med to him slow in coming. He was, above
all, uneasy at the mediocrity of his position, and did not see by what
path he could scale the heights on the summit of which one finds
respect, power, and money. He felt shut up in the mediocre calling of a
reporter, so walled in as to be unable to get out of it. He was
appreciated, but estimated in accordance with his position. Even
Forestier, to whom he rendered a thousand services, no longer invited
him to dinner, and treated him in every way as an inferior, though still
accosting him as a friend.

From time to time, it is true, Duroy, seizing an opportunity, got in a
short article, and having acquired through his paragraphs a mastery over
his pen, and a tact which was lacking to him when he wrote his second
article on Algeria, no longer ran any risk of having his descriptive
efforts refused. But from this to writing leaders according to his
fancy, or dealing with political questions with authority, there was as
great a difference as driving in the Bois de Boulogne as a coachman, and
as the owner of an equipage. That which humiliated him above everything
was to see the door of society closed to him, to have no equal relations
with it, not to be able to penetrate into the intimacy of its women,
although several well-known actresses had occasionally received him with
an interested familiarity.

He knew, moreover, from experience that all the sex, ladies or
actresses, felt a singular attraction towards him, an instantaneous
sympathy, and he experienced the impatience of a hobbled horse at not
knowing those whom his future may depend on.

He had often thought of calling on Madame Forestier, but the
recollection of their last meeting checked and humiliated him; and
besides, he was awaiting an invitation to do so from her husband. Then
the recollection of Madame de Marelle occurred to him, and recalling
that she had asked him to come and see her, he called one afternoon when
he had nothing to do.

"I am always at home till three o'clock," she had said.

He rang at the bell of her residence, a fourth floor in the Rue de
Verneuil, at half-past two.

At the sound of the bell a servant opened the door, an untidy girl, who
tied her cap strings as she replied: "Yes, Madame is at home, but I
don't know whether she is up."

And she pushed open the drawing-room door, which was ajar. Duroy went
in. The room was fairly large, scantily furnished and neglected looking.
The chairs, worn