He replied slowly, recovering his self-possession: "A few months only, Madame. I have a berth in one of the railway companies, but Forestier holds out the hope that I may, thanks to him, enter journalism."
She smiled more plainly and kindly, and murmured, lowering her voice: "Yes, I know."
The bell had rung again. The servant announced "Madame de Marelle."
This was a little brunette, who entered briskly, and seemed to be outlined—modeled, as it were—from head to foot in a dark dress made quite plainly. A red rose placed in her black hair caught the eye at once, and seemed to stamp her physiognomy, accentuate her character, and strike the sharp and lively note needed.
A little girl in short frocks followed her.
Madame Forestier darted forward, exclaiming: "Good evening, Clotilde."
"Good evening, Madeleine." They kissed one another, and then the child offered her forehead, with the assurance of a grown-up person, saying: "Good evening, cousin."
Madame Forestier kissed her, and then introduced them, saying: "Monsieur George Duroy, an old friend of Charles; Madame de Marelle, my friend, and in some degree my relation." She added: "You know we have no ceremonious affectation here. You quite understand, eh?"
The young man bowed.
The door opened again, and a short, stout gentleman appeared, having on his arm a tall, handsome woman, much younger than himself, and of distinguished appearance and grave bearing. They were Monsieur Walter, a Jew from the South of France, deputy, financier, capitalist, and manager of the Vie Francaise, and his wife, the daughter of Monsieur Basile-Ravalau, the banker.