I am, a mere country gentleman who seems to be
placed where he is to transact your business for you, the monarchy would
not be as insecure as I now think it is. What becomes of a throne which
does not bestow dignity on those who administer its government? We are
far indeed from the days when a king could make men great at will,--such
men as Louvois, Colbert, Richelieu, Jeannin, Villeroy, Sully,--Sully,
in his origin, was no greater than I. I speak to you thus because we
are here in private among ourselves. I should be very paltry indeed if
I were personally offended by such speeches. After all, it is for us and
not for others to make us great."

"You are appointed, dear," cried Celestine, pressing her husband's hand
as they drove away. "If it had not been for des Lupeaulx I should have
explained your scheme to his Excellency. But I will do it next Tuesday,
and it will help the further matter of making you Master of petitions."

In the life of every woman there comes a day when she shines in all
her glory; a day which gives her an unfading recollection to which she
recurs with happiness all her life. As Madame Rabourdin took off one by
one the ornaments of her apparel, she thought over the events of this
evening, and marked the day among the triumphs and glories of her
life,--all her beauties had been seen and envied, she had been praised
and flattered by the minister's wife, delighted thus to make the other
women jealous of her; but, above all, her grace and vanities had shone
to the profit of conjugal love. Her husband was appointed.

"Did you think I looked well to-night?" she said to him, joyously.

At the same instant Mitral, waiting at the Cafe Themis, saw the two
usurers returning, but was unable to perceive the slightest indications
of the result on their impassible faces.

"What of it?" he said, when they were all seated at table.

"Same as ever," replied Gigonnet, rubbing his hands, "victory with
gold."

"True," said Gobseck.

Mitral took a cabriolet and went straight to the Saillards and
Baudoyers, who were still playing boston at a late hour. No one was
present but the Abbe Gaudron. Falleix, half-dead with the fatigue of his
journey, had gone to bed.

"You will be appointed, nephew," said Mitral; "and there's a surprise in
store for you."

"What is it?" asked Saillard.

"The cross of the Legion of honor?" cried Mitral.

"God protects those who guard his altars," said Gaudron.

Thus the Te Deum