entire evenings in the yellow drawing-room, and devoting himself to those same grotesque personages whom he, Aristide, had so mercilessly ridiculed.  When he discovered from the gossip of the town that his brother shook hands with Granoux and the marquis, he asked himself, with considerable anxiety, what was the meaning of it?  Could he himself have been deceived?  Had the Legitimists or the Orleanists really any chance of success?  The thought terrified him.  He lost his equilibrium, and, as frequently happens, he fell upon the Conservatives with increased rancour, as if to avenge his own blindness.

On the evening prior to the day when he stopped Eugene on the Cours Sauvaire, he had published, in the “Independant,” a terrible article on the intrigues of the clergy, in response to a short paragraph from Vuillet, who had accused the Republicans of desiring to demolish the churches.  Vuillet was Aristide’s bugbear.  Never a week passed but these two journalists exchanged the greatest insults.  In the provinces, where a periphrastic style is still cultivated, polemics are clothed in high-sounding phrases.  Aristide called his adversary “brother Judas,” or “slave of Saint-Anthony.”  Vuillet gallantly retorted by terming the Republican “a monster glutted with blood whose ignoble purveyor was the guillotine.”

In order to sound his brother, Aristide, who did not dare to appear openly uneasy, contented himself with asking:  “Did you read my article yesterday?  What do you think of it?”

Eugene lightly shrugged his shoulders.  “You’re a simpleton, brother,” was his sole reply.

“Then you think Vuillet right?” cried the journalist, turning pale; “you believe in Vuillet’s triumph?”

“I!—­Vuillet——­”

He was certainly about to add, “Vuillet is as big a fool as you are.”  But, observing his brother’s distorted face anxiously extended towards him, he experienced sudden mistrust.  “Vuillet has his good points,” he calmly replied.

On parting from his brother, Aristide felt more perplexed than before.  Eugene must certainly have been making game of him, for Vuillet was really the most abominable person imaginable.  However, he determined to be prudent and not tie himself down any more; for he wished to have his hands free should he ever be called upon to help any party in strangling the Republic.

Eugene, on the morning of his departure, an hour before getting into the diligence, took his father into the bedroom and had a long conversation with him.  Felicite, who remained in the drawing-room, vainly tried to catch what they were saying.  They spoke in whispers, as if they feared lest a single word should be heard outside.  When at last they quitted the bedroom they seemed in high spirits.  After kissing his father and mother, Eugene, who usually spoke in a drawling tone, exclaimed with vivacity:  “You have understood me, father?  There lies our fortune.  We must work with all our energy in that direction.  Trust in me.”