Des Lupeaulx returned to the salon and found Madame Rabourdin sailing with the wind of success, and very charming; while his Excellency, usually so gloomy, showed a smooth and gracious countenance.

“She performs miracles,” thought des Lupeaulx.  “What a wonderfully clever woman!  I must get to the bottom of her heart.”

“Your little lady is decidedly handsome,” said the Marquise to the secretary; “now if she only had your name.”

“Yes, her defect is that she is the daughter of an auctioneer.  She will fail for want of birth,” replied des Lupeaulx, with a cold manner that contrasted strangely with the ardor of his remarks about Madame Rabourdin not half an hour earlier.

The marquise looked at him fixedly.

“The glance you gave them did not escape me,” she said, motioning towards the minister and Madame Rabourdin; “it pierced the mask of your spectacles.  How amusing you both are, to quarrel over that bone!”

As the marquise turned to leave the room the minister joined her and escorted her to the door.

“Well,” said des Lupeaulx to Madame Rabourdin, “what do you think of his Excellency?”

“He is charming.  We must know these poor ministers to appreciate them,” she added, slightly raising her voice so as to be heard by his Excellency’s wife.  “The newspapers and the opposition calumnies are so misleading about men in politics that we are all more or less influenced by them; but such prejudices turn to the advantage of statesmen when we come to know them personally.”

“He is very good-looking,” said des Lupeaulx.

“Yes, and I assure you he is quite lovable,” she said, heartily.

“Dear child,” said des Lupeaulx, with a genial, caressing manner; “you have actually done the impossible.”

“What is that?”

“Resuscitated the dead.  I did not think that man had a heart; ask his wife.  But he may have just enough for a passing fancy.  Therefore profit by it.  Come this way, and don’t be surprised.”  He led Madame Rabourdin into the boudoir, placed her on a sofa, and sat down beside her.  “You are very sly,” he said, “and I like you the better for it.  Between ourselves, you are a clever woman.  Des Lupeaulx served to bring you into this house, and that is all you wanted of him, isn’t it?  Now when a woman decides to love a man for what she can get out of him it is better to take a sexagenarian Excellency than a quadragenarian secretary; there’s more profit and less annoyance.  I’m a man with spectacles, grizzled hair, worn out with dissipation,—­a fine lover, truly!  I tell myself all this again and again.  It must be admitted, of course, that I can sometimes be useful, but never agreeable.  Isn’t that so?  A man must be a fool if he cannot reason about himself.  You can safely admit the truth and let me see to the depths of your heart; we are partners, not lovers.  If I show some tenderness at times, you are too superior a woman to pay any attention