al, you cannot refuse," Loyer said. "I have said you will accept.
If you hesitate, it will be favoring the offensive return of Garain. He
is a traitor."

"My dear colleague, you exaggerate," said Count Martin; "but Garain,
perhaps, is lacking a little in frankness. And the General's support is
urgent."

"The Fatherland before everything," replied Lariviere with emotion.

"You know, General," continued Loyer, "the existing laws are to be
applied with moderation."

He looked at the two dancers who were extending their short and muscular
legs on the bar.

Lariviere murmured:

"The army's patriotism is excellent; the good-will of the chiefs is at
the height of the most critical circumstances."

Loyer tapped his shoulder.

"My dear colleague, there is some use in having big armies."

"I believe as you do," replied Lariviere; "the present army fills the
superior necessities of national defence."

"The use of big armies," continued Loyer, "is to make war impossible.
One would be crazy to engage in a war these immeasurable forces, the
management of which surpasses all human faculty. Is not this your
opinion, General?"

General Lariviere winked.

"The situation," he said, "exacts circumspection. We are facing a
perilous unknown."

Then Loyer, looking at his war colleague with cynical contempt, said:

"In the very improbable case of a war, don't you think, my dear
colleague, that the real generals would be the station-masters?"

The three Ministers went out by the private stairway. The President of
the Council was waiting for them.

The last act had begun; Madame Martin had in her box only Dechartre and
Miss Bell. Miss Bell was saying:

"I rejoice, darling, I am exalted, at the thought that you wear on
your heart the red lily of Florence. Monsieur Dechartre, whose soul is
artistic, must be very glad, too, to see at your corsage that charming
jewel.

"I should like to know the jeweller that made it, darling. This lily
is lithe and supple like an iris. Oh, it is elegant, magnificent, and
cruel. Have you noticed, my love, that beautiful jewels have an air of
magnificent cruelty?"

"My jeweller," said Therese, "is here, and you have named him; it is
Monsieur Dechartre who designed this jewel."

The door of the box was opened. Therese half turned her head and saw in
the shadow Le Menil, who was bowing to her with his brusque suppleness.

"Transmit, I pray you, Madame, my congratulations to your husband."