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Updated: May 9, 2025
All that Ramel made went into his mistress's hands, and when he felt that his last hour was approaching, and that there was no hope of his recovery in full possession of his faculties and joy in his dull eyes he gave his name to Pepa, and made her his lawful widow, in the presence of all his friends.
"You ask for the truth Listen a moment, a single moment," Ramel whispered in the ear of the minister. Without mentioning Sulpice's name, he began to question Garnier, who grew bolder and talked and gossiped, his cheek-bones now and then heightened in color by small, pink spots. "Well! Garnier, about the work? Oh! you may speak before monsieur, it interests him."
For the first time in his life Ramel remarked that there were some lips that were more desirable, more smiling than others, that there was hair in which it must be delicious to bury the fingers like in fine silk, and which it must be delightful to kiss, and that there were eyes which contained an infinitude of caresses, and he had spelled right through the eclogue, which at length revealed true happiness to him, and he had had a child, a son, by her.
He wandered from group to group to find some one with whom to exchange ideas but he hardly found anyone besides Denis Ramel.
One fine day, I shall be found sleeping somewhere, here in my armchair, or in my bed, suddenly, or perhaps after a long illness this would weary me, as a lingering illness is repugnant to me and you will read in one or two journals a short paragraph announcing that the obsequies of Monsieur Denis Ramel, one-time editor of a host of democratic newspapers, a celebrated man in his day, but little known recently, will take place on such a day at such an hour.
It was he who formerly, in the journalistic days, and at the time of the battles fought in the Nation Française, had called Denis "a conscience in a dress-coat." Therefore, since he had an afternoon to spare, he would call on Ramel. He was determined to show him that he would never preserve the dignity of a minister with him.
At the mention of Vaudrey's name, Ramel wished to make a sign to this man, but Sulpice had just seized the hand of his old friend and pressed it as if to entreat him not to interrupt the conversation. The voice that he heard, interrupted by a cough, was the voice of a workman and he did not hear such every day.
That dreadful, black conveyance without any drapery, without plumes and without flowers, which was followed by Ministers and deputies, by several regiments with their bands, and their flags flying above the helmets and the sabers, by children from the national schools, by delegates from the provinces, and an innumerable crowd of men in blouses, of women, of shop-keepers from every quarter, had a most theatrical effect, and while standing on the steps of the Pantheon, at the foot of the massive columns of the portico, the orators successively discanted on his apotheosis, tried to make their voices predominate over the noise, emphasized their pompous periods, and finished the performance by a poor third act, which makes people yawn and gradually empties the theater, people remembered who that man had been, on whom such posthumous honors were being bestowed, and who was having such a funeral: it was Jean Ramel.
The ideal sought was the same, but the temperaments were different. Ramel, although he had known them, had for a long time avoided those excitements of struggle and power that inflamed Vaudrey's blood. "It was a glorious day when my pulse became regulated," he said. "Experience brought me the needed tonic." Denis Ramel was a wise man.
Everything whirled about within his brain, he thought he still heard Denis Ramel talking to him, and in a twinkling, Marianne's smiling face appeared, and with a kiss she interrupted the old journalist's sallies, and Sulpice saw her, too, as it were half-fainting, through the window of her fiacre, like a pastel half-hidden beneath the glass.
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