While speaking, Granet, who was seated near the bureau of the minister, with his hat on his knee, was watching Vaudrey through his eyeglass; he saw that his lips twitched slightly as he hesitated before replying.

“But I am bound to Jacquier—­of l’Oise,” Vaudrey said abruptly.

Granet smiled.  Certainly Jacquier would be a most excellent choice.  He was a cool, solid and remarkable man.  But he had little influence with the Chamber, frequented society rarely, was morose and exclusive, while Warcolier was a most amiable man, an excellent speaker and one who was well-known in the Chamber.  He was a fine orator.  He was highly esteemed by the Granet group.

“My personal friend, too, my dear minister.  You would, I assure you, displease me if you did not support Warcolier this morning at the Ministerial Council, at which the nomination of under secretaries should take place.  It is this morning, isn’t it?”

“Certainly, in an hour’s time.”

Granet left the minister, repeating with considerable emphasis, which Vaudrey could not fail to remark, that the nomination of Warcolier would be favorably viewed by the majority of the deputies.  A hundred times more so than that of Jacquier—­of l’Oise.

“Jacquier is a bear.  They don’t like bears,” said Granet, tapping his thumb lightly with his eyeglass.

He left Vaudrey out of humor, and very much disgusted at finding that Warcolier had already exploited the field.

In truth, Vaudrey liked Warcolier as little as he did Granet.  Warcolier took life easily.  He was naturally of a contented disposition.  He liked people who were easily pleased.  An Imperialist under the Empire, he was now a Republican under the Republic.  Epicurean in his tastes, he was agreeable, clever and fond of enjoyment, and he approved of everything that went the way he desired.  He sniffed the breeze light-heartedly and allowed it to swell his sail and his self-love.  He did not like ill-tempered people, people who frowned or were discontented or gloomy.  Having a good digestion, he could not understand the possibility of disordered stomachs.  A free-liver, he could not realize that hungry people should ever think of better food.  Everything was good; everything was right; everything was beautiful.  Of an admirably tranquil disposition, he felt neither anger nor envy.  Thinking himself superior to every one else, Warcolier never made comparisons, he did not even prefer himself:  he worshipped himself.  The world belonged to him, he trod the ground with a firm step, swinging his arms, his paunch smooth, his head erect and his shoulders thrown forward.  He seemed to inhale, at every step, the odor of triumph.  He was not the man to compromise with a defeated adversary.

Of Warcolier’s literary efforts, people were familiar with his History of Work and Workers that he had formerly dedicated to His Majesty Napoleon III. in these flattering terms:  “To you, sire, who have substituted for the nobility of birth, that of work, and for the pride of ancestry, that of shedding blood for one’s country.”