VII

The soirée at Sabine Marsy's had caused Vaudrey to feel something like

the enervation that follows intoxication. The next morning he awoke with

his head heavy, after a night of feverish sleep, interrupted by sudden

starts, wherein he saw that pretty, fair girl standing before him

devouring sherbet and smiling gayly.

Every morning since he had been at the ministry, Sulpice had experienced

a joyous sensation at finding himself again on his feet and rejoicing in

life. He paced about his apartments, feeling a sort of physical delight,

opening his window and looking out on the commonplace garden through

which so many ministers had passed and which he called, as so many

before him had done: _My garden_. His thoughts took him back then to

that little convent garden at Grenoble. What a distance he had travelled

since then! and how good it was to live!

That morning, on the contrary, the black and bare trees in the garden

appeared to him to be very gloomy. He felt morose. He had been awakened

early so that the despatches from the provinces might be laid before

him. The information in them was quite insignificant. But then his

spirit was not present. Once again he was at Sabine's, beside Marianne,

so lovely in her sky-blue gown, and with her wavy locks.

If he had been free, he would have gladly sought the opportunity to see

that woman again as soon as the morning commenced. He felt a kind of

infantile joy in being thus perturbed and haunted. It seemed to him that

this emotion made him feel younger. Formerly, on awakening, the dream of

the night had followed him like some intoxication.

Formerly! but "formerly" he was not the important man, the distinguished

personage of to-day.--He had not the charge of power as some others have

the charge of souls. A minister has something else to do than to be

under the sway of a vision. Sulpice dressed hurriedly, went down to his

office, where a huge log-fire flamed behind an antique screen. He sat

down in front of his large mahogany bureau, covered with papers, and on

which was lying a huge black portfolio stuffed with documents bearing

this title in stamped letters: _Monsieur le Ministre de l'Intérieur_. In

the centre of the bureau had been placed a leather portfolio filled with

sheets of paper bearing the title: _Documents to be signed by Monsieur

le Ministre_. Beside this were spread out various reports, bearing upon

one corner of the sheet a printed headline: _Office of the Prefect of

Police_ and _Director-General of the Press_.

Vaudrey settled down in his chair with the profound satisfaction of a

man who has not grown weary of an acquired possession. This huge salon

with its blackened pictures, cold marbles, and large, severe-looking

bookcases, presented a sober bourgeois harmony that pleased him. It was

like the salon of a well-to-do notary, with its tall windows overlooking

the courtyard, already full of the shadows of importunate callers and

favor seekers whom the secretary-general received in a room adjoining

the ministerial cabinet. The minister inhaled once more the atmosphere

of his new domicile before settling down to work. Every morning it was

his custom to read the reports of the Director of the Press and of the

Prefect of Police before all else.

He took up the report of the Prefect. Nothing serious. A slight accident

on the Vincennes line near the fortifications of Paris. A train

derailed. A few injured. In the Passage de l'Opéra, the previous

evening, the early speech of the Minister of the Interior upon general

policy, and that of the Finance Minister, who was to reply to the rumor,

falsely or prematurely announcing the conversion of the five per cents,

had caused an upward movement in value. All was satisfactory, all was

quiet. The new minister enjoyed public confidence. Perfect.

Sulpice was delighted and passed on to the report of the Director of the

Press. Except a small number of disgruntled and irreconcilable party

journals, all the French and foreign papers warmly praised and supported

the newly-created ministry. The _Times_ declared that the coalition

perfectly met the requirements of the existing situation. The Berlin

papers did not take umbrage at it, although Monsieur Vaudrey had more

than once declared his militant patriotism from the tribune. "In short,"

the daily report concluded, "there is a concert of praise, and public

opinion is delighted to have finally secured a legitimate satisfaction

through the choice of a homogeneous ministry, such as has long been

desired."

"What strange literature," muttered Sulpice, almost audibly, as he threw

the report with the other documents.

He recalled how, on that morning when Sulpice Vaudrey sat there for the

first time, the morning following Pichereau's sudden dismissal from

office, the editor of this daily press bulletin, like an automaton,

mechanically and indifferently laid on the table of the minister a

report wherein he said in full:

"Public opinion, by the mouth of the accepted journals, has for too long

a time reposed confidence in the Pichereau administration, for the

ministry to be troubled about the approaching and useless interpellation

announced some days ago by Monsieur Vaudrey--of Isère--."

And it was to Vaudrey, the elected successor of Pichereau, that the

report was handed naturally and as was due.

"The compilers of these little chronicles are very optimistic," thought

Sulpice. "After all, probably, it is the office that is responsible for

this, as, doubtless, ministers do not like to know the truth. I will

see, however, that I get it."

He had, this time, a burdensome morning. Prefects were arriving by the

main entrance to the ministry, the vast antechambers on the left; and

friends, more intimate suitors, waited on the right, elbowing the

ushers, in order to have their cards handed to the secretary-general or

to the minister. There were some who, in an airy sort of way, said:

"Monsieur Vaudrey," in order to appear to be on familiar terms.

Sulpice felt himself attacked on both sides at once; blockaded in his

office; and he despatched the petitioners with all haste, extending his

hand to them, smiling, cheerfully making them promises, happy to promise

them, but grieved in principle to see humbug depicted on the human face.

From time to time, in the midst of his ministerial preoccupations and

conversations, the disturbing smile of Marianne suddenly appeared like a

flash of lightning in a storm; and though shaking his head, to give the

appearance of listening and understanding, the minister was in reality

far away, near a brilliant buffet and watching a silver spoon glide

between two rosy lips.

In that procession, which was to be a daily one, of petitioners, of

deputies urging appointments in favor of their constituents, asking the

removal of mayors, the decoration of election agents, harassing the

minister with recommendations and petitions which, although couched in

a humble tone, always veiled a threat, Vaudrey did not often have to do

with his friends. It was a wearisome succession of lukewarm friends or

recognized enemies, who rallied around a successful man. This man,

although a minister for so short a time, had already a vague,

disquieting impression that the administration was the property of a

great number of clients, always the same, frequenters of these

corridors, guests in these antechambers, well known to the ushers, and

who, whoever the minister might be, had the same access and the same

influence with the ministry.

There were some whom the clerks saluted in a familiar way, as if they

were old acquaintances: intrepid office-seekers, unmoved by any changes

in ministerial combinations. Such entered Vaudrey's cabinet in a

deliberate, familiar manner, and as if feeling at home. Sulpice had once

heard one of them greet an usher by his first name: "Good-morning,

Gustave."

The minister asked Gustave: "Who is that gentleman?" The usher replied,

with a tinge of respect in his tone: "It is one of our visitors,

Monsieur le Ministre, Monsieur Eugène Renaudin. We call him only

Monsieur _Eugène_. We have known him a long time."

This "Monsieur Eugène" had already petitioned for a prefecture, or a

sub-prefecture, or--it mattered little--whatever place the minister

might choose to give him.

His claims? None: he was an office-seeker.

The minister was already overwhelmed by this vulgar procession of

petitioners and intermediaries, when an usher brought him a card bearing

this name: _Lucien Granet_.

In the Chamber it was thought that Granet did not like Vaudrey too well,

and Sulpice vaguely scented in him a candidate for his office. The more

reason, then, that he should make himself agreeable.

"What does he want?" the minister thought.

This Granet was, moreover, a typical politician; by the side of the

minister of to-day, he was the inevitable minister of to-morrow, the

positive reformer, the man appointed to cleanse the Augean stables,

whose coming, it was said, would immediately mark the end of all abuses,

great and small.

"Ah! when Granet is minister!"

The artist without a commission consoled himself with the prospect of

the Granet ministry. He would decorate the monuments when Granet became

minister. The actress who looked with longing eyes toward the Comédie

Française, and dreamed of playing in Molière, had her hopes centered in

Granet. Granet promised to every actress an engagement at the Rue de

Richelieu. _I am waiting for the Granet ministry!_ was the consolatory

reflection, interrupted by sighs, of the licentiates in law. Meanwhile

those office-seekers danced attendance on Granet, and their smile was

worth to the future Excellency all the sweets of office.

Granet had thus everywhere a host of clients, women and men, sighing for

his success, working to bring about his ministry, intriguing in advance

for his advent, and working together for his glory.

"Ah! if Granet were in power!"

"Such abuses would not exist under a Granet ministry!"

"All will be changed when Granet becomes minister!"

"That dear Granet! that good Granet! Long live Granet!"

Vaudrey was not ignorant of the fact that for some time past, Lucien

Granet had been manoeuvring for his appointment to any office whatever,

the most important obtainable. He was within an ace of becoming a member

of the last Ministerial Coalition. He might have been Vaudrey's

colleague instead of his rival. Sulpice was as glad to have him as an

opponent in the Chamber as a colleague in the ministerial council. He

was, however, not an adversary to be trifled with. Granet was a power in

himself.

