The house was still asleep.  As he was crossing the lofty rooms, filled with the vague light of a Parisian dawn (those blinds were never lowered, as no evening receptions were held there), the Nabob stopped, struck by the look of sad defilement his luxury wore.  In the heavy odour of tobacco and various liqueurs which hung over everything, the furniture, the ceilings, the woodwork could be seen, already faded and still new.  Spots on the crumpled satins, ashes staining the beautiful marbles, dirty footmarks on the carpets.  It reminded one of a huge first-class railway carriage incrusted with all the laziness, the impatience, the boredom of a long journey, and all the wasteful, spoiling disdain of the public for a luxury for which it has paid.  In the middle of this set scene, still warm from the atrocious comedy played there every day, his own image, reflected in twenty cold and staring looking-glasses, stood out before him, forbidding yet comical, in absolute contrast to his elegant clothes, his eyes swollen, his face bloated and inflamed.

What an obvious and disenchanting to-morrow to the mad life he was leading!

He lost himself for a moment in dreary thought; then he gave his shoulders a vigorous shake, a movement frequent with him—­it was like a peddler shifting his pack—­as though to rid himself of too cruel cares, and again took up the burden every man carried with him, which bows his back, more or less, according to his courage or his strength, and went into de Gery’s room, who was already up, standing at his desk sorting papers.

“First of all, my friend,” said Jansoulet, softly shutting the door for their interview, “answer me frankly.  Is it really for the motives given in your letter that you have resolved to leave me?  Is there not, beneath it all, one of those scandals that I know are being circulated in Paris against me?  I am sure you would be loyal enough to warn me and to give me the opportunity of—­of clearing myself to you.”

Paul assured him that he had no other reasons for going, but that those were surely sufficient, since it was a matter of conscience.

“Then, my boy, listen to me, and I am sure of keeping you.  Your letter, so eloquent of honesty and sincerity, has told me nothing that I have not been convinced of for three months.  Yes, my dear Paul, you were right.  Paris is more complicated than I thought.  What I needed, when I arrived, was an honest and disinterested cicerone to put me on my guard against people and things.  I met only swindlers.  Every worthless rascal in the town has left the mud of his boots on my carpets.  I was looking at them just now—­my poor drawing-rooms.  They need a fine sweeping out.  And I swear to you they shall have it, by God, and with no light hand!  But I must wait for that until I am a deputy.  All these scoundrels are of use to me for the election, and this election is far too necessary now for me to risk losing the smallest