ut and his legs slightly apart, as if he had just left the
saddle, pushing his way through the crowded street, and shouldering folk
to avoid having to step aside. He wore his somewhat shabby hat on one
side, and brought his heels smartly down on the pavement. He seemed ever
ready to defy somebody or something, the passers-by, the houses, the
whole city, retaining all the swagger of a dashing cavalry-man in civil
life.

Although wearing a sixty-franc suit, he was not devoid of a certain
somewhat loud elegance. Tall, well-built, fair, with a curly moustache
twisted up at the ends, bright blue eyes with small pupils, and
reddish-brown hair curling naturally and parted in the middle, he bore a
strong resemblance to the dare-devil of popular romances.

It was one of those summer evenings on which air seems to be lacking in
Paris. The city, hot as an oven, seemed to swelter in the stifling
night. The sewers breathed out their poisonous breath through their
granite mouths, and the underground kitchens gave forth to the street
through their windows the stench of dishwater and stale sauces.

The doorkeepers in their shirtsleeves sat astride straw-bottomed chairs
within the carriage entrances to the houses, smoking their pipes, and
the pedestrians walked with flagging steps, head bare, and hat in hand.

When George Duroy reached the boulevards he paused again, undecided as
to what he should do. He now thought of going on to the Champs Elysees
and the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne to seek a little fresh air under the
trees, but another wish also assailed him, a desire for a love affair.

What shape would it take? He did not know, but he had been awaiting it
for three months, night and day. Occasionally, thanks to his good looks
and gallant bearing, he gleaned a few crumbs of love here and there, but
he was always hoping for something further and better.

With empty pockets and hot blood, he kindled at the contact of the
prowlers who murmur at street corners: "Will you come home with me,
dear?" but he dared not follow them, not being able to pay them, and,
besides, he was awaiting something else, less venally vulgar kisses.

He liked, however, the localities in which women of the town
swarm--their balls, their cafes, and their streets. He liked to rub
shoulders with them, speak to them, chaff them, inhale their strong
perfumes, feel himself near them. They were women at any rate, women
made for love. He did not despise them wi