“He is unwell,” replied she, unmoved. “He wrote to me that he was even obliged to keep his bed from an attack of gout. You ought to call and ask how he is. You know he likes you very well, and it would please him.”
George said: “Yes, certainly; I will go some time today.”
He had finished his toilet, and, hat on head, glanced at himself in the glass to see if he had neglected anything. Finding nothing, he came up to the bed and kissed his wife on the forehead, saying: “Goodbye, dear, I shall not be in before seven o’clock at the earliest.”
And he went out. Monsieur Laroche-Mathieu was awaiting him, for he was lunching at ten o’clock that morning, the Council having to meet at noon, before the opening of Parliament. As soon as they were seated at table alone with the minister’s private secretary, for Madame Laroche-Mathieu had been unwilling to change her own meal times, Du Roy spoke of his article, sketched out the line he proposed to take, consulting notes scribbled on visiting cards, and when he had finished, said: “Is there anything you think should be modified, my dear minister?”
“Very little, my dear fellow. You are perhaps a trifle too strongly affirmative as regards the Morocco business. Speak of the expedition as if it were going to take place; but, at the same time, letting it be understood that it will not take place, and that you do not believe in it in the least in the world. Write in such a way that the public can easily read between the lines that we are not going to poke our noses into that adventure.”
“Quite so. I understand, and I will make myself thoroughly understood. My wife commissioned me to ask you, on this point, whether General Belloncle will be sent to Oran. After what you have said, I conclude he will not.”
The statesman answered, “No.”