He at once realised the inevitable consequences, the ministry overthrown and swept away by this fresh whirlwind of denunciation and tittle-tattle.
Mege would renew his interpellation on the morrow, and Vignon and his friends would at once lay siege to the posts they coveted.

And he, Monferrand, could picture himself driven out of that ministerial sanctum where, for eight months past, he had been taking his ease, not with any foolish vainglory, but with the pleasure of feeling that he was in his proper place as a born ruler, who believed he could tame and lead the multitude.
Having thrown the newspapers aside with a disdainful gesture, he rose and stretched himself, growling the while like a plagued lion.

And then he began to walk up and down the spacious room, which showed all the faded official luxury of mahogany furniture and green damask hangings.

Stepping to and fro, with his hands behind his back, he no longer wore his usual fatherly, good-natured air.

He appeared as he really was, a born wrestler, short, but broad shouldered, with sensual mouth, fleshy nose and stern eyes, that all proclaimed him to be unscrupulous, of iron will and fit for the greatest tasks.