a shoe too pointed at the toe, some fashionable reporter bringing in the echoes of the evening.
Others, too, arrived, serious, important-looking men, wearing tall hats with flat brims, as if this shape distinguished them from the rest of mankind.
Forestier reappeared holding the arm of a tall, thin fellow, between thirty and forty years of age, in evening dress, very dark, with his moustache ends stiffened in sharp points, and an insolent and self-satisfied bearing.
Forestier said to him: “Good night, dear master.”
The other shook hands with him, saying: “Good night, my dear fellow,” and went downstairs whistling, with his cane under his arm.
Duroy asked: “Who is that?”
“Jacques Rival, you know, the celebrated descriptive writer, the duellist. He has just been correcting his proofs. Garin, Montel, and he are the three best descriptive writers, for facts and points, we have in Paris. He gets thirty thousand francs a year here for two articles a week.”