“Oh! you won’t find a single remaining seat, madame,” declared Chaigneux, putting on an air of importance. “We have distributed everything. I have just been offered three hundred francs for a stall.”
“That’s true, there has been a fight even for the bracket seats, however badly they might be placed,” Duthil resumed. “I am very sorry, but you must not count on me.... Duvillard is the only person who might take you in his box. He told me that he would reserve me a seat there. And so far, I think, there are only three of us, including his son.... Ask Hyacinthe by-and-by to procure you an invitation.”
Rosemonde, whom Hyacinthe had so greatly bored that she had given him his dismissal, felt the irony of Duthil’s suggestion. Nevertheless, she exclaimed with an air of delight: “Ah, yes! Hyacinthe can’t refuse me that. Thanks for your information, my dear Duthil. You are very nice, you are; for you settle things gaily even when they are rather sad.... And don’t forget, mind, that you have promised to teach me politics. Ah! politics, my dear fellow, I feel that nothing will ever impassion me as politics do!”
Then she left them, hustled several people, and in spite of the crush ended by installing herself in the front row.
“Ah! what a crank she is!” muttered Massot with an air of amusement.
Then, as Chaigneux darted towards magistrate Amadieu to ask him in the most obsequious way if he had received his ticket, the journalist said to Duthil in a whisper: “By the way, my dear friend, is it true that Duvillard is going to launch his famous scheme for a Trans-Saharan railway? It would be a gigantic enterprise, a question of hundreds and hundreds of millions this time.... At the ‘Globe’ office yesterday evening, Fonsègue shrugged his shoulders and said it was madness, and would never come off!”
Duthil winked, and in a jesting way replied: “It’s as good as done, my dear boy. Fonsègue will be kissing the governor’s feet before another forty-eight hours are over.”
Then he gaily gave the other to understand that golden manna would presently be raining down on the press and all faithful friends and willing helpers. Birds shake their feathers when the storm is over, and he, Duthil, was as spruce and lively, as joyous at the prospect of the presents he now expected, as if there had never been any African Railways scandal to upset him and make him turn pale with fright.
“The deuce!” muttered Massot, who had become serious. “So this affair here is more than a triumph: it’s the promise of yet another harvest. Well, I’m no longer surprised at the crush of people.”
At this moment the organs suddenly burst into a glorious hymn of greeting. The marriage procession was entering the church. A loud clamour had gone up from the crowd, which spread over the roadway of the Rue Royale and impeded the traffic there, while the cortège pompously ascended the steps in the bright sunshine. And it was now entering the edifice and advancing beneath the lofty, re-echoing vaults towards the high altar which flared with candles, whilst on either hand crowded the congregation, the men on the right and the women on the left. They had all risen and stood there smiling, with necks outstretched and eyes glowing with curiosity.