I

Duroy hesitated, blushing and perplexed. At length he murmured: “You see, I have no clothes.”

Forestier was astounded. “You have no dress clothes? Hang it all, they are indispensable, though. In Paris one would be better off without a bed than without a dress suit.”

Then, suddenly feeling in his waistcoat pocket, he drew out some gold, took two louis, placed them in front of his old comrade, and said in a cordial and familiar tone: “You will pay me back when you can. Hire or arrange to pay by installments for the clothes you want, whichever you like, but come and dine with me tomorrow, half-past seven, number seventeen Rue Fontaine.”

Duroy, confused, picked up the money, stammering: “You are too good; I am very much obliged to you; you may be sure I shall not forget.”

The other interrupted him. “All right. Another bock, eh? Waiter, two bocks.”

Then, when they had drunk them, the journalist said: “Will you stroll about a bit for an hour?”

“Certainly.”

And they set out again in the direction of the Madeleine.

“What shall we, do?” said Forestier. “They say that in Paris a lounger can always find something to amuse him, but it is not true. I, when I want to lounge about of an evening, never know where to go. A drive round the Bois de Boulogne is only amusing with a woman, and one has not always one to hand; the café concerts may please my chemist and his wife, but not me. Then what is there to do? Nothing. There ought to be a summer garden like the Parc Monceau, open at night, where one would hear very good music while sipping cool drinks under the trees. It should not be a