Thereupon Clemence, who, lolling back against the partition, was rolling a cigarette between her long, slim fingers, replied in a sharp voice:  “Oh, it’s fair fighting!  We don’t hold the same political views, you know.  That fellow Manoury, who’s making no end of money, would lick the Emperor’s boots.  For my part, if I were an auctioneer, I wouldn’t keep him in my service for an hour.”

The truth was that she had been indulging in some clumsy pleasantry, amusing herself one day by inscribing in the sale-book, alongside of the dabs and skate and mackerel sold by auction, the names of some of the best-known ladies and gentlemen of the Court.  This bestowal of piscine names upon high dignitaries, these entries of the sale of duchesses and baronesses at thirty sous apiece, had caused Monsieur Manoury much alarm.  Gavard was still laughing over it.

“Well, never mind!” said he, patting Clemence’s arm; “you are every inch a man, you are!”

Clemence had discovered a new method of mixing her grog.  She began by filling her glass with hot water; and after adding some sugar she poured the rum drop by drop upon the slice of lemon floating on the surface, in such wise that it did not mix with the water.  Then she lighted it and with a grave expression watched it blaze, slowly smoking her cigarette while the flame of the alcohol cast a greenish tinge over her face.  “Grog,” however, was an expensive luxury in which she could not afford to indulge after she had lost her place.  Charvet told her, with a strained laugh, that she was no longer a millionaire.  She supported herself by giving French lessons, at a very early hour in the morning, to a young lady residing in the Rue de Miromesnil, who was perfecting her education in secrecy, unknown even to her maid.  And so now Clemence merely ordered a glass of beer in the evenings, but this she drank, it must be admitted, with the most philosophical composure.

The evenings in the little sanctum were now far less noisy than they had been.  Charvet would suddenly lapse into silence, pale with suppressed rage, when the others deserted him to listen to his rival.  The thought that he had been the king of the place, had ruled the whole party with despotic power before Florent’s appearance there, gnawed at his heart, and he felt all the regretful pangs of a dethroned monarch.  If he still came to the meetings, it was only because he could not resist the attraction of the little room where he had spent so many happy hours in tyrannising over Gavard and Robine.  In those days even Logre’s hump had been his property, as well as Alexandre’s fleshy arms and Lacaille’s gloomy face.  He had done what he liked with them, stuffed his opinions down their throats, belaboured their shoulders with his sceptre.  But now he endured much bitterness of spirit; and ended by quite ceasing to speak, simply shrugging his shoulders and whistling disdainfully, without condescending to combat the absurdities vented in his presence.  What exasperated him more than anything else was the gradual way in which he had been ousted from his position of predominance without being conscious of it.  He could not see that Florent was in any way his superior, and after hearing the latter speak for hours, in his gentle and somewhat sad voice, he often remarked:  “Why, the fellow’s a parson!  He only wants a cassock!”