he felt for the government and did his duty.  Before and during the riot, he supported the dynasty, the product of July; but, as soon as the political trials began, he stood by the accused.  This innocent “weather-cockism” prevails in his political opinions; he produces, in reply to all arguments, the “colossus of the North.”  England is, to his thinking, as to that of the old “Constitutionnel,” a crone with two faces,—­Machiavellian Albion, and the model nation:  Machiavellian, when the interests of France and of Napoleon are concerned; the model nation when the faults of the government are in question.  He admits, with his chosen paper, the democratic element, but refuses in conversation all compact with the republican spirit.  The republican spirit to him means 1793, rioting, the Terror, and agrarian law.  The democratic element is the development of the lesser bourgeoisie, the reign of Phellions.

The worthy old man is always dignified; dignity serves to explain his life.  He has brought up his children with dignity; he has kept himself a father in their eyes; he insists on being honored in his home, just as he himself honors power and his superiors.  He has never made debts.  As a juryman his conscience obliges him to sweat blood and water in the effort to follow the debates of a trial; he never laughs, not even if the judge, and audience, and all the officials laugh.  Eminently useful, he gives his services, his time, everything—­except his money.  Felix Phellion, his son, the professor, is his idol; he thinks him capable of attaining to the Academy of Sciences.  Thuillier, between the audacious nullity of Minard, and the solid silliness of Phellion, was a neutral substance, but connected with both through his dismal experience.  He managed to conceal the emptiness of his brain by commonplace talk, just as he covered the yellow skin of his bald pate with thready locks of his gray hair, brought from the back of his head with infinite art by the comb of his hairdresser.

“In any other career,” he was wont to say, speaking of the government employ, “I should have made a very different fortune.”

He had seen the right, which is possible in theory and impossible in practice,—­results proving contrary to premises,—­and he related the intrigues and the injustices of the Rabourdin affair.

“After that, one can believe all, and believe nothing,” he would say.  “Ah! it is a queer thing, government!  I’m very glad not to have a son, and never to see him in the career of a place-hunter.”

Colleville, ever gay, rotund, and good-humored, a sayer of “quodlibets,” a maker of anagrams, always busy, represented the capable and bantering bourgeois, with faculty without success, obstinate toil without result; he was also the embodiment of jovial resignation, mind without object, art with usefulness, for, excellent musician that he was, he never played now except for his daughter.