At this Campardon flew into a passion.
“I, sir, have been a Jacobin and an atheist like you. But, thank heaven! reason came to me. No, I will not even stoop to your Monsieur Thiers. A blunderhead—a man who amuses himself with chimeras!”
However, all the Liberals present—Monsieur Josserand, Octave, Trublot even, who did not care a straw, declared that they would vote for Monsieur Thiers. The official candidate was a great chocolate manufacturer of the Rue Saint-Honoré, Monsieur Dewinck, whom they chaffed immensely. This Monsieur Dewinck had not even the support of the clergy, who were uneasy at his relations with the Tuileries. Campardon, decidedly gone over to the priests, greeted his name with reserve. Then, suddenly changing the subject, he exclaimed:
“Look here! the bullet which wounded your Garibaldi in the foot ought to have pierced his heart!”
And, so as not to be seen any longer in the company of these gentlemen, he entered the church, where the Abbé Mauduit’s shrill voice was responding to the lamentations of the chanters.
“He sleeps there now,” murmured the doctor, shrugging his shoulders. “Ah! what a clean sweep ought to be made of it all!” The Roman question interested him immensely. Then, as Léon reminded them of the words of the Cabinet Minister to the Senate that the Empire had sprung from the Revolution, only in order to keep it within bounds, they returned to the coming elections. All were agreed upon the necessity of giving the Emperor a lesson; but they were beginning to be troubled with anxiety, they were already divided respecting the candidates, whose names gave rise to visions of the red specter at night time. Close to them Monsieur Gourd, dressed as correctly as a diplomatist, listened with supreme contempt to what they were saying; he was for the powers that be, pure and simple.
The service was drawing to a close; a long, melancholy wail which issued from the depths of the church, silenced them.
“Requiescat in pace!”
“Amen!”
Whilst the body was being lowered into the grave at the Père-Lachaise cemetery, Trublot, who had not let go of Octave’s arm, saw him exchange another smile with Madame Juzeur.