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.
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