But Forestier, growing angry, exclaimed: “Come, hang it all, don’t waste time about it; you have not forced your way in just for the sake of wishing us good morning, I suppose?”
Then Duroy, greatly perturbed, made up his mind. “No—you see—the fact is—I can’t quite manage my article—and you were—so—so kind last time—that I hoped—that I ventured to come—”
Forestier cut him short. “You have a pretty cheek. So you think I am going to do your work, and that all you have to do is to call on the cashier at the end of the month to draw your screw? No, that is too good.”
The young woman went on smoking without saying a word, smiling with a vague smile, which seemed like an amiable mask, concealing the irony of her thoughts.
Duroy, colored up, stammered: “Excuse me—I fancied—I thought—” then suddenly, and in a clear voice, he went on: “I beg your pardon a thousand times, Madame, while again thanking you most sincerely for the charming article you produced for me yesterday.” He bowed, remarked to Charles: “I shall be at the office at three,” and went out.
He walked home rapidly, grumbling: “Well, I will do it all alone, and they shall see—”
Scarcely had he got in than, excited by anger, he began to write. He continued the adventure began by Madame Forestier, heaping up details of catchpenny romance, surprising incidents, and inflated descriptions, with the style of a schoolboy and the phraseology of the barrack-room. Within an hour he had finished an article which was a chaos of nonsense, and took it with every assurance to the Vie Francaise .
The first person he met was Saint-Potin, who, grasping his hand with the energy of an accomplice, said: “You have read my interview with the