He got into bed, blew out his light, and went off to sleep almost immediately.
He awoke early, as one awakes on mornings of hope and trouble, and jumping out of bed, opened his window to drink a cup of fresh air, as he phrased it.
The houses of the Rue de Rome opposite, on the other side of the broad railway cutting, glittering in the rays of the rising sun, seemed to be painted with white light. Afar off on the right a glimpse was caught of the slopes of Argenteuil, the hills of Sannois, and the windmills of Orgemont through a light bluish mist; like a floating and transparent veil cast onto the horizon.
Duroy remained for some minutes gazing at the distant country side, and he murmured: “It would be devilish nice out there a day like this.” Then he bethought himself that he must set to work, and that at once, and also send his concierge’s lad, at a cost of ten sous, to the office to say that he was ill.
He sat down at his table, dipped his pen in the ink, leaned his forehead on his hand, and sought for ideas. All in vain, nothing came.
He was not discouraged, however. He thought, “Bah! I am not accustomed to it. It is a trade to be learned like all other trades. I must have some help the first time. I will go and find Forestier, who will give me a start for my article in ten minutes.”
And he dressed himself.
When he got into the street he came to the conclusion that it was still too early to present himself at the residence of his friend, who must be a late sleeper. He therefore walked slowly along beneath the trees of the outer boulevards. It was not yet nine o’clock when he reached the Parc