I

As they were leaving they met a short, stout man, with long hair and untidy appearance, who was puffing as he came up the stairs.

Forestier bowed low to him. “Norbert de Varenne,” said he, “the poet; the author of Les Soleils Morts ; another who gets long prices. Every tale he writes for us costs three hundred francs, and the longest do not run to two hundred lines. But let us turn into the Neapolitan café, I am beginning to choke with thirst.”

As soon as they were seated at a table in the café, Forestier called for two bocks, and drank off his own at a single draught, while Duroy sipped his beer in slow mouthfuls, tasting it and relishing it like something rare and precious.

His companion was silent, and seemed to be reflecting. Suddenly he exclaimed: “Why don’t you try journalism?”

The other looked at him in surprise, and then said: “But, you know, I have never written anything.”

“Bah! everyone must begin. I could give you a job to hunt up information for me⁠—to make calls and inquiries. You would have to start with two hundred and fifty francs a month and your cab hire. Shall I speak to the manager about it?”

“Certainly!”

“Very well, then, come and dine with me tomorrow. I shall only have five or six people⁠—the governor, Monsieur Walter and his wife, Jacques Rival, and Norbert de Varenne, whom you have just seen, and a lady, a friend of my wife. Is it settled?”