he third class!

He had already been informed at the Elysee that Granet was to be his
successor. _Parbleu!_ he expected it! But the realization of his fears
annoyed him. And who would Granet keep for his Secretary of State?
Warcolier, yes Warcolier, with the promise of giving him the first
vacant portfolio.

"How correct was Ramel's judgment?" thought Sulpice.

Vaudrey, with a sort of rage urging him, immediately set himself about a
task as mournful as a funeral: packing up. It now seemed to him that he
had just suffered a total overthrow. Books and papers were being packed
in baskets. Before he was certain of his fall, he thought it was
delightful to escape from so much daily bother, but now he felt as if he
were being discrowned and ruined. Ruin! It truly threatened him indeed
and held him by the throat. He had realized on many pieces of property
within the past year for Marianne!

Adrienne, on the contrary, left this great cold hotel of Place Beauvau,
as if she were leaving a prison, with a comforting sense of deliverance.
A bad dream was ended. She could lay down her official mask, weep at
ease, complain at will, fly to that Dauphiny where her youth was left.
She would leave to-morrow. Doctor Reboux awaited her in ignorance.

After having given his first orders and arranged his most important
documents, Sulpice went out to walk to Marianne's. At first he wandered
along mechanically without realizing that he was going toward the quays,
almost fearing the interview with his mistress, now that he was only a
defeated man. He had nearly reached the Seine before he was aware of it.
He looked at his watch.

Eleven o'clock.

Marianne had been awaiting him for some time.

He now followed, with the slow march of persons oppressed with a sense
of weariness, these deserted quays, that terrace on the bank of the
river, whose balustrades permitted glimpses of the silhouettes of
slender trees. He met no one. Upon the Place de la Concorde, still wet
with the scarce dried rain of this November night, as mild as an evening
in spring, permeated by a warm mist, he looked for a moment at the
Palace of the Corps Legislatif, gloomy-looking and outlining its roofs
against the misty sky, whose gleams fell on the horizon with a bluish
tint, while upon the broad sidewalks, the jets of gas magnified the
reddened reflections with their own ruddy hues. Along the grand avenue
of the Champs-Elysees there were only two immense parallel row