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."