"Well!" said the minister to Granet, who entered smiling, and with a

very polite greeting, "you come then to inspect your future office?

Already!--"

"I?" said Granet, who did his best to be agreeable, "God prevent me from

thinking of this department. It is too well filled."

"That is very gallant, my dear Granet."

"Far from disputing your portfolio, I come, on the contrary, to give

you some advice as to strengthening your already excellent position."

"Advice from you, my dear colleague, should be excellent. Let us hear

it."

"My dear minister, it is about the appointment of an Under Secretary of

State for the Interior. Well! I have come to urge the claims of my

friend, our colleague Warcolier."

While speaking, Granet, who was seated near the bureau of the minister,

with his hat on his knee, was watching Vaudrey through his eyeglass; he

saw that his lips twitched slightly as he hesitated before replying.

"But I am bound to Jacquier--of l'Oise," Vaudrey said abruptly.

Granet smiled. Certainly Jacquier would be a most excellent choice. He

was a cool, solid and remarkable man. But he had little influence with

the Chamber, frequented society rarely, was morose and exclusive, while

Warcolier was a most amiable man, an excellent speaker and one who was

well-known in the Chamber. He was a fine orator. He was highly esteemed

by the Granet group.

"My personal friend, too, my dear minister. You would, I assure you,

displease me if you did not support Warcolier this morning at the

Ministerial Council, at which the nomination of under secretaries should

take place. It is this morning, isn't it?"

"Certainly, in an hour's time."

Granet left the minister, repeating with considerable emphasis, which

Vaudrey could not fail to remark, that the nomination of Warcolier would

be favorably viewed by the majority of the deputies. A hundred times

more so than that of Jacquier--of l'Oise.

"Jacquier is a bear. They don't like bears," said Granet, tapping his

thumb lightly with his eyeglass.

He left Vaudrey out of humor, and very much disgusted at finding that

Warcolier had already exploited the field.

In truth, Vaudrey liked Warcolier as little as he did Granet. Warcolier

took life easily. He was naturally of a contented disposition. He liked

people who were easily pleased. An Imperialist under the Empire, he was

now a Republican under the Republic. Epicurean in his tastes, he was

agreeable, clever and fond of enjoyment, and he approved of everything

that went the way he desired. He sniffed the breeze light-heartedly and

allowed it to swell his sail and his self-love. He did not like

ill-tempered people, people who frowned or were discontented or gloomy.

Having a good digestion, he could not understand the possibility of

disordered stomachs. A free-liver, he could not realize that hungry

people should ever think of better food. Everything was good; everything

was right; everything was beautiful. Of an admirably tranquil

disposition, he felt neither anger nor envy. Thinking himself superior

to every one else, Warcolier never made comparisons, he did not even

prefer himself: he worshipped himself. The world belonged to him, he

trod the ground with a firm step, swinging his arms, his paunch smooth,

his head erect and his shoulders thrown forward. He seemed to inhale, at

every step, the odor of triumph. He was not the man to compromise with a

defeated adversary.

Of Warcolier's literary efforts, people were familiar with his _History

of Work and Workers_ that he had formerly dedicated to His Majesty

Napoléon III. in these flattering terms: "To you, sire, who have

substituted for the nobility of birth, that of work, and for the pride

of ancestry, that of shedding blood for one's country."

Later, in 1875, Warcolier had re-issued his _History of Work_ and his

dedication was anxiously awaited. It did not take him long to get over

the difficulty. He dedicated his work to another sovereign: "To the

People, who have substituted the nobility of work for that of birth, and

that of blood shed for the country for that of blood shed by ancestors."

And that very name which was formerly read at the foot of professions of

faith:--_Appeal to Honest People. The Revolution overwhelms us!_ is now

found at the foot of proclamations wherein this devil of a Warcolier

exclaims:--_Appeal to Good Citizens. Reaction now threatens us!_

This was the man whom Granet and his friends had worked so hard to

thrust into the position of Undersecretary of State of the Interior.

Vaudrey reserved his opinion on this subject to be communicated to the

President by and by.

The hour for the meeting of the Council drew near. Sulpice saw, through

the white curtains of the window, his horses harnessed to his coupé and

prancing in the courtyard, although it was but a short distance from

Place Beauvau to the Élysée. He slipped the reports of the Prefect of

Police and the Director of the Press into his portfolio and was about to

leave, when the usher brought him another card.

"It is useless, I cannot see any one else."

"But the gentleman said that if the minister saw his name, he would most

assuredly see him."

Vaudrey took the card that was extended to him on the tray:

"Jéliotte! He is right. Show him in."

He removed his hat and went straight toward the door, that was then

opened to admit a pale-faced, lean man with long black whiskers that

formed a sort of horsetail fringe to his face. Jéliotte was a former

comrade in the law courts, an advocate in the Court of Appeal, and he

entered, bowing ceremoniously to Sulpice, who with a pleased face and

outstretched hands, went to welcome the old companion of his youth.

Jéliotte bowed with a certain affectation of respect, and smiled

nervously.

"How happy I am to see you," Vaudrey said.

"You still address me in the old familiar way," Jéliotte answered,

showing his slightly broken and yellow teeth.

"What an idea! Have I forfeited your good opinion, that I should abandon

our familiar form of address?"

"Honors, then, have not changed you; well! so much the better," said

Jéliotte. "You ask me how I am? Oh! always the same!--I work hard--I am

out of your sight--but I applaud all your successes."

While Jéliotte was speaking of Vaudrey's successes, he sat on the edge

of a chair, staring at his hat, and wagging his jaw as if he were

cracking a nut between his frail teeth.

"I have been delighted at your getting into the cabinet. Delighted for

your sake--"

"You ought also to be delighted on your own account, my good Jéliotte.

Whatever I may hereafter be able to do--"

Jéliotte cut the minister short and said in a tone as dry as tinder:

"Oh! my dear Sulpice, believe one thing,--that I ask you nothing."

"Why?"

"Because--no, nothing. And I repeat, nothing."

"And you would be wrong if I could be friendly to you or useful."

"I have said _nothing_, and I stick to _nothing_. You will meet quite

enough office-seekers in your career--"

"Evidently!"

"Petitioners also!"

"Most assuredly!"

"Well! I am neither a petitioner nor an office-seeker nor a sycophant. I

am your friend."

"And you are right, for I have great affection for you."

"I am your friend and your devoted friend. I should consider it a

rascally thing to ask you for anything. A rascally thing, I say! You are

in office, you are a minister, so much the better, yes, so much the

better! But, at least, don't let your friends pester you, like vermin

crawling before you, because you are all-powerful. I will never crawl

before you, I warn you. I shall remain just what I am. You will take me

just as I am or not at all. That will depend altogether upon the change

of humor that the acquisition of honors may produce in you--"

"Jéliotte! we shall see, Jéliotte!"

"Well! You can take me or leave me. And as I do not wish to be

confounded with the cringing valets who crowd your antechambers--"

"You crowd nothing, you will not dance attendance. Have I asked you to

dance attendance?"

"No, not yet--I called simply to see if I should be received. Yes, it is

merely in the nature of an experiment--it is made. It is to your honor,

I admit, but I will not repeat it--I shall disappear. It is more simple.

Yes, I have told you and I was determined to tell you that you will

never see me, so long as you are a minister."

"Ah! Jéliotte! Jéliotte!"

"Never--not until you have fallen--For one always falls--"

"Fortunately," said Sulpice, with a laugh.

"Fortunately or unfortunately, that depends. I say: when you have

fallen--then, oh! then, don't fear, I will not be the one to turn my

back on you--"

"You are very kind."

"Whatever you may have said or done, you understand, while you are in

power--and power intoxicates men!--I will always offer you my hand. Yes,

this hand shall always be extended to you. You will find plenty of

people who will turn their backs on you at that moment. Not I! I am a

friend in dark days--"

"That is understood."

"I will leave you to your glory, Vaudrey. I crave pardon for not styling

you: Monsieur le Ministre; I could not. It is not familiar to me. I

cannot help it. I am not the friend for the hour of success, but for

that of misfortune."

"And you will return?"

"When you are overthrown!--"

"Thank you!"

"That is like me! I love my friends."

"When they are down!" said Sulpice.

"That is so!" exclaimed Jéliotte.

"And is that all you had to say to me?" the minister asked.

"Is not that enough?"

"Yes! yes! _Au revoir_, Jéliotte."

"_Au revoir!_ Till--you know when."

"Yes. When I feel my position threatened, I will call upon you. Don't be

afraid. That time will come."

"The idiot!" said Sulpice, angrily shrugging his shoulders, when the

advocate was gone.

He snatched his hat and went out hurriedly to his carriage, the

messengers rising to bow to him as he passed through the antechamber.

