Evidently the residence at the ministry had only brought her ready-made relations, depressingly inevitable visitors who resembled office-seekers or clients.  These official receptions filled her with sadness.  The conversation always took the same hackneyed tone, disgusting in its flattery or disquieting by reason of its allusions.  People discussed coming interpellations of ministers; government majorities, projected legislation; the same phrases, as dreary as showers, fell with all the regularity of drops of rain.  Even young girls, brought up in this centre of infuriated politicians, spoke of the breaking up of the majority, reports or ballots, in the same manner as shopkeepers talk of their trade.

Poor Adrienne exerted herself to acquire an interest in these matters.  Since her husband’s very existence was involved therein, hers should also be.  She had, however, formerly dreamed of an entirely different youth and on bright, sunshiny days she reflected that yonder on the banks of the Isere, it was delightful in her sweet, little, provincial house.

Besides, she carefully concealed her melancholy.  She knew that she was already reproached for being somewhat sad.  A minister’s wife should know how to smile.  This was what Madame Marsy never failed to repeat to her as often as possible when she visited her at Place Beauvau.  This woman who hardly concerned herself at all about her son, allowing him to grow up badly enough and committing all her maternal duties to the grandmother, was perpetually cheerful, notwithstanding that her life had been chequered by chance and her widowhood of sufficiently dramatic character, as was said.  She endeavored to play the part of an adviser, an intimate friend to Adrienne.  She frequently said to Madame Gerson, who rarely left her, that Madame Vaudrey would be altogether charming if she had chic.

“Unfortunately, she is provincial; not in her element.  She still smacks of Dauphiny.  And then—­what is the funniest thing:  she knows nothing of politics.”

“She does not even concern herself about it,” said the pretty Madame Gerson, laughing heartily.

According to these ladies she did not take the trouble to fulfil the role of a minister’s wife faultlessly.  Ah! if only Sabine or Blanche Gerson occupied the position filled by this petite bourgeoise of Grenoble!  Well!  Paris would have seen what an Athenian Republic was.

Sabine Marsy was decidedly clever.  She politely advised Adrienne, without appearing to do so, as to many matters, in such a way as to convey reproof under the guise of kindness.  Madame Vaudrey would have done well, as Madame Gerson also observed, to have studied the Code du Ceremonial on reaching Place Beauvau.

Like Madame Marsy, Madame Gerson had gradually gained Adrienne’s friendship.  From an ostentatious desire to be able to tell of what happened at the ministry; to be on the first list of guests, when the minister received or gave a ball, Sabine Marsy, who had suffered from the mania of aspiring to become an artist, patronized the intransigeant painters and exhibited at the salon, now set her mind on playing the role of a political figure in Paris.  Madame Gerson, Blanche, as Sabine called her, had a similar ambition, but simply from a desire to be in fashion.