from any attempt.  It was not known at Plassans what had become of him in Paris, what he was doing there.  On his return to his native place, folks found him less heavy and somnolent than formerly.  They surrounded him and endeavoured to make him speak out concerning the political situation.  But he feigned ignorance and compelled them to talk.  A little perspicacity would have detected that beneath his apparent unconcern there was great anxiety with regard to the political opinions of the town.  However, he seemed to be sounding the ground more on behalf of a party than on his own account.

Although he had renounced all hope for himself, he remained at Plassans until the end of the month, assiduously attending the meetings in the yellow drawing-room.  As soon as the bell rang, announcing the first visitor, he would take up his position in one of the window recesses as far as possible from the lamp.  And he remained there the whole evening, resting his chin on the palm of his right hand, and listening religiously.  The greatest absurdities did not disturb his equanimity.  He nodded approval even to the wild grunts of Granoux.  When anyone asked him his own opinion, he politely repeated that of the majority.  Nothing seemed to tire his patience, neither the hollow dreams of the marquis, who spoke of the Bourbons as if 1815 were a recent date, nor the effusions of citizen Roudier, who grew quite pathetic when he recounted how many pairs of socks he had supplied to the citizen king, Louis Philippe.  On the contrary, he seemed quite at his ease in this Tower of Babel.  Sometimes, when these grotesque personages were storming against the Republic, his eyes would smile, while his lips retained their expression of gravity.  His meditative manner of listening, and his invariable complacency, had earned him the sympathy of everyone.  He was considered a nonentity, but a very decent fellow.  Whenever an old oil or almond dealer failed to get a hearing, amidst the clamour, for some plan by which he could save France if he were only a master, he took himself off to Eugene and shouted his marvellous suggestions in his ear.  And Eugene gently nodded his head, as though delighted with the grand projects he was listening to.  Vuillet, alone, regarded him with a suspicious eye.  This bookseller, half-sacristan and half-journalist, spoke less than the others, but was more observant.  He had noticed that Eugene occasionally conversed at times in a corner with Commander Sicardot.  So he determined to watch them, but never succeeded in overhearing a word.  Eugene silenced the commander by a wink whenever Vuillet approached them.  From that time, Sicardot never spoke of the Napoleons without a mysterious smile.