stier!" and hastening up to him,
laid his hand upon the man's shoulder. The latter turned, looked at
him, and said: "What do you want, sir?"

Duroy began to laugh: "Don't you remember me?"

"No."

"Not remember Georges Duroy of the Sixth Hussars."

Forestier extended both hands.

"Ah, my dear fellow, how are you?"

"Very well. And how are you?"

"Oh, I am not very well. I cough six months out of the twelve as a
result of bronchitis contracted at Bougival, about the time of my
return to Paris four years ago."

"But you look well."

Forestier, taking his former comrade's arm, told him of his malady, of
the consultations, the opinions and the advice of the doctors and of
the difficulty of following their advice in his position. They ordered
him to spend the winter in the south, but how could he? He was married
and was a journalist in a responsible editorial position.

"I manage the political department on 'La Vie Francaise'; I report the
doings of the Senate for 'Le Salut,' and from time to time I write for
'La Planete.' That is what I am doing."

Duroy, in surprise, glanced at him. He was very much changed. Formerly
Forestier had been thin, giddy, noisy, and always in good spirits. But
three years of life in Paris had made another man of him; now he was
stout and serious, and his hair was gray on his temples although he
could not number more than twenty-seven years.

Forestier asked: "Where are you going?"

Duroy replied: "Nowhere in particular."

"Very well, will you accompany me to the 'Vie Francaise' where I have
some proofs to correct; and afterward take a drink with me?"

"Yes, gladly."

They walked along arm-in-arm with that familiarity which exists between
schoolmates and brother-officers.

"What are you doing in Paris?" asked Forestier, Duroy shrugged his
shoulders.

"Dying of hunger, simply. When my time was up, I came hither to make my
fortune, or rather to live in Paris--and for six months I have been
employed in a railroad office at fifteen hundred francs a year."

Forestier murmured: "That is not very much."

"But what can I do?" answered Duroy. "I am alone, I know no one, I have
no recommendations. The spirit is not lacking, but the means are."

His companion looked at him from head to foot like a practical man who
is examining a subject; then he said, in a tone of conviction: "You
see, my dear fellow, all depends on assurance, here. A shrewd,
observing man can sometimes become a