“I now know all,” said des Lupeaulx, when he was comfortably seated on a sofa at the corner of the fireplace, a cup of tea in his hand and Madame Rabourdin standing before him with a plate of sandwiches and some slices of cake very appropriately called “leaden cake.”  “Finot, my dear and witty friend, you can render a great service to our gracious queen by letting loose a few dogs upon the men we were talking of.  You have against you,” he said to Rabourdin, lowering his voice so as to be heard only by the three persons whom he addressed, “a set of usurers and priests—­money and the church.  The article in the liberal journal was instituted by an old money-lender to whom the paper was under obligations; but the young fellow who wrote it cares nothing about it.  The paper is about to change hands, and in three days more will be on our side.  The royalist opposition,—­for we have, thanks to Monsieur de Chateaubriand, a royalist opposition, that is to say, royalists who have gone over to the liberals,—­however, there’s no need to discuss political matters now,—­these assassins of Charles X. have promised me to support your appointment at the price of our acquiescence in one of their amendments.  All my batteries are manned.  If they threaten us with Baudoyer we shall say to the clerical phalanx, ’Such and such a paper and such and such men will attack your measures and the whole press will be against you’ (for even the ministerial journals which I influence will be deaf and dumb, won’t they, Finot?).  ’Appoint Rabourdin, a faithful servant, and public opinion is with you—­’”

“Hi, hi!” laughed Finot.

“So, there’s no need to be uneasy,” said des Lupeaulx.  “I have arranged it all to-night; the Grand Almoner must yield.”

“I would rather have had less hope, and you to dinner,” whispered Celestine, looking at him with a vexed air which might very well pass for an expression of wounded love.

“This must win my pardon,” he returned, giving her an invitation to the ministry for the following Tuesday.

Celestine opened the letter, and a flush of pleasure came into her face.  No enjoyment can be compared to that of gratified vanity.

“You know what the countess’s Tuesdays are,” said des Lupeaulx, with a confidential air.  “To the usual ministerial parties they are what the ‘Petit-Chateau’ is to a court ball.  You will be at the heart of power!  You will see there the Comtesse Feraud, who is still in favor notwithstanding Louis XVIII.’s death, Delphine de Nucingen, Madame de Listomere, the Marquise d’Espard, and your dear Firmiani; I have had her invited to give you her support in case the other women attempt to black-ball you.  I long to see you in the midst of them.”

Celestine threw up her head like a thoroughbred before the race, and re-read the invitation just as Baudoyer and Saillard had re-read the articles about themselves in the newspapers, without being able to quaff enough of it.