door was printed the legend, "La Vie Francaise."

Forestier pushed open the door and said: "Come in." Duroy entered;
they ascended the stairs, passed through an antechamber in which two
clerks greeted their comrade, and then entered a kind of waiting-
room.

"Sit down," said Forestier, "I shall be back in five minutes," and
he disappeared.

Duroy remained where he was; from time to time men passed him by,
entering by one door and going out by another before he had time to
glance at them.

Now they were young men, very young, with a busy air, holding sheets
of paper in their hands; now compositors, their shirts spotted with
ink--carefully carrying what were evidently fresh proofs.
Occasionally a gentleman entered, fashionably dressed, some reporter
bringing news.

Forestier reappeared arm-in-arm with a tall, thin man of thirty or
forty, dressed in a black coat, with a white cravat, a dark
complexion, and an insolent, self-satisfied air. Forestier said to
him: "Adieu, my dear sir," and the other pressed his hand with: "Au
revoir, my friend." Then he descended the stairs whistling, his cane
under his arm.

Duroy asked his name.

"That is Jacques Rival, the celebrated writer and duelist. He came