everything, not a single politician who was well in the saddle, and for whom he had held the stirrup, not a comedian of the Chambers or the theatre who had pleaded with him, urged and flattered him, was to be found there to pay the most ordinary respects of memory to the man who had disappeared.  That fateful solitude, added to a keen winter’s wind, appeared to Sulpice to be a cruel abandonment and an act of cowardice.  Two men followed the cortege of that maker of men!

“Follow journalism and you make the fame of others,” said Vaudrey, shaking his head.

“After all,” answered Garnier, “there are dupes in every trade, and they are necessarily the most honest.”

When this man, who had been a minister, left the grave above which the whistling trains passed, a freezing rain was falling and he passed out of the cemetery in the company of the poor devil who coughed so sadly within the collar of his overcoat that was tightly drawn up over his comforter.

Before leaving him, Vaudrey, with a feeling of timidity, desired to ask him if work was at least fairly good.

“Thanks!” replied Garnier.  “I have found a situation—­And then—­” he shook his head as he pointed out behind the black trees and the white graves, the spot where they had lowered Ramel—­“One has always a place when all is over, and that perhaps is the best of all!”

He bowed and Vaudrey left in a gloomy mood.  It seemed to him that his life was crumbling away, that he was sowing, shred by shred, his flesh on the road.  The black hangings of Ramel’s coffin—­and he smiled sadly at this new irony—­recalled to him the bills of the upholsterers that he still owed for the furnishing of that fete at the ministry on the last day of his power and his happiness.  The official decorations of Belloir and the Gobelins were not sufficient for him.  He had desired more modern decorations.  He gave the coachman the upholsterer’s address, Boulevard des Capucins.  He hardly dared to enter and say:  “I have come to pay the account of the furnishing supplied at the ministry!” It still seemed like a funeral bill he was paying.  This upholsterer’s account, paid for forgotten display, seemed to him a sort of mortuary transaction.

When he paid the upholsterer, the latter seemed to wear a cunning smile.

On finding himself again outside, he felt a sensation of relief; being cold, he was inclined to walk with a view to warming his chill blood.

On hearing his name spoken by some one, he turned round and perceived before him his compatriot Jeliotte, the friend of his childhood, the comrade, who, with a smile, cordially extended his hands toward him.

“I told you that you would always find me when I should not appear before you as a courtier!  Well, then, here I am,” said Jeliotte.  “Now you may see me as much as you please!”

“Ah!” said Vaudrey.

Jeliotte took his arm.

“Probably you are going to the Chamber?”