It was hardly necessary for him to order his coachman to drive to the

Élysée. The duties of each day were so well ordered in advance, and

besides, the attendants at the department knew quite as well as the

minister if a Council was to be held at the Élysée.

Sulpice was somewhat upset. Jéliotte's visit, following that of Granet,

presented the human species in an evil aspect. He had never felt envious

of any one, and it seemed to him that the whole world should be

gratified at his modest bearing under success.

"For, after all, I triumph, that is certain!--That animal of a Jéliotte

is not such a simpleton!--There are many who, if they were in my place,

would swagger!"

So he complacently awarded himself a patent of modesty.

The carriage stopped at the foot of the steps of the Élysée. Sulpice

always felt an exquisite joy in alighting from his carriage, his

portfolio pressed to his side, and leaping over the carpet-covered steps

of the stone staircase leading to the Council Chambers. He passed

through them, as he did everywhere, between rows of spectators who

respectfully bowed to him. Devoted friends extended their hands

respectfully toward his overcoat. Certainly, he only knew the men by

their heads, bald or crowned with locks, as the case might be. His

colleagues were gathered together, awaiting him, and chatting in the

salon, decorated in white and gold, the invariable salon of official

apartments with the inevitable Sèvres vases with deep-blue, light-green

or buff color grounds, placed upon consoles or pedestals. The portfolios

appeared stuffed or empty, limp or bursting with paper bundles, under

the arms of their Excellencies. Suddenly a door was opened, the ushers

fell back and the President approached, looking very serious and taking

his accustomed place opposite to the President of the Council with the

formality of an orderly, the Minister of the Interior on the left of the

President of the Republic, with the Minister of Foreign Affairs on the

right.

Then, in turn, each minister, beginning at the right, reported the

business of his department, sometimes debated in private council. Each

having completed his information, bowed to his neighbor on the right,

and said:

"I have finished. It is your turn, my dear colleague."

The President listened. Sulpice sometimes allowed himself to muse while

seated at this green-covered table, forgetting altogether the affairs

under consideration. Sometimes he recalled those green-covered tables of

the Council Chambers of the Grenoble Prefecture, finding that this

Ministerial Council recalled the mean impression invoked by his

provincial recollections, at other times, a vein of poesy would flit

across his mind, or an eloquent word would reach his ear, suggesting to

him the thought that, after all, these men seated there before their

open portfolios, turning over or scattering about the papers,

nevertheless represented cherished France and held in their leather

pouches the secrets, the destinies, aye, even the very fate of the

fatherland.

And this Sulpice, overjoyed to expand at his ease in the delights of

power, sitting there in his accustomed chair,--a chair which now seemed

to be really his own--enjoying a sort of physical satisfaction ever new,

inhaling power like the fumes of a nargileh, forgot himself, however,

and suddenly felt himself recalled to the urgent reality when his

colleague, the Minister of War, a spare man with a grizzled moustache,

dropped an infrequent remark in which, in the laconic speech of a

soldier, could be comprehended some cause of anxiety or of hope. Sulpice

listened then, more moved than he was willing to have it appear,

trying, in his turn, to hide all his artistic and patriotic anxieties

under that firm exterior which his colleague of the Department of

Foreign Affairs wore, a dull-eyed, listless face, and cheeks that might

be made of pasteboard.

The business of the Council was of little importance that morning. The

Keeper of the Seals, Monsieur Collard--of Nantes--a fat, puffing,

apoplectic man with somewhat glassy, round eyes, proposed to the

President, who listened attentively but without replying, some reform to

which Vaudrey was perfectly indifferent. He did not even hear his

colleague's dull speech, the latter lost himself in useless

considerations, while the Minister of War looked at him, as if his eyes,

loaded with grapeshot said, in military fashion: "_Sacrebleu!_ get

done!"

Vaudrey looked out of the window at the dark horizon of the winter sky

and the gray tints of the leafless trees, and watched the little birds

that chased one another among the branches. His thoughts were far, very

far away from the table where the sober silence was broken by the

interminable phrases of the Minister of Justice, whose words suggested

the constant flow of an open spigot.

The vision of a female form at the end of the garden appeared to him, a

form that, notwithstanding the cold, was clothed in the soft blue gown

that Marianne wore yesterday at Sabine's. He seemed to catch that

fleeting smile, the exact expression of which he sought to recall, that

peculiar glance, cunning and enticing, that exquisite outline of a

perfect Parisian woman. How charming she was! And how sweet that name,

Marianne!

Let us see indeed, what in reality could such a woman be! Terrible,

perhaps, but certainly irresistible!

Not for years had Vaudrey felt such an anxiety or allowed himself to be,

as it were, carried away by such a dominating influence. Waking, he

found Marianne the basis of all his thoughts, as she was during his

slumber.

And so charming!

"Monsieur le Ministre de l'Intérieur is the next to address the

Council."

Vaudrey had not noticed that Monsieur Collard--of Nantes--had finished

his harangue, and that after the Minister of Justice, the Minister of

Foreign Affairs had just concluded his remarks. Vaudrey, therefore,

needed a moment's reflection, a hasty self-examination to recognize his

own personality: _Monsieur le Ministre de l'Intérieur!_ This title only

called up his _ego_ after a momentary reflection, a sort of simulated

astonishment under the cloak of a pensive attitude. Vaudrey's colleagues

did not perceive that this man seated beside them was, as it were, lost

in meditation.

Sulpice, moreover, had little to say. Nothing serious. The confirmation

of the favorable reports that had been made to him. Within a week he

would finish his plan of prefectorial changes. He simply required the

Council to deal at once with the nomination of the Undersecretaries of

State.

It was then that Vaudrey realized the extraordinary influence that

Lucien Granet must possess. From the very opening of the discussion, the

minister felt that his candidate, Jacquier--of l'Oise--was defeated in

advance by Warcolier. Granet must have laid siege to the ministers one

by one. The President was entirely in Warcolier's favor. Warcolier's

amiability, tact, the extraordinary facility with which he threw

overboard previous opinions, were so many claims in his favor. It was

necessary to give pledges to new converts, to prove that the government

was not closed against penitents.

"That is a very Christian theory," said Vaudrey, "and truly, I am

neither in favor of jacobinism nor suspicion, but there is something

ironical in granting this amnesty to turncoats."

"But it is decidedly politic," said Monsieur Collard--of Nantes.

"It is a premium offered to the new converts."

"Eh! eh! that is not so badly done!"

Vaudrey knew perfectly well that it was useless to insist, he must put

up with Warcolier. It was his task to manage matters so that this man

should not have unlimited power in the ministry.

Warcolier was elected and the President signed his appointment at the

earliest possible moment.

"A nomination discounted in advance," thought Vaudrey, who again

recalled Granet's polite but threatening smile.

He felt somewhat nervous and annoyed at this result. But what could be

done? To divert his thoughts, he listened to his colleagues'

communications. The Minister of War commenced to speak, and in a tone of

irritated surprise, instead of the lofty, patriotic considerations that

Vaudrey expected of him, Vaudrey heard him muttering behind his

moustache about soldiers' cap-straps, shakos, gaiter-buttons,

shoulder-straps, cloth and overcoats. That was all. It was the vulgar

report of a shoemaker or a tailor, or of a contractor detailing the

items of his account.

Sulpice was anxious for the Council to be over. The President, before

the close of the session, repeated, with all the seriousness of a judge

of the Court of Appeal: "Above all, messieurs, no innovations, don't try

to do too well, let things alone. Don't let us trouble about business!

Let us be content to live! The session is ended."

"Not about business?" said Vaudrey to himself.

He understood power in quite a different way. Longing for improvements,

he did not understand how to let himself be dragged on like a cork upon

a stream, by the wave of daily events. He was determined to put his

ideas into force, to give life and durability to his ministry. There was

no use in being a minister if he must continue the habitual

go-as-you-please of current politics. In that case, the first chief of

bureau one might meet would make as good a minister as he.

At the moment of leaving the Council Chamber, the Minister of War said

to him, in a jocose, brusque way: "Well! my dear colleague, Warcolier's

election does not seem to have pleased you? Bah! if he has changed

shoulders with his gun, that only proves that he knows how to drill."

And the soldier laughed heartily behind his closely buttoned frock coat.

Vaudrey got into his carriage and returned to the ministry to breakfast.

Formerly the breakfast hour was generally the time of joyous freedom for

Sulpice. He felt soothed beside Adrienne and forgot his daily struggles.

In their home on Chaussée d'Antin, he usually abandoned himself freely

to lively and cheerful conversation, to allow his wife to find in him,

the man of forty years, the fiancé, the young husband of former days.

