“You know, monsieur _le substitut_, you are not irremovable. If after a reasonable interval you have not made yourself very agreeable to Madame Pélisson—I mean completely agreeable—you fall into disgrace.” “But,” asked Lespardat frankly, “how much time do you give me to make myself excessively pleasing to Madame Pélisson?” “Until the vacation,” answered the minister’s secretary gravely. “We give you, in addition, all sorts of facilities, secret missions, furloughs, &c. Everything except money. Above all, we are an honest administration. People don’t believe it. But later on they will find that we were no jobbers. Take Delarbre: he has clean hands. Besides, the Home Office, which is on the husband’s side, controls the Secret Service Money. Do not count on anything save your two thousand four hundred francs of salary and your handsome face to captivate Madame Pélisson.” “Is she pretty, this _préfète_ of mine?” demanded Lespardat. He asked this question carelessly, without exaggerating the importance of it, placidly, as behoves a very young man who finds all women beautiful. By way of reply, Labarthe threw on the table the photograph of a thin lady in a round hat, with a double bandeau falling on her brown neck. “Here,” said he, “is the portrait of Madame Pélisson. It was ordered by the Cabinet from the Prefecture of Police, and they sent it on after they had stamped it with a warranty stamp, as you see.” Lespardat seized it eagerly with his square fingers. “She is handsome,” said he. “Have you a plan?” asked Labarthe. “A methodical scheme of operations.” “No,” answered Lespardat simply. Labarthe, who was keen-witted, protested that it was, however, necessary to foresee, to arrange, not to allow oneself to be taken unawares by any contingencies. “You are certain,” added he, “to be invited to the balls at the prefecture, and you will, of course, dance with Madame Pélisson. Do you know how to dance? Show me how you dance.” Lespardat rose, and, clasping his chair in his arms, took one turn of a waltz with the deportment of a graceful bear. Labarthe watched him very gravely through his eyeglass. “You are heavy, awkward, without that irresistible suppleness which …” “Mirabeau danced badly,” said Lespardat. “After all,” said Labarthe, “perhaps it is only that the chair does not inspire you.” When they were both once more on the damp pavement of the narrow Rue Contrescarpe, they met several girls who were coming and going between the Carrefour Buci and the wine-shops of the Rue Dauphine. As one of these, a thick-set, heavy girl, in a dingy black dress, was passing sadly by under a street lamp with slack gait, Lespardat seized her roughly by the waist, lifted her, and made her take with him two turns of a waltz across the greasy pavement and into the gutter, before she had any idea what was happening.