Labarthe recalled his young friend’s attention to himself.
“You know, monsieur le substitut, you are not irremovable. If after a reasonable interval you have not made yourself very agreeable to Madame Pélisson—I mean completely agreeable—you fall into disgrace.”
“But,” asked Lespardat frankly, “how much time do you give me to make myself excessively pleasing to Madame Pélisson?”
“Until the vacation,” answered the minister’s secretary gravely. “We give you, in addition, all sorts of facilities, secret missions, furloughs, &c. Everything except money. Above all, we are an honest administration. People don’t believe it. But later on they will find that we were no jobbers. Take Delarbre: he has clean hands. Besides, the Home Office, which is on the husband’s side, controls the Secret Service Money. Do not count on anything save your two thousand four hundred francs of salary and your handsome face to captivate Madame Pélisson.”
“Is she pretty, this préfète of mine?” demanded Lespardat.
He asked this question carelessly, without exaggerating the importance of it, placidly, as behoves a very young man who finds all women beautiful. By way of reply, Labarthe threw on the table the photograph of a thin lady in a round hat, with a double bandeau falling on her brown neck.
“Here,” said he, “is the portrait of Madame Pélisson. It was ordered by the Cabinet from the Prefecture of Police, and they sent it on after they had stamped it with a warranty stamp, as you see.”
Lespardat seized it eagerly with his square fingers.
“She is handsome,” said he.
“Have you a plan?” asked Labarthe. “A methodical scheme of operations.”