“Yes, at the Chamber—­continually—­”

Guy determined to betray nothing of his astonishment; but he knew now as surely as if he had learned everything, why Sulpice neglected Adrienne.  The fool! some girl from the Opera! some office-seeker who was skilfully entangling His Excellency!  That appertained to his functions then?  He was exasperated at Vaudrey and alternately looked at him and at Adrienne.  So perfect a woman!  Ravishing.  What an exquisite profile, so delicate and with such a straight nose and a delightful mouth!  Was Vaudrey mad then?

The guests rose from the table, and, as usual, the men went into the smoking-room, leaving the salon half-empty.  Madame Gerson profited thereby to continue distilling her little slanders about Sabine, which she did while laughing heartily.  In the smoking-room the men chatted away beneath the cloud that rose from their londres.  The clarion tones of Warcolier rung out above all the other voices.

Guy, seated in a corner on a divan, was still thinking of Adrienne, of those night-sessions, of those expositions, of those agricultural competitions invented by Sulpice, and caught but snatches of the conversation, jests, and nonsensical stories which were made at the cost of the colleagues of the Chamber and political friends: 

“You know how Badiche learned at the last election that he was not elected?”

“No, how?”

“He returned to his house, anxious as to the result of the ballot.  And he heard, what do you think?  His children, a little boy and a little girl, who on receipt of the telegram that papa was waiting for and that mamma in her feverish expectation had opened, had already composed a song to the air of The Young Man Poisoned: 

    Resultat tres negatif,
    Ballottage positif! 
    Badiche est ballo—­
        Bate,
      Est ballotte! 
    Oui, Badiche est ballotte;
    C’est papa qu’est ballotte!

Happy precocity! genuine frightful gamins!”

“Du Gavarni!”

“Apropos, on what majority do you count, Monsieur le President?”

“One hundred and thirty-nine.”

“That is a large one.”

“I! my dear fellow,”—­it was old Prangins speaking to Senator Crepeau,—­“I do not count myself as likely to be included in the next ministry, no!  I do not delude myself, but I shall be in the second—­or rather in the third—­no, in the fourth—­yes, in the fourth ministry—­Assuredly!”

An asthmatic cough, the cough of an old man, interrupted his remarks.

Guy heard Warcolier, as he held a small glass of kirsch in his hand, say with a laugh: 

“I have a way of holding my electors in leash.  Not only when I visit them do I address them as my friend, my brave, which flatters them, but from time to time, I write them autograph letters.  They look upon that like ready money.  Some of them, the good fellows, are flattered:  ‘He has written to me, he is not proud!’ Others, the suspicious fellows, are reassured:  ‘Now—­I have his signature, I have him!’ And there you are!”