re seated at a table in the _cafe_, Forestier called
for two bocks, and drank off his own at a single draught, while Duroy
sipped his beer in slow mouthfuls, tasting it and relishing it like
something rare and precious.

His companion was silent, and seemed to be reflecting. Suddenly he
exclaimed: "Why don't you try journalism?"

The other looked at him in surprise, and then said: "But, you know, I
have never written anything."

"Bah! everyone must begin. I could give you a job to hunt up information
for me--to make calls and inquiries. You would have to start with two
hundred and fifty francs a month and your cab hire. Shall I speak to the
manager about it?"

"Certainly!"

"Very well, then, come and dine with me to-morrow. I shall only have
five or six people--the governor, Monsieur Walter and his wife, Jacques
Rival, and Norbert de Varenne, whom you have just seen, and a lady, a
friend of my wife. Is it settled?"

Duroy hesitated, blushing and perplexed. At length he murmured: "You
see, I have no clothes."

Forestier was astounded. "You have no dress clothes? Hang it all, they
are indispensable, though. In Paris one would be better off without a
bed than without a dress suit."

Then, suddenly feeling in his waistcoat pocket, he drew out some gold,
took two louis, placed them in front of his old comrade, and said in a
cordial and familiar tone: "You will pay me back when you can. Hire or
arrange to pay by installments for the clothes you want, whichever you
like, but come and dine with me to-morrow, half-past seven, number
seventeen Rue Fontaine."

Duroy, confused, picked up the money, stammering: "You are too good; I
am very much obliged to you; you may be sure I shall not forget."

The other interrupted him. "All right. Another bock, eh? Waiter, two
bocks."

Then, when they had drunk them, the journalist said: "Will you stroll
about a bit for an hour?"

"Certainly."

And they set out again in the direction of the Madeleine.

"What shall we, do?" said Forestier. "They say that in Paris a lounger
can always find something to amuse him, but it is not true. I, when I
want to lounge about of an evening, never know where to go. A drive
round the Bois de Boulogne is only amusing with a woman, and one has not
always one to hand; the _cafe_ concerts may please my chemist and his
wife, but not me. Then what is there to do? Nothing. There ought to be a
summer garden like the Parc Monceau, open at night, where