"Why, what would you have? Why didn't he write operettas?" They parted after exchanging almost an ordinary grasp of the hand, though, perhaps, somewhat sad. Sulpice wished to cast a last look at Rosas's box. Marianne was standing, her outline clearly defined against the brightly-lighted background of the box. She was holding a saucer in her hand, eating an ice. He saw her once more as she stood near the buffet at Madame Marsy's, stirring her sherbet, a silver-gilt spoon smoothly gliding over her tongue. He closed his eyes, and with a nervous start quickly descended the grand stairway, where he found himself alone. In order to forget Marianne, he turned his thoughts to Ramel. Denis had been suffering for a long time. He smiled as he felt the hour of his departure draw near. He wished to disappear without stir, and in a civil way as he said, without attracting attention, _a l'Anglaise_. Poor man! his wish was accomplished. Vaudrey threw himself into a carriage and was driven to Batignolles. On the way he thought of the eternal antitheses of Parisian life: the news of the death of a friend communicated to him at the Opera while a waltz-tune was being played! And thinking to himself: "_From the Opera to the Opera!_ That, moreover, is the history of my ministry--and that of the Granet administration, probably!" The portress at Rue Boursault led him to Denis Ramel's apartment. Lying on his bed with a kindly smile on his face, the old journalist seemed as if asleep. The cold majesty of death gave a look of power to his face. One might almost believe at times, from the scintillating light placed near his bony brow, that its rigid muscles moved. Denis Ramel! the sure guide of his youth and his counsellor through life! He recalled his entry on public life, his arrival in Paris, the first articles brought into the old editorial rooms of the _Nation Francaise_! If for a moment he had been one of the heads of the State, it was due to the man stretched out before him now! He gently stooped over the corpse and pressed a farewell kiss on the dead man's brow. As he turned round, he saw a man whom he had not at first seen and who had risen. The man was very pale and greeted him with a timid air. Vaudrey recognized Garnier, the man whom he had seen previously at Ramel's, a cough-racked, patient, dying man. The consumptive had nevertheless outlived the old man. "It is good of you to have come, monsieur," said the workman. "He loved you dearly." "He died suddenly then?" "Yes, and quite alone, while reading a book. He was found thus. They thought he was sleeping. It is all over, he is to be buried to-morrow. Will you come, monsieur?--I did not know who you were when--you know--I said--In fact, it is kind--let us say no more about it--I beg your pardon--There will be a vast gathering at Denis Ramel's funeral, if there are present only a quarter of those whom he has obliged."