"Here, see!—That poor Ramel!—You were very fond of him, were you not?"
"Ramel!"
Vaudrey had no need to read. He knew everything as soon as Guy showed him the paper and mentioned Denis's name in a mournful tone.
Dead!—He died peacefully in his armchair near the window, as if falling asleep.—"The death is announced," so read the paragraph, "of one of the oldest members of the Parisian press, Monsieur Denis Ramel, who was formerly a celebrated man and for a long time directed the Nation Française, once an important journal, now no longer in existence."—Not a word beyond the brief details of his death. No word of praise or regret, merely the commonplace statement of a fact. Vaudrey thought it was a trifling notice for a man who had held so large a place in the public eye.
"What do you think of it?" he said to Lissac. "People are ungrateful."
"Why, what would you have? Why didn't he write operettas?"
They parted after exchanging almost an ordinary grasp of the hand, though, perhaps, somewhat sad. Sulpice wished to cast a last look at Rosas's box. Marianne was standing, her outline clearly defined against the brightly-lighted background of the box. She was holding a saucer in her hand, eating an ice. He saw her once more as she stood near the buffet at Madame Marsy's, stirring her sherbet, a silver-gilt spoon smoothly gliding over her tongue. He closed his eyes, and with a nervous start quickly descended the grand stairway, where he found himself alone.
In order to forget Marianne, he turned his thoughts to Ramel.
Denis had been suffering for a long time. He smiled as he felt the hour of his departure draw near. He wished to disappear without stir, and in a civil way as he said, without attracting attention, à l'Anglaise. Poor man! his wish was accomplished.
Vaudrey threw himself into a carriage and was driven to Batignolles. On the way he thought of the eternal antitheses of Parisian life: the news of the death of a friend communicated to him at the Opéra while a waltz-tune was being played!