“Minard,” she remarked, “has only a town-house and invested capital, whereas we shall have all that and a country-place besides; one can’t be really rich without it.”

Thuillier was not sufficiently under the charm of that dream—­the realization of which was, in any case, quite distant—­to forget, even for a moment, the “Echo de la Bievre” and his candidacy.  No sooner had he reached home than he asked for the morning’s paper.

“It has not come,” said the “male domestic.”

“That’s a fine distribution, when even the owner of the paper is not served!” cried Thuillier, discontentedly.

Although it was nearly dinner-time, and after his journey he would much rather have taken a bath than rush to the rue Saint-Dominique, Thuillier ordered a cab and drove at once to the office of the “Echo.”

There a fresh disappointment met him.  The paper “was made,” as they say, and all the employees had departed, even la Peyrade.  As for Coffinet, who was not to be found at his post of office-boy, nor yet at his other post of porter, he had gone “of an errand,” his wife said, taking the key of the closet in which the remaining copies of the paper were locked up.  Impossible, therefore, to procure the number which the unfortunate proprietor had come so far to fetch.

To describe Thuillier’s indignation would be impossible.  He marched up and down the room, talking aloud to himself, as people do in moments of excitement.

“I’ll turn them all out!” he cried.  And we are forced to omit the rest of the furious objurgation.

As he ended his anathema a rap was heard on the door.

“Come in!” said Thuillier, in a tone that depicted his wrath and his frantic impatience.

The door opened, and Minard rushed precipitately into his arms.

“My good, my excellent friend!” cried the mayor of the eleventh arrondissement, concluding his embrace with a hearty shake of the hand.

“Why! what is it?” said Thuillier, unable to comprehend the warmth of this demonstration.

“Ah! my dear friend,” continued Minard, “such an admirable proceeding! really chivalrous! most disinterested!  The effect, I assure you, is quite stupendous in the arrondissement.”

“But what, I say?” cried Thuillier, impatiently.

“The article, the whole action,” continued Minard, “so noble, so elevated!”

“But what article? what action?” said the proprietor of the “Echo,” getting quite beside himself.

“The article of this morning,” said Minard.

“The article of this morning?”

“Ah ca! did you write it when you were asleep; or, like Monsieur Jourdain doing prose, do you do heroism without knowing it?”

“I!  I haven’t written any article!” cried Thuillier.  “I have been away from Paris for a day, and I don’t even know what is in this morning’s paper; and the office-boy is not here to give me a copy.”