As soon as he had taken up his abode at the most moderately furnished hotel of the capital, he did not lose a moment in acquiring information on various subjects which he considered conducive to his chances of obtaining an industrial livelihood. From his landlord he learned that Joseph Fouché was the minister of the general police, and that all the ministers gave a public audience once in each week, but that in order to obtain a special interview, it was necessary to request it by letter. Accordingly he penned the following note:—
"Citizen Minister,
"Michel Perrin implores his former class-fellow, Joseph Fouché, to receive him as soon as possible. He is lodging at the hotel du Soleil, rue Mouffetard."
"Vale et me ama."
"Health and respect."
Michel supposed that prefixing a Latin adieu to "Health and Respect," would remind Joseph of the time when, seated on the same bench, they were studying Cicero. Almost an entire week elapsed without any reply from the minister; and when Michel asked his landlord if it ever happened that such notes were left unanswered, the latter mentioned about fifty instances of such neglect, almost without drawing breath.
His hopes were thus completely annihilated; and already he was only thinking of earning his bread by the sweat of his brow, when one evening the porter brought him a letter. After breaking the seal with a trembling hand, he read these words which seemed to him to be written in letters of gold:—
"The minister of the general police will receive the citizen, Michael Perrin, on Thursday the 24th inst., at one o'clock."
A person should, like our hero, have returned after having, in a state of utter despondency, traversed the streets of Paris, those streets so populous, but in which he would seek in vain for even an individual inclined to extend the hand of succour, to be able to form an idea of his joyful hope that he had at last found a protector—a powerful protector. Accordingly, he wrote, before retiring to rest, to Madeleine, that he was to be with the minister of the general police on the ensuing Thursday.
On the appointed day, Michel Perrin was in the ante-chamber of the minister before noon. Seated on the edge of a bench, he endeavoured to banish the timidity natural to those who have continuously lived apart from the world, and which the sight of a mansion in which everything indicated power and opulence tended to augment. To embolden himself, he recurred to his college days, and he was repeating for perhaps the hundredth time that Joseph Fouché had been his class-fellow, when he was called in.
Fouché was alone in his cabinet, seated before a desk covered with papers. He had hardly raised his head and fixed his small reddish eyes on the person entering, than assuming a cheerful manner—"There was no necessity," he said, "to announce you, for on my faith, I could not have met you in the street without recognising you."[13]
At this friendly reception the poor pastor fully resumed his courage.