He was about to encourage Marechal to continue his revelations, and had risen and was leaning on the desk.  With his face excited and eager, he was preparing his question, when, through the door which led to Madame Desvarennes’s office, a confused murmur of voices was heard.  At the same time the door was half opened, held by a woman’s hand, square, with short fingers, a firm-willed and energetic hand.  At the same time, the last words exchanged between Madame Desvarennes and the Financial Secretary of the War Office were distinctly audible.  Madame Desvarennes was speaking, and her voice sounded clear and plain; a little raised and vibrating.  There seemed a shade of anger in its tone.

“My dear sir, you will tell the Minister that does not suit me.  It is not the custom of the house.  For thirty-five years I have conducted business thus, and I have always found it answer.  I wish you good-morning.”

The door of the office facing that which Madame Desvarennes held closed, and a light step glided along the corridor.  It was the Financial Secretary’s.  The mistress appeared.

Marechal rose hastily.  As to Savinien, all his resolution seemed to have vanished at the sound of his aunt’s voice, for he had rapidly gained a corner of the room, and seated himself on a leather-covered sofa, hidden behind an armchair, where he remained perfectly quiet.

“Do you understand that, Marechal?” said dame Desvarennes; “they want to place a resident agent at the mill on pretext of checking things.  They say that all military contractors are obliged to submit to it.  My word, do they take us for thieves, the rascals?  It is the first time that people have seemed to doubt me.  And it has enraged me.  I have been arguing for a whole hour with the man they sent me.  I said to him, ’My dear sir, you may either take it or leave it.  Let us start from this point:  I can do without you and you cannot do without me.  If you don’t buy my flour, somebody else will.  I am not at all troubled about it.  But as to having any one here who would be as much master as myself, or perhaps more, never!  I am too old to change my customs.’  Thereupon the Financial Secretary left.  There!  And, besides, they change their Ministry every fortnight.  One would never know with whom one had to deal.  Thank you, no.”

While talking thus with Marechal, Madame Desvarennes was walking about the office.  She was still the same woman with the broad prominent forehead.  Her hair, which she wore in smooth plaits, had become gray, but the sparkle of her dark eyes only seemed the brighter from this.  She had preserved her splendid teeth, and her smile had remained young and charming.  She spoke with animation, as usual, and with the gestures of a man.  She placed herself before her secretary, seeming to appeal to him as a witness of her being in the right.  During the hour with the official personage she had been obliged to contain herself.  She unburdened herself to Marechal, saying just what she thought.