“Not at all; it is monarchical and religious, for the Grand Almoner is concerned in it. Baudoyer himself must appoint Colleville in return for ecclesiastical assistance.” “What shall you do?” “What will you bid me do?” he said, with charming grace, holding out his hand. Celestine no longer thought him ugly, nor old, nor white and chilling as a hoar-frost, nor indeed anything that was odious and offensive, but she did not give him her hand. At night, in her salon, she would have let him take it a hundred times, but here, alone and in the morning, the action seemed too like a promise that might lead her far. “And they say that statesmen have no hearts!” she cried enthusiastically, trying to hide the harshness of her refusal under the grace of her words. “The thought used to terrify me,” she added, assuming an innocent, ingenuous air. “What a calumny!” cried des Lupeaulx. “Only this week one of the stiffest of diplomatists, a man who has been in the service ever since he came to manhood, has married the daughter of an actress, and has introduced her at the most iron-bound court in Europe as to quarterings of nobility.” “You will continue to support us?” “I am to draw up your husband’s appointment--But no cheating, remember.” She gave him her hand to kiss, and tapped him on the cheek as she did so. “You are mine!” she said. Des Lupeaulx admired the expression. [That night, at the Opera, the old coxcomb related the incident as follows: “A woman who did not want to tell a man she would be his,--an acknowledgment a well-bred woman never allows herself to make,--changed the words into ‘You are mine.’ Don’t you think the evasion charming?”] “But you must be my ally,” he answered. “Now listen, your husband has spoken to the minister of a plan for the reform of the administration; the paper I have shown you is a part of that plan. I want to know what it is. Find out, and tell me to-night.” “I will,” she answered, wholly unaware of the important nature of the errand which brought des Lupeaulx to the house that morning. “Madame, the hair-dresser.” “At last!” thought Celestine. “I don’t see how I should have got out of it if he had delayed much longer.” “You do not know to what lengths my devotion can go,” said des Lupeaulx, rising. “You shall be invited to the first select party given by his Excellency’s wife.” “Ah, you are an angel!” she cried. “And I see now how much you love me; you love me intelligently.” “To-night, dear child,” he said, “I shall find out at the Opera what journalists are conspiring for Baudoyer, and we will measure swords together.” “Yes, but you must dine with us, will you not? I have taken pains to get the things you like best--”