Then he approached Madame Rabourdin.
“We have much to say to each other,” he remarked as he seated himself beside the beautiful woman, who received him admirably.
“Ah!” he continued, giving her a side glance, “you are grand indeed; I find you just what I expected, glorious under defeat. Do you know that it is a very rare thing to find a superior woman who answers to the expectations formed of her. So defeat doesn’t dishearten you? You are right; we shall triumph in the end,” he whispered in her ear. “Your fate is always in your own hands,—so long, I mean, as your ally is a man who adores you. We will hold counsel together.”
“But is Baudoyer appointed?” she asked.
“Yes,” said the secretary.
“Does he get the cross?”
“Not yet; but he will have it later.”
“Amazing!”
“Ah! you don’t understand political exigencies.”
During this evening, which seemed interminable to Madame Rabourdin, another scene was occurring in the place Royale,—one of those comedies which are played in seven Parisian salons whenever there is a change of ministry. The Saillards’ salon was crowded. Monsieur and Madame Transon arrived at eight o’clock; Madame Transon kissed Madame Baudoyer, nee Saillard. Monsieur Bataille, captain of the National Guard, came with his wife and the curate of Saint Paul’s.