“What am I in the midst of all this?” thought Birotteau, quite bewildered by the stir of this intellectual kiln, where the daily bread of the opposition was kneaded and baked, and the scenes of the grand tragi-comedy played by the Left were rehearsed.  On one side he heard them discussing the question of loans to complete the net-work of canals proposed by the department on highways; and the discussion involved millions!  On the other, journalists, pandering to the banker’s self-love, were talking about the session of the day before, and the impromptu speech of the great man.  In the course of two long hours Birotteau saw the banker three times, as he accompanied certain persons of importance three steps from the door of his study.  But Francois Keller went to the door of the antechamber with the last, who was General Foy.

“There is no hope for me!” thought Birotteau with a shrinking heart.

When the banker returned to his study, the troop of courtiers, friends, and self-seekers pressed round him like dogs pursuing a bitch.  A few bold curs slipped, in spite of him, into the sanctum.  The conferences lasted five, ten, or fifteen minutes.  Some went away chap-fallen; others affected satisfaction, and took on airs of importance.  Time passed; Birotteau looked anxiously at the clock.  No one paid the least attention to the hidden grief which moaned silently in the gilded armchair in the chimney corner, near the door of the cabinet where dwelt the universal panacea—­credit!  Cesar remembered sadly that for a brief moment he too had been a king among his own people, as this man was a king daily; and he measured the depth of the abyss down which he had fallen.  Ah, bitter thought! how many tears were driven back during those waiting hours! how many times did he not pray to God that this man might be favorable to him! for he saw, through the coarse varnish of popular good humor, a tone of insolence, a choleric tyranny, a brutal desire to rule, which terrified his gentle spirit.  At last, when only ten or twelve persons were left in the room, Birotteau resolved that the next time the outer door of the study turned on its hinges he would rise and face the great orator, and say to him, “I am Birotteau!” The grenadier who sprang first into the redoubt at Moscow displayed no greater courage than Cesar now summoned up to perform this act.

“After all, I am his mayor,” he said to himself as he rose to proclaim his name.

The countenance of Francois Keller at once became affable; he evidently desired to be cordial.  He glanced at Cesar’s red ribbon, and stepping back, opened the door of his study and motioned him to enter, remaining himself for some time to speak with two men, who rushed in from the staircase with the violence of a waterspout.

“Decazes wants to speak to you,” said one of them.

“It is a question of defeating the Pavillon Marsan!” cried the other.  “The King’s eyes are opened.  He is coming round to us.”