His late subordinate cut him short with: "It's not worth while yelling like that."
Monsieur Perthuis, a stout man, as red as a turkey cock, was choked with bewilderment.
Duroy continued: "I have had enough of this crib. I made my début this morning in journalism, where I am assured of a very good position. I have the honor to bid you good-day." And he went out. He was avenged.
As he promised, he went and shook hands with his old colleagues, who scarcely dared to speak to him, for fear of compromising themselves, for they had overheard his conversation with the chief, the door having remained open.
He found himself in the street again, with his salary in his pocket. He stood himself a substantial breakfast at a good but cheap restaurant he was acquainted with, and having again purchased the Vie Francaise, and left it on the table, went into several shops, where he bought some trifles, solely for the sake of ordering them to be sent home, and giving his name: "George Duroy," with the addition, "I am the editor of the Vie Francaise."
Then he gave the name of the street and the number, taking care to add: "Leave it with the doorkeeper."
As he had still some time to spare he went into the shop of a lithographer, who executed visiting cards at a moment's notice before the eyes of passers-by, and had a hundred, bearing his new occupation under his name, printed off while he waited.
Then he went to the office of the paper.
Forestier received him loftily, as one receives a subordinate. "Ah! here you are. Good. I have several things for you to attend to. Just wait ten minutes. I will just finish what I am about."
And he went on with a letter he was writing.