IV

He walked slowly, so as not to get there too early, the cashier’s office not opening before ten o’clock.

His office was a large, gloomy room, in which gas had to be kept burning almost all day long in winter. It looked into a narrow courtyard, with other offices on the further side of it. There were eight clerks there, besides a sub-chief hidden behind a screen in one corner.

Duroy first went to get the hundred and eighteen francs twenty-five centimes enclosed in a yellow envelope, and placed in the drawer of the clerk entrusted with such payments, and then, with a conquering air, entered the large room in which he had already spent so many days.

As soon as he came in the sub-chief, Monsieur Potel, called out to him: “Ah! it is you, Monsieur Duroy? The chief has already asked for you several times. You know that he will not allow anyone to plead illness two days running without a doctor’s certificate.”

Duroy, who was standing in the middle of the room preparing his sensational effect, replied in a loud voice:

“I don’t care a damn whether he does or not.”

There was a movement of stupefaction among the clerks, and Monsieur Potel’s features showed affrightedly over the screen which shut him up as in a box. He barricaded himself behind it for fear of draughts, for he was rheumatic, but had pierced a couple of holes through the paper to keep an eye on his staff. A pin might have been heard to fall. At length the sub-chief said, hesitatingly: “You said?”

“I said that I don’t care a damn about it. I have only called today to tender my resignation. I am engaged on the staff of the Vie Francaise at five hundred francs a month, and extra pay for all I write. Indeed, I made my début this morning.”