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As you are his direct superior, I permit myself to notify you of his conduct, etc., etc. You laugh?" said Warcolier, seeing that a smile was spreading over Vaudrey's blond-bearded face. "Yes, it is so odd! Your correspondent is evidently ignorant that there are only Under-Secretaries of State in the administration! unless this innocent is but simply an insolent fellow."
He wished to make some reply; but this title used by the young girl, ignorant of the political change, grated on his heart like the scratching of a nail and he saw on the other side of the stage, reaching the house by the communicating door, Lucien Granet, surrounded by his staff, and followed by the eternal cortége of powerful ones, among whom Warcolier was talking loudly, and Molina the Tumbler was recognizable by his enormous paunch and loud laugh.
He had seen, at too close quarters, the vile intrigues, the depressing chafferings, the grinding of that political kitchen in which so many people, this Warcolier with his voluble rhetoric, this Granet with his conceited smile of superiority, were hungering to hold the handle of the saucepan.
"I know that very well, but isn't Monsieur Warcolier there? In what way does he help you?" "In no way," replied the minister sharply, speaking with truth. Public affairs, in fact, absorbed him, and he found it necessary to steal the precious time to make a hasty trip to Rue Prony. A vacation, it is true, was near. In less than a month, Vaudrey would have more time at his disposal.
He felt a friendly tap on the shoulder as he was moving away, and turning around he saw Warcolier who, having seen him in the distance, doubtless came to him to enjoy the simple pleasure of treating him patronizingly, he who had so long called him Monsieur le Ministre.
Always the eternal pile of despatches, optimistic reports, and banal summaries of the daily press. Nothing new, nothing interesting, all was going well. This tired world had no history. The minister still remained there, absorbed as after an unhealthy insomnia, when Warcolier entered, ever serious, with his splendid, redundant phrases and his usual attitude of a pedantic rhetor.
This shower of begging-missives nauseated the minister to such an extent that he endeavored to arrest the stream, ordering Warcolier, the Under Secretary of State, to be called and requesting him to reply to the deputies, to the senators, to everybody, in fact: that he had no influence to use, that the era of favoritism was over; that he, Vaudrey, understood that only merit would receive official gifts.
"Let Granet interpellate us when he pleases In eight days, to-morrow, yes, to-day even, I am ready!" "Interpellate us!" thought Warcolier. "You should say, interpellate you." He had already got out of the scrape himself. Vaudrey debated with himself as to whether he would try to see Adrienne. No? What should he say to her? It would be better to let a little time shed its balm upon the wound.
He left Vaudrey out of humor, and very much disgusted at finding that Warcolier had already exploited the field. In truth, Vaudrey liked Warcolier as little as he did Granet. Warcolier took life easily. He was naturally of a contented disposition. He liked people who were easily pleased. An Imperialist under the Empire, he was now a Republican under the Republic.
Warcolier's intelligent smile was not understood by the minister. Sulpice, who was in despair over his shattered domestic joys, had no wish to enter on a struggle except to bring about a reaction on himself. To hold his own against Granet, was to divert his own present sadness. "All right," he said to Warcolier.
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