But here, before these exclusive domestics, the familiars of the

ministry, planted around the table like so many inspectors, rather than

servants, he dared not manifest himself. He scarcely spoke. He felt that

he was watched and listened to. The valet who passed him the dishes

watched over Monsieur le Ministre. He imagined that _his attendants_ in

their silent reflections compared the present minister with those that

had gone before him. On one occasion, one of the domestics replied to a

remark made by Adrienne: "Monsieur Pichereau, who preceded Monsieur le

Ministre, and Monsieur le Comte d'Harville, who preceded Monsieur

Pichereau, considered my service very proper, madame."

Adrienne accepted as well as she could the necessities of her new

position. Since that was power, let power rule! She was resigned to

those wastes whose luxury was apparent, since the political fortunes of

her husband cast her there, like a prisoner, in that huge, commonplace,

ministerial mansion, wherein none of the joys of home or of that

Parisian apartment that she had furnished with such refined taste were

left her. She felt half lost in those vast, cold salons of that ancient

Hôtel Beauvau,--cold in spite of their stoves, and which partook at one

and the same time of the provisional domicile and the furnished

apartment,--with its defaced gilded panels, and here and there a crack

in the ceiling, and those vulgar ornaments, those wearisome imitation

Chardins with their cracked colors and those old-fashioned pictures of

Roqueplan, giving to everything at once _one date_, a bygone style. With

what a truly melancholy smile Adrienne greeted the friends who came to

see her on her reception day, when they remarked to her: "Why, you are

in a palace!"

"Yes, but I much prefer my accustomed furniture and my own house."

Sulpice, free at last from that Council and the morning receptions, as

he alighted from his carriage, caused _Madame_ to be informed that he

had returned.

Adrienne, who was looking pretty in a tight-fitting, black velvet gown,

approached him with a smile and was suddenly overcome with sadness on

seeing him absorbed in thought. She dared not question him, but being

somewhat anxious, she, nevertheless, inquired the cause of his frowning

expression.

"You have your bad look, my good Sulpice," she smilingly said.

He then quickly explained the Warcolier business.

"Is that all? Bah!" she said, "you will have many other such

annoyances."

She was smiling graciously.

"That is politics!--And then you like it--At least, confine your likes

to that, Sulpice," she said, drawing near to Vaudrey.

She was about to present her forehead for his kiss, as formerly, but she

drew back abruptly. A valet entered with a dignified air and

ceremoniously announced that breakfast was served.

Vaudrey ate without appetite. Adrienne watched him tenderly, her eyes

were kind and gentle. How nervous he was and quickly disturbed! Truly,

Warcolier's appointment was not worth his giving himself the least

anxiety about.

She was going to speak to him about it. Vaudrey imposed silence by a

sign. The motionless domestics were listening.

Like Sulpice, Adrienne suffered the annoyance of a constant

surveillance. She was hungry when she sat down to table, but her

appetite had vanished. The viands were served cold, brought on plates

decorated with various designs and marked with the initials of Louis

Philippe, L.P., intertwined, or with the monogram of the Empire, N.; the

gilt was worn off, the fillets of gold half obliterated: a service of

Sèvres that had been used everywhere, in imperial dwellings, national

palaces, and was at last sent to the various ministries as the remnant

of the tables of banished sovereigns.

Instead of eating, Adrienne musingly looked at the decorations. It

seemed to her that she was in a gloomy restaurant where the badly served

dishes banished her appetite. Sulpice, sad himself, scarcely spoke and

in mute preoccupation, in turn confused the shrewd, sly Granet, the

intriguing Warcolier, and Marianne Kayser, whose image never left him.

He was discontented with himself and excited by the persistency with

which the image of this woman haunted him.

In vain did Adrienne smile and seek to divert him from the thoughts that

besieged him--she was herself in a melancholy mood, without knowing why,

and her endeavors were but wasted; if he abandoned the train of his

reflections, it was merely to express a thought in rapid tones, and he

seemed momentarily to shake off his torpor; he replied to his wife's

forced smile by a mechanical grimace, and immediately relapsed into his

nervously silent state.

In the hours of anxious struggle, she had often seen him thus, hence she

was not alarmed. If she had been in her own home, instead of occupying

this strange mansion, she would have rushed to him, and seated on his

knees, taken his burning head between her little hands and said: "Come

now! what ails you? what is the matter? Tell me everything so that,

child as I may be, I may comfort my big boy."

But there, still in the presence of those people, always in full view,

she dared not. She carefully and anxiously watched Sulpice's mortified

countenance. Since his entry on his ministerial functions, this was the

first occasion, probably, that he had been so preoccupied.

"There is something the matter with you, is there not, my dear?"

"No--nothing--Besides--"

The minister's glance was a sufficient conclusion to his remark.

Moreover, how could he, even if he had some trouble to confide, make it

known before the ever watchful lackeys? Before these impassive

attendants, who, though apparently obsequious, might in reality be

hostile, and who looked at them with cold glances? What a distance

separated them from the old-time intimacies, the cherished interchange

of thought interrupted by piquant kisses and laughter, just like a

young husband and wife!

In truth, Adrienne had not thought of it: Sulpice could not talk.

"You will serve the coffee at once," she said.

She made haste in order that she might take refuge in her own apartment

to be alone with her husband. He, however, as if he shunned this

tête-à-tête, eager as he was for solitude, quickly attributed his

unpleasant humor to neuralgia or headache. Too much work or too close

application of mind.

"At the Ministerial Council perhaps?" remarked Adrienne inquiringly.

"Yes, at the Council,--I must take a little fresh air--I will take a

round in the Bois--The day is dry--That will do me good!"

"Will you take me?" she said gayly.

"If you wish," he replied. Then, in an almost embarrassed tone, he

added:

"Perhaps it will be better for me to go alone--I have to think--to

work--There is no sitting at the Chamber to-day; and the day is entirely

at my own disposal."

"Just as you please," Adrienne replied, looking at Sulpice with a tender

and submissive glance. "It would, however, have been so delightful and

beneficial to have gone to the Bois together on such a bright day! But

you and your affairs before everything, you are right; take an airing,

be off, come, breathe--I shall be glad to see you return smiling

cheerfully as in the sweet days."

Sulpice looked at his young wife with a fondness that almost inspired

him with remorse. In her look there was so complete an expression of her

love. Then her affection was so deep, and her calm like the face of a

motionless lake was so manifest, and she loved him so deeply, so

intelligently. And how trustful, too!

He was impelled now to beg her don her cloak and to have a fur robe put

into the coupé and set out now, when the sun was gradually showing

itself, like two lovers bound for a country party. At the same time he

felt a desperate longing to be alone, to abandon himself to his new idea

and to the image that beset him. He felt that he was leaving Adrienne

for Marianne.

He did not hold to the suggestion, in fact, he repeated that it would be

better if he were alone. As there would be no session of the Chamber for

a whole week, he would go out with Adrienne the next day. The coachman

could drive them a long distance, even to Saint-Cloud or Ville-d'Avray.

They would breakfast together all alone, unknown, in the woods.

"Truly?" said Adrienne.

"Truly! I feel the necessity of avoiding so many demonstrations in my

honor."

Sulpice laughed.

"I am stifled by them," he said, as he kissed Adrienne, whose face was

pink with delight at the thought of that unrestrained escapade.

"How you blush!" said Sulpice, ingenuously. "What is the matter with

you?"

"With me? Nothing."

She looked at him anxiously.

"You think my complexion too ruddy! I have not the Parisian tint. Only

remain a minister for some time, and that will vanish. There is no

dispraise in that."

She again offered her brow to him.

He left her, happy to feel himself free.

At last! For an entire day he was released from the ordinary routine of

his life; from the wrangling of the assembly, the hubbub of the

corridors, the gossip of the lobbies, interruptions, interrupted

conversations, from all that excitement that he delighted in, but which

at times left him crushed and feverish at the close of the day. He

became once more master of his thoughts, of his meditation. He belonged

to himself. It was almost impossible to recover his self-mastery in the

stormy arena into which he was thrust, happy to be there, and where his

distended nostrils inhaled, as it were, the fumes of sulphur.

At times, amid the whirlwind of politics, he suffered from a yearning

for rest, a sick longing for home quiet, a desire to be free, to go

between the acts, as it were, to vegetate in some corner of the earth

and to resume in very truth an altogether different life from the

exasperating, irritating life that he led in Paris, always, so to speak,

under the lash; or, still better, to change the form of his activity, to

travel, to feed his eyes on new images, the fresh verdure, or the varied

scenes of unknown cities.

But the years had rolled by amid the excitement and nervous strain of

political life. He lived with Adrienne in an artificial and overheated

atmosphere. Happy because he was loved, that his ambitions were

realized, that he charmed an assembly of men by the same power that had

obtained him the adoration of this woman, yes, he was happy, very happy:

to bless life, to excite envy, to arouse jealousy, to appear simply

ridiculous if he complained of destiny; and nevertheless, at the bottom

of his soul, discontented without knowing why, consumed by intangible,

feverish instincts, ill-defined desires for Parisian curiosities, having

dreamed in his youth of results very inferior to those he had realized,

yet finding when he analyzed the realities that he enjoyed, that the

promises of his dreams were more intoxicating than the best

realizations.

