Denis Ramel smiled superciliously and the minister looked with a sort of respect at this vanguard warrior, this laborer of the early morn who had never received his recompense or even claimed it.
"I should like you to resume your journal in order to announce all these truths," Vaudrey said to him.
"Do you think so? Why, a journal that would proclaim the truth to everybody would not last six months, since no one would buy it."
As Sulpice was about to go, there was a ring at Ramel's door.
"Ah! who can it be? A visit. I beg you will excuse me, my dear Vaudrey."
Denis went to open the door.
It was a man of about fifty, dressed in the garb of a poor workman, wearing a threadbare greatcoat and trousers that were well polished at the knees, who as he entered held his round, felt hat in his hand. He was thin, pale and tired-looking, with a dark, dull complexion and a voice weak rather than hoarse. He bowed timidly, repeating twice: "I earnestly ask your pardon;" and then he remained standing on the threshold, without advancing or retiring, in an embarrassed attitude, while a timid smile played beneath his black beard, already sprinkled with gray.
"Pardon—I disturb you—I will return—"
"Come in, Garnier," said Ramel.
The man entered, saluting Vaudrey, who was not known to him, and at a gesture from Denis, he took a seat on the edge of a chair, scarcely sitting down and constantly twirling his round-shaped hat between his lean fingers. From time to time, he raised his left hand to his mouth to check the sound of a dry cough which rose in his muscular throat, that might be supposed to be a prey to laryngitis.