Madame Worms-Clavelin came along through the rainy darkness, holding up her umbrella, and walking with the brisk, decided step which, for a wonder, had not grown heavy from long years spent in provincial towns. The door of the carriage that was waiting for her in front of the gates of the Park Monceau, opened a little, and then stood wide, and Madame Worms-Clavelin slipped calmly in and took a seat beside the young secretary, who immediately inquired as to her health.
“I am always well,” she replied, adding, “What awful weather!”
Streams of rain were running down the carriage windows; the street noises were drowned in the damp air, and all that could be heard was the gentle drip of the raindrops.
When the carriage began to roll with a muffled sound over the paved road, she asked:
“Where are we going?”
“Where you like.”
“I don’t mind—Neuilly way, I should think.”
Having given instructions to the driver, Maurice Cheiral turned to the préfet’s wife and said:
“I have much pleasure in informing you that the appointment of Abbé Guitrel (Joachim) to the See of Tourcoing will be announced in to-morrow’s Officiel. I do not want to boast, but I can assure you that it has not been a very easy matter to arrange. The Nuncio is great at procrastination. People of that description make use of a prodigious amount of inactivity—Well, anyhow, everything is settled.”
“That’s good,” replied Madame Worms-Clavelin. “I am sure you have rendered a service to the progressive republican party, and that the Moderates will have every reason to be pleased with their new bishop.”