use? And this devilish Rosas, who is mad enough over her to tie himself
to her and to overlook everything he ought to know, would be capable of
marrying her all the same! Much good may it do him!"

"But, tell me," continued Lissac, whose cutting tone suddenly became
serious, "have you read the paper?"

"No! What is there in it?"

They were then in the corridor of the Opera, and heard the prelude to
the curtain-raising. Guy took the _Soir_ from his pocket and handed it
to Vaudrey:

"Here, see!--That poor Ramel!--You were very fond of him, were you not?"

"Ramel!"

Vaudrey had no need to read. He knew everything as soon as Guy showed
him the paper and mentioned Denis's name in a mournful tone.

Dead!--He died peacefully in his armchair near the window, as if falling
asleep.--"The death is announced," so read the paragraph, "of one of the
oldest members of the Parisian press, Monsieur Denis Ramel, who was
formerly a celebrated man and for a long time directed the _Nation
Francaise_, once an important journal, now no longer in existence."--Not
a word beyond the brief details of his death. No word of praise or
regret, merely the commonplace statement of a fact. Vaudrey thought it
was a trifling notice for a man who had held so large a place in the
public eye.

"What do you think of it?" he said to Lissac. "People are ungrateful."

"Why, what would you have? Why didn't he write operettas?"

They parted after exchanging almost an ordinary grasp of the hand,
though, perhaps, somewhat sad. Sulpice wished to cast a last look at
Rosas's box. Marianne was standing, her outline clearly defined against
the brightly-lighted background of the box. She was holding a saucer in
her hand, eating an ice. He saw her once more as she stood near the
buffet at Madame Marsy's, stirring her sherbet, a silver-gilt spoon
smoothly gliding over her tongue. He closed his eyes, and with a nervous
start quickly descended the grand stairway, where he found himself
alone.

In order to forget Marianne, he turned his thoughts to Ramel.

Denis had been suffering for a long time. He smiled as he felt the hour
of his departure draw near. He wished to disappear without stir, and in
a civil way as he said, without attracting attention, _a l'Anglaise_.
Poor man! his wish was accomplished.

Vaudrey threw himself into a carriage and was driven to Batignolles. On
the way he thought of the eternal antitheses of Parisian life: the news
of the death of