entered, fashionably dressed, some reporter bringing news.

Forestier reappeared arm-in-arm with a tall, thin man of thirty or
forty, dressed in a black coat, with a white cravat, a dark complexion,
and an insolent, self-satisfied air. Forestier said to him: "Adieu, my
dear sir," and the other pressed his hand with: "Au revoir, my friend."
Then he descended the stairs whistling, his cane under his arm.

Duroy asked his name.

"That is Jacques Rival, the celebrated writer and duelist. He came to
correct his proofs. Garin, Montel and he are the best witty and
realistic writers we have in Paris. He earns thirty thousand francs a
year for two articles a week."

As they went downstairs, they met a stout, little man with long hair,
who was ascending the stairs whistling. Forestier bowed low.

"Norbert de Varenne," said he, "the poet, the author of 'Les Soleils
Morts,'--a very expensive man. Every poem he gives us costs three
hundred francs and the longest has not two hundred lines. But let us go
into the Napolitain, I am getting thirsty."

When they were seated at a table, Forestier ordered two glasses of
beer. He emptied his at a single draught, while Duroy sipped his beer
slowly as if it were something rare and precious. Suddenly his
companion asked, "Why don't you try journalism?"

Duroy looked at him in surprise and said: "Because I have never written
anything."

"Bah, we all have to make a beginning. I could employ you myself by
sending you to obtain information. At first you would only get two
hundred and fifty francs a month but your cab fare would be paid. Shall
I speak to the manager?"

"If you will."

"Well, then come and dine with me to-morrow; I will only ask five or
six to meet you; the manager, M. Walter, his wife, with Jacques Rival,
and Norbert de Varenne whom you have just seen, and also a friend of
Mme. Forestier, Will you come?"

Duroy hesitated, blushing and perplexed. Finally he, murmured: "I have
no suitable clothes."

Forestier was amazed. "You have no dress suit? Egad, that is
indispensable. In Paris, it is better to have no bed than no clothes."
Then, fumbling in his vest-pocket, he drew from it two louis, placed
them before his companion, and said kindly: "You can repay me when it
is convenient. Buy yourself what you need and pay an installment on it.
And come and dine with us at half past seven, at 17 Rue Fontaine."

In confusion Duroy picked up the money and stammered: "You are very