l, Sarigues in their way, two or three of them
being absolutely broken down, stricken by partial paralysis. So much
assurance, such great eloquence, had moved them to enthusiasm.

When Jansoulet issued from the legislative assembly, reconducted to
his carriage by his grateful colleague, it was about six o'clock.
The splendid weather--a beautiful sunset over the Seine, which lay
stretching away like molten gold on the Trocadero side--was a temptation
to a walk for this robust plebeian, on whom it was imposed by the
conventions that he should ride in a carriage and wear gloves, but who
escaped such encumbrances as often as he possibly could. He dismissed
his servants, and, with his portfolio under his arm, set forth across
the Pont de la Concorde.

Since the first of May he had not experienced such a sense of
well-being. With rolling gait, hat a little to the back of his head,
in the position in which he had seen it worn by overworked politicians
harassed by pressure of business, allowing all the laborious fever
of their brain to evaporate in the coolness of the air, as a factory
discharges its steam into the gutter at the end of a day's work, he
moved forward among other figures like his own, evidently coming
too from that colonnaded temple which faces the Madeleine above the
fountains of the _Place_. As they passed, people turned to look after
them, saying, "Those are deputies." And Jansoulet felt the delight of a
child, a plebeian joy, compounded of ignorance and naive vanity.

"Ask for the _Messenger_, evening edition."

The words came from a newspaper kiosk at the corner of the bridge, full
at that hour of fresh printed sheets in heaps, which two women were
quickly folding, and which smelt of the damp press--late news, the
success of the day or its scandal.

Nearly all the deputies bought a copy as they passed, and glanced over
it quickly in the hope of finding their name. Jansoulet, for his part,
feared to see his in it and did not stop. Then suddenly he reflected:
"Must not a public man be above these weaknesses? I am strong enough now
to read everything." He retraced his steps and took a newspaper like
his colleagues. He opened it, very calmly, right at the place usually
occupied by Moessard's articles. As it happened, there was one. Still
the same title: "_Chinoiseries_," and an _M._ for signature.

"Ah! ah!" said the public man, firm and cold as marble, with a fine
smile of disdain. Mora's lesson still run