'Of course; I have been reading the papers,' replied the ex-sub-prefect, with a smile which revealed his irregular white teeth. 'You knew very well I was there; you saw me when you came in.' This audacious falsehood cut all explanation short. The two men looked at each other for some moments in silence. Then, as Rougon seemed to consult him with his eyes, and again went towards the writing-table, Du Poizat made a little gesture, which plainly signified: 'Wait a minute; there is no hurry. We must consider matters.' Not a word was exchanged between them, they both went back to the drawing-room. Such an angry dispute had broken out that evening between the colonel and M. Bouchard, on the subject of the Orleans Princes and the Count de Chambord, that they had banged their cards down, and sworn that they would never play with each other again. And then with glowering eyes they had seated themselves on either side of the fire-place. However, when Rougon returned, they were once more making friends by loudly singing the great man's praises: that being the one subject on which they could agree. 'Oh, I feel no constraint about it; I say it before his face,' the colonel continued. 'There is no one to equal him at the present time.' 'We are speaking ill of you, you hear,' said M. Bouchard, with a cunning smile. Then the conversation went on: 'A brain far above the average.' 'A man of action, who has the _coup d'œil_ of born conquerors.' 'Ah! France wants his help sadly just now.' 'Yes, indeed. He could do something to get us out of the mess. He is the only man who can save the Empire.' As Rougon heard this his shoulders bent, and he affected a surly air by way of modesty. Such incense was, however, extremely pleasant to him. His vanity was never so delightfully titillated as when the colonel and M. Bouchard bandied laudatory phrases like these about for a whole evening. They talked a great deal of obvious nonsense, and their faces wore gravely ridiculous expressions; but the more they grovelled in their language the more did Rougon enjoy hearing their monotonous voices as they sang his praises and lavished altogether inapplicable commendation upon him. He sometimes made fun of them when they were not there, but, for all that, his pride and craving for power found gratification in their eulogies. They formed, as it were, a dunghill of praise in which his huge frame could wallow at its ease. 'No, no; I am only a weak sort of man,' he said, shaking his head. 'If I were really all that you believe----'