Vaudrey was an ambitious man, but he was ambitious to perform valiant

feats. Life had formerly seemed to him to be made up of glory, triumphal

entries into cities, accompanied by the fluttering of flags and the

flourish of trumpets. He pictured conquests, victories, exaltations!

Theatrical magnificence! But now, more ironical, he was contented with

quasi-triumphs, if his restless, anxious nature could be satisfied with

what he obtained.

Adrienne loved him. He loved her profoundly.

Why had the meeting with Marianne troubled him so profoundly, then?

Manifestly, Mademoiselle Kayser realized the picture of his vanished

dreams, and the desires of a particular love that the passion for

Adrienne, although absolute, could not satisfy. This man had a nature of

peculiar ardor--or rather, curious desires, a greedy desire to know, an

itching need to approach and peep into abysses.

Sometimes it seemed to Vaudrey that he had not lived at all, and this

was the fear and desire of his life: to live that Parisian life which

flattered all his instincts and awoke and reanimated all his dreams. But

yesterday it had appeared to him when he met this young woman who raised

her eyes to him, half-veiled by her long eyelashes, that a stage-curtain

had been raised, disclosing dazzling fairy scenery, and since then that

scenery had been always before him. It banished, during his drive, all

peace, and while the coupé threaded its way along the Faubourg

Saint-Honoré toward the Arc-de-Triomphe, the minister who, but two hours

before, had been plunged in state affairs, settled himself down in a

corner of the carriage, his legs swaddled in a robe and his feet resting

on a foot-warmer, looking at, but without observing the cold figures

that walked rapidly past him, the houses lighted up by the sun's rays,

and the dry pavements, and he thought of those strange eyes and those

black butterflies, which seemed to him to flutter over that fair hair

like swallows over a field of ripe wheat.

It pleased him to think of that woman. It was an entirely changed

preoccupation, a relaxation. A curious, strangely agreeable sensation:

his imagination thus playing truant, and wandering toward that vision,

renewed his youth. He experienced therein the perplexities that troubled

him at twenty. Love in the heart means fewer white hairs on the brow.

And then, indeed, he would never, perhaps, see Mademoiselle Kayser

again! He would, however, do everything to see her again at the coming

soirée at the ministry, an invitation--Suddenly his thoughts abruptly

turned to Ramel, whom he also wished to invite and meet again. He loved

him so dearly. It was he who formerly, in the journalistic days, and at

the time of the battles fought in the _Nation Française_, had called

Denis "a conscience in a dress-coat."

Therefore, since he had an afternoon to spare, he would call on Ramel.

He was determined to show him that he would never preserve the dignity

of a minister with him.

"Rue Boursault, Batignolles," he said to the coachman, lowering one of

the windows; "after that, only to the Bois!"

The coachman drove the coupé toward the right, reaching the outer

boulevards by way of Monceau Park.

Vaudrey was delighted. He was going to talk open-heartedly to an old

friend. Ah, Ramel! he was bent on remaining in the background, on being

nothing and loving his friends only when they were in defeat, as

Jéliotte had said. Well, Vaudrey would take him as his adviser. This

devil of a Ramel, this savage fellow should govern the state in spite of

himself.

The minister did not know Ramel's present lodging which he had occupied

only a short time. He expected to find dignified poverty and a cold

apartment. As soon as Denis opened the door to him, he found himself in

a workman's dwelling that had been transformed by artistic taste into

the small museum of a virtuoso. After having passed through a narrow

corridor, and climbed a small, winding staircase, Vaudrey rang at the

third floor of a little house in Rue Boursault and entered a well-kept

apartment full of sunlight.

Hanging on the walls were engravings and crayons in old-fashioned

frames. A very plain mahogany bookcase contained some select volumes,

which, though few, were frequently perused and were swollen with markers

covered with notes. The apartment was small and humble: a narrow bedroom

with an iron bedstead, a dressing room, a tiny dining-room furnished

with cane-seated chairs, and the well-lighted study with his portraits

and his frames of the old days. But with this simplicity, as neat as a

newly-shaved old man, all was orderly, and arranged and cared for with

scrupulous attention.

This modest establishment, the few books, the deep peace, the oblivion

found in this Batignolles lodging, in this home of clerks, poor, petty

tradesmen and workmen, sufficed for Ramel. He rarely went out and then

only to take a walk from which he soon returned exhausted. He had

formerly worked so assiduously and had given, in and out of season, all

his energy, his nerves and his body, improvising and scattering to the

winds his appeals, his protests, his heart, his life, through the

columns of the press. What an accumulation of pages, now destroyed or

buried beneath the dust of neglected collections! How much ink spilled!

And how much life-blood had been mingled with that ink!

Ramel willingly passed long hours every day at his study window, looking

out on the green trees or at the high walls of a School of Design

opposite, or at the end of a tricolored flag that waved from the frontal

of a Primary Normal School that he took delight in watching; then at the

right, in the distance, throbbing like an incessant fever, he saw the

bustling life of the Saint-Lazare Station, where with every shrill

whistle of the engines, he saw white columns of smoke mount skyward and

vanish like breaths.

"Smoke against smoke," thought Ramel, with his pipe between his teeth.

"And it would be just as well for one to struggle--a lost unity--against

folly, as for a single person to desire to create as much smoke as all

these locomotives together!"

Ramel appeared to be delighted to see Vaudrey, whose name the

housekeeper murdered by announcing him as _Monsieur Vaugrey_. He placed

a chair for him, and asked him smilingly, what he wanted "with an

antediluvian journalist."

"A mastodon of the press," he said.

What had Vaudrey come for?

His visit had no other object than to enjoy again a former faithful

affection, the advice he used to obtain, and also to try to drag the

headstrong Ramel into the ministry. Would not the directorship of the

press tempt him?

"With it, the directing of the press!" said Denis. "It is much better to

have an opposition press than one that you have under your thumb.

Friendly sheets advise only foolishly."

"Why, Vaudrey, do you know," suddenly exclaimed the veteran journalist,

"that you are the first among my friends who have come into power--I say

the first--who has ever thought of me?"

"You cannot do me a greater pleasure than tell me so, my dear Ramel. I

know nothing more contemptible than ingrates. In my opinion, to remember

what one owes to people, is to be scrupulously exact; it is simply

knowing orthography."

"Well! mercy! there are a devilish lot of people who don't know if the

word gratitude is spelled with an _e_ or an _a_. No, people are not so

well skilled as that in orthography. There are not a few good little

creatures to be sent back to school. All the more reason to be thankful

for having learned by heart--by heart, that is the way to put it, my

dear Vaudrey--your participles."

Sulpice was well acquainted with Ramel's singular wit, a little sly, but

tinged with humor, like pure water into which a drop of gin has been

poured, more perfumed than bitter. He knew no man more indulgent and

keen-sighted than him.

"For what should I bear a grudge against people?" said the veteran. "For

their stupidity? I pity them, I haven't time to dislike them; one can't

do everything."

Besides, the minister felt altogether happy to be with this man no

longer in vogue, but who might be likened to coins that have ceased to

be current and have acquired a higher value as commemorative medals. He

could unbosom himself to him: treachery was impossible. He longed to

have such a stay beside him, and still urged him, but Ramel was

inflexible.

"But as I have already said--if I have need of you?"

"Of me? I am too old."

"Of your advice?"

"Well! it is not necessary for me to give you my address, since you find

yourself here now, or to tell you that you can depend on me, seeing you

know me."

Vaudrey felt that it was useless to pursue the matter further. He was

not talking with a misanthrope or a scorner, but with a learned man. He

would find at hand whenever he needed it, the old, ever faithful

devotedness of this white-haired man, who, with skull-cap on his head,

was smoking his pipe near the window when the minister entered.

"Then, you are happy, Ramel?" said Sulpice, a little astonished,

perhaps.

"Perfectly so."

"You have no ambition for anything whatever?"

"Nothing, I await philosophically the hour for the monument."

He smiled when he saw that his own familiar remark was puzzling Vaudrey.

"The monument, there, on one side: Villa Montmartre!--Oh! I am not

anxious to have done with life. It is amusing enough at times. But,

after all, it is necessary to admit that the comedy ends when it is

finished. One fine day, I shall be found sleeping somewhere, here in my

armchair, or in my bed, suddenly, or perhaps after a long illness--this

would weary me, as a lingering illness is repugnant to me--and you will

read in one or two journals a short paragraph announcing that the

obsequies of Monsieur Denis Ramel, one-time editor of a host of

democratic newspapers, a celebrated man in his day, but little known

recently, will take place on such a day at such an hour. Few will

attend, but I ask you to be present--that is, if there is no important

sitting at the Chamber."

