woman and the old actress, rising quickly, came up to him. He took them aside one after the other into the bay of the window, and although they took care to talk in low tones, Duroy noticed that they were on familiar terms.
Then, having passed through two padded doors, they entered the manager’s room. The conference which had been going on for an hour or so was nothing more than a game at écarté with some of the gentlemen with the flat brimmed hats whom Duroy had noticed the night before.
Monsieur Walter dealt and played with concentrated attention and crafty movements, while his adversary threw down, picked up, and handled the light bits of colored pasteboard with the swiftness, skill, and grace of a practiced player. Norbert de Varenne, seated in the managerial armchair, was writing an article. Jacques Rival, stretched at full length on a couch, was smoking a cigar with his eyes closed.
The room smelled close, with that blended odor of leather-covered furniture, stale tobacco, and printing-ink peculiar to editors’ rooms and familiar to all journalists. Upon the black wood table, inlaid with brass, lay an incredible pile of papers, letters, cards, newspapers, magazines, bills, and printed matter of every description.
Forestier shook hands with the punters standing behind the card players, and without saying a word watched the progress of the game; then, as soon as Daddy Walter had won, he said: “Here is my friend, Duroy.”
The manager glanced sharply at the young fellow over the glasses of his spectacles, and said:
“Have you brought my article? It would go very well today with the Morel debate.”