Baskets of bread went round and
were promptly emptied. And there was a perfect massacre of cold meats,
all the remnants of the victuals of the day before, leg of mutton, veal,
and ham, encompassed by a fallen mass of transparent jelly which quivered
like soft glue. They had all eaten too much already, but these viands
seemed to whet their appetites afresh, as though the idea had come to
them that nothing whatever ought to be left. The fat priest in the middle
of the table, who had shown himself such a capital knife-and-fork, was
now lingering over the fruit, having just got to his third peach, a huge
one, which he slowly peeled and swallowed in slices with an air of
compunction.
All at once, however, the whole room was thrown into agitation. A waiter
had come in and begun distributing the letters which Madame Majeste had
finished sorting. "Hallo!" exclaimed M. Vigneron; "a letter for me! This
is surprising--I did not give my address to anybody." Then, at a sudden
recollection, he added, "Yes I did, though; this must have come from
Sauvageot, who is filling my place at the Ministry." He opened the
letter, his hands began to tremble, and suddenly he raised a cry: "The
chief clerk is dead!"
Deeply agitated, Madame Vigneron was also unable to bridle her tongue:
"Then you will have the appointment!"
This was the secret dream in which they had so long and so fondly
indulged: the chief clerk's death, in order that he, Vigneron, assistant
chief clerk for ten years past, might at last rise to the supreme post,
the bureaucratic marshalship.
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