Old Ramel twirled his moustache with his long, lean fingers as he spoke

these last words into which he infused a dash of irony. He nullified it,

however, as he extended his frankly opened hand and said to Sulpice

Vaudrey:

"What I have said to you is very cheerful! A thousand pardons. The more

so that I do not think of doubting you for a single moment--You have

always been credulous. That is your defect, and it is a capital one. In

the world of business men and politicians, who are for the most part

egotists, of mediocrities, or to speak plainly--I know no more

picturesque term--of _dodgers_,--you move about with all the illusions

and tastes of an artist. You are like the brave fellows of our army,

poets of war, as it were, who hurled themselves to their destruction

against regiments of engineers. Certainly, my dear minister, I shall

always be delighted to give you my counsel, you whom I used to call my

dear child, and if the observations of a living waif can serve you in

anything, count on me. Dispose of me, and if by chance I can be useful

to you, I shall feel myself amply repaid."

"Ah!" cried Sulpice, "if you only knew how much good it does me to hear

the sincere thoughts of a man one can rely on! How different is their

ring from that of others!"

He then allowed himself to pass by an easy transition to the confessions

of his first deceptions or annoyances.

The selection that very morning, of Warcolier as Under Secretary of

State in a Republican administration, a man who had played charades at

Compiègne, had thrown him into a state of angry excitement.

Ramel, however, burst into laughter.

"Ah, nonsense! You will see many other such! Why, governments always do

favors to their enemies when their opponents pretend to lower their

colors! What good is it to serve friends? They love you."

"This does not vex you, then, old Republican?"

"I, an old soldier grown white in harness," said Ramel, whose moustache

still played under his smile, "that doesn't disturb my peace in the

least. I comfort myself with the thought that my dream, my _ideal_, to

use a trite expression, is not touched by such absurdities, and I am

persuaded that progress does not lag and that the cause of liberty gains

ground, in spite of so much injustice and folly. I confess, however,

that I sometimes feel the strange emotion that a man might experience on

seeing, after the lapse of years, the lovely woman whom he loved to

distraction at twenty, in the arms of a person whom he did not

particularly respect."

Ramel had lighted his pipe, and half-hidden by the bluish wreaths of

smoke, chatted away, quite happy on his side to give himself up to the

revelation of the secret of his heart without the least bitterness, and

like an elder brother, advised this man, who was still young and whom

he had compared formerly to one of those too fine pieces of porcelain

that the least shock would crack.

"Ah!" he said abruptly, "above all, my dear Vaudrey, do not fear to

appear in the tribune more uncouth and assertive than you really are. In

times when the word _sympathetic_ becomes an insult, it is wiser to have

the manners of a boor. Tact is a good thing."

"I shall never succeed in that," said Sulpice, smiling as usual.

"So much the worse! What has been wanting in my case is not to have been

able to secure the title of _our antipathetic confrère_. The modest and

refined people are dupes. By virtue of swelling their necks, turkeys

succeed in resembling peacocks. Believe me, my dear friend, it is

dangerous to have too refined a taste, even in office, even in the rank

in which you are placed. One hesitates to proclaim the excessively

stupid things that stir the crowd, and the blockhead who is bold enough

to declare his folly creates a hellish noise with his nonsense, while a

man of refinement, who is not always a squeamish man, remains in his

corner unseen. Remember that more moths are caught at night with a

greasy candle than with a diamond of the first water."

"You speak in paradox--" Sulpice began.

"And you think I am making paradoxes? Not in the least, I will give

you--not at cost, for it has cost me dearly, but in block,--my stock of

experience. Do with it what you please, and, above all, beware of _alle

donne!_"

"Women?" asked the minister, with involuntary disquiet.

"Women, exactly. Encircling every minister there is a squadron of

seductive women, who though perhaps more fully clothed than the flying

squadron of the Medicis, is certainly not less dangerous. Women who

complain that they are denied political rights, have in reality all,

since they are able to rule administrations and knock ministers off, as

the Du Barry did her oranges! When I speak of women, you will observe

well that I do not speak of your admirable wife," said Ramel, with a

respect that was most touching, coming from this honest veteran.

"While we are gossiping," he resumed, "I am going to tell you frankly

what strikes me most clearly in the present conjuncture. You will gather

from it what you choose. In these days, my dear Vaudrey, what is most

remarkable is the facility men have for destroying their credit and

wearing themselves out. Politics, especially, entails a formidable

consumption. It seems that the modern being is not cut out to wear long.

This, perhaps, is due to the fact that public business, whichever party

wins, is always committed to men who are ill-prepared for their good

fortune. I do not say this of you, who, intellectually speaking, are an

exception. But men are no longer bathed in the Styx, or perhaps they

show the heel too quickly. For some years, moreover, the strange

phenomenon has presented itself of the provincial towns being the prey

of Parisian manufacturers, who reconstruct them and demolish their

picturesque antiquity, in order to garnish their boulevards and fine

mansions, while Paris, on the contrary, is directed and governed by

provincials, who provincialize it just as the Parisian companies

parisianize the provinces. Our provincials, astonished to find

themselves at the head of Parisian movement, lose their heads somewhat

and rush with immoderate appetites at the delicate feast. They have the

gluttony of famished children, and on the most perilous question they

are simply gourmands. It is _woman_ again to whom I refer. The country

squires and gentlemen riders, who have grown old in their province with

the love of farm-wenches, or small tradesmen professing medicine or law

within their sub-prefectures, after having made verses for the female

tax-gatherer, all, you understand, all are hungry to know that unknown

creature: _woman_. And speedily enough the woman has drained their

Excellencies. Oh! yes, even to the marrow! She robs the Opposition of

its energy; the faithful to liberty, of the virility of their faith.

Energetic ministers or ministers with ideas are not long before woman

destroys both their strength and their ideas. Eh! _parbleu!_ it is just

because they do not rule Paris as one pleads a civil suit in a

provincial court."

The minister listened with a somewhat anxious, sober air to these

truisms, clear-cut as with a knife, expressed by the old journalist

without passion, without exasperation, without anger. He was, in fact,

pleased that Ramel should speak to him so candidly.

Yes, indeed, what the old "veteran,"--as Denis sometimes called

himself--said, were Vaudrey's own sentiments. These sufficiently

saddening observations he had himself made more than once. It was

precisely to put an end to such abuses, folly, and provincialism, this

hobbling spirit inculcated in a great nation, that he had assumed power,

and was about to increase his efforts.

He thanked Ramel profusely and sincerely. This visit would not be his

last, he would often return to this Rue Boursault where he knew that a

true friend would be waiting.

"And you will be right," said Denis. "Nowhere will you find a love more

profound, or hear truths more frankly spoken. You see, Vaudrey, the

walls of the ministerial apartments are too thick. There, neither the

noise of carriages nor the sound of street-cries is heard. I have passed

a few days in a palace--in '48,--at the Tuileries, as a national guard:

at the end of two hours, I heard nothing. The carpets, the curtains,

stifled everything, and, believe me, a cannon might have been fired

without my hearing anything more than an echo, much less could I hear

the truth! Besides, people do not like to pronounce truth too loudly.

They are afraid."

"I swear to you that I will listen to everything," replied Sulpice, "and

I will strive to understand everything. And since I have the power--"

Denis Ramel shook his head:

"Power? Ah! you will see if that is ever taken in any but homoeopathic

doses! Why, you will have against you the _bureaux_, those sacrosanct

_bureaux_ that have governed this country since bureaucracy has existed,

and they will cram more than one Warcolier down your throat, I warn

you."

"Yes, if I allow it," said Vaudrey haughtily.

"Eh! my poor friend, you have already allowed it," said the veteran.

He had risen, Vaudrey had taken his hat, and he said to the minister,

leaning on his arm, with gentle familiarity, as he led him to the door:

"Power is like a kite, but there is always some rascal who holds the

thread."

"Come, come," said Vaudrey, "you are a pessimist!"

"I confess that Schopenhauer is not unpleasant to me--sometimes."

Thereupon they separated, after a cordial grasp of the hand, and Denis

Ramel resumed his pipe and his seat at the window corner, while the

minister carried away from this interview, as if he had not already been

in the habit of a frank interchange of opinions, an agreeable though

perhaps anxious impression.

He felt the need of _mentally digesting_ this conversation: the idea of

going back, on this beautiful February day, to his official apartments

did not enter his mind. He was overcome by a springtime hunger.

"To the Bois! Around the Lake!" he said to the coachman, as he

re-entered his carriage.

The air was as balmy as on an afternoon in May. Vaudrey lowered the

carriage window to breathe freely. This exterior boulevard that he

rolled along was full of merry pedestrians. One would have thought it

was a Sunday afternoon. Old people, sitting on benches, were enjoying

the early sun.

