All of the “beards” and “long-haired” men had taken unexpected paths.  But the politicians, above all, were astonishing in the variety of their destinies.  Among the cafe’s frequenters at the hour for absinthe one could count eight deputies, three ministers, two ambassadors, one treasurer, and thirty exiles at Noumea awaiting the long-expected amnesty.  The most interesting, everything considered, is that imbecile, that old fanatic of a Dubief, the man that never drank anything but sweetened water; for he, at least, was shot on the barricades by the Versaillese soldiers.

One person of whom the very thought disgusted the two friends was that jumping-jack of an Arthur Papillon.  Universal suffrage, with its accustomed intelligence, had not failed to elect this nonentity and bombastic fool, and to-day he flounders about like a fish out of water in the midst of this political cesspool.  Having been enriched by a large dowry, he has been by turns deputy, secretary, vice-president, president, head of committees, under secretary of State, in one word, everything that it was possible to be.  For the time being he rants against the clergy, and his wife, who is ugly, rich, and pious, has just put their little girl into the Oiseaux school.  He has not yet become minister, but rest assured he will reach that in time.  He is very vain, full of confidence in himself, not more honest than necessary, and very obtrusive.  Unless in the meantime they decide to establish a rotation providing that all the deputies be ministers by turns, Arthur Papillon is the inevitable, necessary man mentioned.  In such a case, this would be terrible, for his eloquence would flow in torrents, and he would be one of the most agitating of microbes in the parliamentary culture.

And Jocquelet?  Ah! the two friends only need to speak his name to burst into peals of laughter, for the illustrious actor now fills the universe with his glory and ridiculousness.  Jocquelet severed the chain some time ago which bound him to the Parisian theatres.  Like the tricolored flag, he has made the tour of Europe several times; like the English standard, he has crossed every ocean.  He is the modern Wandering Actor, and the capitals of the Old World and both Americas watch breathless with desire for him to deign to shower over them the manna of his monologues.  At Chicago, they detached his locomotive, and he intended, at the sight of this homage proportioned to his merits, to become a naturalized American citizen.  But they proposed a new tour for him in old Europe, and out of filial remembrance he consented to return once more among us.  As usual, he gathered a cartload of gold and laurels.  He was painfully surprised upon reaching Stockholm by water not to be greeted by the squadrons with volleys of artillery, as was once done in honor of a famous cantatrice.  Let Diplomacy look sharp!  Jocquelet is indifferent to the court of Sweden!