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.