'Poor Bourdeu!' exclaimed Monsieur Rastoil, with a last sigh of regret.
'Oh, there's no occasion to pity him!' cried Madame de Condamin, gaily. 'I will undertake to console him. He is not cut out for the Chamber. What he wants is a prefecture. Tell him that he shall have one before long.'
The merriment increased. The fair Octavie's high spirits, and the desire which she showed to please everybody, delighted the company. It was really she who was doing the honours of the Sub-Prefecture. She was the queen of the place. And, while she seemed to be speaking quite playfully, she gave Monsieur Delangre the most practical advice in the world about the part he ought to play in the Corps Législatif. She took him aside and offered to introduce him to several influential people, an offer which he gratefully accepted. About eleven o'clock, Monsieur de Condamin suggested that the garden should be illuminated, but his wife calmed the enthusiasm of the gentlemen, and said that such a course would be inadvisable, for it would not do to appear to be exulting over the town.
'Well, what about Abbé Fenil?' she suddenly asked Abbé Faujas, as she took him aside into one of the window recesses. 'He has not made any movement, has he?'
'Abbé Fenil is a man of sense,' the priest replied. 'It has been hinted to him that he would do well not to interfere in political matters for the future.'
In the midst of all the triumphant joy, Abbé Faujas remained grave. He had won after a hard fight. Madame de Condamin's chatter wearied him; and the satisfaction of these people, with their poor vulgar ambitions, filled him with disdain. As he stood leaning against the mantelpiece, with a far-off look in his eyes, he seemed to be buried in thought. He was master now, and no longer compelled to veil and suppress his real feelings. He could reach out his hand and seize the town, and make it tremble in his grasp. His tall, black figure seemed to fill the room. The guests gradually drew their chairs closer to him, and formed a circle round him. The men awaited some expression of satisfaction from his lips, the women besought him with their eyes, like submissive slaves. But he bluntly broke through the circle and went away the first, saying but a brief word or two as he took his leave.
When he returned to the Mourets' house, going thither by way of the Impasse des Chevillottes and the garden, he found Marthe alone in the dining-room, sitting listlessly on a chair against the wall, looking very pale, and gazing with a blank expression at the lamp, the wick of which was beginning to char. Upstairs, Trouche was having a party, and could be heard singing a broad comic song, which Olympe and his guests accompanied by striking their glasses with the handles of their knives.
[XX]
Abbé Faujas laid his hand on Marthe's shoulder. 'What are you doing here?' he asked. 'Why haven't you gone to bed? I told you that you were not to wait for me.'