“If you will take my advice,” shrieked Lisbeth, “you will use your influence with the Prince de Wissembourg to secure her some suitable appointment. She will need it, for the Baron’s pay is pledged for three years.” “I will go to the War Office,” said he, “and see the Prince, to find out what he thinks of my brother, and ask for his interest to help my sister. Think of some place that is fit for her.” “The charitable ladies of Paris, in concert with the Archbishop, have formed various beneficent associations; they employ superintendents, very decently paid, whose business it is to seek out cases of real want. Such an occupation would exactly suit dear Adeline; it would be work after her own heart.” “Send to order the horses,” said the Marshal. “I will go and dress. I will drive to Neuilly if necessary.” “How fond he is of her! She will always cross my path wherever I turn!” said Lisbeth to herself. Lisbeth was already supreme in the house, but not with the Marshal’s cognizance. She had struck terror into the three servants--for she had allowed herself a housemaid, and she exerted her old-maidish energy in taking stock of everything, examining everything, and arranging in every respect for the comfort of her dear Marshal. Lisbeth, quite as Republican as he could be, pleased him by her democratic opinions, and she flattered him with amazing dexterity; for the last fortnight the old man, whose house was better kept, and who was cared for as a child by its mother, had begun to regard Lisbeth as a part of what he had dreamed of. “My dear Marshal,” she shouted, following him out on to the steps, “pull up the windows, do not sit in a draught, to oblige me!” The Marshal, who had never been so cosseted in his life, went off smiling at Lisbeth, though his heart was aching. At the same hour Baron Hulot was quitting the War Office to call on his chief, Marshal the Prince de Wissembourg, who had sent for him. Though there was nothing extraordinary in one of the Generals on the Board being sent for, Hulot’s conscience was so uneasy that he fancied he saw a cold and sinister expression in Mitouflet’s face. “Mitouflet, how is the Prince?” he asked, locking the door of his private room and following the messenger who led the way. “He must have a crow to pluck with you, Monsieur le Baron,” replied the man, “for his face is set at stormy.” Hulot turned pale, and said no more; he crossed the anteroom and reception rooms, and, with a violently beating heart, found himself at the door of the Prince’s private study.