with our choice; I can assure you of that,” said Minard, pompously.
“Gentlemen,” said la Peyrade, “will you permit a recent dweller in the faubourg Saint-Jacques to make one little remark, which is not without importance?”
The consciousness that everybody had of the sterling merits of the advocate of the poor produced the deepest silence.
“The influence of Monsieur le maire of an adjoining arrondissement, which is immense in ours where he has left such excellent memories; that of Monsieur Phellion, the oracle—yes, let the truth be spoken,” he exclaimed, noticing a gesture made by Phellion—“the oracle of his battalion; the influence, no less powerful, which Monsieur Colleville owes to the frank heartiness of his manner, and to his urbanity; that of Monsieur Dutocq, the clerk of the justice court, which will not be less efficacious, I am sure; and the poor efforts which I can offer in my humble sphere of activity—are pledges of success, but they are not success itself. To obtain a rapid triumph we should pledge ourselves, now and here, to keep the deepest secrecy on the manifestation of sentiments which has just taken place. Otherwise, we should excite, without knowing or willing it, envy and all the other secondary passions, which would create for us later various obstacles to overcome. The political meaning of the new social organization, its very basis, its token, and the guarantee for its continuance, are in a certain sharing of the governing power with the middle classes, classes who are the true strength of modern societies, the centre of morality, of all good sentiments and intelligent work. But we cannot conceal from ourselves that the principle of election, extended now to almost every function, has brought the interests of ambition, and the passion for being something, excuse the word, into social depths where they ought never to have penetrated. Some see good in this; others see evil; it is not my place to judge between them in presence of minds before whose eminence I bow. I content myself by simply suggesting this question in order to show the dangers which the banner of our friend must meet. See for yourselves! the decease of our late honorable representative in the municipal council dates back scarcely one week, and already the arrondissement is being canvassed by inferior ambitions. Such men put themselves forward to be seen at any price. The writ of convocation will, probably, not take effect for a month to come. Between now and then, imagine the intrigues! I entreat you not to expose our friend Thuillier to the blows of his competitors; let us not deliver him over to public discussion, that modern harpy which is but the trumpet of envy and calumny, the pretext seized by malevolence to belittle all that is great, soil all that is immaculate and dishonor whatever is sacred. Let us, rather, do as the Third Party is now doing in the Chamber—keep silence and vote!”
“He speaks well,” said Phellion to his neighbor Dutocq.
“And how strong the statement is!”
Envy had turned Minard and his son green and yellow.
“That is well said and very true,” remarked Minard.
“Unanimously adopted!” cried Colleville. “Messieurs, we are men of honor; it suffices to understand each other on this point.”
“Whoso desires the end accepts the means,” said Phellion, emphatically.
At this moment, Mademoiselle Thuillier reappeared, followed by her two servants; the key of the cellar was hanging from her belt, and three bottles of champagne, three of hermitage, and one bottle of malaga were placed upon the table. She herself was carrying, with almost respectful care, a smaller bottle, like a fairy Carabosse, which she placed before her. In the midst of the hilarity caused by this abundance of excellent things—a fruit of gratitude, which the poor spinster in the delirium of her joy poured out with a profusion which put to shame the sparing hospitality of her usual fortnightly dinners—numerous dessert dishes made their appearance: mounds of almonds, raisins, figs, and nuts (popularly known as the “four beggars”), pyramids of oranges, confections, crystallized fruits, brought from the hidden depths of her cupboards, which would never have figured on the table-cloth had it not been for the “candidacy.”
“Celeste, they will bring you a bottle of brandy which my father obtained in 1802; make an orange-salad!” cried Brigitte to her sister-in-law. “Monsieur Phellion, open the champagne; that bottle is for you three. Monsieur Dutocq, take this one. Monsieur Colleville, you know how to pop corks!”
The two maids distributed champagne glasses, also claret glasses, and wine glasses. Josephine also brought three more bottles of Bordeaux.
“The year of the comet!” cried Thuillier, laughing, “Messieurs, you have turned my sister’s head.”
“And this evening you shall have punch and cakes,” she said. “I have sent to the chemists for some tea. Heavens! if I had only known the affair concerned an election,” she cried, looking at her sister-in-law, “I’d have served the turkey.”
A general laugh welcomed this speech.
“We have a goose!” said Minard junior.
“The carts are unloading!” cried Madame Thuillier, as “marrons glaces” and “meringues” were placed upon the table.
Mademoiselle Thuillier’s face was blazing. She was really superb to behold. Never did sisterly love assume such a frenzied expression.
“To those who know her, it is really touching,” remarked Madame Colleville.
The glasses were filled. The guests all looked at one another, evidently expecting a toast, whereupon la Peyrade said:—
“Messieurs, let us drink to something sublime.”
Everybody looked curious.
“To Mademoiselle Brigitte!”
They all rose, clinked glasses, and cried with one voice, “Mademoiselle Brigitte!” so much enthusiasm did the exhibition of a true feeling excite.
“Messieurs,” said Phellion, reading from a paper written in pencil, “To work and its splendors, in the person of our former comrade, now become one of the mayors of Paris—to Monsieur Minard and his wife!”
After five minutes’ general conversation Thuillier rose and said:—
“Messieurs, To the King and the royal family! I add nothing; the toast says all.”
“To the election of my brother!” said Mademoiselle Thuillier a moment later.
“Now I’ll make you laugh,” whispered la Peyrade in Flavie’s ear.
And he rose.
“To Woman!” he said; “that enchanting sex to whom we owe our happiness—not to speak of our mothers, our sisters, and our wives!”
This toast excited general hilarity, and Colleville, already somewhat gay, exclaimed:—
“Rascal! you have stolen my speech!”
The mayor then rose; profound silence reigned.
“Messieurs, our institutions! from which come the strength and grandeur of dynastic France!”
The bottles disappeared amid a chorus of admiration as to the marvellous goodness and delicacy of their contents.
Celeste Colleville here said timidly:—
“Mamma,
