We never dreamed of such good fortune! The son of a provincial bailiff,
Jean Marin had come, as do so many others, to study law in the Quartier
Latin. In the various beer-houses that he had frequented he had made
friends with several talkative students who spouted politics as they
drank their beer. He had a great admiration for them and followed them
persistently from cafe to cafe, even paying for their drinks when he had
the money.
He became a lawyer and pleaded causes, which he lost. However, one
morning he read in the papers that one of his former comrades of the
Quartier had just been appointed deputy.
He again became his faithful hound, the friend who does the drudgery,
the unpleasant tasks, for whom one sends when one has need of him and
with whom one does not stand on ceremony. But it chanced through some
parliamentary incident that the deputy became a minister. Six months
later Jean Marin was appointed a state councillor.
He was so elated with pride at first that he lost his head. He would
walk through the streets just to show himself off, as though one could
tell by his appearance what position he occupied. He managed to say to
the shopkeepers as soon as he entered a store, bringing it in somehow
in the course of the most insignificant remarks and even to the news
vendors and the cabmen:
“I, who am a state councillor--”
Then, in consequence of his position as well as for professional reasons
and as in duty bound through being an influential and generous man, he
felt an imperious need of patronizing others. He offered his support to
every one on all occasions and with unbounded generosity.
When he met any one he recognized on the boulevards he would advance to
meet them with a charmed air, would take their hand, inquire after their
health, and, without waiting for any questions, remark:
“You know I am state councillor, and I am entirely at your service. If I
can be of any use to you, do not hesitate to call on me. In my position
one has great influence.”
Then he would go into some cafe with the friend he had just met and
ask for a pen and ink and a sheet of paper. “Just one, waiter; it is to
write a letter of recommendation.”
And he wrote ten, twenty, fifty letters of recommendation a day. He
wrote them to the Cafe Americain, to Bignon's, to Tortoni's, to the
Maison Doree, to the Cafe Riche, to the Helder, to the Cafe Anglais,
to the Napolitain, everywhere, everywhere. He wrote them to all the
officials of the republican government, from the magistrates to the
ministers. And he was happy, perfectly happy.
One morning as he was starting out to go to the council it began to
rain. He hesitated about taking a cab, but decided not to do so and set
out on foot.
The rain came down in torrents, swamping the sidewalks and inundating
the streets. M. Marin was obliged to take shelter in a doorway. An old
priest was standing there--an old priest with white hair. Before he
became a councillor M. Marin did not like the clergy. Now he treated
them with consideration, ever since a cardinal had consulted him on an
important matter. The rain continued to pour down in floods and obliged
the two men to take shelter in the porter's lodge so as to avoid getting
wet. M. Marin, who was always itching to talk so as to let people know
who he was, remarked:
“This is horrible weather, Monsieur l'Abbe.”
The old priest bowed:
“Yes indeed, sir, it is very unpleasant when one comes to Paris for only
a few days.”
“Ah! You come from the provinces?”
“Yes, monsieur. I am only passing through on my journey.”
“It certainly is very disagreeable to have rain during the few days one
spends in the capital. We officials who stay here the year round, we
think nothing of it.”
The priest did not reply. He was looking at the street where the rain
seemed to be falling less heavily. And with a sudden resolve he raised
his cassock just as women raise their skirts in stepping across water.