Chapter 1 - Page 2

that reason he
was in Paris!

He passed the Vaudeville and stopped at the Cafe Americain, debating
as to whether he should take that "glass." Before deciding, he
glanced at a clock; it was a quarter past nine. He knew that when
the beer was placed in front of him, he would drink it; and then
what would he do at eleven o'clock? So he walked on, intending to go
as far as the Madeleine and return.

When he reached the Place de l'Opera, a tall, young man passed him,
whose face he fancied was familiar. He followed him, repeating:
"Where the deuce have I seen that fellow?"

For a time he racked his brain in vain; then suddenly he saw the
same man, but not so corpulent and more youthful, attired in the
uniform of a Hussar. He exclaimed: "Wait, Forestier!" 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.