Duroy could not answer right off. "To—to—a Monsieur de Carleville."
"Ah! and where does he live?"
"At—at—"
Forestier began to laugh. "Number ought, Nowhere Street, eh? I know that gentleman, my dear fellow. If you want twenty francs, I have still that much at your service, but no more."
Duroy took the offered louis. Then he went from door to door among the people he knew, and wound up by having collected at about five o'clock the sum of eighty francs. And he still needed two hundred more; he made up his mind, and keeping for himself what he had thus gleaned, murmured: "Bah! I am not going to put myself out for that cat. I will pay her when I can."
For a fortnight he lived regularly, economically, and chastely, his mind filled with energetic resolves. Then he was seized with a strong longing for love. It seemed to him that several years had passed since he last clasped a woman in his arms, and like the sailor who goes wild on seeing land, every passing petticoat made him quiver. So he went one evening to the Folies Bergère in the hope of finding Rachel. He caught sight of her indeed, directly he entered, for she scarcely went elsewhere, and went up to her smiling with outstretched hand. But she merely looked him down from head to foot, saying: "What do you want with me?"
He tried to laugh it off with, "Come, don't be stuck-up."
She turned on her heels, saying: "I don't associate with ponces."
She had picked out the bitterest insult. He felt the blood rush to his face, and went home alone.
Forestier, ill, weak, always coughing, led him a hard life at the paper, and seemed to rack his brain to find him tiresome jobs. One day, even, in a moment of nervous irritation, and after a long fit of coughing, as Duroy had not brought him a piece of information he wanted, he growled out: "Confound it! you are a bigger fool than I thought."