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.”

Besides, the minister felt altogether happy to be with this man no longer in vogue, but who might be likened to coins that have ceased to be current and have acquired a higher value as commemorative medals.  He could unbosom himself to him:  treachery was impossible.  He longed to have such a stay beside him, and still urged him, but Ramel was inflexible.

“But as I have already said—­if I have need of you?”

“Of me?  I am too old.”

“Of your advice?”

“Well! it is not necessary for me to give you my address, since you find yourself here now, or to tell you that you can depend on me, seeing you know me.”

Vaudrey felt that it was useless to pursue the matter further.  He was not talking with a misanthrope or a scorner, but with a learned man.  He would find at hand whenever he needed it, the old, ever faithful devotedness of this white-haired man, who, with skull-cap on his head, was smoking his pipe near the window when the minister entered.

“Then, you are happy, Ramel?” said Sulpice, a little astonished, perhaps.

“Perfectly so.”

“You have no ambition for anything whatever?”

“Nothing, I await philosophically the hour for the monument.”

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: