at his window and began to reflect. He felt a kind of aching sensation all over, just as though he had received a drubbing over night. At last the necessity of finding some money spurred him up, and he went first to Forestier.
His friend received him in his study with his feet on the fender.
“What has brought you out so early?” said he.
“A very serious matter, a debt of honor.”
“At play?”
He hesitated a moment, and then said: “At play.”
“Heavy?”
“Five hundred francs.”
He only owed two hundred and eighty.
Forestier, skeptical on the point, inquired: “Whom do you owe it to?”
Duroy could not answer right off. “To—to—a Monsieur de Carleville.”
“Ah! and where does he live?”
“At—at—”
Forestier began to laugh. “Number ought, Nowhere Street, eh? I know that gentleman, my dear fellow. If you want twenty francs, I have still