ter all, I triumph, that is certain!--That animal of a Jeliotte
is not such a simpleton!--There are many who, if they were in my place,
would swagger!"

So he complacently awarded himself a patent of modesty.

The carriage stopped at the foot of the steps of the Elysee. Sulpice
always felt an exquisite joy in alighting from his carriage, his
portfolio pressed to his side, and leaping over the carpet-covered steps
of the stone staircase leading to the Council Chambers. He passed
through them, as he did everywhere, between rows of spectators who
respectfully bowed to him. Devoted friends extended their hands
respectfully toward his overcoat. Certainly, he only knew the men by
their heads, bald or crowned with locks, as the case might be. His
colleagues were gathered together, awaiting him, and chatting in the
salon, decorated in white and gold, the invariable salon of official
apartments with the inevitable Sevres vases with deep-blue, light-green
or buff color grounds, placed upon consoles or pedestals. The portfolios
appeared stuffed or empty, limp or bursting with paper bundles, under
the arms of their Excellencies. Suddenly a door was opened, the ushers
fell back and the President approached, looking very serious and taking
his accustomed place opposite to the President of the Council with the
formality of an orderly, the Minister of the Interior on the left of the
President of the Republic, with the Minister of Foreign Affairs on the
right.

Then, in turn, each minister, beginning at the right, reported the
business of his department, sometimes debated in private council. Each
having completed his information, bowed to his neighbor on the right,
and said:

"I have finished. It is your turn, my dear colleague."

The President listened. Sulpice sometimes allowed himself to muse while
seated at this green-covered table, forgetting altogether the affairs
under consideration. Sometimes he recalled those green-covered tables of
the Council Chambers of the Grenoble Prefecture, finding that this
Ministerial Council recalled the mean impression invoked by his
provincial recollections, at other times, a vein of poesy would flit
across his mind, or an eloquent word would reach his ear, suggesting to
him the thought that, after all, these men seated there before their
open portfolios, turning over or scattering about the papers,
nevertheless represented cherished France and held in their leather
pouches the secrets, the de