“Where are we?” she asked. “Far away from everywhere, I should think,” he replied eagerly. “Where would you like me to put you down?” She asked him to stop at a station, and he did not attempt to disguise his anxiety to leave her. “I must go to the Chambre,” he said. “I do not know what they have been doing to-day.” “Ah, they were sitting to-day?” “Yes,” he replied, “but there was nothing of importance, I believe--an increase of tariff. But one never knows. I had better just look in.” They took leave of one another easily and amicably. As Madame Worms-Clavelin stepped into a fiacre in the Boulevard de Courcelles, near the fortifications, she heard the newsboys crying the evening papers, and holding them out to the passers-by as they hurried along. She caught sight of a heading in huge letters--“Fall of the Government.” Madame Worms-Clavelin stood for a moment looking at the men, and listening to the voices dying away in the rainy night. She reflected that, if Loyer were really going to send in his resignation to the President of the Republic, there would be in all probability no notice in to-morrow’s _Officiel_ of the new appointments in the Church. She reflected that her husband’s decoration would not be included in the last will and testament of the Minister of the Interior, and that hence the half-hour she had spent in the blue-curtained fiacre was of no avail. She had no regret over what had happened, but did not like doing things to no purpose. “Neuilly,” she said to the driver, “Boulevard Bineau, the Convent of the Dames du Saint-Sang.”