"No—Why, I am an egotist, my dear Vaudrey. Truly, that would make me too jealous. Take Navarrot," he added, as he pointed to a fashionable man, elegantly cravatted, carrying his head high, who had just greeted Vaudrey, using the same phrase eight times: "My dear minister—your Excellency—my minister—"
"Navarrot?"
"He appears to be very much attached to you!"
"You are very wicked, Ramel. He holds to the office and not to the man. He is not the friend of the minister, but of ministers. He is one of the ordinary touters of the ministry. He applauds everything that their Excellencies choose to say."
"Oh! I know those touters," said the old journalist. "When a minister is in power, they cheer him to the echo; when he is down, they belabor him."
Vaudrey looked at him and laughingly said: "Begone, journalist!"
"But at any rate,"—and here he extended his hand to Ramel,—"you will see me this evening?"
"Certainly."
"And you still live at—?"
"Rue Boursault, Boulevard des Batignolles."