“Yes, certainly,” said Madame Phellion, with a beaming expression that bore witness to the interest she took in the conversation, “it did seem to me that the great lady allowed herself to contradict the barrister, and did it, too, with a certain sharpness.” “Very marked sharpness,” resumed Minard, “and that intriguing fellow perceives it. It strikes me that the lady’s hostility makes him uneasy. The Thuilliers he got cheaply; for, between ourselves you know, there’s not much in Thuillier himself; but he feels now that he has met a tough adversary, and he is looking anxiously for a weak spot on which to attack her.” “Well, that’s justice,” said Madame Phellion. “For some time past that man, who used to make himself so small and humble, has been taking airs of authority in the house which are quite intolerable; he behaves openly as the son-in-law; and you know very well, in that affair of Thuillier’s election he jockeyed us all, and made us the stepping-stone for his matrimonial ambition.” “Yes; but I can assure you,” said Minard, “that at the present time his influence is waning. In the first place, he won’t find every day for his dear, good friend, as he calls him, a fine property worth a million to be bought for a bit of bread.” “Then they did get that house very cheap?” said Madame Phellion, interrogatively. “They got it for nothing, as the result of a dirty intrigue which the lawyer Desroches related to me the other day. If it ever became known to the council of the bar, that little barrister would be badly compromised. The next thing is the coming election to the Chamber. Eating gives appetite, as they say, and our good Thuillier is hungry; but he begins to perceive that Monsieur de la Peyrade, when it becomes a question of getting him that mouthful, hasn’t his former opportunity to make dupes of us. That is why the family is turning more and more to Madame de Godollo, who seems to have some very high acquaintances in the political world. Besides all this, in fact, without dwelling on the election business, which is still a distant matter, this Hungarian countess is becoming, every day, more and more a necessity to Brigitte; for it must be owned that without the help of the great lady, the poor soul would look in the midst of her gilded salon like a ragged gown in a bride’s trousseau.” “Oh, Monsieur le maire, you are cruel,” said Madame Phellion, affecting compunction.