aim in
life."

The bell which announced the end of an intermission between the acts had
hushed. In the foyer the two old men were walking alone.

"An aim in life," repeated La Briche, tall, thin, and bent, while his
companion, lightened and rejuvenated, hastened within, fearing to miss a
scene.

Marguerite, in the garden, was spinning and singing. When she had
finished, Miss Bell said to Madame Martin:

"Darling, Monsieur Choulette has written me a perfectly beautiful letter.
He has told me that he is very celebrated. And I am glad to know it. He
said also: 'The glory of other poets reposes in myrrh and aromatic
plants. Mine bleeds and moans under a rain of stones and of
oyster-shells.' Do the French, my love, really throw stones at Monsieur
Choulette?"

While Therese reassured Miss Bell, Loyer, imperious and somewhat noisy,
caused the door of the box to be opened. He appeared wet and spattered
with mud.

"I come from the Elysee," he said.

He had the gallantry to announce to Madame Martin, first, the good news
he was bringing:

"The decrees are signed. Your husband has the Finances. It is a good
portfolio."

"The President of the Republic," inquired M. Martin--Belleme, "made no
objection when my name was pronounced?"

"No; Berthier praised the hereditary property of the Martins, your
caution, and the links with which you are attached to certain
personalities in the financial world whose concurrence may be useful to
the government. And the President, in accordance with Garain's happy
expression, was inspired by the necessities of the situation. He has
signed."

On Count Martin's yellowed face two or three wrinkles appeared. He was
smiling.

"The decree," continued Loyer, "will be published tomorrow. I accompanied
myself the clerk who took it to the printer. It was surer. In Grevy's
time, and Grevy was not an idiot, decrees were intercepted in the journey
from the Elysee to the Quai Voltaire."

And Loyer threw himself on a chair. There, enjoying the view of Madame
Martin, he continued:

"People will not say, as they did in the time of my poor friend Gambetta,
that the republic is lacking in women. You will give us fine festivals,
Madame, in the salons of the Ministry."

Marguerite, looking at herself in the mirror, with her necklace and
earrings, was singing the jewel song.

"We shall have to compose the declaration," said Count Martin. "I have
thought of it. For my department I have found, I thin