Sulpice looked at them, his brain busy with Ramel's warnings. He had

just called him a pessimist, but inwardly he acknowledged that the old

stager, who had remained a philosopher, spoke the truth. Woman! Why had

Ramel spoken to him of woman?

This half-disquieting thought speedily left Sulpice, attracted as he was

by the joyous movement, the delight of the eyes which presented itself

to his view.

In thus journeying to the Bois, he felt a delightful emotion of solitude

and forgetfulness. He gradually recovered his self-possession and became

himself once more. He drew his breath more freely in that long avenue

where, at this hour of the day, few persons passed. There was no

petition to listen to, no salutation to acknowledge.

Ah! how easy it would be to be happy, to sweetly enjoy the Paris that

fascinated him instead of burning away his life! Just now, at the foot

of the Arc de Triomphe, he had seen people dressed in blouses, sleeping

like Andalusian beggars before the walls of the Alhambra. Little they

cared for the fever of success! Perhaps they were wise.

An almost complete solitude reigned over the Bois. Vaudrey saw, as he

glanced between the copsewood, now growing green, only a few isolated

pedestrians, some English governesses in charge of scampering children,

the dark green uniform of a guard or the blue blouse of a man who

trimmed the trees.

The coachman drove slowly and Sulpice, enjoying the intoxication of this

early sun, lowered the shade and breathed the keen air while he repeated

to himself that peaceful joy was within the reach of everybody at Paris.

"But why is this wood so deserted? It is so pleasant here."

He almost reproached himself for not having brought Adrienne. She would

have been so happy for this advanced spring day. She required so little

to make her smile: mere crumbs of joy. She was better than he.

He excused himself by reflecting that he would not have been able to

talk to Ramel.

And then it would have been necessary to talk to Adrienne, whereas the

joy of the present moment was this solitary silence, the bath of warm

air taken in the complete forgetfulness of the habitual existence.

The sight of the blue, gleaming lake before him, encircled with pines,

like an artificial Swiss lake, compelled him to look out of the window.

The coachman slowly drove the carriage to the left in order to make the

tour of the Lake.

Vaudrey looked at the sheet of water upon which the light played, and on

which two or three skiffs glided noiselessly, even the sound of their

oars not reaching his ears.

At the extremity of the alley, a carriage was standing, a hackney coach

whose driver was peacefully sleeping in the sunshine, with his head

leaning on his right shoulder, his broad-brimmed hat, bathed in the

sunshine, serving him as a shade.

It was the only carriage there, and a few paces from the border of the

water, standing out in dark relief against the violet-blue of the lake,

a woman stood surrounded by a group of ducks of all shades, running

after morsels of brown bread while uttering their hoarse cries.

Two white swans had remained in the water and looked at her with a

dignified air, at a distance.

At the first glance at this woman, Sulpice felt a strange emotion. His

legs trembled and his heart was agitated.

He could not be mistaken, he certainly recognized her. Either there was

an extraordinary resemblance between them, or it was Mademoiselle Kayser

herself.

Marianne? Marianne on the edge of this Lake at an hour when there was

no one at the Bois? Vaudrey believed neither in superstitions nor in

predestination. Nevertheless, he considered the meeting extraordinary,

but there is in this fantastic life a reality that brings in our path

the being about whom one has just been thinking. He had frequently

observed this fact. He had already descended from his carriage to go to

her, taking a little pathway under the furze in order to reach the

water's edge. There was no longer any doubt, it was she. Evidently he

was to meet Mademoiselle Kayser some day. But how could chance will that

he should desire to take that promenade to the Lake at the very hour

that the young woman had driven there?

As he advanced, he thought how surprised Marianne would be. As he walked

along, he looked at her.

She stood near a kind of wooden landing jutting out over the water. Over

her black dress she had flung a short cloak of satin, embroidered with

jet which sparkled in the sunlight. The light wind gently waved a black

feather that hung from her hat, in which other feathers were entwined

with a fringe of old gold bullion. Vaudrey noted every detail of this

living statuette of a Parisian woman: between a little veil knotted

behind her head and the lace ruching of her cloak, light, golden curls

fell on her neck, and in that frame of light, this elegant woman, this

silhouette standing out in full relief against the sky and the horizon

line of the water, with a pencil of rays gilding her fair locks, seemed

more exquisite and more the "woman" to Sulpice than in the décolleté

of a ball costume.

When she heard the crushing of the sand by Sulpice's footsteps as he

approached her with timid haste, she turned abruptly. Under her small

black veil, drawn tightly over her face, and whose dots looked like so

many patches on her face, Vaudrey at first observed Marianne's almost

sickly paleness, then her suddenly joyous glance. A furtive blush

mounted even to the young girl's cheek.

"You here?" she said--"you, Monsieur le Ministre?"

She had already imparted an entirely different tone to these questions.

There was more abandon in the first, which seemed more like a cry, but

the second betrayed a sudden politeness, perhaps a little affected.

Vaudrey replied by some commonplace remark. It was a fine day; he was

tired; he wished to warm himself in this early sunshine. But she?--

"Oh! I--really I don't know why I am here. Ask the--my coachman. He has

driven me where he pleased."

She spoke in a curt, irritated tone, under which either deception or

grief was hidden.

She was still mechanically throwing crumbs of bread around her, which

were eagerly snatched at by the many-colored ducks, white or gray,

black, spotted, striped like tulips, marbled like Cordovan leather, with

iridescent green or blue necks, whose tone suggested Venetian

glassware, all of them hurrying, stretching their necks, opening their

bills, or casting themselves at Marianne's feet, fighting, then almost

choking themselves to swallow the enormous pieces of bread that were

sold by a dealer close at hand.

"Ah! bless me! I did not think I should have the honor of meeting you

here," she said.

"The honor?" said Vaudrey. "I, I should say the joy."

She looked straight into his eyes, frankly.

"I do not know what joy is, to-day," she said. "I come from the

Continental Hotel, where I hoped to see--"

"What is that?"

"Nothing--"

"If it were nothing, you would not have frowned so."

"Oh! well! a friend--a friend whom I have again found--and who has

disappeared. Just so,--abruptly--No matter, perhaps, after all! What

happens, must happen. In short--and to continue my riddle, behold me

feeding these ducks. God knows why! I detest the creatures. The state

feeds them badly, Monsieur le Ministre, I tell you: they are famished.

Well? well?" she said to a species of Indian duck, bolder than the

others, who snapped at the hem of her skirt to attract attention and to

demand fresh mouthfuls.

She commenced to laugh nervously, and said:

"That one isn't afraid."

She threw him a morsel that he swallowed with a greedy gulp.

"Do you know, Monsieur le Ministre, that the story of these ducks is

that of the human species? There are some that have got nothing of all

the bread that I have thrown them, and there are others who have gorged

enough to kill them with indigestion. How would you classify that? Poor

political economy."

"Oh, oh!" said Vaudrey. "You are wandering into the realms of lofty

philosophy!--"

"Apropos of that, yes," said Marianne, as she pointed to the line of

birds that hurried on all sides, left the water, waddled about, uttering

their noisy cries. "You know that when one is sad, one philosophizes

anent everything."

"And you are sad?" asked Sulpice, in a voice that certainly quivered

slightly.

She threw away, without breaking it, the piece of bread that was left,

brushed her gloved fingers, and, turning toward the minister, said with

a smile that would make the flesh creep:

"Very sad. Oh! what would you have? The black butterflies, you know, the

blue devils."

He saw her again, just as she had appeared before him yesterday, with

arms and shoulders bare, lovely and seductive, and now, with her

shoulders hidden under her cloak, her face half-veiled and quite pale,

he thought her still more disquietingly charming. Moreover, the

strangeness of the situation, the chance meeting, imparted something of

mystery to their conversation and the attraction of an assignation.

Ah! how happy he felt at having desired to breathe the air of the Bois!

It now seemed to him that he had only come there for her sake. Once more

it appeared to him that some magnetic thought led to this deserted spot

these two beings, who but yesterday had only exchanged commonplace

remarks and who, in this sunbathed solitude, under these trees, in the

fresh breeze of the departing winter, met again, impelled toward each

other, drawn on by the same sympathy.

"Do you know what I was thinking of?" she said, smiling graciously.

"Yes, of what I was thinking as I cast the brown bread to those ducks?

An idyll, is it not? Well! I was thinking that if one dared--a quick

plunge into such a sheet of water--very pure--quite tempting--Eh! well!

it would end all."

Vaudrey did not reply. He looked at her stupidly, his glance betraying

the utmost anxiety.

"Oh! fear nothing," she said. "A whim! and besides, I can swim better

than the swans, there is no danger."

