retain them, but they escaped him as fast as he laid hold of them, or else they rushed on him altogether pell-mell, and he did not know how to clothe and present them, nor which one to begin with.
After an hour of attempts and five sheets of paper blackened by opening phrases that had no continuation, he said to himself: “I am not yet well enough up in the business. I must have another lesson.” And all at once the prospect of another morning’s work with Madame Forestier, the hope of another long and intimate tête-à-tête so cordial and so pleasant, made him quiver with desire. He went to bed in a hurry, almost afraid now of setting to work again and succeeding all at once.
He did not get up the next day till somewhat late, putting off and tasting in advance the pleasure of this visit.
It was past ten when he rang his friend’s bell.
The manservant replied: “Master is engaged at his work.”
Duroy had not thought that the husband might be at home. He insisted, however, saying: “Tell him that I have called on a matter requiring immediate attention.”
After waiting five minutes he was shown into the study in which he had passed such a pleasant morning. In the chair he had occupied Forestier was now seated writing, in a dressing-gown and slippers and with a little Scotch bonnet on his head, while his wife in the same white gown leant against the mantelpiece and dictated, cigarette in mouth.
Duroy, halting on the threshold, murmured: “I really beg your pardon; I am afraid I am disturbing you.”
His friend, turning his face towards him—an angry face, too—growled: “What is it you want now? Be quick; we are pressed for time.”
The intruder, taken back, stammered: “It is nothing; I beg your pardon.”