He smiled when he saw that his own familiar remark was puzzling Vaudrey.
"The monument, there, on one side: Villa Montmartre!—Oh! I am not anxious to have done with life. It is amusing enough at times. But, after all, it is necessary to admit that the comedy ends when it is finished. One fine day, I shall be found sleeping somewhere, here in my armchair, or in my bed, suddenly, or perhaps after a long illness—this would weary me, as a lingering illness is repugnant to me—and you will read in one or two journals a short paragraph announcing that the obsequies of Monsieur Denis Ramel, one-time editor of a host of democratic newspapers, a celebrated man in his day, but little known recently, will take place on such a day at such an hour. Few will attend, but I ask you to be present—that is, if there is no important sitting at the Chamber."
Old Ramel twirled his moustache with his long, lean fingers as he spoke these last words into which he infused a dash of irony. He nullified it, however, as he extended his frankly opened hand and said to Sulpice Vaudrey:
"What I have said to you is very cheerful! A thousand pardons. The more so that I do not think of doubting you for a single moment—You have always been credulous. That is your defect, and it is a capital one. In the world of business men and politicians, who are for the most part egotists, of mediocrities, or to speak plainly—I know no more picturesque term—of dodgers,—you move about with all the illusions and tastes of an artist. You are like the brave fellows of our army, poets of war, as it were, who hurled themselves to their destruction against regiments of engineers. Certainly, my dear minister, I shall always be delighted to give you my counsel, you whom I used to call my dear child, and if the observations of a living waif can serve you in anything, count on me. Dispose of me, and if by chance I can be useful to you, I shall feel myself amply repaid."
"Ah!" cried Sulpice, "if you only knew how much good it does me to hear the sincere thoughts of a man one can rely on! How different is their ring from that of others!"
He then allowed himself to pass by an easy transition to the confessions of his first deceptions or annoyances.
The selection that very morning, of Warcolier as Under Secretary of State in a Republican administration, a man who had played charades at Compiègne, had thrown him into a state of angry excitement.
Ramel, however, burst into laughter.
"Ah, nonsense! You will see many other such! Why, governments always do favors to their enemies when their opponents pretend to lower their colors! What good is it to serve friends? They love you."
"This does not vex you, then, old Republican?"