“I know, I know.  You went to Rome.  You have looked at the arch of the infamous Titus, that execrable monument, where one may see the seven-branched candlestick among the spoils of the Jews.  Well, Madame, it is a shame to the world that that monument remains standing in the city of Rome, where the Popes have subsisted only through the art of the Jews, financiers and money-changers.  The Jews brought to Italy the science of Greece and of the Orient.  The Renaissance, Madame, is the work of Israel.  That is the truth, certain but misunderstood.”

And he went through the crowd of visitors, crushing hats as he passed.

Princess Seniavine looked at her friend from her box with the curiosity that the beauty of women at times excited in her.  She made a sign to Paul Vence who was near her: 

“Do you not think Madame Martin is extraordinarily beautiful this year?”

In the lobby, full of light and gold, General de La Briche asked Lariviere: 

“Did you see my nephew?”

“Your nephew, Le Menil?”

“Yes—­Robert.  He was in the theatre a moment ago.”

La Briche remained pensive for a moment.  Then he said: 

“He came this summer to Semanville.  I thought him odd.  A charming fellow, frank and intelligent.  But he ought to have some occupation, some aim in life.”

The bell which announced the end of an intermission between the acts had hushed.  In the foyer the two old men were walking alone.

“An aim in life,” repeated La Briche, tall, thin, and bent, while his companion, lightened and rejuvenated, hastened within, fearing to miss a scene.

Marguerite, in the garden, was spinning and singing.  When she had finished, Miss Bell said to Madame Martin: 

“Darling, Monsieur Choulette has written me a perfectly beautiful letter.  He has told me that he is very celebrated.  And I am glad to know it.  He said also:  ’The glory of other poets reposes in myrrh and aromatic plants.  Mine bleeds and moans under a rain of stones and of oyster-shells.’  Do the French, my love, really throw stones at Monsieur Choulette?”

While Therese reassured Miss Bell, Loyer, imperious and somewhat noisy, caused the door of the box to be opened.  He appeared wet and spattered with mud.

“I come from the Elysee,” he said.

He had the gallantry to announce to Madame Martin, first, the good news he was bringing: 

“The decrees are signed.  Your husband has the Finances.  It is a good portfolio.”

“The President of the Republic,” inquired M. Martin—­Belleme, “made no objection when my name was pronounced?”

“No; Berthier praised the hereditary property of the Martins, your caution, and the links with which you are attached to certain personalities in the financial world whose concurrence may be useful to the government.  And the President, in accordance with Garain’s happy expression, was inspired by the necessities of the situation.  He has signed.”