"But," Bianchon went on, "I do not promise to succeed as you wish with
Jean-Jules Popinot. You do not know him. However, I will take him to
see your Marquise the day after to-morrow; she may get round him if
she can. I doubt it. If all the truffles, all the Duchesses, all the
mistresses, and all the charmers in Paris were there in the full bloom
of their beauty; if the King promised him the /Prairie/, and the
Almighty gave him the Order of Paradise with the revenues of
Purgatory, not one of all these powers would induce him to transfer a
single straw from one saucer of his scales into the other. He is a
judge, as Death is Death."

The two friends had reached the office of the Minister for Foreign
Affairs, at the corner of the Boulevard des Capucines.

"Here you are at home," said Bianchon, laughing, as he pointed to the
ministerial residence. "And here is my carriage," he added, calling a
hackney cab. "And these--express our fortune."

"You will be happy at the bottom of the sea, while I am still
struggling with the tempests on the surface, till I sink and go to ask
you for a corner in your grotto, old fellow!"

"Till Saturday," replied Bianchon.

"Agreed," said Rastignac. "And you promise me Popinot?"

"I will do all my conscience will allow. Perhaps this appeal for a
commission covers some little dramorama, to use a word of our good bad
times."