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