“Yes,” said Rabourdin, “but you were not calumniated; your honor was not assailed, compromised—­”

“Ha, ha, ha!” cried des Lupeaulx, interrupting him with a burst of Homeric laughter.  “Why, that’s the daily bread of every remarkable man in this glorious kingdom of France!  And there are but two ways to meet such calumny,—­either yield to it, pack up, and go plant cabbages in the country; or else rise above it, march on, fearless, and don’t turn your head.”

“For me, there is but one way of untying the noose which treachery and the work of spies have fastened round my throat,” replied Rabourdin.  “I must explain the matter at once to his Excellency, and if you are as sincerely attached to me as you say you are, you will put me face to face with him to-morrow.”

“You mean that you wish to explain to him your plan for the reform of the service?”

Rabourdin bowed.

“Well, then, trust the papers with me,—­your memoranda, all the documents.  I promise you that he shall sit up all night and examine them.”

“Let us go to him, then!” cried Rabourdin, eagerly; “six years’ toil certainly deserves two or three hours attention from the king’s minister, who will be forced to recognize, if he does not applaud, such perseverance.”

Compelled by Rabourdin’s tenacity to take a straightforward path, without ambush or angle where his treachery could hide itself, des Lupeaulx hesitated for a single instant, and looked at Madame Rabourdin, while he inwardly asked himself, “Which shall I permit to triumph, my hatred for him, or my fancy for her?”

“You have no confidence in my honor,” he said, after a pause.  “I see that you will always be to me the author of your secret analysis.  Adieu, madame.”

Madame Rabourdin bowed coldly.  Celestine and Xavier returned at once to their own rooms without a word; both were overcome by their misfortune.  The wife thought of the dreadful situation in which she stood toward her husband.  The husband, resolving slowly not to remain at the ministry but to send in his resignation at once, was lost in a sea of reflections; the crisis for him meant a total change of life and the necessity of starting on a new career.  All night he sat before his fire, taking no notice of Celestine, who came in several times on tiptoe, in her night-dress.

“I must go once more to the ministry, to bring away my papers, and show Baudoyer the routine of the business,” he said to himself at last.  “I had better write my resignation now.”

He turned to his table and began to write, thinking over each clause of the letter, which was as follows:—­