“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.

“You ask for the truth—­Listen a moment, a single moment,” Ramel whispered in the ear of the minister.

Without mentioning Sulpice’s name, he began to question Garnier, who grew bolder and talked and gossiped, his cheek-bones now and then heightened in color by small, pink spots.

“Well!  Garnier, about the work?—­Oh! you may speak before monsieur, it interests him.”

The man shrugged his shoulders with a sad, somewhat bitter smile, but resigned at least.  He very quietly, but without any complaint, acknowledged all that he was enduring.  Work was in a bad way.  It appeared that it was just the same everywhere in Europe, in fact, but indeed that doesn’t provide work at the shop.  The master, a kind man, in faith, had grown old, and was anxious to sell his business of an art metal worker.  He had not found a purchaser, then he had simply closed his shop, being too ill to continue hard work, and the four or five workmen whom he employed found themselves thrown into the street.  There it is!  Happily for Garnier, he had neither wife nor child, nothing but his own carcass.  One can always get one’s self out of a difficulty, but the others who had households and brats!  Rousselet had five.  Matters were not going to be very cheerful at home.  He must rely on charity or credit, he did not know what, but something to stave off that distress, real and sad distress, since it was not merited.

“Do you interest yourself in politics?” asked Vaudrey curiously, surmising that this man was possessed of strong and quick intelligence, although he looked so worn and crushed and his cough frequently interrupted his remarks.