Fresh-complexioned and slightly flushed with her white figure thrown into relief by the dark velvet of the arm-chair, she was sitting buttoning her boots. As she sat there, with her head and neck bent over her crossed legs, the light shone upon her hair and upon the bare limbs revealed by the short garment she wore, making one think of an allegorical figure from some painted Venetian ceiling. This resemblance did not, however, strike Philippe. He repeated his question: “Do you know Loyer?” She lifted her head, dangling the buttonhook from the tips of her fingers. “Loyer, the Cabinet Minister? Yes, I know him.” “Do you know him well?” “Not very well, but I do know him.” The man under discussion, Loyer the senator, keeper of the seals and Minister of Public Worship, was an insignificant-looking old bachelor, honest enough outside politics, a bit of a lawyer, and a philosopher, whose hair had turned grey in the enjoyment of clandestine love and tavern nights. As he had not made his entry into society until somewhat late in life, the women he met there were a continual source of wonder to him, as he devoured them with gold-spectacled eyes. He was very young for his sixty years, and had known how to appreciate Madame de Gromance at her true value when he had first met her in the drawing-rooms of the _préfecture_. That was seven years ago. Loyer had come to the town of M. Worms-Clavelin to unveil a statue to Joan of Arc, and had then pronounced the memorable speech that terminated magnificently with a comparison between the Maid and Gambetta, each of whom was transfigured, said the orator, “by the sublime light of patriotism.” The Conservatives, who already were secretly siding with the Radicals, because of their financial policy, were grateful to the minister for binding them anew to the old regime with the honourable bonds of a generous sentiment. M. de Gromance had offered him his hand, saying: “As an old Royalist, Monsieur le Ministre, I thank you for Jeanne and for France!”