Gamin arose.  He had to see several persons before submitting his list to the President of the Republic.  Count Martin offered his carriage, but Garain had one.

“Do you not think,” asked Count Martin, “that the President might object to some names?”

“The President,” replied Garain, “will be inspired by the necessities of the situation.”

He had already gone out of the door when he struck his forehead with his hand.

“We have forgotten the Ministry of War.”

“We shall easily find somebody for it among the generals,” said Count Martin.

“Ah,” exclaimed Garain, “you believe the choice of a minister of war is easy.  It is clear you have not, like me, been a member of three cabinets and President of the Council.  In my cabinets, and during my presidency the greatest difficulties came from the Ministry of War.  Generals are all alike.  You know the one I chose for the cabinet that I formed.  When we took him, he knew nothing of affairs.  He hardly knew there were two Chambers.  We had to explain to him all the wheels of parliamentary machinery; we had to teach him that there were an army committee, finance committee, subcommittees, presidents of committees, a budget.  He asked that all this information be written for him on a piece of paper.  His ignorance of men and of things amazed and alarmed us.  In a fortnight he knew the most subtle tricks of the trade; he knew personally all the senators and all the deputies, and was intriguing with them against us.  If it had not been for President Grevy’s help, he would have overthrown us.  And he was a very ordinary general, a general like any other.  Oh, no; do not think that the portfolio of war may be given hastily, without reflection.”

And Garain still shivered at the thought of his former colleague.

Therese rose.  Senator Loyer offered his arm to her, with the graceful attitude that he had learned forty years before at Bullier’s dancing-hall.  She left the politicians in the drawing-room, and hastened to meet Dechartre.

A rosy mist covered the Seine, the stone quays, and the gilded trees.  The red sun threw into the cloudy sky the last glories of the year.  Therese, as she went out, relished the sharpness of the air and the dying splendor of the day.  Since her return to Paris, happy, she found pleasure every morning in the changes of the weather.  It seemed to her, in her generous selfishness, that it was for her the wind blew in the trees, or the fine, gray rain wet the horizon of the avenues; for her, so that she might say, as she entered the little house of the Ternes, “It is windy; it is raining; the weather is pleasant;” mingling thus the ocean of things in the intimacy of her love.  And every day was beautiful for her, since each one brought her to the arms of her beloved.

While on her way that day to the little house of the Ternes she thought of her unexpected happiness, so full and so secure.  She walked in the last glory of the sun already touched by winter, and said to herself: