He was so elated with pride at first that he lost his head.  He would walk through the streets just to show himself off, as though one could tell by his appearance what position he occupied.  He managed to say to the shopkeepers as soon as he entered a store, bringing it in somehow in the course of the most insignificant remarks and even to the news vendors and the cabmen: 

“I, who am a state councillor—­”

Then, in consequence of his position as well as for professional reasons and as in duty bound through being an influential and generous man, he felt an imperious need of patronizing others.  He offered his support to every one on all occasions and with unbounded generosity.

When he met any one he recognized on the boulevards he would advance to meet them with a charmed air, would take their hand, inquire after their health, and, without waiting for any questions, remark: 

“You know I am state councillor, and I am entirely at your service.  If I can be of any use to you, do not hesitate to call on me.  In my position one has great influence.”

Then he would go into some cafe with the friend he had just met and ask for a pen and ink and a sheet of paper.  “Just one, waiter; it is to write a letter of recommendation.”

And he wrote ten, twenty, fifty letters of recommendation a day.  He wrote them to the Cafe Americain, to Bignon’s, to Tortoni’s, to the Maison Doree, to the Cafe Riche, to the Helder, to the Cafe Anglais, to the Napolitain, everywhere, everywhere.  He wrote them to all the officials of the republican government, from the magistrates to the ministers.  And he was happy, perfectly happy.

One morning as he was starting out to go to the council it began to rain.  He hesitated about taking a cab, but decided not to do so and set out on foot.

The rain came down in torrents, swamping the sidewalks and inundating the streets.  M. Marin was obliged to take shelter in a doorway.  An old priest was standing there—­an old priest with white hair.  Before he became a councillor M. Marin did not like the clergy.  Now he treated them with consideration, ever since a cardinal had consulted him on an important matter.  The rain continued to pour down in floods and obliged the two men to take shelter in the porter’s lodge so as to avoid getting wet.  M. Marin, who was always itching to talk so as to let people know who he was, remarked: 

“This is horrible weather, Monsieur l’Abbe.”

The old priest bowed: 

“Yes indeed, sir, it is very unpleasant when one comes to Paris for only a few days.”

“Ah!  You come from the provinces?”

“Yes, monsieur.  I am only passing through on my journey.”

“It certainly is very disagreeable to have rain during the few days one spends in the capital.  We officials who stay here the year round, we think nothing of it.”

The priest did not reply.  He was looking at the street where the rain seemed to be falling less heavily.  And with a sudden resolve he raised his cassock just as women raise their skirts in stepping across water.