He had seized her hands instinctively and he experienced a singular

delight in feeling the flesh of Marianne's wrists under his fingers.

"You are feverish," he said.

"I should be, at any rate."

Her voice was still harsh, as if she were distressed.

"The departure of--of that friend--has, then, caused you much

suffering?"

"Suffering? No. Vexation, yes--You have built many castles of cards in

your life--Come! how stupid I am!" she said bitterly. "You still build

many of them. Well! there it is, you see!"

She had withdrawn her hands from Sulpice, and walked away slowly from

the border of the lake, going toward the end of the path where her

coachman awaited her, his eyes closed and his mouth open.

"Where are you going on leaving the Bois?" asked Vaudrey.

"I? I don't know."

He had made a movement.

"Oh! once more I tell you, don't be afraid," she said. "I want to live.

Fear nothing, I will go home, _parbleu_."

"Home?"

"Or to my uncle's."

"But, really, Monsieur le Ministre," she said, "you are taking upon

yourself the affairs of Monsieur Jouvenet, your Prefect of Police. I

know him well, and certainly he asks fewer questions than Your

Excellency."

"That, perhaps," said Vaudrey, with a smile, "is because he has less

anxiety about you than I have."

"Ah! bah!" said Marianne.

She had by this time got close to her hackney coach and looked at the

coachman for a moment. "Don't you think it would be very wrong to waken

him?" she said. "Will you accompany me for a moment, Monsieur le

Ministre?"

Vaudrey paled slightly, divining under this question a seductive

prospect.

Marianne's gray eyes were never turned from him.

They walked along slowly, followed by the coupé whose lengthened shadow

was projected in front of them along the yellow pathway, moving beside

the lake where the swans floated with their pure white wings extended

and striking the water with their feet, raising all around them a white

foam, like snow falling in flakes. The blue heavens were reflected in

the water. The grass, of a burnt-green, almost gray color, looked like

worn velvet here and there, showing the weft and spotted with earth.

Side by side they walked, Vaudrey earnestly watching Marianne, while she

gazed about her and pointed out to him the gray, winter-worn rocks, the

smooth ivy, and on the horizon some hinds browsing, in the far distance,

as in a desert, the bare grass as yellow as ripe wheat, around a pond,

in a gloomy landscape, russet horizons against a pale sky, presenting a

forlorn, mysterious and fleeting aspect.

"One would think one's self at the end of the world," said Sulpice, with

lowered voice and troubled heart.

A slight laugh from Marianne was her only reply, as she pointed with the

tip of her finger to an inscription on a sign:

"_To Croix-Catelan!_" she said. "That end of the world is decidedly

Parisian!"

"Nevertheless, see how isolated we are to-day."

It seemed as if she had divined his thought, for she took a path that

skirted a road and there, in the narrowest strip of soft, fresh soil, on

which the tiny heels of her boots made imprints like kisses upon a

cheek, she walked in front of him, the shadows of the small branches

dappling her black dress, while Vaudrey, deeply moved, still looked at

her, framed as she was by trees with moss-covered trunks and surrounded

with brambles, a medley of twisted branches.

And Sulpice felt, at each step that he took, a more profound emotion.

Along this russet-tinted wood, stood out here and there the bright

trunks of birch-trees, and far above it, the pale blue sky; the abyss of

heaven, strewn with milky clouds and throughout the course of this

pathway arose like a Cybelean incense, a healthful and fresh odor that

filled the lungs and infused a desire to live.

To live! and, thought Sulpice, but a moment ago this lovely, slender

girl spoke of dying. He approached her gently, walking by her side, at

first not speaking, then little by little returning to that thought and

almost whispering in her ear--that rosy ear that stood out against the

paleness of her cheek:

"Is it possible to think of anything besides the opening spring, in this

wood where everything is awakening to life? Is it really true,

Marianne, that you really wished to die?"

He did not feel astonished at having dared to call her by name. It

seemed as if he had known her for years. He forgot everything, as if the

world was nothing but a dream and that this dream presented this woman's

face.

"Yes," she replied. "Upon my honor, I was weary of life, but I see that

most frequently at the very moment when one despairs--"

She stopped suddenly.

"Well?" he asked, as he waited for her to continue.

"Nothing. No, nothing!"

She commenced to laugh, calling his attention to the end of the path, to

a broader alley which brought them back to the edge of the lake, whose

blue line they saw in the distance.

"Blue on blue," she said, pointing to the sky and the water. "You

reproach me for not liking blue, Monsieur le Ministre, see! I am taking

an azure bath. This horizon is superb, is it not?"

Vaudrey debated with himself if she were jesting. Why should she give

him that title which here and at such a moment, had such an out-of-place

ring?

She glanced at him sidelong with a little droll expression, her pretty

mouth yielding to a smile that enticed a kiss.

"We shall soon have returned to my carriage," she said. "Already!"

"That _already_ pleases me," said Sulpice.

"It is true. This short promenade is nothing, but it suffices to make

one forget many things."

"Does it not?" exclaimed Vaudrey.

The shadow of his coupé was still projected between them along the

ochre-colored road.

"Do you come to the Bois often?" asked the minister.

"No. Why?"

"Because I shall frequently return here," he said in a trembling voice.

"Really!--Then, oh! why then, it would be love-making?" said Marianne,

who pierced him with her warm, tender glances.

He wished to seize this woman's hand and print a kiss thereon, or to

press his lips upon her bare neck upon which the golden honey-colored

ringlets danced in the bright sunlight.

"On these clear, fine days," she said in an odd tone, emphasizing every

word, "it is very likely that I shall return frequently to visit this

pathway. Eh! what is that?" she said, turning around.

She was dragging a dry bramble that had fastened its thorns to the folds

of her satin skirt and she stopped to shake it off.

"Stop," said Sulpice.

He desired to tread on the russet-colored bramble.

"You will tear my gown," said Marianne. "The bramble clings too

tightly."

Then he stooped, gently removed the thorn, and Marianne, her bosom

turned toward him and half-stooping, looked at that man--a

minister--almost kneeling before her in this wood.

He cast the bramble away from him.

"There," he said.

"Thanks."

As he rose, he felt Marianne's fresh breath on his forehead. It fell on

his face, as sweet as new-mown hay. He became very pale and looked at

her with so penetrating an expression that she blushed slightly--from

pleasure, perhaps,--and until they reached the carriage where her

coachman was still sleeping, they said nothing further, fearing that

they had both said too much.

At the moment when she entered her carriage, Sulpice, suddenly, with an

effort at boldness, said to her, as he leaned over the door:

"I must see you again, Marianne."

"What is the use?" she said, keeping her eyes fixed on his.

"Where shall I see you?" he asked, without replying to her question.

"I do not know--at my house--"

"At your house?"

"Wait," she added abruptly, "I will write to you."

"You promise me?"

"On my word of honor. At the ministry, _Personal_, isn't that so?"

"Yes!--Ah! you are very good!" he cried, without knowing what he was

saying, while Marianne's coachman whipped his horses and the carriage

disappeared in the direction of Paris.

It seemed to Vaudrey, who remained standing, that little gloved fingers

appeared behind the window and that he caught glimpses of a face hidden

under a black, dotted veil.

The carriage disappeared in the distance.

"To the ministry!" said the minister, as he got into his carriage.

He stretched himself out as if intoxicated. He looked at all the

carriages along the drive of the Bois de Boulogne, the high life was

already moving toward the Lake. In calèches, old ladies in mourning

appeared with pale nuns, and old men with red decorations stretched out

under lap-robes. Pretty girls with pale countenances pierced with bright

eyes, like fragments of coal in flour, showed themselves at the doors of

the coupés, close to the muzzles of pink-nosed, well-combed,

white-haired little dogs. Vaudrey strove to find Marianne amid that

throng, to see her again. She was far away.

He thought only of her, while his coupé went down the Avenue des

Champs-Élysées, bustling with noise and movement and flooded with light.

The coachman took a side street and the carriage disappeared through an

open gateway between two high posts surmounted by two lamps, in a

passage leading to a huge white mansion whose slate roof was ablaze

with sunlight. An infantry soldier in red trousers, with a shako on his

head, mounted guard and stood motionless beside a brown-painted

sentry-box that stood at the right. Above the gateways a new tricolor

flag, in honor of the new ministry, waved in the sunshine.

Against the ministerial edifice were two gas fixtures bearing two huge

capital letters: R.F., ready to be illuminated on important reception

nights.

Two lackeys hastily opening the door, rushed up to the halted carriage

and stood at its door.

"Adieu! Marianne," thought Sulpice, as he placed his foot in the

antechamber of this vast mansion as cold as a tomb.

* * * * *

_She was still mechanically throwing crumbs of bread around her,

which were eagerly snatched at by the many-colored ducks_ ...

[Illustration: VAUDREY MEETS MARIANNE IN THE BOIS]