Chapter 1

POVERTY

After changing his five-franc piece Georges Duroy left the
restaurant. He twisted his mustache in military style and cast a
rapid, sweeping glance upon the diners, among whom were three
saleswomen, an untidy music-teacher of uncertain age, and two women
with their husbands.

When he reached the sidewalk, he paused to consider what route he
should take. It was the twenty-eighth of June and he had only three
francs in his pocket to last him the remainder of the month. That
meant two dinners and no lunches, or two lunches and no dinners,
according to choice. As he pondered upon this unpleasant state of
affairs, he sauntered down Rue Notre Dame de Lorette, preserving his
military air and carriage, and rudely jostled the people upon the
streets in order to clear a path for himself. He appeared to be
hostile to the passers-by, and even to the houses, the entire city.

Tall, well-built, fair, with blue eyes, a curled mustache, hair
naturally wavy and parted in the middle, he recalled the hero of the
popular romances.

It was one of those sultry, Parisian evenings when not a breath of
air is stirring; the sewers exhaled poisonous gases and the
restaurants the disagreeable odors of cooking and of kindred smells.
Porters in their shirt-sleeves, astride their chairs, smoked their
pipes at the carriage gates, and pedestrians strolled leisurely
along, hats in hand.

When Georges Duroy reached the boulevard he halted again, undecided
as to which road to choose. Finally he turned toward the Madeleine
and followed the tide of people.

The large, well-patronized cafes tempted Duroy, but were he to drink
only two glasses of beer in an evening, farewell to the meager
supper the following night! Yet he said to himself: "I will take a
glass at the Americain. By Jove, I am thirsty."

He glanced at men seated at the tables, men who could afford to
slake their thirst, and he scowled at them. "Rascals!" he muttered.
If he could have caught one of them at a corner in the dark he would
have choked him without a scruple! He recalled the two years spent
in Africa, and the manner in which he had extorted money from the
Arabs. A smile hovered about his lips at the recollection of an
escapade which had cost three men their lives, a foray which had
given his two comrades and himself seventy fowls, two sheep, money,
and something to laugh about for six months. The culprits were never
found; indeed, they were not sought for, the Arab being looked upon
as the soldier's prey.

But in Paris it was different; there one could not commit such deeds
with impunity. He regretted that he had not remained where he was;
but he had hoped to improve his condition--and for