“Perhaps Madame Marsy has asked that this Granet be presented to her,” thought Vaudrey as he mockingly recalled how Guy de Lissac ran after him there in order to conduct him to the fashionable woman’s box.

How long it was since then!

Sabine Marsy was dethroned.  And he!—­

He felt a friendly tap on the shoulder as he was moving away, and turning around he saw Warcolier who, having seen him in the distance, doubtless came to him to enjoy the simple pleasure of treating him patronizingly, he who had so long called him Monsieur le Ministre.

“Well, my dear Vaudrey, what is the news?” said Warcolier, bearing his head high and smiling with a silly, but an aggressively benign expression, with the superior tone of satisfied fools.

“Nothing!” said Sulpice.  “I think Verdi’s music is superb!”

“Oh! a little Wagnerian,” Warcolier replied, repeating what he had heard.  “But what of politics?”

“Ah! politics concerns you now!”

“Well! why,” Warcolier replied, “that goes on well.  There is a little relaxation! a ministry more—­more—­”

“More homogeneous!” said Vaudrey, in a slightly mocking tone.

“Exactly.  And, after all, the duty of every good citizen is to defend the government under which we live.”

Ah! assuredly, Vaudrey considered that his former Secretary of State, now become the vassal of Granet, displayed a rather ridiculous assurance.  He smiled as if he would have laughed in his face and turned his back upon him.

Warcolier was not annoyed, for he felt certain that he had angered the former minister, and he was delighted.  It was a kick from an ass.  The witticism of a fool.

Vaudrey regained his place, much dissatisfied at having come and furious at this pretentious imbecile, when, on leaving the wings, he ran against Lissac who was entering a sort of hall where Louis sat writing the names of the entrances on the sheet.

Guy flushed slightly on seeing him.

“In order to see you, one has to meet you here,” said Sulpice.  “Why have you not called on me?  Is it because I am no longer a minister?”

“That would be a reason for seeing me more frequently,” said Lissac.  “But it is not that.  What do you want me to tell you?  You know my sentiments.  I don’t care to become a bore, as it is called, or a ceaseless prater of morality, which is the same thing.  Besides, morality to me is something like the Montyon prize to a harlot!  Then, too, I am keeping in my corner and I shall stick to it hereafter closer than ever.  I have put the brake on.  I am getting old, and I shall bury myself in some suburb and look after my rheumatism.”

In Lissac’s tone there was an unexpected melancholy.

“Then you will not call on me again?”

“What is the use of worrying you?—­Reflect for yourself, my good man!  You don’t need me to emphasize your blunders.  By the way, you know, our mad mistress?—­She is in the theatre.”